Knights of God... Commander?!
Ginny's pupils shrank to pinpoints at that title.
Staring at the silver-haired man and his gentle smile, she felt a chill rise from the soles of her feet, race up her spine, and prickle across her scalp.
As the Freedom Fighters' top intelligence operative—and a firsthand witness to the God Valley incident years ago—she understood the World Government and the Celestial Dragons better than almost anyone on the sea.
The Knights of God were the Government's most secretive military force, one of its core lines of defense—a group composed entirely of elite Celestial Dragons with the authority to judge even their own kind.
Their foremost duty was to guard the dignity and power of the Celestial Dragon nobility and secure their absolute rule.
If the Celestial Dragons were the supreme gods of this world, then the Knights of God were the holiest among those gods.
And the Commander standing before her was the most exalted of them all.
"So that's it," Ginny rasped after a few seconds of silence. "No wonder you wield such power and influence. You even went so far as to leak vital intel yourself..."
"Capturing the Freedom Fighters' East Army Commander... I suppose you think that makes the sacrifice worthwhile."
Saint Michael drew out a pristine white handkerchief and calmly wiped the blood from his face, the corners of his lips lifting faintly.
"With the North Blue Fleet's support, the Freedom Fighters have advanced far too quickly," he said. "In a single month, you've toppled the governments of two nations already."
"And what infuriates me most..."
His gaze slid over the corpses littering the shore and the remaining few Freedom Fighters, their jaws locked tight, eyes blazing.
"In all of you, I see something that should be etched deep into the hearts of human vermin... and yet is conspicuously absent."
"Humans aren't vermin," Ginny shot back, voice like ice. "Every person is born free."
"Ah. That look," Saint Michael sighed, sounding almost weary. "No fear. No fear of the World Government. No fear of the Celestial Dragons. Centuries of work put into carving that dread into the hearts of human vermin—and I see none of it in your eyes."
He raised his pistol again, pressed it to another Freedom Fighter's forehead, and pulled the trigger without a hint of hesitation.
Bang!
Blood sprayed out—but before a single drop could touch him, it met an invisible wall of air and fell harmlessly to the sand.
"It's truly unsettling," Saint Michael murmured. "Eight centuries of fear, crumbling in just one month."
He shook his head, then leveled the pistol at another captive.
Bang!
Another Freedom Fighter crashed to the ground, eyes locked on the Celestial Dragon with unyielding hatred as his body slowly went still.
"Look at that idiotic stare..."
Saint Michael fired again into the corpse's head.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
He kept firing until the skull was riddled with holes, the face mangled beyond recognition. Only then did he open his hand and accept a fresh bullet handed to him with reverence by a CP agent, reloading at a leisurely pace.
"Even knowing it's impossible, they cling to childish words like 'revolution,' 'change,' 'freedom,' 'equality'—empty slogans they chant all day like fools, then charge forward as if they've nothing to lose."
He drew the gun once more.
Bang!
"It's baffling," he went on. "If they just accepted their lot and followed God's guidance, they could live perfectly decent lives... Such a simple thing, yet they refuse to understand."
Bang!
"Don't they realize we've already shown them more mercy and generosity than they deserve?"
Bang...
With each sentence, the silver-haired Celestial Dragon pulled the trigger, another Freedom Fighter dropping where they knelt.
With his power, he could have wiped them all out in a single blow.
But he didn't.
He chose instead the most primitive, methodical, and—for him—elegant execution: a gunshot for each.
With his status, he could have had his subordinates do it.
But he didn't.
He did it himself.
As if this ritual slaughter were some particular... habit.
By the time he fell quiet, only Ginny remained alive among the Freedom Fighters on shore.
"So," he asked mildly, "have you changed your mind?"
Saint Michael pressed the hot barrel of the revolver against Ginny's forehead, the hint of a smile playing at his lips.
The wind held its breath.
Ginny stared up at the Commander of the Knights of God. His expression radiated smug certainty.
She suddenly laughed.
"You claim you've never seen fear in human eyes," she said softly. "That's strange to me."
Her smile turned cutting.
"Because I see fear in yours."
"What are you afraid of?" she pressed. "What terrifies you? The collapse of eight hundred years of 'divine' authority? Are you afraid the gods won't be gods anymore?"
For an instant, Saint Michael's smile froze.
Looking at the mockery on her face, he felt a tremor run through his body.
A hot, stinging sense of provocation flared within him.
"I've changed my mind," he said abruptly, withdrawing the revolver.
"Miss Ginny, I won't kill you."
The Commander's smile remained gentle. His eyes softened, as if he were gazing at a cherished lover.
"You're not afraid of death. To you, death would be a form of relief."
"It doesn't matter if you refuse to speak. I'll find the Freedom Fighters' headquarters eventually."
"I admire you, Ginny," he continued. "You're remarkably clever—almost too clever. To dare defy a god... wonderful. Fascinating."
He reached out and brushed a blood-streaked lock of hair from her face, his eyes curling with possessive warmth.
"I'll let you experience something far more terrifying than death."
Ginny sneered.
"Oh? And what could be more terrifying than death?"
Saint Michael chuckled.
"Why, I'll raise you up to the rank of a supreme god. I'll make you a Celestial Dragon."
Ginny's face went white.
The Celestial Dragon's voice grew as sharp and cold as a blade, each word driving straight into her heart.
"I'll turn you into everything you loathe. I'll give you unrivaled fame, wealth, status, and power."
"Didn't you want to topple the World Government? Tear down the Celestial Dragons' rule?"
"But what if you became one of them?"
Ginny's chest tightened. She gritted her teeth and hissed, "Not even you have that kind of authority!"
"Oh, but I do."
Saint Michael's tone was light, almost amiable. "I'll marry you as my wife."
"Imagine what your comrades—the fighters you've bled beside, the allies who believed in you—will think when they see you embracing power and glory."
"Especially your fiancé... Bartholomew Kuma, that last scrap of Buccaneer blood. What will he think when he sees you become the bride of a Celestial Dragon?"
Ginny stiffened as if struck by lightning, her mind going utterly blank.
The Celestial Dragon's smile deepened. The hand that had been stroking her hair slowly drifted down toward her cheek.
Suddenly, a deep, flat voice cut through the air:
"I advise you to move that hand."
Michael's fingers stopped. He turned toward the source of the voice, interest flickering in his eyes, and chuckled softly.
"Ah, the hero arrives to rescue the damsel in distress—"
His words died in his throat, his expression twisting.
A massive, black-gloved fist filled his vision, swelling rapidly in his pupils.
It belonged to a simple, honest face now distorted by boundless rage.
To be continued...