Chapter 160: Do We Break His Legs, or Take His Life?

Inside the reception room, Wilson Darbishire slumped on the sofa, caked in dust and ash. Bruises bloomed purple and blue across his face, legs, and arms; cuts marked him everywhere. His clothes were ripped to rags, smeared with red and black stains-blood and soot-and he had the air of a beggar dragged through hell. The door snapped open. A white‑haired lieutenant general strode in, jaw set and eyes cold. Wilson sprang up and saluted, hands trembling. "S‑sir!" The lieutenant general glared...