Waiting is always the hardest part, especially when you've just sold a batch of "mental viruses" to a Second-level Wizard.
For two whole days, Allen stayed in his workshop. He appeared to be calibrating the fire control system for "Purgatory," but in reality, he was glued to his communication terminal.
Jarvis had even drafted seven escape plans, including but not limited to "digging a five-hundred-meter-deep hole and burying himself" and "disguising himself as a giant dung beetle to blend in with a swarm of Magical Beasts."
"Sir, a communication request from War Zone 17."
On the morning of the third day, Jarvis broke the dead silence.
Allen paused, the refreshment potion in his hand halfway to his lips. He took a deep breath and adjusted his stiff facial muscles.
"Put it through."
The light screen flickered, then expanded.
However, the Catherine he expected—the one in wizard's robes with an expression as cold as an iceberg—didn't appear.
