Ann didn't yield to Brian's advances. Instead, she slapped his hand away in fury.
That kind of reaction was perfectly normal—and exactly what Brian expected.
In truth, he wasn't even that interested in making a deal with her. What he liked about Ann was her fire—that unbending, defiant spark. If she gave in too easily, he'd just find her boring.
"Get out!"
Ann's eyes blazed with anger as she pointed to the door.
Brian lifted his hands in mock surrender.
"Fine, fine. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me."
"Shut up! You're disgusting, you pervert!"
She snatched up a cup from her desk and hurled it at him. But Brian, as if he had eyes in the back of his head, turned smoothly and caught it in one hand.
"Nice shade of lipstick," he said with a smirk, lifting the cup to his lips. "And a faint, sweet scent… hmm, I'll keep this as a souvenir."
Then, to her utter horror, he made a show of kissing the lipstick mark.
"You—! You're shameless!"
"Thank you for the compliment."
With that, Brian strolled out of the office, cup in hand, leaving Ann trembling with rage.
When he was gone, she sank back into her chair and picked up the photo frame from her desk—a picture of her and her late brother.
"Brother… I'll avenge you. I swear it."
Her hand clenched the frame so tightly her knuckles turned white.
The next morning, the sky was far from clear.
Dark, heavy clouds pressed low over the horizon, the air thick with the promise of an oncoming storm.
Under weather like this, even seasoned sailors would hesitate to set out, let alone go into battle. The pressure in the air made every heart uneasy.
After a brief oath-taking ceremony, the fleet assembled:
25 ships from the Seventh Branch and 36 ships from the other branches, forming a temporary armada of over sixty warships.
"Governor, all preparations are complete."
"Good. Signal the fleet. We move out!"
At Karl's order, each branch commander returned to their ship and began rallying their crews.
"For justice!"
"Justice will prevail!"
They shouted until their throats were raw, trying to stir courage into their men—but the faces below remained grim, eyes clouded with doubt. Few believed in victory.
Meanwhile, on ships W-291 and W-292, discipline was nowhere to be found.
Groups of sailors lounged on deck, drinking, eating, and even gambling openly.
The sight left nearby officers speechless.
"Do they even know who we're going up against?"
"Who knows? But their discipline's a disgrace."
"Honestly, they might be worse than the East Blue Navy."
The gossip didn't faze Brian's men in the slightest—they kept eating, drinking, laughing.
Then Brian suddenly leapt lightly onto the main mast of the W-291, balancing there with ease.
"Listen up, maggots! Our target this time is a fat, juicy prize! Take them down, and I'll make sure we all rise in rank and get rich doing it!"
"Long live Lord Brian!"
"Long live Lord Brian!"
The deck erupted with cheers.
Brian's unique way of boosting morale left the rest of the Navy stunned.
Governor Karl's face twitched uncontrollably. He'd long known Brian was reckless, but to lead troops like this—what would happen if such a man really became a fortress commander someday…?
Karl shuddered and quickly forced the thought away.
The Gattle Strait lay just 230 nautical miles from the Governor's Mansion—a half-day's journey at full speed.
On the Governor's flagship, the fleet sailed into the strait, and the tension deepened.
Karl's adjutant, Claire, looked increasingly uneasy. Finally, he spoke.
"Governor, I believe we should revise our operational plan."
"You're concerned about Astona's motive for appearing here?"
Karl wasn't the strongest fighter, but he was a strategist—and he immediately understood the worry behind his adjutant's words.
Claire nodded gravely.
"Yes, sir. I believe Astona must have a reason. Otherwise, he wouldn't risk leaving his territory."
He was right.
For years, Astona had avoided direct conflict with the West Blue Navy, always steering clear of their large fleets. He never lingered in one place for more than a few hours.
But this time was different.
He had left his own domain and was boldly lingering in the Gattle Strait—as if deliberately inviting the Navy to come for him.
A man that cautious didn't act without a plan.
Before Karl could reply, the sound of crisp boots echoed behind him.
"Whatever his reason, this time we've assembled overwhelming strength. We'll capture him for sure."
The voice belonged to Ann, clad in full combat gear—carbine rifle on her back, a short, reddish-bladed sword at her hip. Her sharp, composed aura was laced with steel resolve.
"Yes, we will succeed!"
The man beside her chimed in—Perod, a civilian volunteer who had joined the operation. He'd long harbored feelings for Ann, and this was his chance to prove his courage.
Karl nodded but said nothing, his gaze drifting toward the distant W-291.
On its deck, Brian reclined on a leather sofa, a glass of red wine in hand while a soldier dutifully poured more.
He swirled the wine slowly, eyes narrowing as he stared into the crimson liquid and then out at the misty horizon.
"A lot of people are going to die today."
The soldier blinked.
"Sir? What did you say?"
Brian smiled faintly.
"Heh… only through the deaths of the weak can the strength of the strong truly stand out."
He tossed his wineglass aside, letting it shatter on the deck.
Then he turned to the communications officer behind him.
"Tell everyone—when the battle starts, don't rush in."
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