Morning light spilt across the polished marble of Mary Geoise as Shepherd Sommers and Figarland Garling walked together. Sommers' laughter echoed down the grand corridor, loud enough to make passing servants and slaves flinch.
Sommers carried himself with the odd mix of discipline and reckless energy that defined his personality. His wavy light-brown hair fell just above his shoulders, always slightly windswept despite Mary Geoise's immaculate environment. He wore a neat black uniform, tailored to precision—high collar, silver buttons, and the insignia of his rank of God knight subtly embroidered in deep crimson thread.
Though his clothes were pristine, Sommers' skin bore the mark of someone less polished—tattoos curled along his left arm, peeking out from beneath his cuffs. They weren't crude, but their intricate, swirling designs hinted at a history outside the sterile nobility. Combined with his restless grin and wild bursts of laughter, Sommers looked like someone who had dressed for court but never truly belonged there.
Garling was the image of knightly refinement, his posture impeccable and movements controlled. His blond hair was shaped like a crescent moon, a style so precise it seemed almost sculpted. The golden hue caught the morning light, gleaming as though it had been burnished to perfection.
He wore the armour of the Knights of Chivalry—polished steel chased with fine etching, the pauldrons adorned with the Figarland crest. The design was elegant rather than bulky, tailored to suggest both combat readiness and aristocratic prestige. A ceremonial sword hung at his side, its guard worked in delicate patterns, though there was no doubt the blade itself was battle-worthy.
Where Sommers looked like chaos dressed in uniform, Garling looked like order forged in steel.
"I still can't believe it! GIHAHAHAHAHAHA! This is too funny!" Sommers roared, doubling over with mirth.
Garling's face was expressionless, but each burst of laughter grated against his composure.
"Shut it," Garling said flatly.
Sommers wheezed, trying—and failing—to regain control. Garling's narrowed eyes settled on him.
"Why is it never you? With that twisted love of yours, you'd make a better match."
A bead of sweat rolled down Sommers' temple. "I— I really like her, truly I do… but even that is too much for me to handle… really. But I'll never forget those gifts she gave me. Gihahahaha!"
Garling scoffed in disgust. "What gifts? She crushed your balls thirty times when she went berserk. And you just had to provoke her further by calling her ugly."
"Gihahaha! That time I was still blind!" Sommers declared proudly. "But now I'm enlightened! Her heavenly kicks… they didn't just break me, Garling… they rebuilt me. Love is pain!"
Garling's lip curled. "Then I'll tell her to repeat some of her moves to enlighten you more…when we will be teammates, hah."
Sommers' grin faltered, sweat beading down his neck. "Huh?"
In her mansion, Zenka slept soundly. Her dreams shifted from scenes of destruction—obliterating cities, burning seas—to lounging on a golden seat while the Gorosei, bridled like steeds, circled her at her command.
Suddenly, the air in her dream was pierced.
"ARGGGGGG!!!! ARRRRRRRRRRGGGGG!!!!"
The screams of clear pain ripped through the dreamscape. Victor Wukk's voice—she recognised it instantly. At first, her mind clouded, but the agony carried a sharp satisfaction that swept the haze away. Her lips curled faintly. The pain of another was sweeter than any lullaby. And especially his.
She stirred lightly in her bed, the sound echoing pleasantly in her thoughts.
In the adjacent chamber, two slave maids stood pale and rigid. Having known cruelty their whole lives, they'd hoped Zenka's mansion might finally be different.
Then the screams began.
One maid bit her tongue by accident and collapsed. The other froze, then bolted from the room, running in desperation. She fell to her knees before a group of guards and a cluster of early-rising Celestial Dragons with their slave steeds.
"PLEASE! PLEASE, I DON'T WANT TO BE THERE! I WILL DO ANYTHING BUT PLEASE, NO MORE OF THOSE SCREAMS NO MORE SEVERED HEADS!"
Two Celestial Dragons laughed coldly.
"Hahaha-eh! Another one who couldn't handle it-eh!"
"No wonder-eh! Zenka is that divine-eh!"
A Celestial Dragon woman stepped forward, jewelled pistol gleaming.
"How dare a slave like you flee from Sword Saintess Zenka-sama amasu! Vermin!"
One shot cracked. The maid's body crumpled lifeless on the marble, a clean hole in her forehead. With a casual flick of the woman's gloved hand, a guard stepped forward and severed the head. The lifeless face rolled onto the white stone floor, glassy eyes staring upward as if still pleading.
„Nearby, another group of Celestial Dragon women gasped excitedly as Sommers and Garling approached.
"Kyaaa! Sommers-sama! Garling-sama! Look at us—amasu!"
"This mansion is giving me creeps the closer I get to it," Sommers muttered.
Garling sneered. "Are you changing your convictions that quickly, you masochistic pervert?"
Sommers grinned, eyes bright. "I LOVE IT! GIHAHAHAHAHA!"
"If love is pain," Garling said with disgust, "you must be the happiest man alive."
A soft knock came at Zenka's bedroom door.
"Lady Saintess," a voice called carefully. "There has been an issue with a few maids' behaviour."
An old attendant entered with two armoured guards. One of them carried a severed head in gloved hands, crimson still dripping onto the marble.
"We are very sorry for this, Saint," the attendant said, bowing low.
Zenka barely glanced at them. "It's fine."
"Your bath is ready, Saintess," the attendant continued.
She rose from her bed, draping herself in a silken bathrobe. Her gaze passed dismissively over the head. "Dispose of it. She's not worth displaying."
"Yes, Saint!" the guards answered in unison, carrying it away.
soon after...
She stood beside her warm pool, steam rising like ghostly apparitions. She allowed the maids to gently slip her robe away.
Zenka stepped slowly into the warm, steaming water, feeling its perfect temperature envelop her body inch by inch. Ripples spread gracefully, briefly distorting her reflection before fading into a mirror-like calm, the water surrendering to her presence. She sank deeper, letting the heat soak into her skin, muscles easing beneath the gentle embrace.
The maids moved in silent choreography around her, each action executed with practised reverence. Soft hands gently washed her hair, the subtle fragrance of the imported shampoo from Water 7 filling the air. Zenka closed her eyes halfway.
She felt fingertips brush gently against her scalp, massaging with just the right pressure to ease tension—tension she barely noticed herself carrying. Another maid polished each fingernail with obsessive attention to detail, each stroke methodical and delicate. Her attendants worked tirelessly to perfect every aspect of her image, driven by fear and admiration alike.
Behind a curtain, the old attendant adjusted his monocle, softly reciting the latest news:
Roger Pirates and Patrick Redfield formed an alliance. Clash with Rocks Pirates reported. Silver Axe confirmed dead following Hachinosu incident. Assault on Marine bases. Sanjuan Wolf captured by Vice Admiral Macaron and the brave Marines of Firs Island.
„No mention of the thieves. No mention of the Dyna Stones..... of course, " Zenka thought
Zenka's expression remained composed, her face calm and unreadable. Though she enjoyed the luxuries around her, there was no true joy in her eyes—only the measured stillness of someone already thinking of the next move.
a moment later
The old attendant approached the pool, bowing deeply, eyes shut.
"A noble visit, my Saintess. Honourable Saint Figarland Garling and Saint Shepherd Sommers."
Zenka, half-asleep in the warm water, narrowed her brows. "Let them come."
The old attendant hesitated, unsure at Zenka's calm dismissal of her own modesty.
"More bubbles," Zenka ordered idly.
Garling and Sommers arrived moments later. Upon seeing Zenka bathing openly, Sommers' face turned bright crimson, breath becoming erratic. Garling slapped him sharply across the face, muttering harshly, "Control yourself, fool. We'll stay behind the curtains."
"No need," Zenka said flatly, her voice calm as still water. "So… why are you here?"
Sommers, lost in his own bliss, seemed to have forgotten how to speak.
Garling stepped forward reluctantly. "We… we have been ordered to team up with… you."
Zenka turned her head slowly toward Sommers, expression still neutral.
"Sommers… why do I have this feeling to punch you where it hurts most?"
Then she looked back at Garling. "Never mind. Team up, you say? I work alone. You know it."
"It's the orders of the Gorosei," Garling said stiffly. "Also, as your duty as consultant to the God Knights, you should—"
"Screw them," Zenka cut in sharply. "Those old fossils bark a lot. I'll discuss this with them myself. Anything else?"
Garling hesitated. Under normal circumstances, rudeness toward the Gorosei would ignite his wrath. But…
"The Gorosei… want…"
Zenka's brow furrowed. "…Want what?"
A memory flashed in Garling's mind—he stood in the council chamber, the towering forms of the Gorosei before him.
"You are of age! You have had your time to find someone suitable. You will secure your bloodline, Garling. Pure and Strong. This is no request. It is your duty!" Saint Topman Warcury's voice echoed, heavy with command.
Back in the present, Garling's voice was strained. "They want… us… to… marry."
There was a long pause.
"…Huh?" Zenka said flatly.
"…HUH?!" Maids choked, eyes bulging.
Then, suddenly, Sommers burst out laughing hysterically, falling onto a nearby table, knocking decorations clattering to the floor. "GIHAHAHAHAHAHA!"
Garling closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose in pained frustration. "What did I do to deserve this fool as my teammate...?"