The garden had returned to its usual noise and nonsense. Royals were back at it—whispering, plotting, posturing, and pretending they didn't just get outmaneuvered by a single dad from the desert kingdom.
But Gale?
Gale was more preoccupied with the fact that Poqin had mysteriously vanished.
He scanned the courtyard, narrowing his eyes. "Where the hell did he—? Oh god, please no."
Poqin disappearing was never a good sign. It was like misplacing a cursed artifact or losing track of a toddler holding a box of fireworks. The man had the restraint of a drunk raccoon and the curiosity of a very bored pyromaniac.
Gale winced, then clasped his hands together in mock prayer. "Please, oh divine spirits of whatever pantheon is still taking requests… don't let that man stumble into a restricted hallway or mistake a world leader for a bartender. Or worse—start preaching to a Celestial Dragon. I will disown him if that happens. Officially. I'll file paperwork and everything."
He didn't get the chance to spiral further. The outer gates of the courtyard creaked open with a heavy clang—the kind that promised drama—and a full phalanx of guards marched in.
Each was decked out in gold-trimmed armor, carrying lances big enough to poke holes in a sea king and shields wide enough to use as dinner tables.
And then, waddling in behind them, came the main event.
A human-sized blob of sweat, snot, and arrogance stuffed into an astronaut suit. The man swayed with every step like a toddler trying to walk in heels, his helmet fogged up, his breathing loud, and his aura… unpleasant.
'Ah. A drunken Celestial Dragon. What a treat.'
"Joy," Gale muttered, backing away as the guards barked orders for everyone to kneel. The rustle of royal silks and capes hitting the grass followed immediately. The entire garden dropped like marionettes with cut strings.
Except Gale.
'Not today, space Karen.'
He didn't even bother pretending. Instead, he dropped his body's density with a quick breath, his feet whisper-light against the ground. Then, using Florencio's gliding step—equal parts finesse and bullshittery—he vanished from his spot and zipped silently toward a shaded balcony covered in flowers and ivy.
He perched there like a judgmental gargoyle, hidden but with a perfect view.
The Celestial Dragon staggered a few steps forward, breathing loud and messy inside his bubble-helmet. Then he stopped, hands on hips—or at least the area where his hips should've been under the ten layers of gut—and looked over the crowd of kneeling monarchs with all the grace of a raccoon king surveying his trash empire.
"Heeeehhhh… look at all of ya," the man slurred, voice muffled by the glass but still somehow offensive. "Kings… queens… pfft. You're all the same. Just more trash dressing up like people. Heeehhh… you're not real nobles. Not like us. You're all just... fancy commoners."
That one hit like a slap.
Gale didn't even have to be close to feel the collective internal clench of the crowd. Some royals were staring at the ground like it had just insulted their mothers. Others looked like they were trying to calculate how long they could hold a smile without biting their own tongues in half.
One portly king in particular—who had been bragging about his nation's silk exports five minutes ago—looked like he'd swallowed a bug. A big one. With a lot of legs. Wriggling legs.
Gale chuckled to himself quietly. 'Damn. They really weren't used to being on the receiving end, huh? Welcome to the real world, ya glorified garden gnomes.'
From his vantage point, he could see a few of them visibly grinding their teeth. Still, none of them said a word. Not even a cough.
Classic.
They'd been sitting on gold thrones and sipping wine from diamond goblets for so long, they forgot there were bigger sharks out there—and that one of them wore a fishbowl on his head and called it fashion.
The Celestial Dragon kept going, slurring insults and belching superiority like it was his god-given right—which, in this world, it kinda was.
Every few seconds he'd wobble on his feet, snort into his helmet, and spew out another delightful nugget of contempt. "Hehhh… bowin' and scrapin' like good little mutts… that's what ya are. Heh... mutts in crowns."
Gale smirked. He was just sipping the drama like it was fresh coconut juice. 'Honestly, this was the best live entertainment he'd had since that one time Poqin tried to juggle flaming coconuts.'
But it didn't stay funny for long.
The Celestial Dragon's foggy eyes landed on someone in the crowd—a woman. She stood near the center of the courtyard, her posture elegant, her robes pristine, her face... well, unfortunately for her, the kind that would get her cast as a tragic heroine in a really uncomfortable play.
The drunk's expression changed instantly. His helmet squeaked as he tilted it forward. A weird, wheezy noise came out of his suit—it might've been a gasp, or a sigh, or just him overheating in there.
"Ohhhh," he slurred, starting to stagger toward her. "You... yer pretty. Real pretty. Heh… yeah… you'll do nicely…"
Gale blinked. Oh hell no.
Without warning, the walking disgrace reached out and started groping her—just, hands-on, full contact, like some inbred farmer picking out livestock.
It was gross.
It was shameless.
So much so that Gale didn't even feel like cracking a joke.
Then came the punchline. "Hehh… you're comin' back with me," the Celestial Dragon grinned (probably—hard to tell through the helmet), "you'll be my two hundred and fifty-fourth wife! Ain'tcha lucky, sweetheart? Hehh…"
The woman recoiled, clearly horrified, but she wasn't the only one about to vomit.
Her husband, one of the royals, looked like a kettle seconds from exploding. Face red, veins pulsing, fists clenched so hard they looked ready to snap.
But instead of punching the creep into orbit like any normal person would want to, the poor guy forced a trembling smile and stepped forward. "O-O Great Saint… with the highest respect, that is… my wife. However! If you desire beauty, I can offer you—ah—dozens of maidens from my kingdom! The finest, the fairest! A whole selection, yes—just name your preference!"
The Celestial Dragon paused. Then blinked, clearly shocked and outraged.
Then smacked the man across the face.
A full-on backhand, powered by drunken entitlement and decades of unchecked ego. The royal stumbled backward, blood on his lip, and the crowd gasped in unison.
"I don't want maidens, idiot! I want this one!" the noble roared. "I saw her! I licked her with my eyes! That means she's mine!"
Gale's mouth twitched.
His legs tensed like springs. His fingers curled. He could already feel the weight of his rapier, the angle of a punch, the sweet, sweet image of this sack of smug lard getting hacked to pieces.
But he didn't move.
He took a slow, deep breath. In through the nose. Out through gritted teeth.
Because this… this was exactly why he joined the Marines in the first place.
He remembered Florencio's words in the journal. The way he spoke of the day he returned to his home, now reduced to ashes. The day they came—the Celestial Dragon, flanked by a certain red-coated Admiral, laughing as they tore through everything the old man ever loved.
Gale's jaw clenched. 'If I throw down now… if I pick a fight here, in this nest of snakes... I'll never get close to the ones that really matter.'
He had to play smart. Be patient. Bide his time.
Still, he muttered under his breath, "God, I hate this world sometimes."
And from his bench in the shade, hidden from view, Gale watched the ugliness unfold—his fists trembling with restraint.
He felt filthy just watching this circus of injustice unfold. He'd seen bad stuff before—pirates, slavers—but this?
This was something else entirely.
And yet, he didn't look away.
He couldn't look away.
He needed to remember this. Burn it into his brain. Because when the day finally came—when he stood face to face with the monsters who murdered Florencio's family—he didn't want to hesitate.
He didn't want to flinch. He wanted to strike fast and without remorse, the same way this world had struck down so many good people.
So he just stood there in the shadows, teeth clenched, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring.
Then it happened.
One of the Marine soldiers near the crowd—a young guy, barely older than Gale himself—finally snapped. The poor bastard actually stepped forward, probably thinking words and a uniform could stand between a drunken god and his punchline of a conscience.
He saluted, straightened up, and said with as much dignity as he could muster: "Saint, please. This is a sovereign queen of a World Government member nation. Publicly humiliating her and her king could cause—"
BANG.
The golden flintlock pistol practically sang through the courtyard. The sound echoed like thunder.
The Marine hit the ground hard, a bloom of red soaking through his chest. He didn't even cry out. Just fell like a ragdoll.
Gasps erupted. Screams followed. Several royals stumbled back. The queen herself collapsed to her knees, her hands over her mouth, trembling.
And the Celestial Dragon? He took another swig from a flask that probably cost more than a small country.
"Hehhhhh! No one gets in my way today!" he shouted, swaying on his feet. "You all listen up! That fat king lives 'cause he's useful! Sends me nice things! Sheep! The rest of ya? You try anything and I'll start shooting again! I got—hic—spare bullets for days!"
Gale didn't even realize his sword was already in his hand.
Didn't remember drawing it.
Didn't feel his legs moving as he stepped up onto the balcony rail, every muscle tight and ready. The air around him shifted, just slightly—his density dropping, weight vanishing.
He was seconds away from leaping down and turning that gold-plated meatball into celestial paste.
He was done waiting. Done being polite. Done—
A hand clamped down on his shoulder.
Not a tap. Not a gentle nudge. No, this was a full-body arresting, gravity-was-reinstated kind of grip—like the hand itself had its own gravitational pull.
Gale's jaw tensed. His whole body froze as he glanced back.
"...You've gotta be kidding me."
There stood Poqin.
Looking like he'd just stumbled out of a tavern at 2 a.m., one hand planted firmly on Gale's shoulder, the other casually cradling a bottle of something brown and probably illegal in five nations.
He took a long sip, sighed in contentment, then smacked his lips. "Mmm. Good year."
Gale stared at him, eyes twitching. "Really? Now you show up?"
"Did I miss something?" Poqin blinked. "I stumbled into some interesting folks and we had a nice chat, not that it really matters right now...."
Gale looked back over the railing at the chaos below. The crowd was still reeling. No one dared move. No one said a word.
Then he looked at Poqin's hand on his shoulder.
"Get your hand off me or I swear I'm gonna add 'drunken monk' to the list of people I murder today."
Poqin didn't flinch. Just leaned in and murmured, "Not today, brother. I don't know what you joined the Marines to do, but you start something now, and you'll never get it done... every dog will have his day, eh?"
He held Gale's gaze for a long moment. The playfulness was gone. His usual grin replaced with rare, sobering clarity.
Gale looked away. Back at the soldier on the floor. The trembling queen. The smug, slurring dragon.
And he slowly… painfully… lowered his sword.
"...You suck," he muttered.
Poqin took another long swig from his bottle, grinning like a man who had just successfully dodged a responsibility. "I know," he said, voice slurring just a little, "but look…"
He lazily gestured with his bottle toward the courtyard. "Situation looks like it's gonna resolve itself without you turning this whole royal meet-and-greet into a bloody soap opera."
Gale raised a skeptical eyebrow, then glanced back toward the chaos. He was about to ask what the hell Poqin was mumbling about when—
Oh.
A second Celestial Dragon had just entered the courtyard, this one moving with far more purpose—and a lot less drunken wobble—than the first. His steps were measured, and he carried himself like he actually expected the floor to kiss his boots.
He walked right up to his inebriated fellow dragon and leaned in to whisper something into his ear.
Whatever it was, it worked.
The drunken one let out a hiccup and a grumble, but then shrugged and began stumbling away, following the second dragon like an overfed duckling.
One of the armored guards—tall, broad, and looking vaguely terrified—hurried after them.
"Saint Roswald, sir," the guard asked carefully, "what shall we do about the woman you selected?"
The drunken dragon paused, snorted, and waved a dismissive hand. "M'not in the mood anymore. Let the sow go. Too much perfume. Smells like regret."
With that, he kept walking, and the other Celestial Dragon—clearly the adult in the room—placed a hand on his shoulder to steer him more firmly away.
Gale's eyes narrowed, and a cold knot tightened in his gut.
That hand.
One of the fingers was missing.
A very specific finger.
Gale's stomach did a slow, unpleasant roll. That had to be him—the bastard who burned down the De La Rosa estate. The one who turned Florencio's family into ash.
'Well... great,' Gale thought bitterly. 'At least I got a face now... maybe even a name if I ask around...'
He let out a long, tired sigh, his adrenaline finally dropping into the gutter. Honestly, he was too mentally fried to even be impulsive. Between the 'lawful' attempted kidnapping, the casual murder, and the reappearance of his maestro's nemesis, he was running on fumes and pure spite.
Next to him, Poqin chuckled again, slouching against the railing with the bottle tucked under his arm.
"Didn't know you were such a bleedin' heart, Gale," he said, nudging him with an elbow. "All this stressin' over some fat-ass king."
Gale winced, scrunching up his nose. "Any sympathy I had for that guy evaporated the moment he tried to trade a dozen women to a Celestial Dragon like they were coupons. While the bastard was still groping his wife, no less."
He shook his head. "Sickening. That Oswald fellow Should've slapped him twice."
Gale sighed again, glancing at the fallen soldier. "Still… damn shame about that Marine..."
But Poqin squinted, then cocked his head. "Eh… not really."
Gale blinked. "...What?"
Poqin gestured with his bottle again, more precisely this time. "Look close. Kid's still twitchin'. Breathing too. Not dead. Yet."
Gale squinted at the body, then widened his eyes. The soldier's chest was faintly rising and falling—shallow, but steady.
"Huh... you're right," Gale muttered after taking a second look.
Poqin grinned. "You've been braggin' for years about all those fancy medical skills you picked up in Torino, right? Well…" He gave Gale a lazy slap on the back. "Now's your big moment, Doctor Hero. Go patch up your meat puppet."
Gale groaned, already hopping off the balcony. "Great. My day's already ruined and now I get to play nurse... Thanks, you bastard."
"Anytime!" the monk called after him, raising his bottle in a toast.
And with that, Gale hit the ground running toward the Marine, praying the bullet hadn't hit anything vital.
At least, not something too vital.
...
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