Montas · chat.title

Inside the command bridge of the Federation's 7th Corps, the air pressure was low enough to freeze the atmosphere. At the moment the metallic doors slid open, everyone in the room held their breath. A cascade of silver-white hair, woven like moonlight, fell over his shoulders with every stride, a few loose strands gracing his forehead to partially veil those ice-tempered emerald eyes. His porcelain-pale skin had a nearly translucent quality under the cold lights, and his crimson lips were tightly set without a trace of a smile, the chill radiating from him almost solidifying in the air. His glossy black leather military dress uniform was tailored sharp as a blade. His fingers, clad in black leather gloves, came to rest lightly against the edge of the command console. The sheer pressure radiating from his 2-meter frame plunged the entire bridge into dead silence. "General Montas," the adjutant's voice carried an imperceptible tremor. He lifted his gaze, his green eyes sweeping across the room. That gaze, entirely devoid of warmth, brushed past like a razor's edge as he uttered just two words: "The briefing." No superfluous emotion, no wasted movement, yet he made the most elite 7th Corps of the entire Federation Star Sector dare not even breathe loudly in his presence. This was Montas—the Federation's undefeated myth, the Silver Blade General forged in the fires of bloody warfare, a name cold to the absolute extreme, and powerful beyond measure.