At his single, thunderous challenge—"Who dares to bestow it?"—not a soul answered.
The Five Elders' faces darkened, their bodies rigid with suppressed fury. Behind the curtains, the Celestial Dragons revealed flickers of shock. Even the members of the God's Knights stationed at the flanks felt the humiliation burn in their chests.
Especially the Supreme Commander of the God's Knights, Figarland Garling.
His gloved hand had already moved to the hilt of his blade. In another heartbeat, he would have drawn it.
But just as he shifted forward—
"Garling. Be still."
A woman's voice drifted beside him—calm, almost languid.
Garling's temper was blazing. Being stopped in that instant, he instinctively turned, ready to lash out at whichever fool had dared interfere.
Yet the rebuke died in his throat the moment he saw her.
The woman standing to his left wore a newsboy cap fitted with goggles, the brim pulled low to shadow much of her face. A wide cloak draped over her shoulders, concealing her form; beneath it, a double-breasted top with sleeves so long they nearly brushed the ground. Below—
Nothing but a single undergarment, exposing long, striking legs.
Her boots were tall and adorned with cylindrical mechanical ornaments. White bandages coiled faintly around her arms and legs.
Her attire was eccentric. But at this moment, the Supreme Commander of the God's Knights forced every ounce of his fury down into silence, leaving only deep wariness… and obedience.
He had no choice.
This woman was Imu's personal attendant.
Once known as the Divine Blade of the Gods—the War Shrine of the Manmayer Family.
"Hmph."
Garling swallowed his rage, releasing his sword hilt. Yet his gaze remained fixed on Gern like that of a venomous serpent.
The atmosphere in the plaza—already strained by Gern's blatant provocation and the Knights' momentary unrest—plunged into suffocating silence.
The host was pale, mute with fear.
Every eye remained locked on the lone, defiant figure at the center of the stage—and on the grim-faced rulers seated above.
But Gern had underestimated one thing.
The resolve of those five old men.
And the thickness of their skin.
The Five Elders exchanged a glance—brief, wordless, decisive. A consensus formed in an instant.
One of them stood.
Clad in a dark suit without a tie, with short golden hair and a matching beard—
The Warrior God of Agriculture, Shepherd Ju Peter.
His expression was steady as he stepped forward, ignoring the countless eyes and the lenses of the transponder-snail cameras trained upon him. He ascended the stage without hesitation.
With his own hands, he lifted the medal symbolizing the honor of "Supreme Guardian of the World Government."
Then he turned and walked straight toward Gern, stopping only a few paces away.
Before the gaze of the entire world, he raised the medal and declared—his voice carried through hidden amplifiers:
"I shall confer it upon you."
Under the cover of the solemn ceremony, he leaned in slightly. His lips barely moved as he spoke in a voice only Gern could hear.
"Skyquake… if the World Government dares to host such a spectacle, then you will accept it."
"These petty gestures won't intimidate us."
"The title of 'Supreme Guardian of the World Government'—"
"You will receive it properly… and remember your place."
He lowered his voice further, cold as steel.
"Especially the relationship between the Marines… and the World Government."
The medal settled onto Gern's left chest as he finished speaking.
The deed was done.
Shepherd Ju Peter even reached out and gave Gern's newly adorned chest a firm pat—a gesture heavy with condescension, a silent assertion of dominance.
Then he stepped back half a pace and faced the world.
"In this moment, we formally bestow upon Admiral Gern the supreme honor of 'Supreme Guardian of the World Government'!
May you cherish this distinction and continue to safeguard the peace and order of the seas in the name of the World Government!"
The ceremony was forcibly advanced.
The medal was pinned.
The proclamation delivered.
Through this, the World Government sought to bind Gern publicly to the identity of its guardian—to clasp invisible shackles around him before the entire world.
Hearts tightened.
All eyes fixed on Gern.
Would he accept it?
Of course not.
"...Tch."
A sharp, disdainful click of his tongue shattered the fragile illusion of "established fact" Ju Peter had tried to construct.
"Ah… I picked this outfit specially for today," Gern said, unmasked contempt lacing his tone.
"And besides… you don't need to tell me."
"This stage…"
"I never intended to waste it."
Before Ju Peter could even finish turning to retreat—
Gern moved.
His hand shot out and clamped down on Ju Peter's shoulder.
The immense force froze the Elder in place. His body stiffened; his eyes narrowed.
Under countless horrified gazes across the globe, Gern raised his right hand.
With thumb and forefinger, he pinched the medal just placed upon his chest.
And then—
He tore.
Crack.
The sharp snap of the broken pin rang unnaturally loud in the suffocating stillness.
The medal—symbol of the World Government's supreme "grace," and the invisible collar it sought to impose—was ripped free in a single motion.
Gern held it high.
As if displaying a trophy.
Or perhaps discarding refuse.
Facing the transponder-snail cameras. Facing the stunned assembly. Facing the Five Elders' instantly ashen expressions.
He smiled.
"Sorry."
"This medal…"
"I don't think it's worthy of me."
"…!!!"
Silence.
A deathly, suffocating silence swallowed the plaza—and then swept across the entire world through the live broadcast.
He had rejected it.
Not merely refused it—
But done so in the most direct, humiliating, domineering way possible.
Before the entire world, he had ripped the World Government's "grace" from his chest and flung its dignity into the dirt.
This wasn't a slap to the face.
This was grinding their face beneath his heel.
On the seating platform, Sengoku felt his pupils tremble.
"So this bastard Gern… this was the 'method' he spoke of?"
And yet—
A mind like Gern Reginald Sigmar's was never reckless without calculation.
Sengoku, the great tactician, could no longer tell.
Was this madness?
Or the opening move of something far greater?
...
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