Galahad sat in his chair, his legs pressed awkwardly together.
Head lowered, he quietly recounted everything he had seen on Castel, not even daring to look up at his liege.
What had he seen on that island?
Ships forged of steel, mere disposable test subjects; factories packed densely together, their daily output enough to pile a mountain of steel in Blood Port, fill a lake with explosives, then send the entire city skyward with a single bullet gleaming with metallic luster.
Not to mention the web-like tunnels underground, the mountain-like fortresses aboveground, the Skyveil Behemoths blotting out the sun overhead, and bombs falling like rain.
Then there were the evil god's limbs spread across the island and the Pollution churning within the Stellar Furnace. Even merely describing them made one feel on the verge of madness.
Galahad had gone prepared. He had worn his most magnificent armor and carried a longsword painstakingly forged by a smith.
Now, he felt like a monkey brought into the imperial palace, clutching a carefully chosen wooden stick.
Ah, and that longsword had later broken in his duel with a train—a stationary train.
Galahad did not hide anything. Even those embarrassing parts, he recounted to the prince in full detail.
The prince listened quietly, his fingers lightly tapping against the tabletop.
From time to time, he asked about certain details, such as what the island's soldiers ate, how wide the cement roads were, and what the Banshees talked about.
The prince showed no reaction, but the more Galahad spoke, the more despair he felt.
Castel... Galahad was certain he had not seen the full extent of that island. There had to be even more creations hidden deeper within. Yet even what he had seen was already far beyond anything Blood Port could contend with.
No,