The World Government's cruciform flag cracked sharply in the freezing North Blue wind, each snap echoing like the distant beat of war drums.
The air was bitter and cold.
Darren had never seen so many Celestial Dragons gathered in one place.
Aboard the World Government's official vessel, he leaned against the damp railing, the sea wind tugging at his pristine white Marine coat. His new uniform clung to his broad frame as he lit a cigar, watching the elegantly dressed nobles with narrowed eyes.
These weren't the bloated, self-indulgent pigs he'd seen before.
The hundred or so Celestial Dragons on deck stood tall and poised, their movements refined, their features striking—clearly the upper echelon of their breed, educated and cultured. Gone were the ridiculous glass helmets and sterile white suits. Instead, they wore tailored hunting gear designed for combat: polished black boots, pressed waterproof trousers, and gleaming silver-plated armor over vital points. They carried ornate weapons—longswords, flails, battleaxes, and rapiers—each glimmering with obscene wealth.
If not for who they were, they might have looked like noble knights ready for battle.
They clustered around a grand fireplace, laughing, drinking, and toasting the "hunt" to come. Their eyes sparkled with a feverish light, their voices dripping with excitement. Servants bustled among them with trays of rare delicacies and imported liquor, the air thick with perfume and wine fumes. Even the cutting winds of the North Blue couldn't clear the stench of decadence.
To an outsider, it might have looked like a group of aristocrats preparing for a leisurely hunt—blissfully unaware, or uncaring, that it was a massacre they were celebrating.
Perhaps to them, born above the world and taught they were gods, it truly was nothing more than sport.
"The Celestial Dragons' coming-of-age ceremony... huh."
The smoke curled from Darren's lips, scattering into the wind as he studied the nobles he'd been ordered to protect. A faint, cold smile tugged at his mouth.
"Hey, Vice Admiral! Come have a drink with us!"
A young man among the group lifted his glass, voice carrying an exaggerated friendliness.
"No need, Your Excellency," Darren replied evenly. "Thank you for the offer."
The speaker stood out from the rest—a tall young man with striking red hair and a natural air of command. His manner was bold, even charming at first glance, but beneath it Darren saw the same arrogance and entitlement that tainted them all. He simply hid it better.
"Before I boarded, my uncle told me about you," the young man said, smiling thinly. "He said Vice Admiral Rogers Darren is a legend in the North Blue. Surely you wouldn't refuse a drink with me?"
The laughter and conversation around them faded. The others, all of them clearly used to following his lead, turned their gazes toward Darren, their smiles mocking.
Darren frowned. "And who might your uncle be, Excellency?"
The red-haired Celestial Dragon puffed out his chest proudly. "You've met him. Figarland Garling—the Vice Commander of the Knights of God. I'm his nephew, Figarland Babos."
So that's it. No wonder the arrogance sounded familiar.
Babos swaggered closer, wine sloshing in his glass. His flushed cheeks and unsteady gait betrayed the liquor in his veins.
"My uncle speaks highly of you," he said, breathing wine into Darren's face. "Told me I should learn from you. But that puts me in a bit of a bind, you see. I'm destined to inherit the title of Sea Hunter, just like him—maybe even lead the Knights of God one day."
He tilted his head, smirking. "So tell me, Vice Admiral... what exactly am I supposed to learn from you?"
Darren's eyes narrowed.
"You're drunk, Excellency Babos," he said calmly. "I'm on duty and can't drink—please excuse me. As for what you should learn... I suspect Lord Garling was merely being polite. Don't take his words too seriously."
Babos's smirk hardened. "So you're refusing to show me respect?"
Respect. Always the same word.
Darren almost laughed. Were all redheads this irritating?
He sighed, but the air around him shifted. His eyes turned sharp and cold as steel.
The wind seemed to die.
Babos's hand began to tremble, the wine in his glass quivering. In his vision, Darren's figure blurred, transforming into something monstrous—an overwhelming force that crushed the air from his lungs.
The noble's throat tightened. The warmth of alcohol fled his body.
He couldn't breathe.
A strangled, rasping sound escaped him as he staggered backward, eyes bulging, face flushing crimson. Panic seized him, but his body refused to move. His instincts screamed to run, yet his legs might as well have been stone.
The surrounding Celestial Dragons shot to their feet, faces pale with fear.
"What are you doing?!"
"Let him go!"
"Vice Admiral, have you lost your mind?!"
None of them dared come closer.
Darren hadn't even moved. His arms hung loosely at his sides.
"Since your uncle thinks so highly of me," Darren said softly, his towering frame casting a shadow over the trembling noble, "I'll offer you a lesson, Lord Babos."
He leaned forward, smiling faintly. "Respect isn't given. It's earned."
Then he turned his gaze toward the elder in the black hat emerging from the rear of the cabin, leaning on an ancient staff.
"Wouldn't you agree, Saint Saturn?"
To be continued...