Within the dimly lit office of the CP9 Director, tension hung like a sword suspended by a single thread.
Behind the imposing oak desk, the Director sat rigid in his chair, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he struggled to contain a volcanic rage. In his trembling hands, a thick dossier crumpled under the pressure of his grip—the contents of which had nearly cost them everything.
Standing before him, head bowed and drenched in sweat, was Spandam, the very embodiment of disgrace in a government-issued suit. The silence was suffocating. Only the faint ticking of a wall-mounted chronometer dared to speak.
"You damn fool..." the Director's voice finally erupted, low at first, but coiled with fury. Then, like a gunshot.
"WHAT WERE YOU THINKING?!"
The folder flew across the room with violent speed, slamming against Spandam's face before tumbling to the floor. The impact knocked him back a step, but he caught himself, barely, clutching the edge of a side table for support.
"You went behind my back," the Director seethed, rising slowly from his chair, every inch of his movement deliberate, menacing. "Not just behind me, but straight to the Gorosei…!" His voice grew louder with each word, the title of the Elders practically spat from his mouth. "Do you have any idea what you've done?!"
Spandam flinched but said nothing.
The Director slammed his fist on the desk, the wood groaning under the force. "You dared to whisper to the most powerful men in the world about the whereabouts of an Ancient Weapon—without evidence, without clearance, and without my approval. Are you out of your damn mind?! If they'd taken this the wrong way, it wouldn't just be your head—mine would've rolled too! Your father's name, his service, his sacrifices—it wouldn't have saved either of us!"
He stepped around the desk now, his polished boots echoing against the floor like gunshots. His fury was not just bureaucratic—it was personal. "I vouched for you. I pulled strings to get you your own squad. Do you think I gave you power so you could stab me in the back the first chance you got?"
Spandam, still reeling from the verbal onslaught, raised his voice, trying to push past the rising shame in his throat.
"But sir... the intel was solid! It was my father's—"
"DON'T YOU DARE BRING YOUR FATHER INTO THIS!" the Director bellowed, grabbing a heavy bronze paperweight from the desk and hurling it across the room.
It struck Spandam square across the temple. He collapsed hard onto the marble floor, groaning in pain, blood trickling down his face. The Director didn't stop. He marched forward, boots crunching over the scattered pages of the dossier.
"You arrogant little worm," he hissed, standing over Spandam now. "You think finding a dusty old diary gives you the right to court the Elders? You think because the name Tom shows up in your father's notes that you've found the key to global control?!"
Spandam, dazed and bleeding, blinked up at the ceiling, lips trembling.
"But… but I'm not lying!" Spandam rasped, blood still trickling from the corner of his temple, his breathing shallow but steadying. The sting of pain had dulled. What now burned in his gaze was not fear—it was obsession. "If we can capture that shipwright and make him spill what he knows, I'm certain we'll uncover something—something real—about an Ancient Weapon!"
He pushed himself upright, eyes wide with manic intensity. "This isn't just a theory. It's a lead. If we act fast, we could—"
"Are you out of your damn mind?!" the Director roared, his voice booming like thunder through the office. "You want to capture and interrogate a man who has been officially pardoned by a World Government tribunal? A man currently spearheading a sanctioned, revolutionary engineering project backed by high command?!"
His voice thundered with fury, shaking the air itself.
"The Sea Train—his invention—isn't just real. It's the backbone of a new global infrastructure. Port to port. Island to island. It's logistics, movement, control. If implemented worldwide, the World Government could extend its reach like never before. Total domination through connection."
The Director leaned in closer, his voice a venomous growl.
"And you... a paper-pushing parasite clinging to your father's legacy, want to derail this for a
speculation?"
But Spandam was no longer listening. He rose fully to his feet now, wiping the blood from his cheek with the back of his sleeve, the pain only fueling his conviction. His eyes locked with the Director's, not with defiance, but with something colder—calculated ambition.
"Tell me, Director..." he began, voice low but steady, "if I'm right… if Tom truly holds the knowledge, even fragments, of an Ancient Weapon… which do you think the Gorosei would choose to pursue?"
He took a slow step forward.
"A glorified train... or a world-ending weapon?"
The words hung in the air like smoke—dangerous and impossible to ignore. The Director froze mid-breath, eyes narrowing. Something in Spandam's voice—so calm, so absolute—made his blood run cold. He had always thought of the boy as weak, cowardly, clinging to his father's reputation like a child to a tattered cloak. But now… now he saw what lay beneath.
This wasn't a fool.
This was a man hungry for power. Unrelenting. Unrepentant. A snake ready to shed its skin. With a growl, the Director stormed forward, knelt, and seized Spandam by the collar, lifting him inches from the ground. Their faces were inches apart—rage against ambition, fire against ice.
"You overstepped," the Director snarled. "You betrayed protocol. You tried to play kingmaker with no crown, no board, and no damn pieces. And worst of all—you thought you were smarter than the people holding this world together."
Then, with contempt dripping from every syllable, "You want power so badly? Then earn it. Bleed for it. Or next time... I won't leave you with just a scar."
He threw Spandam back down, the younger man hitting the floor hard—but this time, he didn't flinch. He just smiled. A twisted, knowing grin.
And then—
"Peri... peri... peri..."
The sudden, sharp trill of the transponder snail shattered the room's silence. The Director stood frozen for a heartbeat, his eyes still locked on Spandam—searching for something, perhaps one last flicker of doubt. But there was none.
With a grunt of disgust, he turned away and reached for the receiver. The snail's blinking eyes snapped open as the call connected.
"This is the Director."
The moment the voice crackled through the transponder snail, the entire atmosphere in the office shifted.
The once-furious CP9 Director, who had only moments ago hurled insults and objects with unchecked rage, straightened like a soldier under inspection. His eyes widened, spine stiffened, and the domineering tone he had wielded so confidently moments ago melted away into something far more submissive.
"Yes, Sir... Yes, Sir. Understood completely, Sir..."
He repeated the words like a mantra, his hand scribbling furiously across a worn notepad, ink scrawling over page after page. Whatever orders were being relayed from the other end, they weren't suggestions—they were commands, likely issued by someone far above even his rank.
A higher echelon. Perhaps even directly from the Cipher Pol Zero network... or worse, the Gorosei themselves. Behind him, Spandam stirred.
Blood still crusted around the cut on his temple, his breathing ragged but steady. His head was bowed, his posture slouched, the very image of a chastised subordinate. But his eyes told a different story.
They were locked onto the Director's back, unblinking and gleaming with silent, seething resolve. He clutched his bruised ribs, the pain fueling the fire building inside him.
"Keep barking, you arrogant bastard... Sooner or later, I'll be the one sitting in that chair. I'll climb higher than you, higher than any of them. And when I do..."
His fists clenched, trembled.
"...you'll be the one groveling."
Of course, he said nothing. Spandam knew what he was—ambitious, yes. Ruthless, absolutely. But at heart... still a coward. And cowards survived by waiting. By striking when the world stopped watching.
On the other side of the desk, the Director continued taking the call. His expression was growing darker with every passing second. The transponder snail's mouth flapped with urgency, its voice cold and calculated, each instruction hitting like another weight on his shoulders.
"Yes, Sir. One of my best teams will be deployed. Yes... the target must be retrieved intact. Yes, I will ensure absolute discretion. Understood, Sir."
He kept nodding, but the sweat beginning to bead on his forehead betrayed the truth. This wasn't a mission. It was a death sentence.
When the line finally clicked dead with a final "Clack...", silence returned to the room—thicker than before, heavy like fog rolling into a graveyard.
The Director slumped into his chair, a deep sigh escaping his chest. He rubbed his temples, the edges of a stress-induced headache already burrowing into his skull. First, a power-hungry subordinate trying to bypass him. Now, this mission. No room for failure. No margin for error and little to no support.
And yet, the task he had just been handed felt more like a trap than a directive. The mission objective was slippery, the directives were unclear, and the political cost of failure incalculable. And if the operation backfired, it wouldn't be his superiors who paid the price—it would be him.
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling as the enormity of it pressed down on him like a tombstone.
"Damn it all..."
Then, his gaze slowly drifted... and landed on Spandam. He blinked. Once. Twice. A spark flickered behind his eyes.
Didn't the little worm want to rise through the ranks? Didn't he already have his own squad?
A slow, sinister smile crept across the Director's face, like the curling of a venomous snake about to strike.
Let him prove himself.
After all, the mission was already designed to fail. No seasoned team would return from it alive. But if Spandam was foolish enough to volunteer—or better, be assigned—then the outcome didn't matter.
Either he succeeded against all odds, and the Director could claim credit for his foresight...
Or he failed spectacularly—and the Director would have his perfect scapegoat. He opened his desk drawer, pulled out a clean dossier, and began writing.
"Let's see just how high your ambition can climb," the Director muttered, glancing at Spandam with mock affection. "Or how far you'll fall."
In the corner of the room, Spandam stood still—silent, seething—completely unaware that his climb had just begun… on a staircase made of knives.
****
Fishmen Island, Red Line
Once merely a bustling public square nestled at the heart of Fish-Man Island, Gyoncorde Plaza had transformed in recent weeks into something far more—a stage of destiny, echoing with the heartbeat of a race on the verge of change.
Set beneath the shimmering dome that filtered the sunlight from above, the plaza gleamed with bioluminescent coral towers and arching sea flora that swayed gently in the currents like silent witnesses to history.
Intricate mosaics lined the coral-paved ground—depictions of great sea kings, heroic fish-men, and ancient tales woven into the very stones. Large shell structures rose on the edges of the square, housing market stalls and cafes, their pearlescent surfaces reflecting the glowing jellyfish lamps that hovered above like celestial lanterns.
In the center stood the Grand Seastone Podium, a platform once reserved for declarations and festivals. Now, it had become Queen Otohime's pulpit.
Despite King Neptune's vehement opposition, Queen Otohime—pregnant—insisted on continuing her daily speeches at Gyoncorde Plaza. Though the King had urged her to remain within the safety of the palace, she defied his wishes and ventured out each day, determined to share her message of peace with her people.
Every day for the past month, without fail, the Queen herself had descended from the palace with minimal guard, no parade, only purpose. Draped in flowing garments spun from translucent kelp silk, glowing faintly with the biolight of the deep, she would take her place atop the podium, her hands clasped over her heart as her voice—gentle, earnest, and unwavering—carried through the plaza.
She did not shout. She did not demand. Yet thousands came.
Not because Gyoncorde Plaza was the cultural heart of the island—though it was. Not because it was a symbol of unity—though it had long been one. But because Queen Otohime had made it sacred through conviction.
Her message was always the same: peace with the surface. A plea not to hate, not to isolate. A vision where Fish-Men and Merfolk could walk under the sun without fear, with dignity, under the protection and partnership of the World Government.
But the weight of centuries of hatred did not lift easily.
She would speak for hours, her voice unwavering even as arguments erupted, as skeptics jeered, as veterans of slavery and discrimination spat their trauma back at her feet. And yet, she remained.
Fish-Men once indifferent to politics, now gathered at Gyoncorde daily—not out of loyalty, not out of belief, but out of curiosity; some even hoped. Hardened warriors crossed arms in silence. Elders listened from the shadows. Children sat in rows, wide-eyed. Every speech carved a crack deeper into the wall of distrust.
Slowly, Gyoncorde Plaza had become more than stone and coral—it became a place where the soul of the island was being tested.
At the edges of the crowd, hidden among the columns, agents of darker interests watched with unease. For if Otohime's dream gained enough momentum, the balance of power would shift—and not everyone wanted that.
But the Queen stood undeterred, eyes filled with starlight and a voice that rang out against the tides of history.
The sun filtering through the surface of the ocean cast a soft, refracted glow across Gyoncorde Plaza, giving the coral-stone square an ethereal beauty. Lantern-jellyfish drifted lazily above, glowing softly, while the Queen's voice echoed yet again from the coral podium.
Her words were calm. Measured. Filled with unshakable belief.
"…A future where our children can walk side by side with humans. Not in fear. Not in chains. But in peace."
From one of the nearby shell-market stalls, a group of fish-men and mermaids kept watch—not so much over their wares as over the Queen. Her presence had become a constant in their days, her voice a fixture in the currents. But not everyone was listening with open hearts.
"Do you think Otohime-sama is planning to give up anytime soon?" a young mermaid whispered to the older fish-man beside her, glancing toward the Queen's radiant form on the podium. "She's simply wasting her time if you ask me."
The fish-man, a grizzled eel-type with gnarled fins and years of bitterness in his gaze, slowly shook his head.
"She's stubborn," he muttered. "And kind… too kind. But kindness won't erase centuries of blood spilled. It's not that simple."
The mermaid nodded grimly. Around them, others listened in quiet agreement. It was no secret that most of Fish-Man Island still harbored deep resentment toward the surface. Even among those who adored the Queen, very few had found the strength—or perhaps the will—to sign their names to her petition.
The petition box sat quietly at the front of the platform, its coral-carved frame unguarded. Otohime refused to pressure anyone. Her philosophy was simple: a signature meant nothing if it wasn't given freely.
And so the box remained mostly empty. A few folded slips, discreetly placed by palace staff or soldiers loyal to Neptune who feared more for their Queen's heartbreak than the cause itself. Even those were anonymous. No one wanted to be labeled a traitor among their own.
As the Queen continued her speech, something small moved at the edge of the crowd.
A child.
A tiny merfolk girl, no older than five or six, weaved her way past the legs of taller fish-men, her round eyes fixed not on the crowd, but on the Queen.
She wore a simple kelp-fiber dress, her tiny hands balled nervously into fists. Her parents, fishmongers from the eastern reef district, stood frozen several paces behind, watching in quiet horror as their daughter walked—no, marched—toward the podium.
Gasps rippled through the plaza. Some whispered in confusion. Others stiffened in disbelief.
The girl stopped before the Queen, who had paused mid-sentence, eyes wide. There, at the base of the coral podium, stood the inkpot. Next to it, the stack of petition papers. And next to that—the petition box.
For a moment, the entire plaza seemed to hold its breath.
The girl looked up at Queen Otohime, her lip trembling slightly. Then, without a word, she dipped her hand—her entire tiny hand—into the ink, staining it black to the wrist.
She pressed her palm onto the parchment with a firm, wet slap, leaving a smudged but undeniably clear handprint. Then, with a shaky breath, she picked up the parchment, walked to the box, and carefully, tenderly dropped it inside.
Silence.
A silence so heavy it pressed down on every heart in the square. The child turned around and looked at the crowd. Her voice, high and soft, carried with haunting clarity.
"I want to see the sun...I want to breathe the air with no salt in it, like Otohime-sama says."
The Queen stood frozen. Then her hand flew to her mouth. Her shoulders shook, and tears—silent, beautiful tears—slipped down her cheeks. She stepped down from the podium, knelt beside the girl, and embraced her tightly, as if holding onto hope itself.
No words. Just warmth. Just heart.
The crowd watched, unmoving. Some stared in disbelief. Others lowered their heads, guilt rising like a tide. And then—
A lone fish-man in the back—a shark-type with scars down his neck, a former enforcer who had once fought against humans in skirmishes years past—took a step forward.
He didn't say a word. He simply walked to the front, picked up a parchment, dipped the quill that lay to the side into the ink, and signed.
Another followed. Then another.
Soon, a trickle of feet became a current. Fish-men and mermaids—mothers, soldiers, elderly, veterans—began to move. They weren't shouting. They weren't making speeches. They just stepped forward and began to write.
Some wept quietly as they signed. Others clenched their jaws, shame writhing in their guts as they offered their names to the Queen's dream. Not everyone signed. Many still stood frozen. Many still refused.
But something had shifted.
And it had begun not with logic, nor power, nor fear—but with the pure-hearted hope of a single child.
Otohime watched through blurred vision as one name after another dropped into the box. She clutched the little mer-girl beside her, pressing a kiss to her forehead, her voice trembling as she finally spoke.
"Thank you…" she whispered. "Thank you for showing us the future."
And high above, through the shimmering barrier that separated the sea from the sky, a single shaft of sunlight pierced down into the plaza. It was as if the heavens themselves had answered her.