In a grimy alleyway, stagnant puddles coated the ground.
“Damn it… can’t these bastards clean up once in a while?”
A hooded figure in black muttered under his breath, kicking a dead rat into the filthy water mixed with excrement.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
Three cloaked figures rapped on a door riddled with holes.
A gaunt giant opened it. Tumors covered his face like some cave-dweller from gothic tales. Sparse strands of hair and yellowed, protruding teeth made him barely human. His raspy whisper nodded at the trio.
“…Butterfly?”
“Wings broken…”
“Mired in mud…”
“Fallen to sea…”
“Gravely wounded…”
“Risen from death…”
“Flying fish? Spear fish? Sword fish?”
“…Dragon.”
“Spewing rampaging flames?”
“Raising waves of ruin…”
“…Come in~ Welcome… The boss awaits inside.”
The black-clad trio hurried in. The grotesque man peered outside before shutting the door.
Inside, candlelight barely outlined the room’s shape as they climbed the stairs. The stench of mildew made them wrinkle their noses. Upstairs, a dimly lit parlor revealed century-old furniture and a small bar. Glancing back, they saw the deformed man wave, then settle into a chair in a side nook for a nap.
Behind the bar, a man wrapped in white cloth greeted them. Bandages covered his face like a burn victim’s, only bloodshot eyes visible. Worn sackcloth draped his frame, his hands also swathed in gauze.
“Welcome… What drink do you seek?”
“…First grade.”
“Costly…”
The lead figure threw back his hood—Scarface, Pipe’s lieutenant commanding the integrated human pirates. He tossed a coin purse onto the bar.
“Deposit.”
*Clack.* The bandaged man caught it, weighing it lightly.
“You’re serious. Remember my rules… Deposit non-refundable. I may refuse requests beyond my reach.”
“Understood.”
The man pocketed the coins and poured three glasses.
“Speak.”
“Holy Gunner!”
“…”
The keeper pulled a scroll from a shelf. Scarface unrolled it, scanning quickly.
“All of it?”
Silence. *Tch.* Scarface hurled another purse.
“I advise you… don’t provoke this man.”
“We’ll risk it. Give me everything.”
Sighing, the man handed a crimson scroll. Scarface skimmed it, then nodded. A subordinate placed a heavy sack on the bar. Without checking, the keeper stowed it away.
Ignoring the untouched drinks, the trio left. Hooded again, they glanced back at the door before vanishing into the shadows.
Soon, in another dark alley, a figure stood by the wall.
Scarface signaled his men to wait, then approached, bowing deeply.
“Sister Greenland.”
“Hmm… Done?”
“Yes. Here’s what you wanted.” He offered the red scroll.
“The Great Leader values you highly. Serve well.”
A bead of sweat traced Scarface’s temple. Greenland patted his shoulder with a smile, then leapt—bounding across rooftops with impossible speed until she disappeared.
*Phew…*
Scarface exhaled, wiping his damp palm. The Great Leader’s kind weren’t human, yet far more trustworthy. Loyalty meant survival. His crew lived better now—no starvation, no random killings…
He recalled the Great Leader’s words: *We can’t choose the past. Not even our present. But by conquering the future… one day, we might earn the right to choose.*
*True… But their power terrifies me. I can’t control this fear…*
—
In Count Dracula’s manor garden pavilion, Pipe—disguised as the Count—studied the crimson scroll. As an Undead, his mind absorbed this world’s script swiftly, unburdened by mortal distractions.
“Cabel… White Oak Kingdom. Mercenary. Silver Lance. Holy Gunner. Captain of the Holy Lance Oath Brigade… Age unknown. Origin unknown. Family unknown. Combat strength: 5,000–7,000 units. Expert in mountain, cavalry, and naval warfare… In five years, his brigade joined countless battles. Nearly every conflict outside royal wars bears their shadow… Zero casualties!?”
A flicker of red light passed through Dracula’s eyes. A capable man shrouded in mystery. But why serve as a mere mercenary? His past erased—as if he materialized from nothing. What identity did he hide? What drove him to build this brigade? And why save Elfa that night? Did he know her… or not? Questions coiled like smoke, but missing pieces left the truth blurred.
“…Silver Lance… Holy artifact. Unleashes divine piercing strikes… A fatal blow… Power of the gods… Origin unknown.”
A man without history wielding such power? Perhaps he commanded a hidden force. Luck alone couldn’t forge a legendary brigade with zero losses. Reports claimed they avoided strong armies, striking only the weak—but that *was* war. Making the fair unfair.
“The Holy Lance Oath has relocated to the Fire Eagle Duchy…”
“Members… all supernatural humans. Well-armed. Ruthless in completing missions. Fanatically loyal to Cabel…”
Lil V approached. “Duke Kein requests an audience.”
Dracula tucked the scroll into his Bottomless Snuffbox and rose.
—
Inside the manor’s opulent parlor, Duke Kein idly examined aristocratic trinkets.
“All newly arranged… His tastes align with common nobility…”
He gave up, sinking onto a sofa to sip tea.
“Ordinary leaves… Not easily deciphered.”
The door opened. Lil V and Del Sira wheeled in a drink cart; Hill Rock followed with refreshments. Dracula strode forward, shaking Kein’s hand.
“An unexpected visit… Urgent business, Duke?”
Though his face stayed cold, Dracula’s tone was warm—treating Kein as an old friend, not a stranger.
“Pastries? Thank you. I haven’t eaten. I won’t stand on ceremony, Count Dracula.”
“Call me Dracula.”
“Heh. Then I’m Kein.”
Lil V poured Kein a citrus-scented wine. Hill Rock presented delicate cakes.
“…Orange wine? Novel… These cakes look charming.”
“My chef’s specialty. Oranges spoil at sea… But as wine, they keep.”
Kein sipped. Surprise melted into bliss.
“Exquisite! No hint of alcohol—only rich orange fragrance. Yet it smells like wine… How does this preserve oranges aboard ships?”
“Oranges cure the Sea God’s Curse.”
“What—! No one’s ever known how to lift the Curse! Just… eating oranges?”
Dracula nodded.
“Thank you, Count. This knowledge saves lives. How did you learn it?”
“In my homeland, great… prophets… hold all wisdom.”
“I see. Do prophets rule Wallachia?”
“…Roughly.” (*Another lie.*)
“Is this wine’s recipe secret?”
“Lil V, fetch Faglas’s orange wine formula for Duke Kein later.”
“Yes, Master.” She bowed and left.
“Deep gratitude! This will save countless Imperial Navy lives!” Kein bowed ninety degrees. Dracula didn’t stop him. Settling back, Kein praised the cakes between bites.
“Actually… I came to invite you on a journey.”
Kein’s easy manner vanished. His gaze hardened like a general facing battle.
“A journey?”
“Yes. I return to the Imperial Capital soon. I’d be honored if you joined me—to tour the heart of the Empire. Your thoughts?”
*Agree, and I enter the Empire’s core… learn more of this world. But nothing’s this simple. Kein has other aims… Why?*
*Sigh. No matter. I’m strong enough—for now. I’ll bring Faglas and Greenland.*
Purames would stay behind to coordinate matters... With Lil V and her two sisters remaining, nothing should go wrong.
"Of course, I’d be delighted... When do we depart? I need to arrange tasks for my subordinates."
"Three days from now, if convenient. Or five, should the Count be occupied. Or name your own time..."
"Then tomorrow."
"Eh? Very well..." *(He doesn’t seem busy at all. Perfect!)*
A flash of triumph lit Duke Kein’s eyes—the look of a scheme falling into place. A man like Count Dracula lacked neither wealth nor power; bribes were pointless. Such a force capable of summoning undead legions surely had its own ambitions. Mutual benefit might work... but without intelligence, it was a last resort. Only camaraderie remained—build trust first, then offer rewards.
Satisfied, Kein waved farewell to Dracula. As the duke’s carriage vanished, a trace of crimson flickered in the count’s eyes.
"Lil V. Summon Purames, Faglas, and Greenland to me immediately."
"Yes, my lord!"
———
At the same moment, a black-sailed fleet lurked among jagged reefs.
Half his face was scarred by fire. His grimy uniform reeked of stale liquor and gunpowder. A wooden peg leg replaced his real one. A thicket of beard choked his jaw, and a black anchor tattoo coiled up his bared forearm. A soot-stained pipe hung from yellowed teeth. A parrot with rainbow feathers fluttered onto his shoulder, snatching a wriggling grub from his hairy palm.
"Captain handsome! Captain handsome!"
"Hmph! Chatty bastard..." He spat, then bellowed, "Lively now, you bilge rats!"
Below deck, sailors scrubbed planks while purple-skinned overseers lashed slackers with whips.
"Put your backs into it, you son of a bilge rat!"
"You! Trying to break my neck with that bucket, eh?"
"Light those lamps, scum! Need a taste of leather?"
The bearded captain shook out a rag slimy with rainbow-hued gunk.
"Winds favor us! Row hard! Reach the rendezvous today—or I’ll assign you mermaid duty!"
Twenty-odd warships trailed his black-sailed flagship, all flying Jolly Rogers from their masts.
"Captain," a navigator called, "the charts say we’ll be late..."
"Blame Bill’s rotten sense of direction!" He kicked the bloodied corpse dangling from the mast. "This job’s for the Imperial Navy’s admiral. Succeed, and I rise. You all profit too... They say the admiral’s a beauty. Heh heh heh..."
"*Heh heh heh...*"
His lieutenants grinned, exchanging knowing looks.
