North Blue.
Felsek Island.
Winter never loosened its hold on Felsek. Villages huddled along the snowy coast, and generations had lived there undisturbed.
At dusk, a biting wind skimmed the land beneath a dimming sun. Thick, feathery snow drifted down, cloaking everything in white.
Laughter rang through the lanes as children bundled in padded coats tumbled through the drifts, their boots sinking into soft powder. They played until time slipped away.
Then chimney smoke curled upward and voices carried from every doorway.
"Time for dinner!"
"Come home!"
Parents chased their mischievous children, faces flushed, and finally tugged them indoors.
Will, the island's best blacksmith, walked home with his eight-year-old, nodding to neighbors along the way.
"Will, my pot's cracked. When can you fix it?"
"No problem, Aunt Lilith. I'll come by tomorrow."
"Will… the catch has been awful. Can I pay next month for the kitchenware?"
"Haha—you still owe me? I'd forgotten! Don't worry. Pay when you're back on your feet."
Felsek was a barren place. Winter made farming near impossible, and life was hard for everyone.
But it was peaceful.
They were poor, yes, but spared war, blood feuds, and—most of all—the pirate raids that used to strip them of even their meager food.
Will dimly remembered when Felsek hadn't been like this. Gangs swaggered through town, bandits ravaged the countryside, the Mafia shook down families, and pirates plundered at will—chaos worthy of the North Blue's name.
When did it change?
Will was rough-spoken and forgetful, never sure who owed him what. But he remembered that day.
Four years and four months ago, a battleship bearing the badge of the North Blue 321st Branch made landfall.
"By order of North Blue Supreme Commander Rogers Darren," the Marines declared, "the North Blue Marines will collect a fixed military security tax of ten percent, to protect Felsek Island from illegal incursions and pirate raids."
The island reeled.
Ten percent might sound small, but for people already bled by Mafia and pirate extortion, it was crushing. It threatened to snap what little they had left.
And facing armed Marines with cold eyes, what could villagers do?
They agreed, numb, and resolved to survive one day at a time.
Isn't that how ordinary people live?
Everyone lives like this. I'm no Celestial Dragon. Why should fortune favor me?
Face reality, Will told himself, squeezing his child's hand.
Then, when they had scraped the money together and paid the tax, a miracle happened.
Overnight, the gangs, bandits, and Mafia—every last one who tormented them—vanished.
They never learned what happened. Too frightened to look, they barred their doors, huddled under blankets, and listened to the screams that tore across the dark.
All night long.
At dawn, when the snowlight softened the harbor, they crept outside, shaking.
Corpses lay in piles, the docks soaked in red.
The leering faces that once radiated malice and cruelty were blank now—frozen in terror and despair.
The Marines stood rigid in blood-spattered uniforms, swords still dripping. Holding torches high, they burned the mound of bodies to ash.
Will watched the flames and understood, for the first time, the sacred weight of that pure white Seagull Flag.
A young Marine commander strode toward them, drenched in blood. Will remembered him: far too young for the rank, with a mature handlebar mustache that didn't fit his face. He seemed awkward with smiles and managed only a stiff one.
"From today," he said, "peace will hold in the North Blue."
"Trust the new Supreme Commander, Rogers Darren. He's taken your money, and he'll get the job done."
He's taken your money, and he'll get the job done.
The line sounded all wrong from a Marine, and Will almost laughed.
But it was fine.
This new Supreme Commander was different.
At least he wasn't like the corrupt officers of old, who pretended to help while cutting deals with pirates.
So what if the North Blue was poor and backward? Peace was enough.
Isn't that true?
Their prayers had never asked for much.
While the corpses burned and the flames climbed; while the sea wind howled and snow whirled; while the Seagull Flag snapped above barren, frozen Felsek—Justice, which had always felt abstract, took on weight and form.
It was the safest day the island had ever known.
"Vice Admiral Darren… what a fine Marine," Will murmured, eyes gone distant with memory, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Compared to the tax they had paid, the peace that followed felt priceless.
People said Rogers Darren—the "King of the North Blue"—was the shrewdest, most calculating man on the sea.
Yet by any measure, this deal looked like a loss for him.
Will chuckled and squeezed his child's hand with his blacksmith's grip.
Everyone on Felsek believed it:
As long as Vice Admiral Darren lived, no one would dare shatter their fragile happiness.
Even if none of them had ever seen the Marine who shielded them.
"Hm? What's that?"
At his gate, Will paused, frowning.
His house sat near the coast, with a clear view of the waters.
A line of imposing battleships rose from the horizon, drawing closer in stately formation.
"The Marines… the North Blue Marines?"
Seagull Flags flew from every mast. Will's face lit up.
He rushed inside, ignored his wife's protests, fetched a long-hoarded bottle of liquor and a fresh slab of salted pork from the cellar, grabbed his child's hand, and ran back out.
Felsek doesn't have much, he thought, anxious. I hope the North Blue branch won't turn up their noses at this.
Heart racing, he pelted toward the beach.
On the shore, he waved hard at the majestic ships, grinning until his cheeks ached.
"Marines! Over here!" he called, voice bright with joy.
At last—he could thank them in person.
The sight of that steel line spanning the horizon, every hull in perfect order, sent heat rushing to his face.
These were the Marines who had always protected them.
This was the Justice they revered.
Then everything changed.
The warships slowed and stilled.
A tall, powerfully built officer stepped onto the flagship's deck. He wore a black afro and braided muttonchops, and carried an authority Will didn't have words for. Will didn't know ranks, but this man was high—very high.
Snow fell softly. The world held its breath.
Will looked from face to face on the decks and felt a cold foreboding. The Marines' expressions were silent, complicated—heavy.
The order came, colder than the snow.
"Lock down the island. No one enters or leaves."
The officer's voice didn't waver.
"Anyone attempting to flee by sea… shoot them down."
Smash!
The sake jar shattered, its treasured liquor darkening the snow.
Slices of marbled pork scattered across the white.
Will collapsed to his knees, eyes round with terror. Even his blacksmith's hands shook.
He saw pity—and sorrow—in the officer's gaze.
He knew that look.
It was how you looked at someone standing on the edge of death.
To be continued...