From the watchtower of a small building near the plaza, a group of middle-aged and elderly officials looked down at the chaotic scene below—Junior Marshal Kamizawa chasing and scolding Willie. The atmosphere was… awkward.
It was the governor who finally broke the silence. "Junior Marshal Kamizawa sure isn't like us old-timers. So full of youthful energy—what a promising man."
Having broken the ice, the military officer beside him slapped the railing with a laugh. "Commanders like him are cut from a different cloth. They don't play mind games like we do. I'm actually pretty curious about Junior Marshal Kamizawa. I heard he once took a nuclear blast to the face. That's the first time I've ever heard of someone that tough!"
The secretary general chimed in helpfully, "Don't sell yourself short, Colonel Nagatake. Your gun-kata skills are among the best in the province."
Colonel Nagatake, a square-jawed man, chuckled and patted the strange purple-glowing AK-47 at his waist. "I don't need flattery. A dozen like me could be pulled out of Shu Province. But nukes? If I took one head-on, I'd be lucky if my rifle survived. You, Secretary Ryuu, might not even leave a shadow."
Secretary Ryuu took the joke in stride, laughing self-deprecatingly. "Everything I learned in the military I've already forgotten. Unlike you, Colonel Nagatake—you still train every day. But if we're talking true strength, it has to be the commanders. Junior Marshal Kamizawa must have a level 80 power rating by now, right? No wonder he survived a nuclear blast. What I admire most is that he started with just one destroyer and trained her all the way to level 100 over twenty years. That takes real grit!"
As a commander, one could share in a shipgirl's power. Over the millennia, this power had been meticulously quantified into levels. A shipgirl's level could increase through defeating Abyssals, daily drills, mock battles, and more.
Typically, a shipgirl who only fought the lowest-level Abyssal destroyers would need around 35,000 battles to reach max level 100. A commander standing beside her might share enough of her strength to reach level 80—but even then, a level 80 commander could never defeat a level 80 shipgirl. Most commanders simply couldn't use the full capabilities of naval equipment.
Colonel Nagatake, a wielder of supernatural strength, was still far weaker. His power came from that corrupted AK-47—an ancient relic tainted by abyssal energy. Such weapons were nearly identical in essence to Abyssal gear. Normal humans who used them suffered constant physical damage, but for those unable to become commanders, it was one of the only paths forward.
Shu Province was deep inland and not heavily threatened by Abyssals. Only the capital and a few major institutions had shipgirls for protection. The rest relied on regular soldiers or corrupted-gear wielders like Colonel Nagatake. There wasn't even a branch of the central Shipgirl Command here—just a lone, shipgirl-less Affairs Bureau.
In inland cities like this one, the bureau's most important job was hosting the Sacred Construction Day, held once to three times a year. It was even more important than the college entrance exam, and stricter than pilot school. And yet, in a strange way, also far simpler.
Sacred Construction—just as the name suggested—was the day to construct shipgirls. The term "sacred" referred to its solemn, exalted status. Though called "construction," it was more accurately a summoning.
Shipgirls could technically be constructed any day of the year, but Sacred Construction Day also served as the de facto screening test for prospective commander cadets. Almost every student applying to a commander academy would perform their first construction on this day.
And perhaps, their last.
By some mysterious divine law, it was said that if someone could not awaken a shipgirl on their first construction, they would never be able to construct one again. In other words, they lacked the aptitude to become a commander.
Perhaps it was something required at the soul level. Shipgirls and commanders were soulbound companions, and only a rare few human souls could resonate with the pure souls of shipgirls.
Each soul had a limit to how many shipgirl souls it could bear. Some could bond with just one or two. A rare genius might handle twenty or thirty.
But to take responsibility for even one shipgirl's fate was no small burden.
Because those with commander aptitude always awakened a shipgirl on their first try, Sacred Construction Day had also earned another name: The Day of Bloodline Revelation. Those who summoned powerful, rare warships were called Lucky Lords; those who summoned weak, common shipgirls were called Salted Anchors.
Even so, a "salted" commander who only awakened a plain destroyer still graduated with a military rank starting from Captain. More importantly, they became an extraordinary being—someone who could share in the pure power of a shipgirl. It was said that to become a commander was to step through a golden gate—to rise above the mundane world.
On such a momentous day, every staff member of the bureau was on high alert. But since the famous Junior Marshal Kamizawa had come to speak, he would be hosting this ceremony himself—to give the students a bit of extra encouragement.
At last, Junior Marshal Kamizawa caught the misbehaving Wilhelmina and smacked her several times on the rear. Grinning victoriously, he hoisted the now-limp destroyer girl and carried her up to the viewing platform.
The gathered officials greeted him with flattery and small talk until, under Kamizawa's increasingly impatient glare, they finally rang the ceremonial gong to begin Sacred Construction Day.
A cheerful orchestral theme began to play. Kamizawa, tapping his hand in time with the music, let out a sigh, his stubbled face full of sentiment. "It's already been twenty years, huh? Wilhelmina, you're still the same as the day I summoned you. And me? I've gone from a fresh-faced youth to a balding old man. Time really is a cruel bastard."
Wilhelmina muttered dryly, "Twenty years, and I'm still your only shipgirl. That's what you call pure Salted Anchor luck."
Kamizawa's smile twitched. Sacred day, sacred day. Don't get mad. I'm not mad at all.
…
As the orchestra played, the doors of the bureau swung open. The students lined up outside—now stretching into a long queue—began entering one by one, presenting their IDs and receiving numbered tickets.
Hikaru was among them. Shiraha stood behind him, having noticed him rejoin the line and sticking close ever since.
Nearly a thousand young people had come from all over the city, all hoping to take their one shot.
Their affiliations were easy to distinguish. The straight-backed, serious ones were mostly military-sponsored candidates. Those grouped in sevens and eights came from various commander academy prep programs. And then there were scattered individuals like Hikaru and Shiraha, known as "free-builders"—though some people less politely called them "wildlings."
The military cadets were the most numerous. These were students who had passed layers of ideological screening, academic training, and physical drills—essentially semi-military trainees. From middle school onward, they attended specialized institutions, and their construction costs and tuition were all covered by the military. But if they became commanders, they were also under the strictest constraints: a mandatory five-year service term and higher-risk missions.
It sounded harsh, but to those in power, commanders and their shipgirls were strategic resources—meant to be sacrificed if necessary.
Since shipgirls couldn't easily be ordered to die, the system had to instill loyalty from a young age. Commanders, however, were human—and shipgirls were willing to die for their commanders.
Next came the prep-class students from private commander academies. These schools didn't teach general education like physics or chemistry, but specialized in naval command, maritime meteorology, shipgirl development, and Old World warship lore. Many of them were sketchy diploma mills, especially in inland areas, but the schools near the coasts tended to be much more reputable. Their students were often wealthy kids with secure futures—after all, construction costs could exceed a million yuan. Not many families could afford to gamble that much.
Finally, there were the free-builders like Hikaru and Shiraha. A few dozen of them, here to take their shot. They would face fewer military restrictions if successful—but would also receive far less support: no insider intel, minimal supplies, no experienced mentors.
Hikaru, mature beyond his years, knew full well that taking the military track would have saved him a lot of trouble. For an orphan with no backing, scraping together a million was no easy feat.
Even so, he had chosen the path of thorns—because it offered the most freedom.