The sun beat down on the gilded tiles of Kogane no tori, reflecting off the golden architecture with a brilliance that would have blinded a normal man. But Kojo wasn't a normal man. He stood at the edge of the harbor, his hand resting habitually on the hilt of his katana. He didn't bother looking back at the ship. He knew Faramis was already lost in his own world of gears and ancient ink, and he knew Ato was already a mile ahead, driven by a stomach that defied the laws of physics.
"That idiot," Kojo muttered. He jumped onto the island, his boots hitting the sand with a heavy thud. He didn't look at the palm trees or the shimmering beaches. He set off immediately toward the Middle District, following the sound of distant shouting and the undeniable trail of chaos that Ato Dragonaid always left in his wake.
In the heart of the Middle District, the air smelled of expensive spices and seared fat. Ato had found his sanctuary: a high-end restaurant where the chairs were carved from mahogany and the plates were rimmed with 24-karat gold. He didn't care about the decor. He cared about the menu.
Ato slammed a fist onto the table, his eyes wide with a manic, starving energy. "Hhah! I'm so hungry! Waiter! Can you come here?"
A waiter, dressed in a tuxedo that probably cost more than a small house, approached with a stiff, professional gait. He looked at Ato's ragged vest and messy hair with a hint of disdain, but the island's law was hospitality—provided you had the gold.
"Yes, sir. How may I serve you today?" the waiter asked, his voice dripping with forced politeness.
Ato looked at the menu, his brain working harder than it ever had during Faramis's history lessons. "Can you give me..." he paused, thinking deeply, his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth. "...the Golden Steak."
"An excellent choice, sir," the waiter replied. "Our signature dish."
When the waiter returned, the aroma was enough to make a man faint. It was a massive cut of prime beef, encrusted in edible gold leaf and dripping with a rich, dark reduction. Ato didn't use a knife. He didn't use a fork. He ate it in an instant, the meat disappearing as if it had been dropped into a vacuum.
"Another one!" Ato shouted.
The waiter blinked. "Another, sir?"
"Ten more!" Ato roared.
Plate after plate arrived. The kitchen staff began to whisper. No human could consume this much rich fat and gold leaf without collapsing. But Ato kept going, his "Beast" metabolism burning through the calories as fast as he could swallow. Finally, after the tenth plate was wiped clean with a piece of bread, Ato leaned back and patted his stomach with a loud, wet thud.
"Bro... I'm full," Ato groaned happily.
The waiter approached, his expression now one of cold calculation. He laid a small leather folder on the table. "Sir, then here is your bill."
Ato opened it. His eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He looked at the number. Then he looked at it again. He counted the zeros. His jaw dropped, hitting the table.
"Wait," Ato stammered, his sweat beginning to flow. "I... I could pay the bill, but this costs more than all the money Faramis has in total! Like, even if he sold the ship and his books!"
The waiter's eyes narrowed. The polite mask shattered instantly. "Is there a problem, sir?"
"Can I pay by washing your dishes?" Ato asked, offering a nervous, toothy grin. "I'm really fast at it! I can break... I mean, wash them really well!"
"Sorry," the waiter said, his voice turning like ice. "We don't have that paying method on this island."
Without taking his eyes off Ato, the waiter reached into his vest and pressed a small, golden bell. The sound chimed through the restaurant. Suddenly, the swinging doors of the kitchen burst open. The Head Chef, a massive man with a scarred face, stepped out, but he wasn't holding a whisk. He was holding a double-barreled shotgun. Behind him, five other waiters appeared, all armed with gold-plated firearms.
"Pay up, brat, or you're the next thing on the menu!" the Chef roared.
Ato didn't wait for a second invitation. He flipped the table, creating a golden shield for a split second, and bolted out the front door. "I'LL PAY YOU LATER!" he screamed as he hit the street, a hail of buckshot whistling over his head.
Meanwhile, in the Upper District, the atmosphere was far more refined—and far more boring for someone like Kojo. He walked past marble statues and hanging gardens, his eyes scanning every face.
"Where is Ato?" Kojo grumbled. "That idiot is probably starting a war over a ham sandwich by now."
He stopped in front of a massive, circular arena. It was surrounded by high walls of white stone, and the sound of clashing steel echoed from within. He looked at a sign board near the entrance.
KNIGHT PRACTICE GROUND: PROPERTY OF THE ROYAL CROWN.
Kojo leaned against the gate, watching the soldiers inside. They were dressed in heavy, decorative armor that shone brilliantly in the sun. They moved in synchronized patterns, their halberds flashing. Kojo watched for a minute, then let out a long, disappointed sigh.
"Oh, a training ground," Kojo muttered. "But they're not that good. Their movements are slow. Too much weight in the armor, not enough soul in the strike."
He shook his head. These weren't warriors; they were ornaments. Realizing Ato wouldn't be interested in "slow" fighters, Kojo turned back toward the center of the city. "Anyways, I have to find him before he burns the port down."
Back at the ship, the silence was heavy. Faramis sat in his room, which was less of a living space and more of an ancient archive. Books were stacked to the ceiling, their spines cracked and worn. He was flipping through a dusty tome, his eyes darting across the pages.
"This won't do," Faramis whispered to the empty room. "The maps are outdated. The records of the 'Sunk World' are missing the most vital chapter." He slammed the book shut. "I have to go look for it myself."
He stood up and walked to the center of the deck. He pulled a small, high-tech capsule from his pocket. With a practiced motion, he activated the mechanism. A hum of energy filled the air as the entire ship—their home and their fortress—began to fold in on itself, shrinking smaller and smaller until it was no larger than a toy. He tucked the capsule into his pocket and stepped onto the dock.
Faramis moved with purpose. He skipped the markets and the arenas, heading straight for the Lower District's Great Library. He spent an hour inside, his hands blurred as he searched the restricted sections. When he finally emerged, he adjusted his glasses and sighed.
"It's not here. The history of this island has been... sanitized."
He began walking toward the Middle District, hoping to regroup. As he reached the Grand Fountain, he saw a familiar, brooding figure leaning against a golden pillar. Kojo was drenched in sweat, his breathing heavy from the humidity and the frustration of the search.
"Kojo," Faramis called out. "Didn't you find him?"
Kojo looked up, scowling. "Oh, Faramis. No. I searched the Lower District, the training grounds, everywhere. He's gone. He probably fell into a vat of gold and died." He paused, looking at Faramis. "But what are you doing here? I thought you were staying with the ship."
"I was searching for a book," Faramis said simply. "But it seems the information I require is kept under lock and key at the palace."
Suddenly, the peaceful atmosphere of the square was shattered. A high-pitched, panicked scream erupted from the northern street.
"OI! KOJO! FARAMIS! RUN! THE CHEFS AND WAITERS HAVE SHOTGUNS!"
Ato came flying around the corner, his feet barely touching the ground. Behind him, a mob of twenty men in white aprons were sprinting, waving shotguns and meat cleavers.
Kojo reached for his sword, his face twisting in rage. "I KNEW IT! YOU STUPID—"
But before Kojo could draw his blade or the chefs could fire, a sudden, heavy silence fell over the square. It was as if the air itself had been sucked out. The shouting stopped. The chefs skidded to a halt, their faces turning pale with terror. They didn't just stop; they dropped their weapons and fell to their knees.
The crowd of civilians in the square parted in perfect unison. A path opened, leading straight to the palace gates. In the distance, a sleek, golden engine hummed. A royal transport, carved from solid ivory and gold, glided into the square.
The vehicle stopped. The door opened upward, like the wing of a bird. A young man stepped out. He had bright blonde hair that seemed to absorb the sunlight, and his eyes were a sharp, citrus yellow. He wore a white military coat with golden epaulettes, and he carried an aura of absolute, crushing authority.
One of the soldiers standing guard at the fountain stood at attention, his voice booming.
"You are in the presence of the first son of King Luka! The Protector of the Gilded Nest! The Prince of Kogane no tori... Prince Lemon!"
Ato, who had been mid-sprint, tripped over his own feet. Kojo's hand froze on his hilt. Faramis narrowed his eyes, recognizing the royal crest.
The three of them looked at the elegant, bored-looking Prince, and then at each other.
"WHHHHHAAATT?!" they screamed in unison.
Lemon looked at the chaos, then at Ato, then finally at the bill the head chef was still clutching. He sighed, a sound of pure royal exhaustion. "I assume," Lemon said, his voice smooth and cold, "that you are the ones who have been making my island feel so... unrefined today."