The governor stepped aside as Kamizawa Masaki adjusted his uniform, straightening his posture to present the next rank badge.
Pinned to his chest was a gold-embroidered badge shaped like a blue-and-white shield framed by golden wheat, with a golden anchor at the bottom and two golden five-pointed stars above—a badge denoting his rank as Junior Marshal.
Within the Marshal class were four levels: Sub-Marshal, Junior Marshal, Mid-Marshal, and Senior Marshal, each with an additional star marking its tier.
The badge in Masaki's hand now, however, was a Commander insignia—an honorary rank given to anyone who successfully built a shipgirl.
Above Commander, there were four levels of Captain, four levels of Marshal, and at the very top, Fleet Admiral. These ten grades formed the military rank structure for Commanders. Advancement required both distinguished service and raw strength, so a glance at a Commander's rank usually said enough about their capabilities.
One by one, the new recruits stood tall to receive their insignias. Soon, it was Hikaru's turn at the very end of the line.
The one presenting the badge to him was the city's secretary-general, a middle-aged official with a warm, fatherly smile. He leaned close, exchanging a few casual pleasantries, before taking a nameplate from the tray held by the ceremonial assistant.
"You were briefed on how to use this, right?" the secretary asked with a gentle smile.
Hikaru nodded as he accepted the nameplate. It was, in his eyes, a piece of technology far beyond this world's norm—perhaps even a product of extraordinary power.
By channeling the shared power from his shipgirl into it, his name would be inscribed, and the nameplate would automatically analyze and record his battle records, rank, and more.
A smart artifact indeed.
As Hikaru closed his eyes to imprint his data onto it, the secretary turned to smile kindly at the wide-eyed Glowworm beside him and reached for the badge.
The shield-shaped badge gleamed like a sapphire encased in gold. Beneath it were golden wheat and an anchor—this was the lowest tier of the Commander insignia. For higher tiers, golden stars would be added to the sapphire background.
The secretary waited as Hikaru engraved his identity. His thoughts drifted a little; despite his bureaucratic position, he still envied this young man.
A Commander… to the people, that was a true hero. Who hadn't dreamed of being one?
Though he had never become a Commander himself, perhaps one of the bright youths he decorated today might someday rise to become a Fleet Admiral who safeguarded all of humanity. That alone would make his life worthwhile.
Lost in his pleasant thoughts, he didn't notice Hikaru opening his eyes until the moment had passed. He quickly stepped forward to pin the badge, but as he leaned in, his eyes caught the data now hovering over Hikaru's chest—and he froze.
The secretary pulled his hand back, rubbing his eyes.
The journalists below noticed something was off. Whispers and muttering began to spread. Was something wrong with the ceremony? This was a televised event after all, destined to be clipped and rebroadcast.
Even amid the refreshments laid out for the shipgirls, the atmosphere of the conferment was formal enough that several senior officials were already frowning.
The secretary looked up, as if trying to memorize every detail of Hikaru's face. His mouth opened as if to speak—but no words came. Instead, he waved stiffly to the other officials nearby like a malfunctioning robot.
Masaki reacted first. He charged toward Hikaru, completely ignoring Glowworm, who had thrown her arms out to shield her Commander. Squinting at the data shimmering from Hikaru's chest, Masaki read aloud:
"Kuramoto Hikaru, LV143, Fleet Admiral, number of shipgirls: ???, expeditions: 60,195…"
Masaki looked up with an expression between laughing and crying and let out a curse. "The hell!? Fleet Admiral? Over sixty thousand expeditions!? Are you kidding me, boss? Who here's even qualified to pin a badge on you!?"
…
The message spread like wildfire. The governor of Shudō himself was already en route by private jet, and even the Naval High Command and Shipgirl Headquarters on the southeastern coast had received the news through encrypted comms relayed by shipgirl gear.
In a darkened war room with the curtains drawn tight, a lion-like old man with white hair and a matching beard took a long drag of his cigarette and slammed a report onto the table.
The room was dim. Before him sat a massive five-meter-wide tactical map of the oceans. Dark blue waters sprawled across it, dotted with countless tiny flags bearing the faces of Abyssal flagships. Only the near-coast waters still shone in calm azure.
Everyone else had been cleared from the room.
The old man pointed toward a middle-aged woman in her forties with bronze-toned skin. "Indiana, what do you think?"
Indiana shrugged. Despite being a shipgirl untouched by time, fine lines had crept into the corners of her eyes.
She had seen more storms—literal and metaphorical—than most mortals could ever imagine.
"The tech team already reset his sortie, exercise, and expedition counts to zero. We downgraded his rank back to Commander. But his level… we can't touch that. It's imprinted onto his soul."
The old man frowned. "So you're saying he really was a level 143 Commander? But how old could he be? Sixty thousand missions? If he ran two per day, no breaks, we're talking—what, a hundred years of nonstop combat?"
Even he hadn't fought that many times.
Indiana raised her hands. "Souls don't lie."
The old man grunted deeply. A shadow passed over his face. "Could it be… some Abyssal plot?"
"Checked immediately. Negative."
The old man glared at her, then slumped back into thought beside the sand table.
There was something… strange fermenting between that Commander and his shipgirls.
The awkward silence thickened until the old man burst into a fit of coughing so intense he nearly collapsed. A shipgirl stepped forward to help, but he waved her off.
"Cough I heard… cough I heard rumors… about rejuvenation…"
Indiana's face darkened. Her voice was cold and firm. "Nonsense. You're nearly two hundred. You should know better than to chase fairy tales."
There was no denying that clandestine research into shipgirls had always existed. The consequences of such forbidden work often led to shipgirls falling to the Abyss, triggering unspeakable catastrophes.
Despite all the efforts of Shipgirl Headquarters, humanity's hunger for power and eternal youth never died.
The old man and his shipgirl locked gazes for a long time.
At last, he looked away.
"Identification tags have never failed. That young man is a living, breathing bug in the system. There are going to be a lot of people interested in unraveling his secrets. What are your plans for him?"
"Shipgirl Headquarters has already claimed custody. He'll receive top-level protection."
The old man stayed silent for a long moment before finally nodding.
"I'll trust you on this."