They finally arrived at the port. It was now almost full of people. The sound of the sea crashing against the shore mixed with the noise created by the workers filled the air. The wreckage of buildings that had once blocked the roads had been cleared away. Builders had already begun repairing the damaged area, and the pirate ship that had been split in half was pulled from the sea and placed at the edge of the port, where the police were now investigating it.
Bron wasn't surprised by how much progress had been made; he had seen these people work tirelessly and support one another whenever times grew difficult.
They were walking toward Section C, and everyone around them seemed deeply focused on their work. Kier kept glancing to his right, waiting for the moment they would reach the central road. Before leaving the port, he wanted to see the old man—there was something he needed to give him.
Lost in thought, Kier didn't notice the two policemen approaching until they suddenly stopped Bron. They were dressed in marine-blue uniforms. On Bron's side stood a middle-aged man with a thick beard that matched his seasoned, authoritative presence. On the other side was a young man, visibly uneasy and lacking confidence.
Before saying anything to Bron, the senior policeman fixed Kier with a stern gaze. The younger one remained silent, struggling to maintain his composure.
"I am Officer Steve , and this is my trainee, Stanley," the senior officer said. "Are you Captain Bron, serving under the Green Flag?"
Bron was puzzled. It wasn't strange that the officer knew his name and title, but the way he was approached made him wonder if he had done something wrong.
"Yes, that's me," Bron replied.
After confirming Bron's identity, the officer shifted his attention to Kier.
"And the one beside you?" he asked.
"He's Kier, from this island," Bron answered calmly.
"Only Kier? Nothing more?"
The officer looked at Kier with open disgust, as if he despised him.
It was common for young people like Kier to have no surname. From birth, a child is not given a family name until they earned it by achieving something worthy enough to honor their family. There were rare exceptions—if a child was the sole survivor of their family, they had the right to inherit the family name to carry it into the next generation. But others were not so fortunate. Children born illegitimate were never granted the right to a surname.
Because of this, they were often seen as weak—or as mistakes.
"I suppose you're either a bastard," the officer sneered, "or simply not worthy of carrying your father's last name."
The word bastard didn't linger in the air.
It sank in.
Not as an insult.
As a verdict.
Bastard…
Not a name.
A sentence.
"Sir… d-don't you think that's kind of rude?" the junior policeman asked, his voice barely holding together.
The officer didn't even acknowledge him.
"And to think this is what we call a great era," he continued calmly, almost bored. "You're all just weak remnants."
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a bronze coin, and tossed it toward Kier's feet.
"Here. Buy yourself something. I need to speak with Sir Bron."
The coin landed near Kier's boot.
Small.
Cold.
Final.
"What…?" Bron asked instinctively, already turning toward Kier.
Kier didn't move.
His eyes were fixed on the coin.
His thoughts had no shape anymore—only pressure, tightening from all sides.
He breathed through his mouth, slow and shallow, like the air itself had grown heavy.
Time stretched unnaturally.
Then he raised his head.
Their eyes met.
A grown man in uniform.
A symbol of authority.
Someone who had sworn to serve the people.
And in that moment, Kier felt it.
Not anger.
Not rage.
Disgust.
Disgust flooded him.
Hot, violent, unbearable
'Who does this guy think he is?
He stares at me with those disgusting eyes. He called me a bastard with that filthy mouth. And to top it all off, he humiliates me by throwing a coin, like I'm some kind of dog waiting to be fed.
All of this—every bit of this nonsense—just because I don't have a surname.
I can't stand this guy anymore. Just being around him makes my skin crawl. I feel disgusted to the bone, as he still thinks I'm inferior to him.'
His teeth unclenched.
A slow, silent breath escaped his lips.
His body relaxed—not in surrender, but in control.
Then his eyes changed.
The brown vanished, swallowed by pitch-black darkness.
His gaze became cold, empty, and terrifying—like it was piercing straight through the officer's soul.
The officer noticed immediately.
"Watch your eyes, boy," he growled, lowering his voice.
"Why should I?" Kier replied without hesitation. "You didn't."
His stare sharpened—heavy, deliberate, dangerous.
"Huh?" The officer stiffened, caught off guard.
"Do you think you and I stand on the same ground? I am a senior police officer. You're a nobody."
His voice rose, thick with rage.
"Are you threatening me, boy?"
"Interpret it however you like," Kier said coldly.
His killing intent exploded outward—so raw and suffocating that even the trainee felt it. His legs trembled, barely holding him upright.
Bron's concern deepened.
The trainee felt fear crawl up his spine.
The officer, however, felt something worse.
Humiliation.
This boy—this nobody—was crushing his pride in front of his trainee and Captain Bron.
His face twisted with fury.
"Arrest him," he snapped, pointing at Kier. "He's threatening a police officer."
Kier didn't move.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
That calm infuriated the officer.
"But sir—" the trainee tried to object.
"Do I need to repeat myself?" the officer cut in sharply, shooting him a glare that felt like a threat.
"That's enough," Bron stepped in, placing a hand on the officer's shoulder.
"I'll handle him," the officer said, shrugging Bron off.
He turned back to the trainee.
"GET HIM!" he roared.
The trainee swallowed hard.
Under the crushing pressure of his superior, he acted on instinct. His left hand shot forward, grabbing Kier's right arm.
"You are under arrest for threatening a police officer," he barked, forcing authority into his voice.
"Cooperate if you don't want this to get ugly."
Kier's gaze shifted.
All the killing intent locked onto the trainee.
For a split second, fear froze him—but he still tightened his grip, clutching the robe tied around Kier's arm.
That robe was precious to Kier.
The grip only fueled his anger.
Using the trainee's hold, Kier rotated his entire right arm outward with force. The trainee, having underestimated him, was caught completely off guard.
He lost his grip and stumbled, thrown off balance.
Kier positioned his right foot firmly, preparing his next move.
As the trainee's upper body tilted toward the ground, he saw Kier's left fist flying straight toward his face.
Sensing the danger, his skin began to harden, turning a brownish-gray—like tree bark.
But the center of his face was still uncovered.
Time was not in his favour.
The fist launched straight at him was fast—far from weak.
Time slowed.
The world collapsed into a single point of pressure.
A sickening crunch echoed as fist met nose.
His head snapped back. Vision shattered into blur. The hardened skin cracked, and blood poured freely down his chin.
He hit the ground.
His face met cold stone.
Consciousness vanished.
Seeing his junior fall to this nobody ignited the officer's rage. His expression twisted into something uglier, raw humiliation boiling over. He lost control.
Power surged.
The officer raised his right hand. Stone erupted across it—horn-shaped growths tearing through his uniform.
From the center of his palm, a perfectly formed horn emerged, larger than the rest, its tip locked onto Kier's head.
Killing intent flooded the air.
Kier's instincts screamed at him to move. Not yet understanding the danger, he turned toward the officer.
His eyes widened.
The horn was spinning—ready to be fired.
Danger.
The word echoed in his mind.
Kier shifted, forcing his body to move.
But the officer didn't hesitate for even a second.
"Go to hell, you damn bastard!"
The horn spun faster in his palm. His arm relaxed—
Just as the officer was about to release it—
—a thin whistling sound sliced through the air.
Then something touched his neck.
Not pressed.
Not forced.
Placed.
Cold metal rested against his skin with deliberate care, as if even a millimeter more would be excessive.
Sharp.
The officer's breath hitched.
His body locked up before his mind could react. Every instinct screamed the same message:
Don't move.
Sweat broke out across his forehead. He didn't turn around. He didn't need to.
The presence behind him was heavy—not violent, not explosive—but absolute.
Like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing the ground had already disappeared.
A voice leaned close to his ear.
Calm.
Low.
Unhurried.
"My blade is right next to your neck."
The officer swallowed. Hard.
The voice continued, unchanging in tone,
"Make a move… and you'll see the world from another point of view."
No anger.
No threat.
Just a statement of fact.
Bron didn't tighten his grip. Didn't raise his voice. Didn't even adjust his stance.
He didn't need to.
The officer felt it clearly now—
this wasn't someone testing limits.
This was someone who had already crossed them, long ago.
"Slowly," Bron said. "Release it."
The command carried no urgency. Because time itself seemed to obey him.
The officer complied. The spinning horn stilled. Stone receded back into flesh as if ashamed to remain.
Only then did Kier realize—
Bron had been there the entire time.
Axe resting lightly against the officer's neck.
Eyes calm.
Posture relaxed.
As if stopping a killing blow was nothing more than an inconvenience.
Everything that had happened hadn't gone unnoticed. People had seen it and had alerted other police to come. It was one heck of a scene, after all.
Bron had now stopped the situation from escalating and had full control over it.
The officer was now on his knees, facing Kier, terrified of Bron.
But for Kier, this wasn't enough for that piece of crap.
So he retrieved the coin he had thrown and walked closer to him. The positions had shifted; now it was Kier who was staring down at the officer.
The officer had lost; he could never recover from this humiliation.
Kier looked closely at the coin. It was bronze, with the number 50 engraved on it.
"Hehe." The officer smiled. "You're all doomed. You can't get away after hurting an officer." He laughed recklessly.
Kier thought about kicking him in the head, leaving him unconscious. But it wasn't satisfying anymore. The man was now just a terrified piece of flesh—nothing worth it. His gaze shifted to the trainee lying on the ground, and he realized he had gotten carried away.
"Huhh," Kier breathed heavily.
Then he tossed the coin at the officer. It struck his forehead and fell to the ground.
"Go treat him to a meal after he wakes up."
Then he looked up at Bron.
"Is it okay if I let you handle this? I need to meet an old man."
"Don't worry about this guy. I can cover it for you. Oh—and I met the old man. He told me to tell you not to go there."
"Huh. He knows I don't like it when someone orders me around. He's a real pisser."
Kier took off, walking normally, like nothing had happened.
The middle street was packed with people; some were tourists, some were workers—and there was the old geezer.
He walked toward the shop the old geezer owned. The battle that had happened recently had left scars and destroyed most of the shops, yet that man was still there, sitting on his chair, reading a newspaper like always.
Kier approached carefully, and in no time he appeared before the old man.
"I think I told Bron not to bring any thieves to me,"
the old man said while looking at the newspaper.
"Relax. If I wanted to steal something, you wouldn't have noticed."
"Then what does a thief like you want here at my shop?" he asked, hoping to get the answer he expected.
Kier smiled and, from his pocket, took out the last white apple he had.
"Here." He placed the apple on the table near the old man.
The old man was still reading the newspaper—or at least acting like he was.
"I know it doesn't compensate for all the apples I've stolen from you, and I don't expect you to forgive me for stealing them, but please take it as a gift for teaching me how to plant and care for them."
The old man raised the newspaper, covering his entire head.
"It's also a farewell gift. I'll be going outside this island, and I don't know if I'll come back."
Kier gripped the black object that looked like a practice sword and turned to leave.
"Oh, and thank you for letting me steal from you. I'll definitely pay you back one day, old man."
And he began to walk away.
The old man gripped the newspaper hard, almost ripping it apart. Even though he tried to hide his feelings, he gritted his teeth in frustration—then slowly relaxed.
"You don't have any debts here, boy!" he yelled so Kier could hear him in the distance.
"Just don't forget about us, all right?"
Kier raised his right hand but didn't turn back. Instead, he continued walking.
A gentle smile appeared on Kier's face as he knew he was the only reason the old man had opened his shop today. He was truly thankful for what he had done. After all, that old man was one of the reasons his childhood was painted with colors.
It wasn't very far to where the ship with the green flag was resting, so he would get there in no time.
He walked toward the ship. The road was narrow. On his left side rested giant ships, and on his right lay damaged buildings. The road was filled with people, and some of them knew Kier very well. He was raised in this part of the island. He greeted those who saw him and didn't bother those who were working.
At the end of the road, Kier heard Bron's voice giving commands, so he knew everything was taken care of. One of Bron's crewmates was outside on the road, getting the ship ready to depart.
"Look who's working hard," Kier said in a sarcastic voice.
The crewmate, whose name was Noah, had a well-built body. He had light yellow short hair, which he had colored, and was dressed in a ripped white shirt and pants.
He turned his head, and the moment he saw Kier, he laughed.
"Look, look—the man of the day has arrived," he said, also using a sarcastic tone.
"So where are your tickets, little man? We're going to sail immediately."
He raised his hand, asking for the ticket.
Kier looked confused.
"Well, I don't have a ticket, so I'll go find another ship. Bye-bye," Kier said and turned around.
"I'm just joking. Of course—now get in."
With his index finger, he pointed at Kier and gently moved it toward the ship. Kier looked past him at first, but a second later a strong wind lifted him into the air—higher than the ship itself. While he was still airborne, surprised, another even stronger wind slammed him directly onto the deck.
Kier got up. His back hurt like hell, but he was so pissed he didn't mind the pain. He quickly looked at Noah, about to yell at him.
Bron appeared behind him.
"Is troublemaking your specialty or something?" he asked, arms crossed.
"What?" Kier replied, still pissed.
"Look," Bron said, referring to Noah.
As Kier watched, Noah took a deep breath. His chest expanded enormously. For a moment, he stood still, then blew forcefully toward the ship. A powerful wind burst from his chest, and the ship began to move at great speed.
Kier was also affected by the wind. Holding tightly to the ship's railings, he managed not to fly away, while Bron simply stood there with his arms crossed, watching as the ship covered a huge distance.
When it was finally over, Kier stood up and looked around. He was amazed—only a few seconds had passed, yet they could already see the entire port far in the distance.
His face couldn't hide his excitement.
"Don't be so amazed. This is just the start."
The voice came from behind.