One hundred meters beneath Fort Horn lay a concrete-reinforced underground nuclear bunker.
Having anticipated that a war with the Great Rift Valley might spill over into the vassals of the Sunset Province, General Klaas had ordered the Legion's engineers to build the bunker to withstand a megaton-class nuclear strike.
Theoretically, it was impregnable.
At this moment, inside the bunker's temporary operational command center, Griffin sat alone at the command desk, facing a dead silent radio.
Bandages wrapped his left arm, and traces of dressings peeked above the collar of his military uniform.
Though he had miraculously survived the assassination plot several days earlier, he was far from as unscathed as the outside world believed.
Four pieces of shrapnel were lodged in his body, one of them less than seven millimeters from his heart—the closest he had ever come to death.
To preserve troop morale, he had immediately ordered a relocation to the bunker and hushed up news of his injuries.
While the outside world believed he had been frightened out of his wits by the assassination, he had spent his life in the military; how could a few assassins scare him?
If anything, their strike had sparked a thrill of excitement.
He had long suspected moles within his ranks, but had struggled to identify them. If a single wound could resolve the issue once and for all, it was undeniably a bargain.
Footsteps approached outside the door, followed shortly by a soft knock.
"Enter."
The door swung open.
His guard appeared in the doorway.
Looking at the loyal soldier, Griffin spoke. "Did you find them?"
"Yes, my lord."
The guard nodded, but there was no joy on his face—only a heavy shadow hanging between his brows.
Catching the hint in his expression, Griffin frowned slightly. "Who is it?"
"The chiliarch of the 3rd Regiment of the 7th Myriad, and a centurion from the officer corps of the 6th Myriad were involved in that day's assassination... They bribed the orderly on duty for the conference."
This time, Griffin fell silent for a long while.
The chiliarch of the 3rd Regiment of the 7th Myriad was an officer he had personally promoted. He could hardly bring himself to believe that loyal young man would betray the Marshal to become a spy for the Enterprise or the Alliance.
Yet what pained him most was not merely their betrayal...
It was that the assassination attempt involved two whole myriads.
That was nearly forty percent of his total forces!
After a long pause, Griffin spoke slowly. "Is the intelligence reliable?"
The guard nodded. "Solid. We've secured dependable evidence, but we haven't made a move yet so as not to alert the enemy."
"Good."
Griffin gave a slight nod.
Just as he was about to make a decision, a thought struck him, and his words died in his throat.
Seeing his hesitation, the guard asked cautiously, "Should we arrest the three of them?"
Griffin remained silent for a moment before whispering, "Wait. For now, do not alert the enemy."
"Understood."
The guard bowed slightly and respectfully stepped backward out of the room.
The door closed.
Griffin let out a soft sigh, relaxing his shoulders as he leaned back against the chair.
His gaze inadvertently drifted to the incandescent bulb overhead. He suddenly felt his fate was much like this lamp.
Blinding, searing, brimming with energy... yet destined to hang in an obscure corner, spending its entire existence illuminating nothing more than a single room.
As for his ambitions and ideals, they were merely a leaf of a skiff in the torrential current of history; no matter how desperately he fought, he could never alter the mountains and rivers beneath its keel.
Unlike officers of noble birth like Macklen, Griffin did not hail from an illustrious lineage. He had been born to an ordinary citizen's family on the outskirts of Triumph City.
Like most Wilante children, he entered his first youth training camp at age six. His very first taste of military life revealed a remarkable talent for leadership, prompting his instructor to recommend him to the Triumph City Military Academy.
Talent, diligence, and a dash of luck...
From the moment he enlisted, his career had been smooth sailing. At the young age of twenty-nine, he had risen from a decurion to the rank of myriarch.
Later, he crossed paths with the patron of his life—General Klaas—and received the olive branch extended by the Eastern Expansion faction, heading off to the distant east to forge the Legion's future.
He still remembered the words General Klaas had spoken to him ten years ago:
'The Marshal's greatness is beyond question. Alas, Triumph City has grown decadent. Those useless parasites basking in ancestral prestige are intoxicated by vast territories and luxurious living, completely forgetting the grudges from a century and a half ago, the ambition to conquer the world, and the meaning of unity. If left to rot, this empire held together by war will eventually crumble into dust.'
'To prevent that day, we must have an opponent worthy of our full devotion. We must push our borders toward the ends of the earth—and keep pushing them forever.'
Griffin still remembered how his blood had boiled back then, burning with the urge to rush straight to the front lines and fire the opening salvo of expansion.
Regrettably, he soon realized things were never that simple.
One after another, visionary men of the Eastern Expansion faction perished in the expedition. Far from earning Triumph City's sympathy and bolstering the faction's influence, their sacrifices merely withered its ranks as talent ran dry.
Eventually, after witnessing the true might of the Great Rift Valley, even the commander of the Eastern Legion shifted his initial stance, his support turning lukewarm and vague.
In his youth, Griffin would have felt outraged and disgraced by his comrades' betrayal.
Now, he no longer felt anger—only a cold clarity focused on solving the problem.
Using their own sacrifice to beg for support from other factions was fundamentally a flawed path.
General Klaas had paid with his life, yet instead of winning charity from the onlookers, it had only pushed their political standing further to the fringes.
At the end of the day, other factions had gained nothing from the expedition, seeing only endless disasters.
Only by dragging the other factions along in shared fortune and peril could they unite those self-serving mediocrities.
To that end, Griffin had altered Klaas's strategy. No longer seeking a direct invasion of the Great Rift Valley, he had initiated peace talks with them instead.
Thereafter, taking the Sunset Province and the mutant tribes of the Great Desert as adversaries, he had orchestrated victory after victory, giving ambitious young talents the promise of racking up military honors and drawing them across thousands of miles to back his cause.
If all went smoothly...
The ancient grain-producing lands would fall under the Legion's sway.
And even if things went awry, the other factions tied into these interests would have no choice but to increase their stakes in him.
The nuclear warhead, for instance, and that Sabre fighter jet had both been wrangled from other factions through the officers under his command who belonged to them—especially those of noble birth.
As for the legacy General Klaas had left behind, the man himself had already bled it dry during the expedition.
And should things spiral entirely out of control...
He could still use the sacrifice of everyone, himself included, to forge unity among the factions through hatred.
Just then, the signal light on the radio flashed.
Griffin's expression hardened. He immediately reached out and picked up the receiver resting on the radio.
Before he could speak, a familiar voice came through the earpiece.
"This is Joseph."
Hearing that name, Griffin inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He knew Joseph served under the Eastern Legion's commander; Joseph being sent to assume command meant the Marshal had not abandoned them.
Yet before that relief could settle, the second sentence drained every ounce of color from his face.
"The Marshal has seen through your plan. I am not the only one who came to the Sunset Province. Cohen from Triumph City is here as well."
Griffin turned pale.
After a long pause, he swallowed hard. "...What did he say?"
Silence lingered on the other end of the line. Instead of answering, the voice countered with a question.
"Are you loyal?"
Vaguely sensing what was coming, Griffin answered with a slight tremor in his voice. "My loyalty to the Marshal is beyond doubt."
"Very well," Joseph paused before continuing. "You have two choices: die as a hero, or die as a traitor... You know what I mean. The choice is yours."
Griffin's throat bobbed.
"...Did I do something wrong?"
Joseph said evenly, "Going to war with the Enterprise brings us no benefit. The Marshal shares that view. I can understand how you all feel, but now is not the time to do this."
That "you all" drew a stark, irrevocable line between them.
Griffin remained silent for a long time.
"I understand."
"You have twenty minutes."
Without waiting for a reply, Joseph hung up.
Griffin closed his eyes.
Five minutes later, he reached out and pressed the bell on the command desk.
Shortly afterward, a young officer stepped into the makeshift command room.
His name was Karlov, captain of Griffin's guards and his most trusted subordinate—more trusted even than his adjutant.
Snapping to attention and saluting before Griffin, Karlov spoke crisply. "Lord Griffin, you summoned me?"
Griffin spoke slowly. "In fifteen minutes, I will be dead."
Karlov froze on the spot.
Recovering his senses, he stared at General Griffin in disbelief. "What are you saying?"
"No need to panic. This is the Marshal's order."
Griffin continued calmly, "To keep it brief, I need you to do two final things for me. First, announce to the outside that the cause of my death was a stroke. Second... guard my body. No one is to approach, no autopsy is to be performed, and no one must learn the true cause of my death until my remains are handed over to General Joseph. He will bring me back to Triumph City."
Pausing, he added, "Also, my will is in my briefcase. Please deliver it to my family."
Karlov's face shifted through shock, fury, and sheer disbelief. He could not accept that the great Marshal would issue such an order.
The mighty Legion would never sacrifice a Wilante for the sake of compromise, let alone an illustrious general of distinguished merit.
Impossible!
Petty schemers had to be behind this...
Clenching his fists, his eyes blazing with fury, Karlov took a step forward. "My lord, what if we—"
Griffin cut him off.
"Do not even think about it. After my death, I will be honored as a hero and given a state funeral in Triumph City as a general... I will not have my lifelong efforts and honors squandered over a single mistake."
"Promise me, Karlov. Let me go alone. Do not resent our compatriots, and do not resist."
A trace of pleading crept into Griffin's voice.
Karlov stared at him in wordless silence for a long time before finally giving a slow nod. "I promise you."
Seeing the young man nod, a faint, comforted smile finally graced Griffin's face, his tone softening.
"My deputy will assume command. Fort Horn will surrender to the Alliance, and the ceasefire negotiations will soon reach a conclusion... This war is over."
"Before long, you will all be going home."
"Go on. Wait for me outside the door. I want to spend my final minutes alone."
Choking back the grief and tears, Karlov gritted his teeth and turned away, stepping out of the room with his back to the general he revered.
Looking around the empty room, having let go of everything, Griffin felt an unexpected sense of ease.
In truth...
Their efforts had not been entirely in vain.
At the very least, Triumph City had sent a five-star myriarch to serve as governor.
With direct support from Triumph City, they would have a far more formidable vassal within ten years. When that time came, pushing eastward would not be out of the question.
And their sacrifice would become the driving force propelling the Wilante forward.
There would always be those who sympathized with them.
There would always be those who carried on their unfinished work.
"The world will ultimately bow before our feet."
Griffin poured himself a glass of red wine, opened a drawer, and retrieved a silver case roughly the size of a cigarette pack.
Inside lay a capsule of neurotoxin.
It would grant him a painless death while ensuring his body remained intact.
"No one can kill me."
Griffin grinned, tossed the capsule into his mouth, and washed it down with a gulp of wine.
"...Except myself."
Setting down the glass, he found a comfortable position against the chair and closed his eyes.
This time, he could sleep a little longer...
***
Less than ten minutes after Griffin's death, the news spread like wildfire among Fort Horn's high-ranking officers, sending shockwaves through the ranks.
His deputy, General Alec, immediately assumed command of Fort Horn and its garrison.
Karlov, the captain of Griffin's guards, cooperated with the transfer of duties to the interim commander, but refused to surrender the general's body. He declared that they would hold the bunker until General Joseph relieved them of their orders.
Naturally, Alec had no reason to provoke Griffin's loyalists. He and the cadre of officers who knew defeat was inevitable only wanted to go home.
Paying no heed to Griffin's affairs, his first act upon taking command was to restore communications with the Judgment, reporting the garrison's true situation to the newly arrived governor and discussing how to orchestrate a "dignified departure from Fort Horn."
If they wished to avoid dragging out the war indefinitely, the Alliance troops surrounding the fortress would likely refrain from pushing things too far.
The Alliance commander had already broadcast terms: as long as they laid down their arms, they could withdraw along an Alliance-designated safe corridor to the nearby river embankment, where food and fresh water would be provided.
Weilichi paced back and forth inside his tent.
He had only just received word of Griffin's death. Because Defense Sector 5, where he was stationed, was some distance from the command post, he couldn't be certain whether the news was genuine.
Footsteps sounded at the entrance.
Seeing his confidant appear, Weilichi pressed immediately, "...Griffin is dead?"
The man nodded grimly. "Yes."
A flash of sheer ecstasy lit Weilichi's face, though he quickly suppressed it, fixing his gaze on the confidant. "How did he die?"
The man hesitated, shaking his head. "Karlov, the captain of his guards, claims it was a stroke, but there are numerous irregularities... They refused to let the medics examine the body, insisting it must be handed directly to General Joseph, the new supreme commander. I suspect foul play."
Pausing, he continued, "...Right now, command of all forces in the Sunset Province has temporarily shifted to Griffin's adjutant, General Alec. Word is he's negotiating a dignified withdrawal with the governor."
Weilichi asked with a somber expression, "What do you think really killed him?"
The confidant answered cautiously, "I don't know. But Griffin had been investigating the mole behind the recent assassination attempt... Karlov might suspect us, which is why he refuses to release the body and insists on handing it to General Joseph."
"Us? How could—"
Weilichi scoffed, about to say it was impossible—no matter how foolish his peers were, they wouldn't strike again so soon after a botched attempt.
Yet he suddenly remembered that days ago, right after that failed assassination, he had privately tasked an exceptionally capable retainer with killing Griffin.
Could it be...
Did Pangolin actually pull it off?
A jolt ran through Weilichi's heart. The more he thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. A stroke sounded laughably clumsy—it reeked of an outright fabrication.
He knew firsthand how cunning Griffin was; a man couldn't fool everyone without serious skill.
To assassinate Griffin right under the noses of his elite guards deep inside the bunker without leaving a trace... and then walk away clean.
Just what kind of monster was this Pangolin?!
After a long silence, Weilichi ordered, "Bring Pangolin to me."
Standing in the tent, the confidant was clearly on the same page. He nodded firmly. "Yes, sir."
He knew his lord had taken a keen liking to the man's talent.
If Pangolin truly possessed such capability, he was unquestionably worth recruiting.
Not only did he have the martial prowess to hold off a thousand foes on the battlefield and take the head of a Mother Deathclaw single-handedly, but he also wielded the terrifying ability to claim an enemy commander's life through layers of elite security...
A warrior who had earned even General Macklen's glowing praise was truly wasted serving as a mere centurion under a chiliarch like Korwei.
Just as the confidant turned to leave, Weilichi called out to stop him.
"Wait... Does he have any vices? Money? Women? Power... or anything else?"
The confidant paused, pondering for a moment. "In the army, he avoids women, shows no interest in gold or silver, and has displayed little ambition for power. Aside from having a monstrous appetite... he seems to have no hobbies."
No vices...
That made things tricky.
Then again, it was understandable. Most wastelander rubes lived primitive lives and had no concept of true prosperity, so dinars naturally held little appeal for them.
When the time came, he would gift the man an estate and take him to Triumph City to broaden his horizons; surely then he would develop a taste for worldly pleasures.
Right, word had it he was fairly close to that female journalist.
For an outsider wishing to marry a Wilante girl, having no fortune was out of the question—especially when she was the daughter of a civil official. In the Legion, even if civil officials couldn't rival military officers in status, an official was still an official.
Having formed a plan, Weilichi looked at him and said, "Do this... Go to the mess hall and have the chefs prepare a feast with fine wine and dishes to send here. Then invite Pangolin over!"
The confidant nodded. "Understood!"
***
Around the same time, elsewhere in Fort Horn.
Battlefield Atmosphere Group had no idea that his assassination target was already dead, let alone that he had been thrust into the eye of the storm before even lifting a finger.
Upon realizing that his choice would influence the future storyline and perhaps even the direction of upcoming game versions, he found himself far less thrilled than the trolls on the forum imagined.
Looking at the crumpled slip of paper in his hand while squatting over the latrine, Battlefield Guy grumbled profanities under his breath.
"Damn it... If only I could save and reload."
The note had been delivered earlier by Weilichi's courier, outlining Griffin's upcoming itinerary. In truth, it was virtually useless; ever since the previous assassination attempt, Griffin had holed up inside the bunker, hardly ever setting foot outside.
The only viable opportunity was the day after tomorrow.
That morning, Griffin was scheduled to inspect the defense sector where he was stationed, which might offer a chance to strike. Predictably, though, a dense phalanx of powerful Awakened would surround the man. Even if he managed to get a shot off, he would likely be dead meat eight times out of ten.
He didn't care whether Griffin lived or died.
What bugged him was being forced to pick between two storylines.
Ideally, he wanted to see both the "kill" and "spare" branches, collect the "Bad Ending" along the way, and then pick whichever yielded the greatest rewards... That was how he played most RPGs.
Yet...
Those were single-player games.
Wasteland OL was an MMORPG; player impact on the worldline was permanent, making save-scumming impossible.
After transcribing the note's contents into his notebook in the real world, Battlefield Guy tossed the slip into the pit and flushed it away.
Pulling up his pants, he stepped out of the latrine and made his way toward the nearby barracks, intending to seek Korwei's advice before making up his mind.
After all, they had been through life and death together.
Korwei wouldn't steer him wrong.
More importantly, Tengteng's offhand remark had served as a reminder.
When he had accompanied General Weilichi that day, Brother Korwei's hesitant words and tone had genuinely piqued his curiosity.
He hadn't had the chance to ask back then, and later it had slipped his mind.
***
Outside the barracks.
Battlefield Guy approached the guard on duty. "I'm looking for Officer Korwei."
Recognizing Pangolin's face, the guard saluted. "Officer Korwei isn't here. He headed that way."
He pointed toward the west.
"Thanks."
Battlefield Guy nodded and followed the direction indicated, soon spotting Korwei beside a supply tent.
The man sat on a concrete step smoking a cigarette, staring blankly at the rows of concrete fortifications on the distant front lines and the sinking sun, oblivious even as the burning ember reached the skin of his fingers.
Hearing nearby footsteps, he snapped out of his daze and looked over.
"You're here?"
Battlefield Guy nodded, walking over to sit beside him. "General Weilichi sent me a letter."
Flicking the ash from his cigarette, Korwei asked with a touch of irritation, "Is he pressing you to act?"
Battlefield Guy nodded. "Yeah... He provided General Griffin's schedule. The day after tomorrow is the only opening."
Listening in silence, Korwei murmured, "An inspection the day after tomorrow, is it... You shouldn't have told me this. If I were Griffin's man, you'd be dead already."
Battlefield Guy rolled his eyes internally.
Quit bragging.
You're Macklen's die-hard loyalist! Why else would Weilichi have approached you in the first place?!
Playing the blunt, tight-lipped soldier was merely his persona; he wasn't actually stupid.
Still...
There was no need to say that out loud.
"I trust you," Battlefield Guy said, shaking his head with an earnest expression. "You will always be my commanding officer."
Hearing those words, a faint, comforted smile touched Korwei's stoic face.
To think he had earned a true confidant of his own...
Yet that smile soon carried a hint of melancholy.
Gazing at the distant sunset, he let out a sigh. "It does me good to hear that. If only everyone were like you."
"Like me?" Battlefield Guy blinked, not grasping the sentiment.
"Yes. Loyal, brave, candid... without a shred of deceit."
Korwei tapped his cigarette, speaking casually.
Yet while the speaker meant little by it, the listener took it to heart. Sitting beside him, Battlefield Guy felt his face flush hot, and he awkwardly averted his gaze.
Like me? Heaven forbid...
If all Wilante were like me, the Legion would have collapsed ages ago.
Clearing his throat, Battlefield Guy steered the conversation away from himself. "And... what about you?"
"Me?" A flicker of confusion appeared in Korwei's eyes. After a long while, he shook his head. "I... am not sure."
Battlefield Guy gave him a surprised look.
He hadn't expected this fellow, who always wore loyalty on his sleeve, to display such indecision.
Korwei paused before continuing, "How should I put it... The loyalty I believed in was one of shared heart and purpose, unity from the ground up. But what I see before me is nothing like that."
His heart was a tangle of conflicting emotions as he spoke.
Back when he was merely a centurion, he had never considered such matters... Not until Macklen died, and Griffin promoted him to chiliarch and assigned him to Weilichi's myriad, did he begin learning the truths previously hidden from him.
The Legion was not a single thick rope braided from ten thousand threads as he had imagined, but rather a blanket woven from crooked, tangled strands of wool pulling in every direction.
Take the present situation.
General Griffin wanted everyone to die with him.
To fulfill his long-cherished ambition of conquering the Great Rift Valley, to unite all the cowards shrinking from battle and the bickering factions, and to expand the Legion's territory east of the Great Desert, he did not mind dying... That was his loyalty to the Legion and the Marshal.
Yet subordinate myriarchs like Weilichi had no desire to go down with that madman. They would rather Griffin died so this foolish war could end... In their eyes, that was true loyalty to the Marshal.
Everyone was doing things he couldn't comprehend in the name of loyalty, each with their own definition of the word.
So what truly was loyalty?
He even began to wonder whether he, having never contemplated these things before, could truly be called loyal—and which side was in the right...
Seeing Korwei lost in confusion, Battlefield Guy didn't know how to comfort him. Sticking to his silent, stoic persona, he asked softly, "What should I do?"
"I don't know, my dear friend."
Korwei sighed, dropping the cigarette butt and grinding it out under his boot.
Dusting off his hands, he stood and looked down at his comrade who had bled beside him. Forcing a faint smile, he clasped him firmly on the shoulder.
"There comes a time when every man must make his own choice. Go on and do what you must... Follow your heart. Whichever path you choose, I won't blame you."
"To be honest, I hardly trust anyone here, but I trust you."
"You must be the most loyal of us all."
Battlefield Guy nodded, watching Korwei's silhouette disappear around the nearby corner.
Unfortunately...
This "good brother" was destined for disappointment.
He was anything but the "most loyal." If he had even a single drop of Wilante blood in his veins, his deeds would have earned him a one-way ticket to hell.
Barring any surprises, he was likely the only spy in the fortress.
The Alliance hadn't had enough time to deploy other intelligence operatives or build an espionage network within the Legion.
Those arrested earlier were almost certainly framed...
"What a headache."
Shaking his head, Battlefield Guy stood up, rubbing his temples.
According to General Weilichi's itinerary, the day after tomorrow was the optimal window. He had to make a decision soon if he wanted Weilichi's logistical backing.
Things like preparing weapons in advance or staging a diversion at a set time...
Griffin's personal guard was stacked with formidable Awakened, including Tier 2 and even Tier 3 powerhouses, not to mention scouts comparable to Perception-type players.
Coupled with the fact that the recent botched assassination had put Griffin on high alert, and the man's inherently cautious nature, pulling off the hit would be no easy feat.
"...If the assassination fails, or if it succeeds but my cover is blown, Pangolin's mission will be over."
Should he say goodbye to the NPCs he knew?
Thinking of Penny the reporter, the nurse who cracked dirty jokes while bandaging his wounds, and the cook who constantly complained about his bottomless appetite, Battlefield Guy scratched the back of his head.
Forget it.
He was an undercover agent, after all.
Once the mission wrapped up, they'd meet again if fate allowed.
Just then, two figures approached.
Battlefield Guy recognized them—they were General Weilichi's men.
One of the confidants stepped forward, his eyes darting as he whispered, "...General Weilichi requests your presence."
To discuss the mission details?
Determined to play his ruthless, taciturn persona to the end, Battlefield Guy maintained an air of calm detachment, giving a casual nod. "Alright."
Perhaps stunned by his sheer "aura of dominance," Battlefield Guy noticed the two men looking at him with sudden, profound reverence, as though gazing upon a true grandmaster.
Was he imagining things?
Pondering this, he followed the pair to the entrance of Weilichi's tent.
The two guards took up positions flanking the doorway, one on each side.
Glancing at their respectful demeanor, Battlefield Guy didn't overthink it and strode boldly inside.
A table stood in the center of the tent.
It was piled high with sumptuous food and fine wine: roasted pig trotters, stewed beef, braised fish, roast chicken... and the chicken soup he had been craving.
A month ago, such a feast would have raised no eyebrows, but with supplies running low in the fortress, putting together a spread like this took real effort.
Battlefield Guy couldn't help but swallow hard.
Damn.
A farewell banquet?
It seemed that when Weilichi sent the itinerary, he had already assumed which day the hit would go down.
Dressed in uniform, Weilichi sat across the table.
His expression was hard to read—a blend of gratitude, awe, and wariness, or perhaps a mixture of all three.
Since it was a send-off feast, Battlefield Guy didn't hold back, casually taking a seat opposite him.
Just as he was about to get straight to the point and reveal his decision, Myriarch Weilichi beat him to the punch. Raising a glass brimming with red wine, he spoke with utter solemnity.
"On behalf of the hundreds of officers and over fifty thousand soldiers in Fort Horn... I thank you for everything you have done for us!"
Battlefield Guy froze, utterly baffled by the unprompted gratitude.
I haven't even lifted a finger yet.
Isn't it a bit early to thank me?
Sitting motionless, stunned for two whole seconds, he frowned. "What did I do?"
The question was entirely literal.
Yet coupled with his calm, nonchalant demeanor, the ordinary inquiry took on an air of deliberate feigned ignorance in Weilichi's ears.
Weilichi instantly "caught" his drift. He chuckled warmly, shooting Comrade Pangolin an "I get it" look.
"Understood! You did nothing at all! On such a joyous day, let's not speak of that cursed lunatic!"
Battlefield Guy: "...?"
Before the taciturn expert could speak, Weilichi drained his wine in one gulp and gestured warmly with a broad smile.
"Eat! This entire table was prepared for you!"
"Rest assured, you don't need to worry about drawing suspicion. General Alec, the interim commander, is one of ours... Griffin is dead. Even if his die-hards are still around, they have no choice but to tuck their tails between their legs."
"It's over! Thanks to you, this foolish war is finally over! Once we're back in Triumph City, I'll treat you to something even better!"
Griffin is dead?
Hearing this, Battlefield Guy was completely dumbfounded.
Connecting the dots with Weilichi's sudden burst of hospitality, he immediately realized the man had assumed he was the assassin.
Small wonder...
Griffin had been sitting securely inside his bunker; if no one had assassinated him, could he have bashed his own head against the wall?
Still, the whole thing was bizarre.
Silently snatching up a chicken leg, Battlefield Guy tore into the feast under the myriarch's beaming gaze.
Regardless, there was no reason to turn down good food, especially when he was starving.
If the myriarch wanted to misunderstand, let him. As long as he kept his mouth shut, Weilichi wouldn't blab about it, nor would he bother launching an investigation into Griffin's cause of death.
As for tying up loose ends by killing him off?
Even less likely.
Not only was there zero evidence linking him to the deed, but even if there were, what did it matter?
Griffin's loyalists were already suppressed, the new governor was from Triumph City, the Eastern Expansion faction was finished, and anyone favoring a ceasefire would treat him as "one of their own."
A wave of melancholy suddenly washed over Battlefield Guy.
To think Griffin had died just like that.
Then again, the fighting was ninety percent over. Had he completed his undercover mission, or hadn't he?
It had been almost six months since his last save...
Chapter 497