Stepping over the threshold, Richard walked into the war command room, which was filled with a grave atmosphere.
At this moment, he had already learned that the highest intelligence meeting, which the white-robed staff officer had invited him to attend earlier, was, in essence, a meeting of just two people: him and the army commander.
Hearing his entrance, the young military god Soron Bonaparte, who had just celebrated his thirty-ninth birthday not long ago, turned around, revealing a square and dignified face. His features were well-proportioned, the edges of his cheeks were chiseled like with a knife or axe, and his gray eyes resembled ambers, shining with profound light. His expression was solemn, without any hint of a smile, like an iceberg.
However, Soron did not appear overly cold nor impolite. His gaze briefly met Richard's, and he immediately nodded lightly as a greeting, then said, "Lord Richard, right?"
