"I can't let everyone fall into hell because of one decision of mine."
Milton Cheney spoke, heavily slamming his hand on the office desk in front of him, leaving a crack on it.
William Yorke casually glanced at the desk, his countenance unchanged.
"We can't stretch it for ten years, at most three years. I'm not sure I will live that long."
"We have to stretch it for five years at least until all the Martial Arts students graduate!"
Milton Cheney sternly stated.
Time now was like a suspended knife over their heads, ready to fall at any moment.
"I'll try my best, but there's really no need for this."
"We can simply say we've done our best."
Hearing this, Milton Cheney turned to look into William Yorke's eyes.
He saw a trace of fatigue in those eyes.
This was the first time he had heard such dispirited words from William Yorke.
If the Deputy Councilor was feeling this way, one could only imagine how others privy to the situation felt.
