"Am I correct, Saint Saturn?" Darren's voice, edged with a faint smile, drifted across the hush blanketing the official vessel's deck.
Saint Saturn cut him a cold look. "Lower your aura, Darren," he said flatly. "Unless you have a death wish."
Darren met his gaze. After three silent seconds, he chuckled and shrugged. "As you wish."
Without a flicker of movement from him, the pressure crushing Figarland Babos vanished like a receding tide. Strength gone, the red-haired noble dropped to his knees and gulped air, face ashen. After several ragged breaths he hauled himself upright, eyes bloodshot, hatred roiling. "You bastard! How dare you attack me?! You're tired of living!"
Darren's smile deepened. "How could I? I wouldn't dare lay a hand on you, Excellency Babos. As you can see, I'm simply carrying out my escort duties."
The brazenness only fed Babos's fury. He was a god among men—born noble, above all humanity—backed by the Figarland name and his uncle Saint Garling. And yet this commoner had humiliated him in front of his peers. The hot stares from the other Celestial Dragons seared his skin. His dignity lay in shreds.
He drew breath to retort—
"Enough. We're nearing our destination," Saint Saturn's dry voice cut through. "The other three official vessels will arrive shortly."
His gaze slid to the twisted mask on Babos's face. "You can vent your frustrations later. If you still harbor resentment, unleash it during the Hunting Competition. I look forward to your performance."
Babos blinked—and then comprehension flared. His features curved into something feral. He let the provocation die and turned to Darren with a syrupy smile. "Thank you for the lesson, Vice Admiral. I won't forget it."
Darren's fingers twitched; his eyes narrowed.
At the cabin entrance, a sinister red gleam flickered in Saint Saturn's unfathomable eyes.
Darren exhaled, let his hand relax.
Babos's laugh grew needling. He leaned close and hissed, "It must be agony. You want to kill me, but you don't dare. All that monstrous strength—and still you grovel before the World Nobles."
He straightened Darren's slightly askew tie with two languid fingers. "Another drink," he called.
A servant crawled forward on hands and knees, offering a brimming glass high over his head. Babos accepted it, turned to Darren—and inverted the glass. Perfumed liquor splashed across the deck.
"Even so, I should toast you," he said brightly. "To Vice Admiral Darren, for escorting us here."
He pivoted away and melted back into the throng.
Darren stood in the storm of their mockery, smiling once, briefly. Then he faced the bow and asked a trembling World Government official, voice mild, "When will the other three official vessels arrive?"
"V-Vice Admiral Darren, in about fifteen minutes," the man stammered. "Our ship—the Hawk—departed first with only a hundred and twenty nobles. The others each carry about a hundred and fifty; their departure was slightly delayed."
Four ships. More than five hundred elite young Celestial Dragons. This year's entire slate of "hunters."
Darren nodded. "Fifteen minutes, then. Thank you."
Faint veins showed around his pupils as his smile thinned.
I really can't wait much longer.
A deep, solemn horn rolled over the sea.
Heads turned. The young nobles sprang to their feet, faces alight with anticipation.
On the horizon, the snow-shrouded silhouette of an island took shape.
Felsek Island—the venue for this year's Native Hunting Competition.
As the shoreline loomed, something else caught Darren's eye. Three nautical miles out, a wall of battleships stretched in a cold arc, sealing the island in iron. Familiar hulls. Familiar flags. Familiar faces—suddenly distant.
He watched for several seconds, then refocused.
The snow-white Seagull Flags parted to open a corridor in the blockade. Like an iron flower unfolding, the gap widened to welcome the cruciform standard of authority.
The wind howled. The world turned colder. Thick flakes drifted from the leaden sky.
On the battleships, men he knew stood motionless, expressions knotted with emotion as they stared at the Vice Admiral on the bow of the Government vessel. Some clenched their teeth. Some stared blankly. Some balled their fists so tight the knuckles whitened.
Darren ignored them. Hands in his pockets, cigar clamped between his teeth, he stood tall on the bow—all easy arrogance and iron defiance. Smoke curled around the hem of his white coat, veiling the indifferent eyes beneath his black hair.
The gilded official vessel and the scarred Marine ships slid past each other in the narrow channel.
On the foredeck, Saint Saturn leaned on his weathered cane, a sardonic smile on his lips as he watched.
A World Government official lifted a speaking trumpet and barked, voice clipped and harsh, "Saint Saturn of the Gorosei has arrived! All Marines below the rank of Commodore are forbidden to gaze upon his true form! Any act of disrespect will be punished by immediate execution!"
Silence held for two long heartbeats.
Then—
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
On several Marine decks, a dozen curious heads burst like ripe fruit, red and white spraying across planks as bodies dropped with sickening thuds.
Horror froze the ranks. Soldiers tucked their chins to their chests and shook. Commodores and above stared at the frail old man, minds reeling.
The black-hatted elder's eyes now burned blood-red.
It was as if a god had stepped down among them.
To be continued...