"The Demon's Throat. I'm back."
King Sorein, now fifty-four, looked toward the vast fortress on the far side of the starry sky. His sharp, dragonlike gaze fell upon the figures there—all images of himself at fifty-three...
All right, he really had begun to miss this ancient fortress, reclaimed from the Marauders. He missed it even more when it had still been called the "Demon's Throat."
As for what it was called now, whether "Friendship" or "Unity," it was enough to make a pure warrior like him shudder.
He strode down the gangway with steady, measured steps and set foot on the carpet laid across the spaceport. Then he passed through the honor guard formed by armored grenadiers in full helmets and armor.
Soon, at the end of the corridor formed by the honor guard, the Grand Elector saw a group of senior Imperial officers bowing to him.
At their head were Lieutenant General Minontai, the fortress garrison commander; Count Baolei, the (acting) Knight Commander; and Viscount Eruida, the Starwatcher. Lieutenant General Minontai, standing front and center, bowed especially low.
"There's no need for such ceremony." King Sorein waved a hand with dignified restraint. "You've all worked hard in the fighting these past few days."
The Grand Elector's tone was so flat that the word "hard" came across as a purely objective assessment—not encouragement, let alone praise. Lieutenant General Minontai immediately felt immense pressure. Sweat poured down him, but he still managed to straighten up, trembling.
By then, King Sorein had already strode on toward the fortress interior.
The most distinguished veteran among the Electors was indeed a man who treated his soldiers like his own children. The first thing he did after disembarking was ask about the barracks, food and water, medicine, and other supplies prepared for the relief fleet.