The fighter removed his armor in a way that was quite "unorthodox".
Not from the front.
Nor from the top.
But from the right side.
When the fighter stepped out from the left side of the armor, it still stood there majestically, not a bit slack, and even the weapons remained firmly grasped in the armor's hands, eliciting a trace of greed in Jars's eyes.
Such equipment.
Really.
Too powerful.
If put up for sale, it would absolutely make a killing. Just the United States procurement alone would be an astronomical number. Even if one set sold for a million, there would probably be a scramble to buy because of its significance in small-scale combat.
"Where's your man?"
The fighter stood with his arms at his sides.
Jars quickly motioned for his subordinates to approach.
It was still the same man who had hit the Marlo brothers so hard they lost their bearings, nearly two meters tall, with stout arms and bulging muscles that would make the average person take a wide berth.
