Petra Fortress.
Under the escort of two light pickup trucks, Count Roskin, riding a motorcycle with a servant, drove out of the city with a pale face.
The chief bodyguard, sitting beside the driver in the pickup truck, leaned his arm on the window and waved, signaling the driver to speed up. He smiled at Count Roskin through the window,
"If you need help, remember to shout a little louder. We are not petty, we will come to help you."
"I don't need your help! I'd be thankful if you keep your distance!"
Glancing at the machine gun at the back of the pickup truck, Roskin's brows twitched, and he turned his face to roar against the howling wind, "Can you put that thing away? We are not going to war... Do you want to kill me?"
What if those distant friends misunderstood?
The chief bodyguard and the driver exchanged strange looks, not quite understanding his intention, but eventually, they complied with his odd request.
He reached out of the window, patting the roof of the truck.