The salty breeze off the Vashiri coast tousled Gale's already-messy hair as he stood on the pier, watching the marines scramble like half-motivated ants.
Crates clattered, ropes were tied and re-tied for the third time, and the battleship rocked gently with the waves as it slowly filled with loot that definitely did not belong to them two weeks ago.
Somewhere behind him, a noble probably still sobbing about how "barbaric" marines looked in uniform waved them off with a handkerchief, which only made Gale want to dive into the sea and never resurface.
Thankfully, the Prince Regent had agreed to delay his report to Marine HQ for two more days. Just enough time to not look suspicious. Barely. But not enough to stretch their stay too far. Not that Gale had any plans to stick around for more royal speeches, no matter how much free food came with them.
His gaze shifted to Blight's ominous, fog-carved ship still docked in the far end of the marina. The damn thing gave him the creeps—it looked like something straight out of a bedtime horror story for sailors—but it was loaded with rare materials, and probably cursed six ways from Sunday. Fortunately, he wouldn't have to deal with it.
Not right now.
"Oi, Gale."
Gale didn't have to turn to recognize the lazy drawl. "Poqin."
The monk-turned-marine sauntered up with his sleeves rolled and his usual mildly-annoyed expression in place. He jabbed a thumb at the supplies being loaded. "Why've we packed so little?"
Gale raised an eyebrow. "That's a stupid question."
"Thanks. Enlighten me anyway."
"We didn't want to deprive the kind people of Vashiri of their resources," Gale said with a dazzling, clearly fake smile. "The principality is recovering from Blight's invasion. We can't just take everything."
Poqin blinked. "You do know they're stupidly rich, right? They can supply ten ships like this and not feel a dent in their budget..."
Gale's grin deepened. "Maybe, but HQ doesn't know how much damage Blight and his crew caused. We'll use this tragic under-supplying as an excuse to make tactical stops along the way."
"…So you're padding the trip back to HQ."
"Obviously."
Poqin sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "That'll buy us, what? A day? Two max? From the looks of things, HQ's still playing Where's Waldo with the Revolutionaries."
"Oh, I'm not done." Gale's voice dropped into mock-conspiratorial glee. "We'll probably hit an unfortunate storm halfway through the journey. Tragic, really. Some crates will get soaked, maybe even washed overboard. Boom—emergency stop."
Poqin gave Gale a long, slow, profoundly unimpressed look. The kind of look that said, "I know you, and I know where this is going, and I'm already disappointed."
"Oh yeah?" the monk said, arms crossed. "And what's next? We spontaneously develop amnesia and forget how to sail back to HQ?"
Gale chuckled, stretching his arms like a man who had just finished a particularly genius scheme and was ready for the applause. "Nah. Nothing so dramatic. I figure we just get attacked by pirates."
Poqin squinted at him. "...What?"
"I mean, come on." Gale shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You can't sail a nautical mile in this damn ocean without bumping into at least a dozen pirate ships. It's like sea roaches. They're everywhere."
"Okay, sure," Poqin said, rubbing the side of his head like he was developing a stress-induced headache. "But what kind of idiot pirate crew would attack a Marine battleship?"
"See, that's the beauty of it," Gale said, his tone dipping into dangerously smug territory. "Who said anything about a pirate crew attacking a Marine battleship?"
Poqin gave him a suspicious side-eye. "...Gale. If you're about to suggest faking a pirate attack, just stop. Right now. I'm begging you."
"Relax." Gale held up his hands. "We're not faking anything. That'd be dishonest."
Poqin's look said he wasn't buying a single syllable.
Gale continued anyway, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "All we do is take down the Marine flag. Say it got dirty. Needed a wash."
Poqin blinked. "...You want to de-flag a Marine ship."
"Not permanently," Gale said quickly, waving a hand. "Just long enough to look like a really well-armed merchant vessel. Or a particularly fashion-forward pirate crew. Storm rolls through, does some damage. Oh no! The colors are scratched! The shipwrights didn't have Marine blue paint, so we went with…"
He rubbed his hands together. "Mysterious black with blood-red trim. Very intimidating."
Poqin opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. "This is actually a plan, isn't it?"
"Hey," Gale said with a grin, "at least one or two pirate crews'll be dumb enough to take the bait. We fend them off, collect more loot, and, oh no again—our repairs will take time. Delays. Very unfortunate."
"And if no pirates show up?" Poqin muttered.
"Then we accidentally wander into someone's territory," Gale said, finger-gunning like a lunatic. "Whoops. Honest mistake. Poor visibility after that storm and all."
Poqin sighed so loudly it might've stirred the ocean. "We are absolutely getting court-martialed."
"Only if we get caught," Gale said, clapping him on the back. "Besides, think of the vacation hours we're racking up. Mentally."
As if on cue, the ship's whistle blew—two short bursts signaling final boarding. The rest of the marines filed up the gangplank, uniforms a little wrinkled, sunburns already forming from standing around in the sun too long.
Poqin turned, walking toward the ship with the kind of resigned shuffle that said he was both dreading and somehow prepared for whatever nonsense was coming next.
Gale followed, hands in pockets, a pleased little smirk playing on his lips.
Their plan wasn't foolproof. It wasn't even particularly legal.
But it was very them.
The sails unfurled. The ropes were cast off.
And the good ship "Definitely Not Avoiding Orders" set sail into the open sea.
...
The late afternoon sun bled gold through the wide wooden shutters of the Sala de Armas, casting long shadows over polished floors and old sparring scars Florencio never let anyone patch.
The once-open-air courtyard, with its faded terracotta tiles and bougainvillea vines curling around pillars, now buzzed with the muted hum of laughter, clinking glasses, and the occasional clang of a sword hilt bumping into a stool.
Now, the Sala wasn't just a training ground—it was a tavern for swordsmen. No, not just swordsmen—serious swordsmen. A place to swap stories, trade techniques, argue over stances, and drink until they forgot what those stances even were.
Currently, two such men sat across from each other at a low round table, half-drunk and fully loud. One wore desert robes and a curved scimitar on his hip. The other, in a weathered gi, had a katana that hadn't left his side since he entered.
"I'm tellin' ya," Scimitar Guy said, pointing with his half-empty mug, "you wouldn't last a second in a real duel. You parry with the edge of your blade, for heaven's sake!"
Katana Guy snorted into his drink. "I parry with grace. Unlike your clunky butter knife."
"Oh, that's it—"
Chairs scraped back, hands moved to hilts, and a general ooh swept through the tavern as patrons subtly scooted back to avoid stray limbs.
Then came the voice.
"Rules."
The two men froze like kids caught stealing cookies.
Claribel stood behind the bar, one eyebrow raised, a rag draped over her shoulder and a half-dried tankard in her hand. She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.
"You want to cut each other into meat strips," she said, flipping the rag with one hand, "do it outside, like gentlemen."
"But he—"
"Don't care."
The two swordsmen mumbled apologies, heads low, and slowly shuffled outside—never turning their backs on each other, their glares sharp enough to draw blood.
Claribel watched them go with a sigh that said she had seen that exact argument a dozen times this week. She wiped down the bar once more for good measure, then finally allowed herself a moment of peace.
Reaching beneath the counter, she pulled out the newspaper she'd been saving all morning. The headline was already circled in red ink.
"Young Marine Hero Defeats Infamous Pirate Captain Attempting to Conquer a Nation!"
And front and center beneath the dramatic title, a photo of Gale mid-swing, sword gleaming, fog parting like curtains before a storm.
Claribel smiled, small and fond.
"Took you long enough, idiot... I was starting to think you drowned somewhere..."
She grabbed a pair of scissors from a drawer, snipped the article out with neat precision, and walked over to one of the tavern's main pillars—right next to the one where a rusted rose-shaped crossguard still hung from a peg.
With a well-practiced thwack, she nailed the article beneath it, hammering it in place with a single solid strike that echoed through the tavern like applause.
She stood back to admire her work.
Then she turned toward the corner where a large, framed portrait of Don Florencio de la Rosa overlooked the room. He stood proud in his matador's garb, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his saber, rose tucked behind his ear despite the visible irritation in his reddened eyes.
Claribel crossed her arms, smile softening.
"Well? Your student's already making a name for himself."
A breeze rolled through the open shutters, and the petals stirred. Claribel swore—for just a second—the old man's painted eyes sparkled with pride.
She rolled her own.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't overpraise him... it'll get to his head..."
...
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