Gin stepped out of the conference room, carefully avoiding the pool of blood still flowing from T. Penn's throat. He let out a sigh and placed his right hand over T. Penn's lifeless, wide-open eyes.
Over the years, Gin had encountered countless Marines during his undercover missions. Their personalities varied widely—some were ruthless, some reckless, some domineering, and others weak. Among them were heroes, but there were also scoundrels. Yet, without a doubt, T. Penn, lying lifeless on the ground now, was one of the few who truly lived up to the "Justice" emblazoned on the back of his uniform.
However, for Gin, who had grown up struggling to survive on the docks since childhood, emotions like pity or hesitation were luxuries he could not afford. He wouldn't let T. Penn's kind-hearted nature sway him or create any mental obstacles in carrying out his mission.
To Gin, the world was like the battles he had witnessed between Sea Kings fighting over territory in the ocean—biting and tearing each other apart until the sea turned red. Their actions were neither righteous nor evil; they were simply about survival. And to Gin, everything he did now was also for survival—for himself and his comrades.
"This is war," Gin said expressionlessly, closing T. Penn's eyes.
"To die in battle is the pride of a warrior," said the young Marine who had torn T. Penn's throat apart. Leaning against the wall, his face still smeared with blood, he spoke with a calm indifference.
"Mitch Malone," Gin frowned, turning to look at the "top graduate" from Neustria Academy. His gaze lingered on Mitch's blood-stained chin and collar before he spoke in a low voice, "Clean up the blood on you immediately!"
Mitch Malone, based on his appearance alone, didn't look like he was only sixteen years old. He was tall and burly, with a mature face, a bulbous nose, and prominent ears. His skin was dark and rough—not naturally so, like Abram, but clearly weathered from years of exposure to the elements.
Mitch Malone was considered a "troublemaker" at Neustria Academy, though he wasn't inherently unreasonable. His peculiar behavior stemmed from his upbringing in a primitive tribe known as the Bear Paw Clan, which had once practiced cannibalistic rituals. After entering civilized society, his mindset, habits, and actions often stood out starkly from his peers.
Upon hearing Gin's command, Mitch reluctantly removed his blood-stained Marine uniform to wipe his face. Bare-chested, he walked toward the backup uniforms Gin had prepared in advance, muttering to himself the whole way, "He'll meet me on the other side of the rainbow, along with the others I've killed, and join the banquet I've prepared for them. He's strong—maybe he'll be the main guest of my banquet..."
Mitch Malone felt a small sense of relief. Like many primitive tribes, the Bear Paw Clan favored tattooing their bodies. However, the elders of his tribe had deemed him unworthy of manhood, so aside from the bear paw tattoo on his hand, they hadn't marked his face or other parts of his body. This stroke of luck allowed Mitch to participate in this operation. Had he been covered in tribal tattoos, especially facial ones, he would've been immediately exposed upon entering the Marine ranks.
Gin didn't pay any attention to Mitch's ramblings. His focus shifted to the Marines—or rather, the individuals dressed in Marine uniforms—appearing at the other end of the hallway.
Clearly, the men T. Penn had brought with him had already been dealt with.
For William's group, who had previously bribed and colluded with Nezumi and infiltrated the Marines, obtaining Marine uniforms was a trivial task.
Of course, even with Marine uniforms and Gin's assistance, it would have been impossible for Dampier and the others to impersonate Marines and infiltrate the prison earlier. The Marines stationed at the time were elite headquarters personnel who recognized each other, even if only vaguely. A sudden influx of unfamiliar faces would have immediately raised suspicion and alarm.
But now, due to the frequent personnel rotations, the remaining Marines in the city were strangers to each other. Unfamiliar faces were no longer cause for concern—it had become the norm.
After a quick cleanup of the scene and mutual checks for any incriminating traces, Gin led the group out of the office building and toward the prison.
As a Marine headquarters Lieutenant Commander, Gin was the highest-ranking officer in the vicinity, with Vice Admiral Dalmatia, Commander Smoker, and T. Penn absent.
The Marine lieutenant guarding the prison gates saluted Gin as he approached, completely unaware of what Gin had just done—or even imagined it.
"Just received word that Commander Smoker has encountered some trouble and needs reinforcements. Go notify the first squad to deploy immediately," Gin returned the salute and issued the order to a nearby ensign. Turning to the lieutenant, he added, "Take your men and head there first."
The lieutenant hesitated, glancing back at the prison gates. "But Commander T. Penn—"
"Commander T. Penn has already gone ahead. I'll personally guard this place in your absence. Lieutenant, you'd better move out immediately—this is an order! If there's any issue, I'll take full responsibility," Gin said firmly. Seeing the lieutenant's lingering doubt, his brows furrowed with anger. "What's the matter? Do you think I can't handle guarding one prisoner, or are you worried I'll let him escape?"
Gin's intimidating demeanor was enough to silence the lieutenant's doubts. The ensign had already hurried off to notify the first squad, leaving the lieutenant no choice but to carefully lead his men away, entrusting the prison gates to Gin.
Mitch Malone grinned and, under Gin's orders, took over the positions of the departing guards. After some time, when the first squad had also left the prison, Gin confidently led a young man with a sly, shifty look into the prison.
Before the recent string of incidents in the East Blue and Kalmar City, Gin could only briefly meet with William alone to exchange a few words. Bringing an unfamiliar face into William's cell and staying there for any length of time would have been impossible—the guards would have immediately noticed something was wrong.
Now, however, the prison was eerily quiet. When Gin opened the door to William's cell, William was leaning against the wall, his arm resting on his knee, eyes closed as if meditating.
The creaking of the cell door broke the silence, and William opened his sharp, piercing eyes. He glanced at Gin and the shifty young man behind him. His expression softened, and he smiled.
"Your Majesty," the young man stepped forward excitedly, revealing lock-picking tools tucked inside his shirt. His tone was both eager and flattering. "We've come to get you out."
"Your Majesty?" William extended his hand, raising an eyebrow at the young man's words.
Gin sneered, "The world will soon know that the true king of this country isn't the fool sitting on the throne—it's you, William!"
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