Yan An.
Jiang Yanxu recognized him immediately.
The sharp lines of his figure, the way his hair fell naturally over his forehead, the distinct slope of his nose, and even the subtle arch of his thin lips—there was no mistake.
The way he sat, calm and composed, shoulders slightly slouched yet never careless, a presence that exuded quiet strength. That was Yan An. That had always been Yan An.
In his past life, Jiang Yanxu had spent countless hours memorizing every detail about him. Even in the bleakness of his prison cell, when his world had been reduced to nothing but cold metal bars and suffocating regrets, the image of Yan An had never left him. It had been seared into his mind, a ghostly imprint that refused to fade. And now, even after rewinding time itself, that image was still there—haunting, vivid, painfully real.
But why was he here?
