The air in the conference room felt frozen solid. The scorched smell still lingered at the tip of everyone's nose. The meeting table Rain had pierced with lightning was still smoking faintly; the bribery box was already ash—so thoroughly erased there wasn't a scrap left.
Every field-grade officer in the room had gone pale, sweat pouring down their faces.
They'd thought the new commander was just an underage kid with a bit more muscle than usual—easy to handle. Give him enough face, feed him enough "inside," and everyone could keep living comfortably.
That single move just now shattered their luck.
"Since we're not doing business," Rain sat back down and tapped the tabletop in a steady tap-tap rhythm. Each sound landed like a hammer on their chests. "Then let's talk official business."
"I want the base financial statements, the inventory list, and the recent maintenance logs for the defensive works."
His gaze swept the room. His voice stayed calm, but it was absolute. "If this is a military base, then show me what kind of military base Nelson left behind."
Hearing that, the old foxes didn't panic. If anything, their eyes flashed with a sly, hidden satisfaction.
If he wouldn't eat the "soft" approach, they'd go "hard"—bury this young commander under a mountain of rotten books until he backed off.
Soon, a thick stack of ledgers and reports was hauled in and piled in front of Rain, smelling of mildew and old paper.
"Base Commander, sir—everything from the last several years is here."
The logistics lieutenant colonel rubbed his hands, wearing a face full of practiced misery. He pointed to the documents as if they were a personal tragedy. "When Rear Admiral Nelson was in office… he squandered the base's budget. The books show we're not only broke—we're in debt. Forget repairing defenses. We can barely cover next month's operating expenses."
Colonel Moore stood to the side and nodded like a pecking chicken. "Yes, yes! Sir, we really can't cook without rice. The soldiers haven't seen a bonus in months. They're complaining, morale is low—very low—"
Rain sat in the wide chair and watched them perform.
They didn't dare resist openly, so they tried this "we're poor" routine. They were betting the new commander would either be thin-skinned or clueless—and that a mountain of "bad accounts" would either hollow him out or force him to compromise.
"No money?"
Rain didn't even open the obviously doctored ledgers. He just smiled faintly, stood up, and adjusted his collar.
"If things are that difficult, then I won't waste time on this paper."
He stepped around the table and headed for the door. "If you're telling me morale is low because there's no money, then I'll go see what kind of soldiers you've raised with 'no money.'"
…
Morning training grounds—supposedly the time for drills.
Instead, it was quiet as a retirement home.
The sun blazed overhead, yet the huge field held no formations, no lines, no cadence.
Hundreds of Marines in uniform lounged in small groups—hiding under trees, loitering in the shade of gun emplacements. Some sprawled out flat, hats over their faces, asleep. Some sat in circles playing cards. One guy had even taken off his boots and was picking at his feet. The whole place reeked of exhaustion and rot.
Rows of rifles—supposed to be a soldier's second life—had been tossed into corners like firewood. Some barrels had even been used as makeshift clotheslines, with freshly washed sweatshirts dripping water.
"This is G-17's 'elite'?"
Behind Rain, Smoker's temple veins bulged. For a hardcase raised in Zephyr's elite training camp, this was spiritual pollution.
But something else felt off, too.
"Hey, Rain," Smoker muttered under his breath. "This isn't right. Those soldiers who ambushed us at D-zone—scum, sure, but at least they looked like soldiers. They fired artillery, shot clean. Why are these guys… this rotten?"
Rain swept his eyes across the slack bodies and gave a cold laugh. "Nelson was a businessman. He spent real money on his private guard—his paid knives. They did the dirty work and protected his life."
He pointed at the lazy mob on the field. "These? They're salaried decorations. Gate props. No extra pay, so they rot on purpose."
"Everyone up!! Form up!!!"
Smoker stormed forward, kicked over a gambling table, and roared like thunder.
The table flipped. Cards scattered.
The soldiers jolted and stood—slowly. There was barely any fear on their faces. Mostly annoyance at being disturbed, and the kind of look you'd give an idiot.
"Who the hell's yelling—?"
A veteran with his collar open and cap tilted sideways lazily picked up the cards. He didn't even salute. He squinted at Smoker with total indifference. "Sir, it's hot as hell. And this is G-17. Five hundred nautical miles and not a single pirate hair. What's the point of the fuss?"
"Bastard!"
Smoker grabbed him by the collar and jabbed a finger toward the rifles in the corner. "You call yourself a soldier and you toss your weapon aside?! What if the enemy shows up?! Is this how you defend justice?!"
"Justice?"
The veteran snorted. He wasn't afraid—he'd already rotted beyond caring. A man who doesn't even know what tomorrow looks like doesn't fear scolding.
"Sir, you're a big-shot from HQ. Easy for you to talk."
He let Smoker yank his collar, palms out in a dead pig fears no boiling water pose. "Nelson's precious guard eats meat every meal and gets double pay. Us? We don't even get hot soup. You want us to polish rifles and die for this wage? Not worth it."
The other soldiers jeered along, voices full of resentment and mockery:
"Yeah, sir, we're just here to eat."
"Pay us more, we'll do more."
"No bonus? Then don't wake us up."
A whole crowd of grinning freeloaders—shameless.
Smoker's fists clenched hard enough to crack. This disgusted him more than pirates. These men were finished. They'd even lost the sense to feel ashamed.
"Perfectly reasonable logic."
A calm voice cut through the noise.
The crowd parted as Rain walked over, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable. Gion followed behind him, brows knit—clearly shocked by the collapse of discipline.
Rain stopped in front of the veteran.
He didn't shout. But the invisible pressure of authority made the man's grin falter. His neck pulled back on instinct.
"So you're saying," Rain asked, "because the pay is low and there's no war, there's no need to train?"
"Uh… y-yeah." The veteran forced it out, eyes darting. "We're just eating. I've had this rifle three years. I've never even turned the safety off—"
"Mm."
Rain nodded, like he agreed.
Just as everyone expected this young commander to either compromise—or launch into some useless lecture about shame—
Rain suddenly reached to the rack and picked up a brand-new rifle.
He didn't check the bolt. He just gripped the barrel one-handed.
"Zzzt."
In the soldiers' horrified stares, the steel rifle began to glow red and soften—as if it were wax.
Barely a second later—
Drip.
The barrel collapsed into a puddle of molten metal, falling beside the veteran's boots. It burned straight through the ground with a hiss of smoke.
"Aah!"
The veteran shrieked and dropped on his ass, face drained white, staring at Rain like he was a nightmare.
Rain released the half-melted stock and let it clatter to the ground.
He took out a handkerchief and wiped his fingers slowly, eyes sweeping the whole field.
The temperature in the training ground seemed to plunge.
"If you think rifles are useless," Rain said, voice like ice, "then don't carry them."
"I hate parasites more than anything."
"Wearing Marine colors. Taking Marine pay. Doing security-guard work. Growing fat on laziness. And still acting like you're entitled to it."
He stepped forward once. The soldiers collectively stepped back.
"You don't deserve a rifle. You don't even deserve that uniform."
No raging screams—just a calm verdict. But that contempt, that denial from the bone outward, hurt more than any insult.
The soldiers looked at each other. Their smug "we're just coasting" confidence evaporated under Rain's gaze, replaced by a raw, ugly mix of shame and fear.
"Dismissed."
Rain waved a hand, bored, like even looking at them was filthy. "You're an eyesore."
Then he turned and walked away—no reforms announced, no orders given, not a single extra word.
That indifference terrified them more than punishment would have.
…
On the way back to the administrative building, Colonel Moore had already slipped away in panic. Only Gion and Smoker followed Rain.
"Why didn't you punish them directly?" Gion couldn't help asking. "Or request HQ to rotate in new troops and replace them? Keeping those old foxes will only cause trouble."
"Replace them?"
Rain kept his hands in his pockets, tone casual. "Swap in rookies, and it won't matter. Throw new recruits into this dye vat—if the base stays the same, they'll become the next generation of rotten veterans in two years."
He glanced toward the distant horizon and added calmly, "I'm not going to be base commander here forever."
"If I rely only on high-pressure tactics or constant replacements to maintain order, then the moment I leave, everything snaps right back."
Rain turned to Gion and smiled faintly. "What I want to leave behind is a G-17 where it doesn't matter who the commander is—pirates still won't dare come close."
"As for those spineless worms…" His voice cooled. "Simple."
"Break their bones… then set them again."
"They think there are no pirates here. They think there's no war to fight."
Rain looked out at the sea, eyes glinting. "They've forgotten what blood tastes like."
"Words won't fix that. If you want them to pick up rifles again, you make them understand—this sea is cruel."
~~~
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