Deep in Northern Foothills Province, Ironwall Fortress stood.
It was an immense fortress built atop a cliff. Its pale grey granite walls rose thirty meters high, blending seamlessly with the mountain beneath them. Countless firing slits honeycombed the walls.
Inside a meeting room, a group of officers gathered around the center. Every face was ashen, and the atmosphere was oppressive.
An enormous sand table stood in the middle of the room. Red flags representing Veylin's army already covered the southern plains and were spreading toward the northern mountains like a rising tide.
Bang!
A fist slammed into the edge of the sand table.
The oak corner shattered instantly, sending splinters flying.
"Half a month! Just half a fucking month!"
"An entire Eastern Foothills Province, thirty thousand elite troops, and the supposedly Never-Fallen Sighing Fortress, all fucking gone?"
The old marquis's chest heaved. His grey eyes burned not only with fury, but with utter disbelief at the absurdity of it all.
"How did I never realize Garcia was such an idiot? He couldn't even get a plea for help out? And you lot!" Marcus whipped around, his icy gaze sweeping over the generals and intelligence officers below him. "You fucking lot are an even bigger joke!"
"That little bastard Veylin's army had already kicked down my southern gate before a messenger came running back to tell me, 'My lord, Eastern Foothills Province appears to have fallen'!"
Marcus snatched a battle report from the table and hurled it into an intelligence officer's face. Sheets scattered through the air.
"Can someone tell me how this war was fought? Does their whole army fly? Tens of thousands of marching soldiers advanced faster than a message carried on horseback! Am I blind? Or am I deaf?"
The generals standing before him kept their heads lowered.