"It should have been exterminated long ago," Zenka said, her voice thick with utter disgust.
The table froze.
No one asked what she meant.
Fish.
Or perhaps the entire ocean ecosystem.
Both meanings sat in the air like a warning of the next apocalypse.
One of the Holy Knights shifted in his chair. Another slowly lowered his wine glass. The fishman-giant-looking knight near the far end of the table became very still.
The blonde Holy Knight woman, whose eyes had remained closed as if the world itself did not matter, finally opened them.
Saint Figarland Garling did not react. He knew Zenka well enough. Of everyone present, he was probably the only one who had known that fish would become a problem. Their old challenges, their duels, their clashing pride. He had seen that disgust before.
Saint Sommers blinked once.
Mostly, he felt sorry for the food.
The head chef stood near the kitchen passage, a row of trembling attendants behind him. He barely had time to scream.
Another platter became a silver-white blur.
It tore across the hall, smashed through the decorated archway, and struck the kitchen doors with enough force to splinter both of them inward. Jade shattered. Steam, sauce, wood fragments, and terrified shrieks erupted from the kitchens beyond.
A long silence followed.
One Holy Knight opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Another sighed.
Then, as if a single thought had passed through every divine warrior present, the entire table seemed to deflate.
No.
They should have expected this.
Of course they should have expected this.
There had been rumours that Saint Zenka hated fish. But hate was still far too mild a word for this kind of reaction.
Saint Sommers leaned slightly towards the knight beside him and murmured, "What a shame. It was my favourite dish. That fish was a luxury delicacy even among Celestial Dragons. Four hundred million belli."
"Wait a second," whispered the skull-shaped Holy Knight beside him, his voice suddenly sharp. "You ordered that as the main dish?"
Maffey heard it.
She wanted to laugh.
She bit her tongue instead.
If she laughed, and Zenka noticed, she had a very clear feeling that the banquet would gain one more corpse.
Zenka's dull red eyes turned slowly towards Sommers.
Sommers immediately looked down at his plate, whistling under his breath with all the innocence of a man who had already accepted his funeral arrangements.
No one spoke.
No one breathed too loudly.
Then the attendants rushed forward like doomed insects.
A new dish was placed before Zenka almost instantly. Roasted fruit glazed in honey. White bread. Sweets arranged like jewels. Thin slices of meat carefully prepared so that nothing about them resembled fish, sea beast, shellfish, octopus, eel, or anything that had ever had the misfortune of touching saltwater.
The attendants' hands shook so badly that one nearly dropped a glass.
Zenka watched them with cold patience.
"Relax," she said softly.
Hearing that from her only made them shake harder.
"Now then," Zenka said, rising with her glass, "since the fish problem has been removed…"
Every Holy Knight stood with her.
Some rose from discipline. Some from habit. A few from something uncomfortably close to fear.
Zenka lifted her wine.
The crimson liquid caught the light.
"To our divine duty."
She took the first sip.
The Holy Knights raised their glasses.
"To our divine duty."
The words echoed through Shangara like a vow carved into bone.
Then the entertainment began.
The doors at the far end opened.
Slaves entered first.
Their faces were empty.
Not sad. Not angry. Some were not even frightened.
Empty.
Like dolls.
That was the worst part.
Men and women in torn ceremonial cloth were herded into the centre of the hall by masked handlers. Some stumbled. All wore collars around their necks. Some moved with the numb obedience of people whose souls had already retreated somewhere no hand could reach.
A child was placed against a rotating wooden board.
The child screamed.
Knives flashed.
One.
Two.
Three.
They struck the board around him, close enough to cut fabric, close enough to draw shrieks, never close enough to end the act.
Several Celestial attendants clapped politely.
One Holy Knight laughed under his breath.
Another slave troupe was driven forward next.
Iron cages opened.
Wild beasts emerged with chains still hanging from their necks. Their handlers released them into the circle.
The hall filled with noise.
Screams of despair. Screams mistaken for joy. Laughter. Wine poured into glasses. Silver forks scraped against plates. Blood darkened the polished stone, quickly wiped away by servants trained not to look at what they were cleaning.
Some Holy Knights watched with detached amusement.
Others looked bored.
Garling scoffed, as though the entire performance lacked taste.
"Boring and crude," he muttered.
Sommers heard him and smiled faintly.
"That is not all. Look."
Garling glanced towards the centre of the hall.
Then the final captive was brought in.
The hall changed.
Especially among the male Holy Knights.
She walked with shackles around her wrists, yet somehow she did not look chained. Young. Beautiful. Dark-haired. Her gaze was calm, almost lazy, as if she had been dragged not into the temple of divine murderers, but into a tavern full of drunk idiots embarrassing themselves.
Shakuyaku.
Shakky.
For the first time that evening, Garling almost forgot to close his mouth.
Almost.
Her wrists were bound. Golden restraints circled her ankles. A golden slave collar sat at her throat.
Yet her expression ruined the entire display.
She did not tremble.
She did not plead.
She did not look broken.
She looked annoyed.
Sommers noticed Garling's reaction and grinned.
"We captured her on Hachinosu," he said, raising his glass. "Weeks before that whole… purification."
He said the final word with a glance towards Zenka.
Respect, perhaps.
Or fear pretending to be respect.
Shakky's eyes slid towards him.
Sommers leaned forward, enjoying himself.
"Beautiful, is she not? Tell me, pirate woman, how does it feel? Your criminal nest burned to glass. Your allies scattered. Your friends, perhaps, turned to ash by our newly selected Supreme Commander."
He gestured towards Zenka.
Zenka did not bother looking at him.
She sipped her wine.
Sommers continued, his smile growing.
"Come now. Show me that delicious despair. Show me the face all pirates make when they understand that freedom was only a delay before divine judgment."
Shakky stared at him.
A second passed.
Then another.
Her face did not change.
It was the expression one might give to a man who had confidently mistaken a door for a wall.
Sommers' smile twitched.
Garling watched.
And in that moment, something moved behind his eyes.
Was it love?
No.
Not quite.
It was mainly possession.
She must be mine.
The thought came with terrifying simplicity.
Mine alone.
The wedding. The arrangement. The old families. The Elders. Zenka.
All of it suddenly became a distant, ugly noise.
Garling's fingers tightened around his glass.
Mine.
Shakky turned her gaze away from Sommers, as if he had already ceased to exist.
That made Garling want her more.
That attitude.
That beautiful face.
A servant approached the centre of the hall and bowed low.
"The musician has arrived."
Charles entered.
He was dressed in clean clothes, finer than anything he had worn in years, but they hung from him like cloth draped over a corpse. His violin rested beneath one arm. His hands moved carefully, as if every gesture had to be negotiated with old pain.
He felt the room before he understood it.
The laughter.
The blood.
The slaves.
The Holy Knights seated like gods at dinner while people were broken for amusement.
His breath caught.
This was wrong.
Cruel. Evil. Obscene.
None of the words were enough.
Wrong in the way a song becomes wrong when every note is played backwards.
He looked towards Zenka.
She smiled.
"Charles," she said. "Come."
His legs obeyed before his mind did.
He stepped forward until he stood near the lower end of the table, beneath the eyes of saints and monsters.
"Play," Zenka ordered.
Charles lifted the violin.
His fingers trembled.
For a moment, he could not remember how to breathe.
"Yorki…"
His lips moved almost soundlessly.
"Brook…"
His voice thinned.
"Everyone…"
Then a whisper escaped him, faint as dying candle smoke.
"I… I cannot do this anymore."
His resolve to live trembled.
No one seemed to hear.
No one except one person.
Gunko sat very still.
Her head turned slightly.
"Brook?" she whispered.
Charles froze.
The bow touched the string but did not move.
Gunko's eyes narrowed, not with hostility, but confusion. Somewhere behind those eyes, something flickered.
A laugh.
Music.
A kingdom of song.
A tall man, or perhaps only the shadow of him, dancing with impossible cheer.
Yohohoho---!
Then the memory vanished.
Buried.
Locked away.
Gunko blinked.
"You know Brook?" she asked, with clear curiosity
The hall quietened slightly.
No one had expected the quiet one to be so talkative tonight.
Zenka's eyes sharpened.
Charles swallowed.
His throat felt full of knives.
"Yes," he answered at last.
Gunko leaned forward.
"How?"
Charles looked down at the violin.
For a moment, his mind wandered. He was not in Shangara anymore. He was on a deck beneath open sky, surrounded by men who sang like fools because the sea was vast and tomorrow was promised to no one.
"The Rumbar Pirates," he said slowly. "We were musicians before we were anything else. Pirates, yes. Fools, certainly. But musicians first."
His voice strengthened.
Then broke again.
"We travelled with laughter. With songs. With a whale who followed us like a child. We thought the world was cruel, but not cruel enough to silence us."
The Holy Knights listened with varying levels of boredom.
Garling barely heard him.
His eyes were still on Shakky.
Charles continued.
"I fell ill at Water Seven. They left me there to recover. Yorki said I would catch up later. Brook laughed and promised he would keep the music warm until I returned."
He closed his eyes.
"I never did."
The violin creaked softly beneath his fingers.
"News came later. The Rumbar Pirates had vanished. Annihilated in the Florian Triangle. No survivors."
His voice dropped.
"No one could have survived that."
He did not mention the strange fruit Brook had eaten.
He did not mention the promise.
He did not mention Laboon.
Some truths were too fragile to place before these gods.
Gunko watched him.
Then, quietly, she told him when she had last met Brook.
A little time passed.
Zenka set her wine down after hearing Gunko's story.
"How interesting," she said.
Charles stiffened.
"I did not know you were once a princess of some backwater nation," Zenka continued, her tone mild. "It must have been difficult for you. Living among that… trash."
The words landed softly.
That made them worse.
Charles' fingers tightened around the violin neck.
For one dangerous heartbeat, anger rose in him. Real anger. Human anger. The kind that had not yet been beaten fully out of him.
Then he swallowed it.
His face lowered.
Gunko nodded, as if Zenka had said something reasonable.
"Indeed," she said, scoffing faintly. "Esperia was a small and insignificant kingdom. Doomed from the start. With a foolish king."
Charles looked at her.
Gunko looked back.
"Be grateful," she said. "For that valuable information, you should be rewarded."
She turned towards a servant.
"Bring the delicacy."
Zenka's gaze snapped towards her.
Gunko paused.
"Not near her," she added, a single bead of sweat forming near her temple.
The servant nearly fainted, then hurried away.
A small covered plate was brought to Gunko, the servant carefully avoiding Zenka as much as possible. It was covered by a silver lid. Gunko lifted it herself, inspected the contents, then cut a small piece with a knife.
Charles watched in confusion.
Gunko extended the fork towards him.
"Eat."
Charles hesitated.
He looked at Zenka.
Zenka merely watched, amused.
The food smelled beautiful.
His mouth watered before he could stop it.
Shame burned in him.
Still, he opened his mouth.
Gunko placed the bite on his tongue.
He chewed.
The taste struck him before thought could.
It was warm. Rich. Juicy. Tender beyond reason. The seasoning melted into the meat, sweet and savoury at once, delicate in a way that made his starving body betray him instantly.
It was good.
Horribly good.
His eyes widened despite himself.
Gunko saw it.
For reasons she did not understand, her expression softened by the smallest fraction.
"You like it?" she asked.
Charles swallowed.
His throat worked.
"Yes," he whispered, ashamed of how quickly he answered.
Gunko sighed.
Of course.
The slave wanted more.
She cut another piece and gave it to him.
Charles accepted.
This time, he ate slower.
Some broken animal part of him wanted more.
Gunko watched his face.
Then, without emotion, she said, "Mermaid meat. Do you like it?"
The fork fell from Charles' hand.
It struck the marble with a tiny sound.
Far too tiny for what had just happened.
Charles stared at her, clinging to the last stupid hope that it was only a joke.
His mouth opened.
No sound came out.
Only shock.
Mermaid.
His tongue went numb.
His stomach turned.
The taste remained.
Good.
It had been good.
What have I done?
His vision blurred.
He staggered backwards, one hand rising to his mouth as if he could tear the sin out of himself.
"No."
His voice cracked.
"NOOOOO!"
He pressed his fingers to his throat, desperate to vomit.
A few Holy Knights smiled with sadistic glee. Especially the one with the cap, who watched while lazily playing with his rifle.
Sommers chuckled into his wine.
"Tch. Commoners. Throwing up my favourite food."
Garling did not react.
Shakky watched in silence, but now her face had lost some of its indifference. Hearing what the meat was had shaken even her. She turned her gaze aside, refusing to watch the sight.
Charles dropped to one knee.
He retched onto the polished floor. The rich meal came back up in a sour, ruined mess.
Tears spilled down his face before he could stop them.
"NOoo… noo, no…"
He gagged again, but nothing more came.
Only memory.
A mermaid singing in her fish tank.
The fragile voice of someone he had befriended in hell.
A hymn about sunlight.
A hymn about freedom.
His body shook.
"What have I done?" he whispered. Still crying.
Zenka leaned back in her chair.
Her smile was beautiful.
And utterly without mercy.
"There it is," she said softly, sipping her wine and savouring the performance.
Charles looked up through tears.
Zenka's red eyes gleamed beneath the banquet lights.
"The taste of.... heaven," she said, her face bright with delight.
To see someone break like she had broken.
That was the true joy of life.
Sommers nodded at once, enjoying the sight with almost loving appreciation.
Unfortunately for both of them, it did not last.
Charles' hand moved.
Not with strength.
Not with rage.
Only with the final, empty certainty of a man who had reached the end of every road.
The sharp table knife caught the light once.
Then Charles fell.
The violin struck the marble beside him.
A final tear slid down his cheek.
His face, for the first time in years, became peaceful.
The hall grew silent, yet with maniacal smirks. Waiting for what will happen next, most of them are finally not that bored.
And as promised, he was freed.
Finally.
Charles died... smiling.