The wooden planks of Vàng-Harbor's main dock groaned under the weight of gathered feet. Salt spray from the Fermentation Current misted the air, carrying that strange sweet-sour tang of yeast and brine that had defined Kushi Island for centuries. Fishing boats bobbed in their slips, their rigging clicking against masts in a nervous rhythm. The crowd pressed against the rope barriers—fishermen in wide-brimmed conical hats, merchants in silk-lace tunics, farmers with dirt still crusted under their fingernails. They held their breath as one, their eyes fixed on the grey wall of Navy battleships filling the harbor mouth.
King Vitis Koshu stood at the edge of the dock, his burgundy silk robes billowing in the offshore breeze. The golden harvest embroidery caught the weak sunlight, throwing small sparks across the assembled Marines. He had left the Vine Crown on its cushion—a decision he regretted now, feeling naked without its weight. His gray-blue eyes tracked the ship's plank extending from the flagship, the wood groaning as boots struck its surface.
Orianne Seine stood at his right shoulder, her leather portfolio clutched against her chest like a shield. Her silver-white bob stayed immaculate despite the wind, a testament to decades of discipline. Her ebony cane rested in her left hand, the silver handle pressed against her palm. She pushed her glasses up her nose with her middle finger—once, twice—and forced her breathing to slow. The burn scars on her right hand, hidden beneath her long glove, throbbed in sympathy with her racing heart.
Commander Phởlaurant Vanluc flanked the King's left, his navy blue tunic stretched across his solid shoulders. His jaw stayed set, his amber-brown eyes fixed on the approaching figures with the calm focus of a man who had stared down rogue waves and rogue pirates alike. His hand rested on his sidearm—not drawing, not threatening, just present. A reminder that the Coast Guard still stood.
Vice Commander Anmarie Lotuslys stood beside him, her sharp hazel eyes narrowed to slits. Her arms were folded across her chest, her rank insignia a beacon. The small baseball pin from her son gleamed above her commendations—a flash of normalcy in a moment that held nothing normal. Her jaw flexed once, twice, the muscle jumping beneath her skin.
Behind them, the nervous onlookers pressed closer. A child cried somewhere in the crowd, quickly shushed by a parent. A merchant dropped a crate of wine bottles; the sound of shattering glass cut through the murmur like a scream.
The first boot struck the dock.
Vice Admiral Casimir stepped off the plank with the silence of a falling shadow. His ivory-white Justice coat with its gold epaulets hung motionless despite the wind, as if the air itself feared to touch him. His black leather eyepatch, adding to his intimidating expression. His remaining eye—that cold pale blue—swept the dock once, taking in the King, the Commanders, the crowd, the harbor, the sky. He dismissed it all in a single glance.
Behind him, six figures emerged from the ship's gangway.
Their white porcelain masks reflected the grey sky in smooth, featureless curves. Their dark robes flowed around their bodies like smoke, the fabric rippling in patterns that ignored the wind's direction. Their feet made no sound on the wooden planks. They moved as one, their steps synchronized, their arms hidden within their sleeves. The crowd drew back as they passed, mothers pulling children behind their skirts, grown men crossing themselves in old gestures of warding.
The masked agents did not look at the crowd. The crowd did not exist to them.
They stopped behind Casimir in a perfect semicircle, their robes settling around them like funeral shrouds. Not one of them moved.
Four more figures descended the plank, their footsteps louder, their presence less spectral but no less intimidating.
Marina Kick touched the dock with her custom black leather cleats, the steel toe reinforcements clicking against the wood. Her green-trimmed Justice coat draped over her left shoulder, leaving her kicking leg free. Her duffel bag hung from her right hand, the weathered olive-green canvas bearing the stenciled letters "MK 10." She scanned the dock with the focus of a striker reading a defense, already identifying angles, trajectories, vulnerable points. Her dark hazel eyes found the Coast Guard Commanders, dismissed them, and returned to scanning.
Petra Ven followed, her oversized olive-green sweater hanging loose over her frame. Her heavy-lidded dark eyes swept the crowd with the patience of someone who had learned to see without being seen. The rough, pebbled texture of her skin caught the light in ways that made onlookers blink and look away. Her mismatched earrings swung as she turned her head, cataloging exits, cover points, potential threats. Her hand brushed the locket at her throat—her mother's photograph hidden inside—and then fell back to her side.
Topiaris Tidaltuff descended the plank as if walking a runway, his silver-white pompadour immaculate despite the humidity. His starched white Justice coat draped over his shoulders without a single wrinkle. He pulled a fine-toothed comb from his breast pocket and ran it through his hair once, twice, three times, checking for imperfections that did not exist. His polished black riding boots reflected the faces of the onlookers. His diamond-encrusted poodle charm swung against his chest.
Zento Radias brought up the rear, his pearl-white rifle cradled in his arms like a sleeping child. His magenta feather boa draped across his shoulders, fluttering in the breeze. His sky-blue silk lining flashed beneath his Justice coat. His shaved head gleamed, and his vibrant green eyes sparkled with an enthusiasm that seemed entirely inappropriate for the occasion. He whispered something to Mayla—too soft for anyone else to hear—and the rifle appeared to gleam in response.
The four Rear Admirals arranged themselves behind Casimir, flanking the masked agents. Marina stood with her weight on her back foot, ready to move. Petra melted into a position that placed her in shadow despite the open dock. Topiaris adjusted his cuffs and checked his reflection in a polished brass bollard. Zento kissed Mayla's barrel and smiled at the crowd.
The onlookers held their breath.
Koshu stepped forward.
He stood as tall as his sixty-two-year-old frame allowed, his shoulders back, his chin lifted. The burgundy silk of his robes settled around him. He placed one hand on his chest—over his heart, over the kingdom—and extended the other in a gesture of welcome.
"Welcome to the Kura-Kura Kingdom." His voice carried across the dock, steady and warm, the voice of a man who had welcomed dignitaries and pirates alike. "I am King Vitis Koshu."
He gestured to his right, toward Orianne. "This is my Royal Assistant, Orianne Seine." His hand moved to his left, toward Phởlaurant. "Commander Phởlaurant Vanluc of the Coast Guard. And Vice Commander Anmarie Lotuslys."
He opened his mouth to continue—to speak of wine and rice, of friendship and trade, of the long history between his kingdom and the World Government—
"You know why we are here."
Casimir's voice cut through Koshu's welcome like a blade through silk. Flat. Emotionless. Final.
Koshu's mouth closed. His throat worked. The words he had prepared—the carefully crafted phrases, the diplomatic overtures, the offers of wine and hospitality—turned to ash on his tongue.
He swallowed.
"I am aware of the implied collection."
Casimir's pale blue eye narrowed. The black leather of his eyepatch creaked as his jaw flexed.
"There is nothing implied." His voice dropped lower, rougher, the first crack in that emotionless facade. "We are here to collect."
---
Behind Casimir, Alejandro Fuego shifted his weight. His flowing robe whispered against the dock, the dark red accents and gold trim looking holographic. His amber-yellow eyes, with their slitted pupils, swept the harbor once and found nothing of interest. His thermal aura shimmered the air around him, making his figure waver at the edges.
"This is taking too long," he said, his voice low and measured. "We will go."
Without waiting for acknowledgment, he turned and walked down the dock, his robe trailing behind him like a shadow given form.
The six masked agents followed.
Their white porcelain masks turned in unison, their featureless faces reflecting the grey sky. Their dark robes flowed around their bodies, catching the wind in ways that made them appear to float rather than walk. Their feet made no sound on the wooden planks. They passed through the crowd like ghosts, and the crowd parted for them without conscious thought, bodies pressing backward, eyes sliding away.
Anmarie's hand dropped to her sidearm. Her sharp hazel eyes tracked the agents as they moved, her fingers twitching.
"Where are they going?"
Zento Radias turned to her, his vibrant green eyes warm with something that might have been amusement. He cradled Mayla against his chest and offered her a smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Don't mind them." His voice carried a musical lilt, the cadence of a performer addressing an audience. "They aren't here to interfere."
He stroked Mayla's barrel and added, softer, "They have their own business. We have ours."
---
Casimir stepped closer to Koshu. The distance between them shrank to an arm's length. The Vice Admiral's pale blue eye bore into the King's gray-blue eyes, and Koshu felt the weight of that gaze like a physical pressure.
"Do you have the payment?"
Koshu's hands trembled at his sides. He clasped them behind his back to hide the shaking. His voice came out thinner than he intended, but he forced the words past the tightness in his throat.
"We received the payment notice." He paused, searching for the right words, the diplomatic phrasing that had saved his kingdom a hundred times before. "And I would like an opportunity to consider some other avenues to explore outside of direct payment in full."
Casimir's jaw flexed. The muscle jumped beneath his scarred cheek.
"You either pay in full." His voice dropped to a near-whisper, the sound carrying across the dock like a death sentence. "Or we take payment in human capital."
Orianne's hand tightened on her portfolio. The leather creaked beneath her grip. She pushed her glasses up her nose with her middle finger—a gesture she had performed thousands of times, but today her hand shook
"What do you mean by human capital?"
Topiaris Tidaltuff slid his comb through his silver-white pompadour, the teeth make a dramatic proclamation. He examined the comb for stray hairs, found none, and returned it to his breast pocket with a flourish.
"It means, my dear woman, that we take your people." He adjusted his diamond-encrusted poodle charm, ensuring it hung straight. "They work off the tax. Simple economics, really. Labor in exchange for debt."
The crowd gasped.
The sound rolled across the dock like a wave—a collective intake of breath, sharp and horrified. Mothers clutched their children. Fishermen gripped their nets. A young woman dropped the basket of bread she had been carrying, the loaves tumbling across the planks.
Phởlaurant's jaw flexed. His hand tightened on his sidearm, knuckles going white.
Anmarie's arms dropped from her chest, her hands curling into fists at her sides. Her sharp hazel eyes found the King's face, asking the question she could not speak aloud.
Give the order.
Koshu's head swiveled toward his people. His gray-blue eyes swept the crowd—the fishermen, the merchants, the mothers, the children. A young boy stood at the rope barrier, no older than Misa Vanluc, his eyes wide with a terror he did not understand.
Koshu raised his hand. Palm out. Fingers spread.
Stay calm.
The gesture worked. The crowd's murmur faded. The boy's mother pulled him behind her skirt, but she did not flee. They waited. They always waited.
Koshu turned back to Casimir. His voice came out steadier than he felt.
"The amount in question is quite substantial." He paused, measuring his words. "It may take some time for us to gather it all."
Casimir's pale blue eye held his for a long moment. The Vice Admiral did not blink.
"You have one week."
The words landed like cannon fire.
Casimir turned his head, his good eye sweeping across his Rear Admirals. "Secure the docks. Set up patrols. No one leaves the islands without authorization."
Marina Kick snapped to attention, her dark hazel eyes bright with focus. "Understood, sir. We'll have the perimeter locked down within the hour."
Petra Ven nodded once, her heavy-lidded eyes already scanning the harbor for approach points, escape routes, vulnerable positions. "I'll handle the harbor patrols. No vessel moves without my knowledge."
Topiaris Tidaltuff sighed and pulled out his comb again. "I suppose I should inspect the troops. Make sure they look presentable. One cannot project authority in wrinkled uniforms." He caught Orianne's stare and shrugged. "What? Standards matter."
Zento Radias kissed Mayla's barrel and grinned at the crowd. "Don't worry, dears. We're very professional about our occupations. Mostly."
The Rear Admirals dispersed, shouting orders to sailors who scrambled across the docks like startled ants. Marina's cleats pounded against the wood as she sprinted toward the harbor entrance. Petra melted into the crowd, her oversized sweater the last thing they saw before she vanished. Topiaris gathered a squad of Marines and began inspecting their cuffs with theatrical disdain. Zento climbed onto a cargo crate and started humming a tune, Mayla cradled in his arms.
Sailors poured off the Navy ships, their boots thundering against the planks. They set up checkpoints at every street entrance. They unrolled coils of rope and strung them across the dock exits. They stood at attention with their rifles gleaming, their faces blank, their eyes watching.
The onlookers began to scramble.
A merchant grabbed his crate of wine and ran. A fisherman untied his boat and pushed off from the dock, only to find a Navy cutter blocking his path. A mother gathered her children and fled toward the rice terraces, her sandals slapping against the stones.
Koshu opened his mouth to speak—to protest, to negotiate, to beg if necessary—
Casimir turned his back.
The Vice Admiral walked away, his ivory-white coat trailing behind him, his boots clicking against the wood. He did not look back. He did not need to.
"One week," he called over his shoulder, his voice flat and final. "Or I take payment."
Koshu stood frozen.
The dock swirled with chaos around him—sailors shouting, civilians fleeing, Marines marching—but he did not move. His gray-blue eyes tracked Casimir's retreating form, watched the Vice Admiral climb the ship's plank, disappear onto the flagship's deck.
His hands hung at his sides. His breath came in short, shallow gasps.
Orianne's hand touched his shoulder.
Her fingers were cold through the silk of his robe. The pressure was light, barely a touch, but it anchored him. Pulled him back from the edge of whatever void he had been staring into.
He turned to look at her.
His eyes held the question he could not speak.
What do I do?
She shook her head.
The gesture was small, barely a movement, but it carried the weight of fifty-five years of service. She had no answer. She had never had no answer before.
Koshu looked at his Commanders.
Phởlaurant stood with his hand on his sidearm, his amber-brown eyes burning with a fire Koshu had never seen. The Commander's jaw was set, his shoulders squared, his body angled toward the Navy ships as if he was calculating the distance, the angles, the cost.
Just give the order.
Anmarie stood with her fists clenched, her sharp hazel eyes fixed on the flagship. Her chest rose and fell with controlled breaths, each inhale a battle against the rage building inside her. Her children were somewhere in the harbor. Her garden waited at home. Her kingdom bled.
Give the order.
Koshu looked around.
The warships filled the harbor, their cannons aimed at the town. The Marines stood at every exit, their rifles gleaming. The Rear Admirals moved through the chaos with the confidence of predators who knew they could not be challenged.
His Coast Guard had patrol cutters. Small arms. Courage.
The Navy had battleships. Cannons. Twenty-three vessels in the initial wave, with more approaching from the south.
His people would die. Not fight and win. Just die.
Koshu's shoulders sagged.
"One week," he muttered, the words barely audible over the chaos. "I have one week to figure this out."
Orianne's hand squeezed his shoulder. Her fingers were still cold.
"To figure something out," he said, the words hollow, the hope draining from them even as he spoke.
The dock continued to churn around him. The Navy tightened its grip on his harbor. His people fled toward the rice terraces, toward the wine cellars, toward anywhere the grey coats had not yet reached.
King Vitis Koshu stood in the center of it all, his burgundy robes stained with salt spray, his gray-blue eyes fixed on the horizon, his hands empty at his sides.
He had one week.
He had no idea what to do.
And somewhere in the crowd, a young boy watched him with wide eyes, looking for the king his mother said would protect them.
Koshu saw him.
He looked away.
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