Compared to the storm-tossed seas, the world's pinnacle of power, the Holy Land of Mary Geoise, pulsed with a strange and unsettling clamor.
Here there were no rolling waves, no roars of battle. Only a suffocating, painted-over illusion of peace wrapped in grotesque revelry.
Inside the palatial halls, gaudy carpets were piled with luggage of every sort. Servants knelt on the floor, carefully packing diamond-encrusted hunting rifles, golden goblets, and silken nightclothes into custom-made leather cases.
"Father, did you bring my 'Little Darling'?" asked a ten-year-old Celestial Dragon boy with a signature fountain-like hairstyle. Saint Marcus tugged excitedly at his father's robes.
His so-called "Little Darling" was a custom-made pistol crafted of seastone and ivory.
"Of course I did, my dear Marcus." His father, Saint Topps, patted his swollen belly and smiled indulgently. "This year's competition, you must claim the very first 'trophy.' You cannot lose again to that sniveling brat from the Musgarud family."
"Don't worry, Father!" Saint Marcus swung his pudgy fists with confidence. "This time I'll hunt the fastest one! I'll make it the most beautiful specimen in my room!"
Their voices were light and casual, as if speaking of a picnic, not a blood-soaked hunt.
Around them, slaves and attendants pressed their heads lower, trembling in silence. For them, the word "competition" was more terrifying than hell itself.
It was the Celestial Dragons' grand triennial festival.
From among the World Government's unaffiliated nations, they would "randomly" select a so-called lucky country to serve as their playground.
This year's "lucky winner" was a small nation in the West Blue, a place known as God Valley.
Soon, an unprecedented fleet sailed from the Red Line's port. Dozens of the Navy's most elite warships formed an iron wall, escorting a cluster of golden, palace-like ships glittering at the center.
Aboard those floating palaces, the Celestial Dragons sealed themselves inside transparent bubble headpieces, shielding their lungs from the "filthy" air, while pointing gleefully at the waters below.
The escort was nothing short of extravagant. CP agents lurked like shadows in every corner, their eyes sharp as blades. At the vanguard marched a grim and silent force: the God's Knights.
At their head stood a man with a crescent-moon hairstyle, his face severe, his eyes devoid of feeling, carrying out his duty with cold precision.
The fleet carved through clouds, crossed the Calm Belt, and at last reached the valley said to be blessed by the gods.
God Valley.
It was a peaceful, verdant country. Waterfalls tumbled like ribbons from the cliffs, towns thrived quietly among the green hills, and its people lived in simplicity, never dreaming disaster could fall upon them so brutally.
When the colossal fleet blotted out the horizon, villagers poured into the streets in wonder, curious to see the great ships.
But what came was not salvation from heaven. It was judgment day.
"To ensure the competition's fairness and entertainment, clear the field first!"
The God's Knights and CP agents descended like hawks. No warning, no mercy. The slaughter began instantly.
Tranquil streets vanished in fire and explosions. Sword flashes carved down children running for their parents, cut down fathers shielding their families.
God Valley's soldiers tried to resist, but their proud weapons were brittle twigs against these battle-hardened monsters.
The Celestial Dragons, meanwhile, reclined aboard their ships, sipping from goblets and admiring the massacre as if it were fireworks.
"Look, Marcus!" Saint Topps pointed to a village reduced to rubble and grinned at his son. "What a delightful game!"
Marcus's small face lit up with frenzy far too twisted for his age. He gripped his pistol tight, eager to shoot the scattering "targets" himself.
The butchery ended quickly.
When the last defiant soul was cut down by the God's Knights commander, silence swallowed the valley.
What had been a beautiful country lay in ruins, drenched in blood and smoke, the air thick with the stench of charred flesh.
"Field cleared." The cold report was sent back to the flagship.
Only then did the Celestial Dragons descend from their ships in bubble gondolas, setting foot on the blood-soaked land. Their jeweled shoes crushed corpses without a flicker of disgust, as if stepping on dirt.
Slaves were herded to erect luxurious tents among the rubble, tables loaded with delicacies and wine.
A banquet built upon death and ruin was about to begin.
Saint Topps placed the pistol in young Marcus's hands, stroking his head with mock affection.
"Go, my child." His voice was as gentle as any doting father's, but his words dripped venom. "The competition hasn't started yet. You may warm up first."
"Yes, Father!"
Marcus's voice squealed with excitement as he skipped off toward the ruined forest, clutching his gun like a boy chasing Easter eggs.
Behind him echoed the clinking glasses of false gods, and the muffled weeping of a valley in despair.
Unseen, from far away, a pair of eyes watched it all through a high-powered spyglass.
"Jihahaha… Celestial Dragons, still as revolting as ever." On a distant ship, Shiki the Golden Lion sneered, his grin cruel. "But that just makes it fun. Rocks's sights aren't set on a single island."
Far across the seas, in the waters near Hachinosu, Rocks D. Xebec stood at the bow of his flagship. His face lay hidden in shadow, only his eyes glimmering with ambition deeper than the abyss.
He gazed toward God Valley, as though he could pierce space itself to stare upon those self-proclaimed gods.
"Revel to your hearts' content…"
His low voice rode the wind.
"…for soon, your divine thrones will change hands."