"Just like on Brumm?"
Qin Mo lowered his head and repeated the Emperor's words. He raised a hand and rubbed his neck out of habit, as if he had not long since become immune to the physical sensation of fatigue.
"Just like Brumm."
"Looks like we really have more than just the Iron Warriors to deal with."
"When will wars like this ever end? One after another, melee after melee, always nothing but chaos."
Qin Mo leaned back in his chair, raised his head to stare at the ceiling, and let out a long breath of stale air.
Carved into the ceiling was the imposing image of the Lord of Tyran holding a Chainsword and a scepter, his expression brimming with confidence and fighting spirit.
In the carved scene, countless people stood around the Lord of Tyran's feet, gazing toward where his sword pointed with resolute expressions.
Yet as the protagonist of the ceiling carving, Qin Mo's expression was entirely unlike that of the Lord of Tyran.
It was not that he was slacking off, discouraged, or dejected. Qin Mo simply felt somewhat mentally exhausted.
Being in the Eye of Terror made every part of him uncomfortable, and this life might have to continue for centuries, perhaps even more than a dozen centuries, or possibly several millennia of fighting.
The only thing that gave him some comfort was that although the Eye of Terror expedition fleet had Blackstone Constructs creating regions with altered temporal flow, time still passed completely differently from the outside world. Perhaps this war truly would last a very long time, but it would not feel especially long... perhaps.
"Brumm was only an accident, but the war on the Iron Ring was indeed planned long ago." The Emperor before him did not offer encouragement or comfort as