My name is Trident. Captain of the Barbarossa Pirates.
One day, that absolute idiot Ollie stole a gem called 'Tears of the Saint' from the Royal Cathedral. It's no ordinary rock—it's a crystallized mass of magical energy the Empire spent a century collecting. Without it, every defensive mechanism in the Empire shuts down. That means monsters flood the city.
And that's not all. After stealing it, Ollie had the nerve to say, 'That's half my objective complete.'
I chase him. I need to know why h
Crazy Ollie: A Thief's Requiem - Memories of Iron Blood, Sea of Fallen Blossoms
The storm swallowed the Red Bull whole.
The boundary between sky and sea vanished, and thick, leaden clouds hung so low they nearly grazed the mast. Waves rose like mountains, tossing the hull about like a single leaf. Rain lashed against their faces, each drop striking like a pebble.
"Captain! The Erich Kreitz squadron—all three ships—caught in the wake and lost from sight!"
First Mate Rolf's gravelly voice cut through the howling wind. Trident kept his grip on the helm, a beast-like grin spreading across his face.
"Is that so. Tenacious pursuers they were, but before a storm, they're nothing but little boats."
"But—!"
Rolf's voice choked on the next word.
That was the moment.
*CRREEEAAAK—CRAAASSSHH!!*
A shattering sound that pierced the heavens tore through the storm's roar. The Siren's Teeth—one of the countless reefs scattered throughout these waters—had sheared the foremast clean off at its base. The sound of thick timber splitting and canvas ripping apart came in a chain reaction. The broken mast crashed onto the deck like a fallen giant, and several sailors were hurled into the sea with screams.
"Flooding on the port side too! The hull planks are splitting apart!"
Gunner Chief Heinz's desperate cry.
"Goddammit! All hands, furl the sails! The ship'll be torn to pieces at this rate!"
Trident's hands, veins bulging, wrenched the wheel with brute force. The ship heeled hard over, and Garnet could do nothing but cling desperately to the deck railing. Her silver hair was soaked through with rain and sea spray, and her white nun's habit hung on her with a terrible, sodden weight. For someone who had known only the act of offering prayers within cathedral walls, this violence-filled fury of nature was far too cruel.
(*So this... is the real sea.*)
Terror set her teeth chattering uncontrollably. And yet, her crimson eyes never once left Trident's back as he fought desperately with the helm.
One hour. After an eternity of desperate flight, they miraculously slipped through the reef belt. The storm still raged, but an eerie stillness began to settle over the ship, as if the earlier frenzy had been a lie. Through a break in the thick clouds, a blood-red morning sun streamed down.
"...A shadow. Dead ahead."
Navigator Klaus pointed with a trembling finger.
The curtain of mist was torn apart by the wind, and visibility opened. At the sight that met them, all expression drained from Trident's face.
"Ships of the line... five of them."
Windward. A perfect encircling formation. Towering at the center was a colossal flagship—three gun decks, eighty cannons. The pride of the Imperial Navy: the *Sturmfalke*. From its three masts flew the Imperial crest, crossed sword and shield. Every ship already had its gunports open, their black maws trained on the Red Bull.
The acrid, burnt smell of gunpowder drifted on the salt breeze.
On the flagship's forecastle stood a single man. Close-cropped hair streaked with white. Eyes like ice, their cold gleam visible even from this distance. A disfiguring scar covered the right half of his face. His left arm was a steel prosthetic, built to serve as a weapon. Imperial Navy Admiral, Gustav Weisen.
The man to whom Trident had once entrusted his life.
A voice amplified through a speaking trumpet echoed across the battlefield.
"This brings back memories, Trident. Twelve years, is it?"
There was not the faintest trace of emotion in that voice. It was a mere confirmation of fact. A mechanical resonance, like someone leafing through an old ledger. Trident, silent, gripped his broken cutlass tighter.
"I would like nothing more than to rekindle old ties, but I have no intention of showing mercy. Tell me where Olly is hiding. And hand over that Saint. If you do, I guarantee the lives of your crew alone. Consider this the greatest compassion I can offer."
A heavy silence fell upon the deck.
"Captain...!"
Rolf called out, his voice urgent. Trident was spinning a silver coin between the fingers of his left hand. Then, slowly, he raised his head.
"Commodore Gustav. I'll say this just once."
His voice was lower than the storm, colder than the sea.
"My ship—I'm not handing her over. My crew, the Saint—I'm not giving up a single soul. All gunports, battle stations! We're doing this, you bastards!!"
At his words, the crew raised a fierce battle cry. But Gustav's reaction was different. He shook his head almost imperceptibly and brought the speaking trumpet closer to his lips. His voice, colder still than before, carried an eerie quality, as if echoing up from the depths of a deep well.
"I see. Then listen."
The fingers of Gustav's prosthetic hand creaked with an unsettling, metallic sound.
"Coordinates: seven degrees, forty minutes south latitude. Ninety-two degrees, fifteen minutes east longitude. The island's name is Canaria. On August third, fifteen years ago—the Imperial College of Cardinals discovered a high-purity magic stone vein beneath that island. They ordered the two hundred and seventeen islanders to evacuate within twenty-four hours. But the islanders—fishermen—did not comply."
Garnet's face went pale.
"The College chose to make an example. They artificially deactivated the Waltschild barrier—only above that island. Then they released a pack of several dozen Glühewolves. Men, women, children—two hundred and seventeen people, all dead. Zero survivors. That is the truth of your friend Olly's birthplace."
Garnet's knees buckled beneath her.
"No... The power of the Saint's Tears... used for something like that..."
Every time she offered her magic to the Saint's Tears, a new wound carved itself into her arm. That pain—it had been used to kill people, in this way. She had been a sacrifice. Nothing more than a source of magical power. She had, by her own will, been complicit in someone's death.
Trident clenched his fist. Olly's eyes—always narrowed, as if enduring something. The meaning behind that knowing look as he downed his drink.
*—So that's how it was.*
His friend had been carrying this hell alone, for twelve years. Revenge? That word was far too soft. This was retribution. Inside Trident, something hot welled up—something separate from his anger toward Olly. He mustn't sympathize. And yet, he couldn't entirely deny the part of himself that did.
Gustav, looking down at the trembling Garnet, continued. His voice, sharp as a blade, pierced Trident's heart with surgical precision.
"And, Trident. Twelve years ago, during the Great Fire of Glanz, you disobeyed a superior officer's orders and saved a single young girl. That girl happened to be off the island at the time, escaping the massacre—a Canarian survivor."
Trident's breath stopped.
The old burn on his left shoulder seared with a prickling, scorching pain. Amidst the flames. Carrying a crying child, ducking beneath burning buildings. That girl had survived. But his superior officer had coldly declared: *"Dereliction of duty. You're discharged."* He had lost everything.
"Why do you think Olly approached you? A mere coincidence of captain and navigator? No. A younger sister, a niece—whatever the relation, it's only natural to draw close to the one who saved a life. That 'Oath of the Red Flag' of yours is no pirate's pact. It's a curse, born from a debt of life."
A curse.
The word gouged into Trident's chest. Had Olly been grateful to him? Or had he been using him? No—likely both. His friend had perhaps been searching, all along, for a comrade to help him destroy the world. Had he approached a man like Trident to use him as a tool for revenge? Or had he intended to fight alone to the very end, to avoid dragging him in?
Either way, he could no longer know.
"...Olly..."
The name of his friend escaped Trident's lips, wrenched out like a final breath. In that instant—
"All ships, simultaneous fire. Target: the Red Bull. Reduce her to splinters, crew and all."
Gustav's cold, merciless command echoed through the stormy sky.
The next moment, the world exploded.
*DOOOOOOOOOM!!!*
Flash. Roar. A storm of thirty-two-pound cannonballs tore through the air and descended upon the Red Bull. The first volley struck the sterncastle directly. Timber erupted, and the sterncastle shattered into splinters like paper craft. A rain of debris swept the deck; several men collapsed, blood spraying. The helm was ripped from its base, the rudder completely destroyed.
"Garnet!!"
Rolf shouted, throwing his massive body over Garnet's slender frame and pressing her to the deck. A deafening roar. The stench of gunpowder searing her lungs. Garnet could do nothing but cling to Rolf's huge form.
"It's alright, lass! Come on, to the cabin!"
He desperately reached out, trying to drag her to her feet.
The second volley struck the starboard midship directly.
Right before Garnet's eyes, Rolf's body was lifted by the blast. As if struck by an invisible giant, his huge frame floated up, weightless. And then—
*Rip.*
A sickening sound. Rolf's torso split in two. Hot blood sprayed across Garnet's face, plastering itself thickly onto her white habit. The raw, metallic stench of fresh blood. The acrid smell of burning viscera. The lump of flesh slammed onto the deck no longer held any human shape.
"...!!"
Garnet couldn't even scream. If she opened her mouth, her lungs would fill with the smell of blood. Her throat seized; she couldn't breathe. The first brutal, gruesome death of a human being she had ever witnessed. That warm, massive body that had been trying to protect her just moments ago was now nothing but a red object.
"Rolf!!"
Trident's scream. He ran to the gunner pinned beneath the fallen mast.
"Hey, you alright?! Stay with me!!"
But the gunner no longer moved. A thick splinter of wood was driven deep into his chest, his open eyes staring into the void. Trident gritted his teeth and stood.
That was when it happened.
"Captain, the charts—!!"
A boy's voice, from the forecastle. Jonas, a nineteen-year-old apprentice sailor. The young man who was always trotting along behind Trident, eyes shining, saying, "Someday I want to be a captain like you!" He was clutching the precious sea charts, running desperately through the rain of cannon fire.
Trident turned.
"Jonas, get down!!"
By the time he shouted, it was already too late.
A cannonball from the rear escort ship caught Jonas's small back in a straight, direct line.
A direct hit.
Soundlessly, the boy's body scattered. The sea charts he had been holding danced into the air along with a spray of blood, and the scattered pieces of flesh rained down on Trident's face like red flower petals. Warm. Lukewarm blood seeped into his eyes, his mouth.
(*Jo... nas...*)
Where the boy had stood just moments before, only a red stain and a part of a torn-off arm remained.
Something inside Trident broke. Reason, philosophy, his duty as captain—all of it was painted over by a primal, murderous rage.
"Uwaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!"
He screamed. A beast's roar. He drew his broken cutlass and hurled a grappling hook toward the flagship with all his might. But there was no way it could reach. Over a hundred meters of distance. The hook clawed uselessly at the air and fell into the sea.
"Hey, come on!! Come here and try to kill me!!"
He screamed like a madman, swinging his cutlass at the sea. His eyes overflowed with a liquid—tears or blood, he couldn't tell—and his mouth frothed.
"Captain!! Get a hold of yourself!!"
Elmer, the ship's doctor, grappled Trident from behind.
"We have to retreat! At this rate, we'll be wiped out! If you die, who's going to avenge Rolf and Jonas?!"
Those words barely managed to tether Trident's sanity. Avenge them. Was there still a chance for that?
"Klaus!! Set course for the eye of the storm!!"
He spat blood as he roared.
"The helm's already wrecked over here! We'll move the rudder by hand!!"
Navigator Klaus, along with a few surviving sailors, threw themselves onto the h
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