Hector's forward command camp.
The once-solemn command tent was now filled with an oppressive and agitated atmosphere.
"We can't fight this war... We really can't."
The portly Viscount Perez slammed his helmet onto the table, his voice cracking.
His face was flushed, but it wasn't just from anger—it was a grief as profound as if he'd lost his own parents.
"Lord Hector, just yesterday! Those damned birds dropped bombs on my manor! My art gallery, the oil paintings my grandfather left me... They're all ruined!"
Perez clutched his chest as if his heart were bleeding.
"My newlywed wife is crying amidst the ruins, and my people are fleeing in droves. My lord, for the past three months, I've been paying for the food and supplies of the five hundred private soldiers I brought out of my own pocket! I've already mortgaged two mines for this war!"
