December 7th, 915, Sixth Army Group Headquarters.
All the middle and senior officers who had not yet fallen ill were gathered in front of General Frederick's window.
"General," the Deputy Officer hesitated as he started to speak, turned his head to look at the others, then was frightened by everyone's gaze and quickly turned back, "General, our non-combat attrition has already reached fifty percent. When we handed over the seriously ill to the Anteans, many simply surrendered and defected to their side."
General Frederick sighed and sat up—then almost lay straight back down, as a severe dizzy spell caused by cerebral ischemia cut off all his thoughts.
The Deputy Officer hurriedly stepped forward to support him: "General!"
"I'm fine," Frederick waved his hand, "So, you've come to urge me to surrender?"
Deputy Officer: "Do you still think we can resist?"
