The air on Sabaody felt fake; the smell of the chemical perfume was nauseating and seemed to hide the dark and ugly truth of this place.
My orders from Rear Admiral Strawberry kept playing in my head like a broken record: "Do not speak to nobles. Do not look them in the eye. Do not, under any circumstances, draw your weapon—unless explicitly commanded, Got it?"
Those words felt like a tight rope around my chest, squeezing the life out of every good thing I believed in. I stood there, a Marine Captain in my clean white uniform, all my new strength ready, but every part of me screamed to fight against what I saw.
I was here to guard a high-ranking government official and a group of humans....or rather, objects with no free will of their own, destined for a hell called Mary Geoise. ...
A golden carriage, shining brightly, came rolling by. Slaves, sweating and scared, pulled it. They looked like ghosts, their eyes empty, full of despair and hopelessness. Inside the carriage, a man sat.
His fat, pale face was hidden by that dumb bubble helmet. His eyes, seen through the glass, were full of the arrogant ease of someone born believing suffering was beneath him. His name was Saint Markos Von Snarre.
Then, I heard it. The sharp crack of a whip.
My body jumped, as if it was me who was hit. A young girl, barely a teenager, stumbled.
She was one of the slaves pulling the carriage, her pale skin wet with sweat, and now, a fresh, red welt forming on her back, blending in with other similar wounds.
The Saint Marlos inside just grunted, a sound of being annoyed, like you'd make if a fly bothered you.
A faceless CP0 agent standing close to the carriage cracked the whip again, harder this time.
The girl cried out. A thin, shaky sound that ripped through the calm I was trying to keep.
I saw the raw, angry burn of the 'Hoof of the Celestial Dragon' brand on her forehead. It wasn't just a mark; it was a sign that she was property, a loud shout that she wasn't even human. It hurt to look at.
I forced myself to breathe, a quiet thing I did inside, like my Clockwork Breathing – rhythm, control, precision. But what good was precision here?
What kind of timing could break a system built on hundreds of years of this casual, easy cruelty? My training, my new power, felt completely useless.
I was stuck, trapped by my uniform and my orders.
I was a puppet, with my strings held by the very people I wanted to fight. I was just standing there, helping them do their awful show.
The ceremonial dock at Grove 1 looked extremely polished, ironic if you look at the actions occurring here.
I stood on the harbour, overlooking the inspection area, eyes narrowing as the trade ship approached.
Its hull was freshly painted white, trimmed in blue, and adorned with an exaggerated figurehead: a woman in chains, carved from wood and gold. Her expression had been sculpted into an expression of obedience.
My jaw clenched.
Behind the barge, a line of smaller cargo boats followed—each loaded with crates, chests, and velvet-draped containers.
"Who are they?" I asked Commodore Harker.
"The Gloomstone Kingdom. Third-rate island cluster. Poor, but loyal. Hoping to become a protected trading partner. This is their... petition. They can't pay the heavenly tribute, so they are attempting to gain a bit of protection using resources." He said.
The barge docked.
Six officials in ceremonial robes stepped off, bowing deeply as they stepped onto the platform. The lead among them—a pale, round man whose powdered wig sat crooked on his head—held a scroll in one hand and a trembling white glove in the other.
"Glorious Saint Markos!" he called out, addressing the saint above the dock. "We, your most grateful servants of The Gloomstone Kingdom, bring humble offerings to honor your divine presence and the glory of the World Government!"
Saint Markos didn't reply. He sat reclined, legs spread obscenely wide beneath layers of gauze and ornament, idly chewing on a honey-dipped grape fed to him by a slave.
.
The official took it as approval and gestured with a sharp flick of his wrist.
At once, the procession began.
From the first cargo boat, dockhands unloaded crates stacked with sea prism shards, refined opal dust, and exotic fish oils
. A second barge carried barrels of aged palm wine, packed in straw-lined chests.
A third revealed polished weapons, including guns, swords, spears, etc.
"Rare materials from our sacred reefs, harvested at great cost. We offer all usage rights to the holy Science and Defense Division," the official proclaimed
There was a pause, theatrical.
Then came the final presentation.
A deep metallic clang echoed as an iron gate on the barge floor was unlocked and rolled aside.
I stood horrified at the sight before me.
From below deck, they came—forty-three human beings, collared and bound at the wrists. Men, women, adolescents. Their clothing was ceremonial, but torn and caked with salt. Many bore welts on their ankles. Some limped. One had a missing eye, another was no more than twelve.
Each one had been branded—not with a pirate's mark, but with the Gloomstone kingdom's royal crest.
A Marine somewhere behind Xavier sucked in a breath. Another chuckled and muttered, "Now they're just showing off."
The official spread his arms wide.
"And here, most revered among our gifts: obedient laborers bred in coastal strongholds. They are taught all basic postures of service, know all spoken commands, and have been cleansed as per your laws."
Markos perked up slightly at that. He leaned forward, his voice a low drawl through the speaker in his helmet.
"That one. The red-haired girl. I want her."
He pointed again. "That one, too. brown hair and the tall man, I can use those two for the gladiator matches."
The official bowed so low his forehead tapped the dock.
"They are yours, radiant sovereign. All that we are is yours."
The cargo was noted by clipboard-wielding CP0: "Subjects deemed acceptable for trade; marked as combined resource-class export: Human Commodities."
The CP0 asked Saint Markos," What about the others, Your Holiness?
"The usual," He said dismissively.
"Understood," The CP0 agent said.
The rest of the forty slaves were about to be led away, their fates unknown.
Suddenly, the suffocating quiet of the parade broke into pieces. A group of people, moving fast and together, burst from the shadows of the big mangrove trees.
They weren't pirates; they moved too much like soldiers, their anger too clear. Their clothes were plain, easy to move in, and their eyes, even from far away, had a fierce, desperate fire. They moved like shadows, hitting hard and with a plan.
"For freedom!" one of them yelled, a battle cry that cut through the still, heavy air. They moved, a wild storm of organised chaos, going straight for the Marine guards around the Celestial Dragon's parade.
It was the revolutionary army. They attacked this transaction, they completely avoided the celestial dragon...Maybe because they knew what would happen if they attacked him....at this stage, their organisation couldn't handle the scrutiny of the admirals and world government. At least not yet.
They targeted the trade materials like the weapons, and were trying to free the slaves.
Total mess.
The CP0, totally surprised, jumped to protect the World Noble.
The marines, meanwhile, aimed to protect the ' trade material '. My group was pulled into the fight right away. Yells and the sound of metal hitting metal filled the air.
I pulled out my axe, its weight a small comfort in the growing mess. My body just moved. I blocked a crazy swing from a small-time soldier, his eyes wide with determination. My orders were to protect the slaves. But my heart, deep down, screamed to let the Revolutionary army free them, to let them break the chains I saw right in front of me.
Then I saw him. A guy, quick and agile, a leader among the attackers, was getting close to the weapon carriage. He moved with a fire that burned through all the craziness. Just as he reached the carriage, about to strike, a Marine Rear Admiral stepped in, blocking him with a strong attack.
.
My eyes jumped between the messy fight and the terrified, chained slaves.
They were even more in danger now, stuck in the middle of all this violence. A few of them had fallen, shaking, their eyes wide with fear and a tiny spark of hope. I saw one of the Revolutionary Army fighters, a woman with a strong, decided look, meet my eyes for just a second. She saw my axe out, saw me holding back, saw the huge fight happening inside me. It was a quick moment, but it meant so much. She saw me.
My mind raced, a furious, silent argument going on inside. This was it. My chance. I could trick some guards, knock out a few, maybe even hit the carriage itself. My axe felt heavy in my hand, buzzing with the hidden power of Clockwork Breathing. First Form: Second Hand Strike – three quick steps, a precise, spinning axe chop. I could use it here, against them. Against the rotten system. Against everything I hated.
But Rear Admiral Strawberry's voice came back to me, clear and hard: Don't get involved with World Noble business. You're a Marine. You have a job. And the cold, thinking part of my brain, the part that had learned how to stay alive in this cruel world, screamed: You're just one man. They'll crush you. You'll die for nothing. What good is a dead hero? My new strength, even though it was a lot after three months with Strawberry, wasn't enough to fight a whole Marine group, not while trying to protect a dozen slaves and fighting skilled Revolutionaries at the same time. I was just one tiny grain of sand against a huge wave.
I hesitated. A breath. A heartbeat. A terrible, long moment where I did nothing.
In that endless moment, the Revolutionary Army leader pushed back the rear admiral. The attack succeeded. The Revolutionaries, clearly having planned for a long time for this fight, left as fast as they came, melting back into the shadows of the trees.
Within minutes, the smoke cleared. The Revolutionaries were gone, along with all the 'trade materials'.
Saint Markos was unharmed but furious.
"WORTHLESS DOGS!" he shrieked from his booth. "FIND THEM! KILL THEM!"
Xavier said nothing.
A superior officer clapped him on the shoulder as the crowd was herded out.
"Those bastards got us good this time, but at least you kept your calm," he said approvingly.
Xavier nodded.
He didn't say that his hand was still trembling.
That night, Xavier returned to the temporary Marine barracks on Grove 1. His bunk was neat. His axe was clean.
He removed his boots and found something placed on his bed.
A scrap of paper.
Plain. No seal. No handwriting.
Just six words:
"You didn't move. That was enough."
And below it, in different ink:
"Grove 4. Midnight. Come alone."
Midnight. Grove 4.
The air was thick, humid, and quiet enough that I could hear the soft creak of wood beneath my boots. Bubbles drifted up through the fog like ghosts escaping the roots. I walked slower than I needed to—less out of caution, more out of the feeling that once I stepped into this moment, there wouldn't be any stepping back.
I didn't know who I was meeting.
But I knew why they'd sent the note.
They saw me pause.
They saw something in that silence—something I thought I left behind when I received those memories all those months ago.
The meeting point was barely a platform. Half-rotted, slick with moss, hemmed in by hanging vines. I stepped out onto it and waited.
A figure emerged from the mist without sound. Gray cloak. Hood drawn low. No weapon in hand. No threat in their posture.
Just watching.
They stopped a few paces away.
"You came," they said.
I didn't respond.
"You didn't stop us," they added.
"I didn't help either."
They nodded once. "That's not nothing."
I stared at them. I wasn't angry. I wasn't afraid. But I was tired of people handing me scripts for what justice is supposed to look like.
"You think I'm going to join you?" I asked.
"No," they said. "We think you're going to stay where you are."
That caught me.
I narrowed my eyes. "Then why this?" I showed them the note.
"Because justice doesn't live on sides. It lives in pressure points. And you're already sitting on one."
They reached into their cloak and pulled out a den-den mushi, it was a standard den mushi
"This frequency reaches us. Direct line. Not to an army. To a listener, and don't worry, we will be using a white den den mushi on our side to encrypt all conversations. "
I hesitated. "You're not trying to recruit me?"
"No," they said. "We're trusting you. There's a difference."
They held out the paper.
After a moment, I took it. Tucked it into my coat. Nothing grand about it. Just a number.
Just a choice.
They stepped back into the fog.
No speeches. No promises. No oaths.
And that was what made it real.
I stood alone on the platform, listening to the sounds of the environment, taking a sigh, and thought about the possibilities of my decision... Both good and bad.
I looked down at my hands.
Still calloused. Still steady.
I had realised that I was nothing but a cog in the machine. But something was different.
It wasn't about sides anymore.
It wasn't about being a Marine.
It was about being in the one place where I could still push against the rot.
Where I could still matter.
Where I could still do something right.
Not by running.
By staying.
And doing the wrong thing… for the right reasons.
A.N What did y'all think about this chapter?
As always, if you liked the chapter, keep it in your library and throw some stones at me. Also, please comment your thoughts and your ideas.
THANK YOU FOR READING