The fog outside seemed to have grown thicker. The distant woods were reduced to blurry silhouettes, like dormant behemoths, exuding the oppressive calm that precedes a storm.
However, the ordinary Mercenaries in the camp seemed unaffected. Most of them wore expressions of excitement as they polished their weapons, checked their bowstrings, and muttered to one another about bounties and spoils of war.
Like sharks that had scented blood, the greater the danger, the more restless they became.
After walking a few steps away, one of Rex's trusted subordinates sidled up and muttered, "Boss, everyone says that Commander Calvin is stubborn and foul-tempered, like a rock in a latrine pit. Seeing him today, I can tell it's true. He wouldn't even do you the courtesy of having a drink..."
Rex pulled out his wineskin, took a swig, and wiped his mouth.
