"Damn it…"
Jesu's voice had become impossibly hoarse, almost unlike his own.
That rasp carried endless despair and unwillingness.
Beads of sweat seeped out one after another across his signature red, drink-swollen nose, sliding slowly down his cheeks before dripping onto his collar and leaving dark marks behind.
He swallowed hard and muttered, "They won't even… accept surrender anymore?"
In the corner, a young pirate whose face still looked rather immature suddenly knocked over the cup in his hand, whether from sheer nerves or a careless slip.
The cup that had once held amber wine tipped over, and the rich liquid spread freely across the rough wooden floor like a lively little stream.
Its color looked almost like blood about to gush forth.
Under the dim yellow lamplight, it gleamed with a heart-stopping sheen, as if foretelling the danger and disaster that were about to arrive.
A suffocating atmosphere filled the tavern.
Old Tom, the tavern keeper, wore a grave expression as he silently stepped onto a somewhat wobbly stool.
His eyes carried decisiveness and resolve.
Without the slightest hesitation, he reached out and tore down the pirate flag hanging above the bar, the symbol of glory and adventure.
The flag trembled faintly in the air, as if making one final struggle.
Looking around, all those trophies that had once been considered sources of immense pride—the colorful flags from all kinds of pirate crews, each with different patterns—now looked to everyone like death warrants.
Old Tom's rough, callused fingers moved quickly, stuffing them all into the blazing fireplace in one go.
In an instant, the flames surged high with a whoosh, greedily devouring those symbols of past glory.
The fire leapt and crackled, playing a funeral song for the end of an era.
Beside him, the first mate's lips trembled.
His voice carried an obvious sob as he stammered, "Captain… We…"
His eyes were filled with helplessness and confusion.
The way he looked at the captain was full of desperate expectation, as if seeking guidance.
Jesu clenched his teeth.
A trace of panic flashed through his eyes, but it was quickly replaced by determination.
He threw his head back and drained the remaining liquor in his cup, then slammed the glass down hard onto the table.
With a loud crash, the glass shattered into countless sharp fragments.
He roared until his voice tore.
"What are you standing around for?! Move!"
His voice carried a fear unlike anything before, as though something terrifying was rapidly closing in on them.
"Set sail immediately! Leave the North Blue! Not a moment to waste!"
Upon hearing the captain's order, the pirates seemed to awaken from a nightmare.
One after another, they scrambled to their feet and staggered toward the door.
They no longer cared about knocking over tables and chairs, nor about the scattered objects on the ground.
All they could think about was escaping this dangerous place as quickly as possible.
...
Outside the tavern, the harbor beneath the night sky had already fallen into chaos.
Several pirate ships that had once been quietly moored in port had now raised their sails.
White canvas billowed in the wind, snapping loudly.
Clearly, some had moved faster than them, already sensing the arrival of danger and preparing to flee first.
The old tavern keeper stood there quietly, staring at the tavern that had become empty in an instant, his heart filled with mixed emotions.
He slowly drew a cross over his chest and silently prayed for safety.
The pirate flags in the fireplace had long since turned to ash, but the burnt smell rising with the smoke lingered in the air for a long time, refusing to fade.
That smell was like a heavy omen of the end of an era, making one sigh at the fickleness of fate and the changing tides of the world.
...
Water 7.
At this moment, sea fog still hung over the entire harbor and the ocean like a heavy, mysterious veil, stubbornly refusing to disperse.
The mist curled in thin strands around the masts, cables, and buildings along the shore, giving everything a dreamlike hue.
Mayor Iceburg stood tall on the high platform of Dock One, his gaze deep as he tightly held a set of blueprints for a new type of warship.
Morning light struggled to pierce through the thin fog.
Golden rays, like fine threads of gold, fell across the blueprint in his hands, casting mottled light and shadow over it, as if framing this design that carried the hopes of the future in a dazzling border.
Every flicker of light seemed to speak of the great voyage that was about to begin.
"The structure of the main keel here still needs to be reinforced…"
Iceburg's low, steady voice sounded as his pencil moved lightly across the design.
Every line contained his strict requirements and earnest expectations for the warship's performance.
At times, he frowned slightly in thought.
At other times, he nodded in approval of his own concept, completely absorbed in the carefully crafted design before him.
But at that very moment, a sharp, piercing whistle suddenly forced its way into his world without warning, slicing through the peaceful atmosphere like a blade.
"Woooo—!"
The long, high sound echoed through the air, carrying an unmistakable urgency.
Immediately afterward, more whistles roared from the direction of the harbor, rising one after another.
The sounds intertwined, forming a noisy yet oppressive wave.
Anyone with experience would know at once that this was not the regular, steady rhythm of ordinary merchant ships.
It was the warning signal unique to a Marine fleet, like war drums beating, announcing that something major had happened.
Iceburg's fingers trembled involuntarily.
The pencil in his hand lost control and dragged a sudden, messy line across the blueprint, breaking the originally perfect composition.
An ominous feeling rose in his heart. He hurriedly put down his tools and strode toward the window.
In his haste, the precious blueprint slipped from his hand.
Like a withered yellow leaf, it spun through the air before slowly drifting toward the floor.
When his gaze passed through the window and landed in the distance, his pupils abruptly contracted.
What entered his sight was a shocking scene.
Across the broad outer harbor of Water 7, more than a dozen towering Marine warships were charging out of the fog with imposing force.
Their hulls were enormous and solid, their steel shells flashing with a cold gleam under the sunlight.
Their cannons were aimed sternly forward, while black smoke billowed from their funnels.
Towering waves splashed up around them as they advanced, displaying a strength and majesty powerful enough to topple mountains and overturn seas.
Their neat formation and swift speed made one thing unmistakably clear.
This was a well-trained and powerful fleet, and it had not come with friendly intentions.