This was an elegantly appointed office.
On the wall directly opposite the entrance hung an oil painting—the famous Leonardo da Vinci masterpiece, The Last Supper.
Of course, it was not the original.
When the Calamity erupted, countless works of art vanished from the world.
But even as a replica, this painting was nearly indistinguishable from the real thing. From the expressions on the figures' faces to the color scheme and composition, it was almost identical.
It had even been artificially aged, giving the painting a profound sense of history.
On the other side of the office, an old-fashioned vinyl record player sat on a desk.
At that moment, the record player was running. Mozart's Serenade drifted from its speakers, its gentle melody filling the office.
This gave an elderly man with a face covered in gray-white whiskers immense enjoyment.
He sat with his eyes closed, savoring the music. In his hands, he held a cup of black tea, whose rich fragrance wafted through the air.
Knock, knock, knock.
Someone knocked on the door.
The old man opened his eyes. A solemn glint flashed through his lake-blue irises. He set down his teacup, switched off the record player, and only then spoke.
"Come in."
The door opened, and his secretary entered.
The blonde beauty, twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old and possessing an exaggeratedly curvaceous figure, spoke softly.
"General Morton, Colonel Saratoga wishes to see you."
Morton nodded and returned to his seat. "Let him in. Also, bring him a cup of coffee."
A moment later, a middle-aged man with a deeply troubled expression entered the office. He looked at the gray-haired old man and let out a long sigh.
"General, Operation Pudong has failed."
Morton rubbed his hands over his teacup. "I see. It failed in the end."
"Could it be