The sky was etched with streaks of iron as cannonballs plummeted toward the granite tower standing defiant on the harbor's edge.
It wasn't a single shell, but hundreds.
It was a "meteor shower" of concentrated destruction, saturated with the acrid reek of saltpeter and sulfur.
"Not bad. Their aim is quite true," Elus remarked, standing on the tower's terrace with a steaming cup of coffee-milk in hand. He watched the descending rain of iron with a smile that only grew more radiant. "Umit truly spared no expense. Not only did he recruit five pirates with hundred-million-plus bounties, but he even found a crew of elite cannoneers... Fran, handle this. And remember, don't play too roughly. If you scare my prey away, I might just have to test some... new tricks on you."
"…In your dreams!" the maid stammered, her face flushing a vivid crimson.
Refusing to look at Elus's infuriatingly handsome face, Fran gathered the hem of her skirt. As the cannonballs reached the terminal point of their arc, she slammed her foot into the stone. Her body shot into the air like a loose arrow, meeting the iron rain head-on. Her black, round-toed leather shoes made contact with the first obsidian sphere.
Then, the world seemed to reverse.
The cannonball shrieked through the air, hurtling back toward the fleet at a velocity far greater than its initial launch.
With practiced, ethereal grace, the maid used the momentum of each shell as a stepping stone. She danced amidst the barrage, suspended in the sky. With a palm, a finger, a flick of her skirt, or a soaring kick, the lethal projectiles became mere toys in her hands. She manipulated their trajectories with effortless precision, reflecting every single one back at the sender.
When the final shell was sent screaming home, Fran drifted back down to the terrace like a falling petal.
"Exquisite! And the bloomers are quite cute, too. I'm a fan," Elus said, his voice dripping with playful approval.
The color that had only just begun to drain from Fran's face surged back with a vengeance, rivaling the shade of her fiery red hair.
"Your Highness... would you please just drop dead?"
The maid gritted her teeth, clutching her skirt tight as she voiced her treasonous desire.
"Haha! I'm not lying, Fran. They really are cute!"
Elus let out a hearty laugh. Before the embarrassed maid could actually act on her impulse, he pressed his empty cup into her hands. "Another coffee-milk. Same temperature."
He had given her a perfect excuse to retreat.
Sure enough, her fury was overtaken by a need to flee. Grabbing the cup, the girl turned and bolted down the stairs.
"Truly... adorable," Elus murmured, his gaze lingering on the doorway where her slender silhouette had vanished.
Slowly, his focus shifted back to the horizon. The playful warmth in his emerald eyes cooled into a sharp, predatory glint. He stared at the massive fleet, the Hogyoku in his chest pulsing with a sudden, anticipatory thrum. "Mr. Ghost Sword... it's about time you made landfall."
Unconsciously, his hand drifted to his chest.
The gem was hungry. It craved the taste of fresh, vibrant souls.
On the Sea.
The deck of the flagship was deathly silent.
Every pirate had witnessed the spectacle. A saturated bombardment that should have leveled the island had been rendered utterly useless, reflected back upon them by a single maid. Had the fleet not been bolstered by veterans with bounties in the tens of millions, they might have lost several ships to their own fire.
All eyes turned toward the man standing at the bow. He stood only one hundred and seventy-nine centimeters tall.
In this world of giants and monsters, "Ghost Sword" Venculla—the man worth 105 million Berries five years ago—possessed what many would consider a "diminutive" stature. Nearby, several female pirates stood over a head taller, their heights reaching upwards of two hundred and seventy centimeters.
Yet, no one dared to show even a flicker of mockery toward his height.
Venculla's bounty had been frozen at its current level only because Umit had ordered him to maintain a low profile. Had he been allowed to run wild, that number would have easily doubled. It was through sheer, overwhelming lethality that he maintained control over this pack of rabid wolves.
"Prepare to land," Venculla commanded, his voice as cold as a mountain spring.
"If cannon fire is useless, then we shall simply harvest the heads of everyone who resists."
Ching!
A rapier, bright as moonlit water, appeared in Venculla's hand. No one on the deck had seen the draw. There was no scabbard on his person, no visible weapon—one moment his hand was empty, and the next, he held a sliver of lethal steel.
Even the man who had been lazily juggling colorful balls stopped his play, staring solemnly at the blade.
This single, invisible stroke was enough to confirm that the legend of the "Ghost Sword" was no exaggeration.
With Venculla's display of power, the unease caused by the mysterious maid vanished, replaced by a cold bloodlust. The warships began to dock, and a tide of heavily armed soldiers poured onto the shore. Like a black wave, the army surged toward the solitary tower standing amidst the ruins of the harbor.
On the rooftop of a building overlooking the docks, Colonel Sousa lay flat against the railing, his binoculars glued to his eyes.
When the fleet had unleashed its full broadside on the Prince's tower, his hair had stood on end. He had been paralyzed by the fear of seeing the structure—and the Prince—pulverized. If Elus fell on Whale Tail Island, his own life was forfeit, and his family back in Arabica would surely suffer the consequences of such a catastrophic failure.
In those seconds, he had cursed himself for agreeing to the Prince's reckless plan. What kind of commander sends his own fleet away and waits for a siege in a single tower? War was not a game.
But before his regret could turn to despair, he had seen the maid.
With his own eyes, he watched a young girl stop a nation-level bombardment single-handedly. His heart, which had been hammering against his ribs, slowly settled back into place.
So that's how it is...
Of course, the Crown Prince wouldn't travel without a high-level guardian. He had simply misjudged who that guardian was. He never suspected the "frail" little maid was such a monster.
He didn't mind being wrong.
In fact, he hoped to be proven wrong many more times. The more hidden powerhouses Elus brought, the better their chances. However, there was one thing Colonel Sousa still fundamentally misunderstood.
He believed Elus was a "pretty face" who relied on his subordinates for protection.
He was about to be corrected.