The feast bled into its afterbirth of murmurs and smaller councils. Music softened to a distant hum. Wine turned bitter as it lingered in chalices. One by one, guests drifted into clusters, voices lowering into conspiracies.
Francis Harlock moved with deliberate ease, keeping his smile faint, his hand never far from the hilt of his saber. He knew the real feast had only just begun.
They came for him in the shadow of a gilded pillar: a preacher robed in white and gold, and a Magos whose mechadendrites twitched like serpents. They walked together, but their eyes flickered with hatred, each unwilling to let the other claim him alone.
"Captain Harlock," the preacher began, voice rich with false warmth, "the Emperor's light shines brighter through men such as you. With our blessing, your name could be sanctified. Your ship — a shrine upon the void. Imagine the Arcadia's prow carrying the Creed across the stars."
The Magos' vox-grill crackled as he interjected, his words grinding through layers of distortion. "Sanctify? Corrupt, you mean. The Arcadia's heart is a relic of lost knowledge. Your superstition blinds you. With our rites, with Mars' truth, it can be preserved. Improved. Made pure."
The preacher's smile curdled. "Preserved? You would desecrate it, tear it apart, and call it worship."
"Better disassembled than damned."
"Better sanctified than dissected."
Their voices rose, hymn against binharic static, drowning each other. Harlock stood between them, sipping his wine with the calm of a man at sea while sharks tore each other apart.
At last he spoke, quiet but sharp. "Gentlemen. Your quarrel is your own. My ship already has her faith. She has her purity. And she has me."
The preacher's eyes flashed. "Without blessing, Captain, your people's devotion may wander. They whisper your name too eagerly. Be wary it does not become… idolatry."
The Magos' optics narrowed, lenses whirring. "And engines unsanctioned attract attention. They will demand examination, whether by your leave or not."
For a heartbeat, Harlock thought they might draw blades. Instead, both forced their masks back on, retreating with stiff bows and murmured courtesies. The priest made the sign of the aquila, the Magos rasped a binary benediction.
Harlock left them in the smoke of their hatred, his expression unreadable.
But as he stepped deeper into the refectory, he found the man in black waiting by the door, untouched by wine or incense.
"You see it now," the Inquisitor said quietly, his voice flat as steel. "They want to own you. They cannot. That is your strength. But it is also your death warrant."
He turned, cloak whispering behind him, and vanished into the crowd.
Harlock's glass was empty. He did not refill it. The banquet had ended, and the war of words had left him weary.
But when he returned to the Arcadia that night, the ship thrummed faintly under his boots, as though her spirit had been listening all along.