At the same moment—
North Blue.
Cold rain sheeted from a low, iron sky. The cross-shaped Standard of Authority snapped and cracked in the gale, its sound carrying over the black water.
"Figarland Garling, Your Excellency," a Holy Land Guard captain reported, dropping to one knee on the World Government's official vessel. Eyes blazing with pious fervor, he stared at the gemstones set into Garling's boots. "Our fleets have entered the North Blue in staggered formations. They're deploying separately to prevent interception by any force."
This is Figarland Garling himself—
The man who judges Celestial Dragons. The Vice-Commander of the God's Knights.
He had never imagined that someone as lowly as himself would stand on the same deck as Figarland Garling, much less carry out a mission by his side. If not for the eyes of his subordinates, he would have crawled forward to kiss those boots.
"I understand," Garling said, voice flat as the rain. He scanned the bleak sea, wind plastering the crescent of red hair to his brow, eyes narrowing to knives. "Issue the order. All units: immediate deployment, full alert. Proceed under original objectives."
"Not one of the twenty islands and nations on the list—including Felsek Island—will be spared."
His words hit the air like a dropped anchor—heavy, inescapable.
"Any who resist or refuse my command… are to be executed on the spot."
The captain's breath hitched with excitement. "Yes, Lord Garling! Your orders will be carried out to the letter!"
Shaking, he rose to relay the command. The final clause—the God's Knights' supreme license—thrummed in his skull. No boundaries. No accountability. Even ministers, nobles, and royals could be culled without restraint.
Garling exhaled, eyes on the island taking shape ahead. A faint metallic tang rode the wind, pinching his carefully groomed brows.
"So this is Felsek Island…"
As the opulent white hull drew alongside the shattered shore, he narrowed his eyes at the broken land and felt impatience stir.
He hadn't expected Rogers Darren to openly defy the Gorosei—much less to possess such hidden reserves: a power that could rival the Five and that phantom fleet, invincible and elusive.
"I underestimated him."
Memory pricked—their brief crossing of blades in Mary Geoise—and the itch in his palm flared. His fingers brushed the rapier at his hip. He licked his lips.
Not since God Valley twelve years ago had he felt this. Thrill. Defiance.
The ship kissed the quay. A Marine squad sealing the coastline jogged up and saluted.
"You're relieved," Garling said, gaze sweeping down from the Standard of Authority. "Felsek Island is now under the Holy Land's jurisdiction."
The Marines hesitated, then bowed to the cross. They looked once, long and bleak, toward the island—pity flickering in their eyes—before hardening their faces and boarding their warship.
At least two thousand civilians still lived there. Their fate was sealed. Helplessness dulled the Marines' eyes to a numb glaze.
"Lord Garling, we've recovered Lord Babos's body. Do you wish to view it?" a Guard asked softly.
"Who?" Garling frowned, vaguely irritated.
"Figarland Babos… your nephew."
"Oh. I see."
He waved it away. "Enough. He's dead; there's nothing to see. The Figarland family has no weaklings."
The Guard swallowed whatever rose to his throat, bowed, and withdrew.
"Godfall Island… that bird Morgans has a death wish."
Garling studied the desolation, a cruel smile creeping in. He'd read the World Economic News Paper—how that reckless fool had exposed everything and even hyped wretched Felsek into "Godfall Island." It rankled him for reasons he could not name.
"Vermin like these should have been cleansed long ago."
He raised his hand.
"Bring all surviving civilians to the shore."
"Yes, Excellency Figarland Garling!"
They moved at once. Within the hour, hundreds—thousands—of rag-wrapped civilians were herded through wind and sleet at gunpoint, stumbling toward the strand. Frostbitten faces, threadbare coats, eyes skittering with panic; under the leveled barrels of the Holy Land Guard they dropped to their knees, a sodden sea of terror.
Out in the roadstead, Marines paused at their gangways, watching with bloodshot eyes and clenched fists.
Garling's lip curled. "Rogers Darren, you protected nothing. Ten years of 'order' in the North Blue will collapse in an instant beneath the Government's Standard."
He lifted his hand to seal the lesson.
Muskets rose in a rippling hiss.
Panic broke across the kneeling crowd; a few thin cries escaped.
"This is only the beginning," he murmured, ready to close his fist.
A Den Den Mushi rang.
Purupuru…
The urgent tone deepened his scowl. He lowered his hand and drew the Military Den Den Mushi from his coat.
"You all know how I despise being interrupted mid-game," he said, voice like ice. "Offer me a reasonable explanation."
Silence answered for a breath.
Then a hoarse voice rasped in his ear, the Gorosei's will made sound:
"Temporarily suspend all operations against the North Blue, Figarland Garling."
To be continued...