The room was cold, yet Gordon was drenched in sweat. The oppressive force from Malach's aura alone had him completely locked in place.
"When you left this fortress, you carried with you the pride of the northern house. The pride of Sarakhel."
Malach absentmindedly tapped a finger against the desk. He stood directly before Gordon, staring at him, but Gordon wouldn't dare meet his eyes.
"And yet, you return after giving me this… humiliating performance. Half the cadets sent with you, gone. Several elites injured. You failed to live up to the name you carried, Gordon. You embarrassed Sarakhel."
Gordon hurriedly spoke.
"P-prime! You have to understand! I—"
"Hm? Did I give you permission to speak?"
"Urk!" Gordon let out a pained groan as Malach's aura intensified, the pressure forcing his knees to tremble violently.
"I don't recall asking you to speak, Gordon. Do you?"
"N-no, Prime…"
Malach stared at the trembling Gordon in silence for a moment, then chuckled.
