At the foot of Thorn Mountain, the Pegasus Army camp.
The temporary command center is stiflingly silent, almost suffocating.
Viscount Auston is kneeling on the ground, disheveled.
The napkin on his chest had finally been removed, but his ceremonial dress was still stained with a touch of sauce.
However, it was only sauce.
No blood.
In this state, it was hard to believe that he had escaped from a battlefield, instead, it looked more like he had just returned from a failed food fight.
Viscount Auston now regretted a bit — he should have dabbed some blood on his clothes!
Maybe even inflicted some injuries would be better.
Just as he was entertaining these thoughts, Marquis Vincent across finally stirred.
After taking a series of blows, the temperamental Marquis of the eastern territory had become increasingly inscrutable.
They thought that upon hearing the news of the annihilation of the 40,000-strong army, he would fly into a rage.
