The hall fell silent for a few breaths.
Klaus held his teacup and silently took a sip.
The meeting room had been quiet long enough—long enough for the people below to do their calculations. The several leaders from the Merchants' Guild exchanged glances, but none was willing to speak first.
The Outer City nobles shifted slightly, pretending to study the tea in their cups. The older ones from the Inner City simply lowered their eyelids, their expressions grim, looking as though they were waiting for someone else to take the lead.
Klaus was in no hurry.
These people might be cunning, but they were not stupid.
They had already guessed part of what lay buried beneath Bronze City ever since the first Ghoul disaster.
Precisely because they had guessed it, they were even less willing to gamble their fortunes lightly.
But guessing was one thing. Whether they would gamble depended on whether the table was still there.
One of the oldest Merchants' Guild leaders finally could not bear the stifling silence any longer. He cleared his throat, picked up the cup on the table, took a sip, and spoke in a low voice.
"Lord Klaus, we understand everything you've said, but how much longer can the city hold out? You have to give us some idea.
"If we're providing money and men, we need to know what pit we're throwing them into, don't we?"
Klaus did not answer. He slowly set down his teacup.
He did not even look directly at the man. He merely turned the cup half a circle on the table, as if he were considering something entirely unrelated to anyone in the room.
An Outer City noble beside him joined in as well, wrapping his meaning in three layers of polite phrasing. Defending the city was