The military truck carrying Harold and his men rumbled back toward the base.
They had barely made it through the gates of the base when they were halted by a convoy consisting of a red luxury sedan and three Jeeps.
The backdoor of the luxury sedan opened and a burly man in his late thirties stepped out. He had thick bushy eyebrows and a broad face.
It was none other than the commander-in-chief of three hundred thousand soldiers of the West, Lucas Ziegler!
Lucas was born in one of the West's powerful families and enrolled in the army at a very young age. Since then, it had only been promotion after promotion for him as he climbed the ranks rapidly due to his superior fighting abilities.
Not even forty years old and he was already the General of the West.
Along with Nathan Cross, the General of the North, a lot of people liked to call them the nation's two greatest bulwarks for their contributions to the safety of the nation.
As such, his position and status in the army were practically on par with Nathan's.
When the truck driver caught sight of Lucas, he hurriedly put on the brakes.
Harold and his men hastily exited the vehicle, standing ramrod straight as they gave their general a salute.
Simultaneously, they called out, "Greetings, General!"
Lucas was about to ask Harold where they had gone when he noticed how exhausted all of them looked. Not only that, but they were also all injured as well.
A stern look appeared on his face as he asked, "What were all of you doing? Are there enemies invading from the West?"
Harold and his men bowed their heads in shame, muttering, "No."
Words could not describe the aggrievement they were feeling. They were the National Guards of the West, yet they had their asses kicked by Nathan's bodyguards. If word got out about that, it would be even more humiliating than losing a battle with foreign armies.
Frowning, Lucas demanded, "If the enemy is not invading, what happened? Why are you injured?"
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