A hundred meters beneath Horn Fortress stood an underground nuclear shelter reinforced with concrete.
Because they had anticipated that a war with the Great Rift might spread to the vassals of Sunset Province, General Kress had ordered the Legion's engineers to build this nuclear shelter to a standard capable of withstanding a one-megaton nuclear weapon.
In theory, this place was absolutely safe.
At that moment, in the bunker's temporary combat command room, Griffin sat alone at the command table, facing a silent radio.
Bandages were wrapped around his left arm, and traces of dressing could be seen beneath the collar of his uniform.
Though he had narrowly escaped the assassination plot from several days ago, he had not emerged as unscathed as the outside world believed.
Four pieces of shrapnel had lodged inside his body. One had stopped less than seven millimeters from his heart. It was the closest he had ever come to death.
To avoid affecting the army's morale, he had immediately ordered a transfer into the bunker and sealed off all news of his injuries.
Though outsiders believed he had been scared witless by the assassination attempt, after a lifetime on the battlefield, how could a few assassins possibly frighten him?
The enemy's decision to make the first move had instead stirred a hint of excitement in him.
He had long suspected that there were moles in his army, but he had never been able to identify who they truly were. If one injury could solve that problem, it would undoubtedly be well worth it.
At that moment, footsteps outside the door drew closer, followed soon by a light knock.
"Come in."
The door opened.
His personal guard appeared in the doorway.
Looking at the loyal soldier, Griffin spoke.
"Did you find them?"
"Yes, sir."
The guard