Fog swallowed everything. The sticky mud underfoot, knee-deep, seemed to have turned solid, wrapping around his legs. An ordinary man likely would have been unable to move, but to Lysander, it only made walking slightly more difficult.
He moved his legs calmly. The extra output provided by the Walking Titan let him wade easily through this solidified river.
He was still thinking about the voice over the vox, the anger hidden beneath it—Rogal Dorn rarely revealed his emotions like that. Before his return, Lysander had only been able to know him through history. After his return, Lysander would say that the descriptions of Rogal Dorn in those heavy tomes had all been correct.
Victory was the essence of war.
Although that did not mean one had to resort to every possible means and commit acts that completely abandoned humanity and morality, sacrifice was unavoidable. If possible, any commander would make the right choice between a force and victory. But if that force was four thousand elite soldiers from the Repentant Fire Legion, equipped with heavy firepower and Thunderclouds, then it was another matter entirely.
The fog was thick, blocking his sight. Even with the help of his goggles, Lysander could barely make out anything beyond three meters. A trace of doubt began to grow in his mind—could a normal natural environment really produce fog this dense? It was true that the galaxy held every kind of wonder, and planetary environments varied endlessly, but...
Lysander had to admit that this planet's natural environment could rank very high in his long combat career.
He walked slowly and warily, making sure every step landed within the Walking Titan's detection range. If any detected trap appeared ahead of where he was about to set foot, he would stop moving immediately.
Behind him were ninety-nine