In the shadows on the other side of the platform, Ambassador Alvarez, the Makon Alliance's special envoy, watched coldly.
He wore a well-tailored, dark diplomatic uniform and held a nearly spent cigarette between his fingers, making no effort to hide the disappointment and contempt on his face.
When he saw those "mercenaries" in shabby hemp robes, sallow and emaciated, barely able to stand after getting off the train, being herded along like sheep, he almost sneered aloud.
These were the "experienced reinforcements" Bagnia had promised?
They were nothing but beggars and thugs dragged straight out of the slums!
Was this all the Alliance's enormous advance payment had bought?
He was already drafting a report in his mind, preparing to harshly condemn Bagnia for its flagrant breach of contract and slapdash handling of the matter.
But when the sudden riot broke out, Alvarez's cigarette-holding fingers went still.
He watched those previously listless "sheep" turn into a pack of rabid wolves in an instant. They had no organization whatsoever, but the crazed fury in their eyes as they lunged at the Military Police, their reckless ferocity, and their guts in throwing punches even at opponents clearly stronger than themselves made him raise an eyebrow.
In particular, he noticed that although the Military Police were well trained, coordinated seamlessly, and took people down with remarkable efficiency, every time one mercenary fell, another immediately charged in with a howl.
They knew nothing of technique, but they possessed an unnerving, almost primal, savage vitality.
One man had his nose smashed flat and his face covered in blood, yet he wiped his face and charged back in, roaring.
Another had his arm twisted out of its socket, so he resorted to headbutts and bites. Despite being hopelessly outmatched, their sheer, suicidal madness briefly put even those