The ship kept descending.
On the ground, densely packed flashes of artillery and fire seemed to suddenly bore out of the darkness, making the light outside the porthole flicker on and off.
Reinhardt's berserk gaze gradually turned icy.
Everything in the past, since it was too unbearable to look back on, no longer needed to be recalled. That cold and ugly metal skull was merely the inevitable price he had paid to gain strength. What mattered was that he had once again seized the pulse of fate, once again clamped the chance tight in his own hands.
The war had only just begun; the future still held far too many possibilities. Commanding a full three hundred Judgers and favored by Sobel, he still had a wealth of opportunities to obtain everything he desired.
That Fatty called Tian Xingjian would never in his dreams imagine that he, Reinhardt, would return to this war with the hand speed of over eighty‑five moves per second.
