A few days passed after the Flying Dutchman encounter.
Mary Geoise
Deep inside the Holy Land, behind layers of stone and despair, there was a room that no sunlight ever reached.
A prison room.
Dim.
And in the centre of it, a tank.
Clear water filled it to the brim, lit from above by a single cold lamp. The glass was thick, expensive, and clean.
Inside the tank floated a shackled mermaid.
Not displayed like a jewel.
Stored like property.
Her hair drifted in slow strands, tangled from too many days. Bruises - faint and old - ghosted her skin where the light caught them. There was no indulgent beauty in the scene, only the terrible fact that something delicate had been kept here long enough to shake its willpower to the point of breaking.
Outside the tank, on the stone floor, sat Charles.
Chains at his ankles.
Hands clasped together so tightly his knuckles had turned white.
His eyes were red.
The mermaid's face trembled as she finished the last line of a hymn in her own language—soft and ancient, the kind of song that meant: hope
It spoke of resurfacing.
Of climbing from the black depths.
Of a sunlight that did not end.
When she finished, she bowed her head as if apologising to the water for being alive.
Charles swallowed.
He didn't know what to say.
He didn't know how to comfort someone who had endured everything and still chose gentleness.
The mermaid looked at him through the glass.
Her eyes were tired.
But they were clear.
Like a saint.
No—like a real saint.
Not the fake "saints" above who wore bubbles and called themselves gods.
She accepted her fate with the quiet dignity that made the whole world look smaller.
Then she gestured, slow and polite.
A request.
Not for freedom.
Not for revenge.
For a song.
Charles stared at his hands.
Silence sat heavy between them.
Minutes passed.
Then he inhaled and began to sing.
Not loudly.
Not theatrically.
Just a human voice trying not to break.
"Bink's Sake," he whispered, and the words that followed were kept to a hum and fragments enough to recognise, never enough to become performance.
The mermaid closed her eyes.
For a moment, the prison did not feel like a prison.
For a moment, the hymn and the pirate song met in the same place: a place that promised there was still a horizon.
When Charles finished, his throat tightened.
He lowered his head.
That was when the door opened.
A guard stepped in—white armour, polished, clean, with the mark of Celestial authority stamped into every plate.
He stopped at the threshold as if the room itself disgusted him.
His voice came out stiff.
"Charles?"
Charles didn't look up.
The guard swallowed, then continued quickly, as if speaking faster might make the words less dangerous.
"By the order of Saint Jaygarcia Zenka-sama, you are to be present at tomorrow's banquet."
...
"After your performance… You will be set free."
Charles finally raised his eyes.
His expression didn't brighten.
It collapsed.
"Free?" he murmured.
His voice was smaller than it should have been.
"After…"
He didn't finish.
The sentence died in his mouth.
Something inside him went quiet.
Not rage.
Not hope.
A numbness.
His thoughts ceased, and he became almost like a statue—alive only in the mechanical sense.
The guard hesitated.
The protocol demanded no free access for slaves in these corridors.
But Charles was something worse:
A slave picked by someone you avoided in Mary Geoise if you valued breathing.
The guard looked at the chains.
Looked at Charles.
Then, made a decision that had nothing to do with rules and everything to do with survival.
He turned and left.
Alone.
He valued his life more than protocol.
And he suspected protocol didn't even know what "Charles" was anymore.
The next day, the rumoured banquet happened.
It took place on one of the largest terraces of Shangara, also known as the Knights' temple. It was so high that the clouds looked like decoration. A long table stretched beneath golden canopies, crafted from the finest materials that could be stolen, purchased, or bled from the world.
Treasure Tree Adam.
Seastone ornaments.
Luxurious metals polished until they looked unreal.
Around the table sat the Holy Knights.
At the far end, where the eye was forced to go, was Obsidian Throne.
Not like the Empty Throne.
It was way smaller.
But made to imitate the language of dominance.
And on it sat Zenka.
She wore her authority the way a blade wore blood: with indifference that still looked like pride.
The Sword Saintess, or now also known as the Supreme Commander of the God's Knights.
A title she still hated.
but enjoyed in one specific way: the sour looks on their faces.
When the banquet began, there was an awkward silence that even fine wine could not soften.
The Holy Knights were astonished for a reason they didn't want to say out loud.
Zenka was powerful—everyone at this table had felt it. Many of them had clashed with her when she tore herself out of Abyss Prison, berserk under that cursed sword.
But there was something else.
Something almost blasphemous.
She did not have a contract with the Great One.
No oath-ink.
Not Deep Sea Contract
Not even the Shallow Sea Contract
By some reason, the very concept of a "deal" refused to form when it neared her presence.
The Holy Knights exchanged glances.
Sighed.
Shook their heads.
If it was the Great One's wish…
And if Zenka was a nightmare that scared even monsters…
Then what could they do?
Kill her?
She rose stronger after every damage!
Immortality and regeneration like a Holy Knight - without the contract - was like watching a demigod, an.... offspring of a great one itself!
So they accepted.
Not happily.
But obediently.
Zenka watched their sour faces and smiled to herself.
Butlers arrived with food.
First course.
Second.
Then the main dish.
Exquisite fish meat.
Prepared in several variants.
The table was filled with a smell that suggested the ocean had been dragged up the mountain and butchered.
Knives clicked.
Plates shifted.
A few knights began eating as if the awkwardness had finally been given something to chew.
The first to break the ice was Manmayer Gunko.
Her posture was polite. Her tone was respectful.
"Congratulations, Zenka-sama… and Garling-sama on your wedding."
She said it like she was reading a required line.
Then she stopped.
Out of politeness.
Not warmth.
But her words immediately destroyed Garling's mood, making his face darken. Now he started thinking again about how to avoid all this disaster before it was too late.
Sommers heard it and let a smirk creep across his face.
It threatened to become a laugh.
Then a memory—sharp and unpleasant—made him stop.
He coughed.
Hard.
His food stuck in his throat.
Satchels Maffley laughed first, then, with saintly kindness, helped him by delivering a heavy kick on his back.
Sommers gagged.
Then breathed.
Zenka, meanwhile, was murmuring something.
So quietly, no one caught it.
Sommers, still red-faced, leaned toward Gunko.
"What's wrong with her?" he wheezed.
Gunko sighed.
She had wanted to eat in peace.
She had not wanted to be a spy.
She signed and leaned closer.
Zenka was writing something....
A letter.
And whispering a single syllable at first-
"Ki…"
Gunko blinked.
"Kill?"
Zenka's whisper grew teeth.
"KILL."
Then Zenka smiled.
Bright.
Controlled.
The kind of smile that made trained killers hold their breath.
"I didn't even properly introduce myself, did I?" she said, voice carrying now. "My mistake."
She stood.
And the table - full of Holy Knights - went still.
"I am Jaygarcia Zenka, your new Supreme Commander, and-"
She picked up her plate.
The fish meat sat on it like an insult.
Zenka pressed the letter to the plate with two fingers, sticking it to it.
Then she threw it.
Not gently.
Not dramatically.
With blinding speed.
The plate sailed off the terrace and down toward the lower floors of Pangea Castle.
Someone far below screamed.
The plate struck the wall beside the main kitchen like a warning shot, missing the head chef by a hair.
Zenka's voice followed it like thunder.
"I HATE SEAFOOD AND ESPECIALLY…THAT....DISGUSTING....UGLY ….SMELLY.... FISH!!!!!!!!!!"
Above, the Holy Knights sat frozen. Especially that one who looked like a giant fishman himself. Sweat was pouring all over him now.
Below, the chef picked up the letter with shaking hands.
He opened it.
The handwriting was neat.
The message was not.
Dear Master Chef,
I know your skill and your work. And even the five elders value your craft and protect you.
I am impressed.
Yet, you made a fatal mistake! Do not bring that damn hellish thing—also named as FISH!! and other seafood near me!
If you do, even twenty Elders will not stop me from feeding FISH with you, your friends, and your smelly kitchen.
Sincerely,
Jaygarcia Zenka, Supreme Commander of the God's Knights.
Yes, you see well. I have the authority to END YOU even if you were a Celestial Dragon. Keep that in mind...
P.S. I like fruits, sweets, and pizza.
BUT NO PINEAPPLES ON PIZZA!!!
The chef's hands trembled.
His eyes darted to the plate shards.
Then up, toward the terrace, he could not see.
And in that moment, this cook and his colleagues learned the same holy lesson:
Zenka's taste was a law.
And her hatred was not to be trifled with!