Faced with this barrage of cold, sharp questions, Seraphilia did not immediately defend herself.
She remained silent, her profile in the flickering light of the embers unusually calm, even somewhat... heavy.
Just as Robin thought she had been questioned into silence, her faint hope almost extinguished, Seraphilia finally moved.
She turned slowly to face Robin.
Then, under Robin's cold and wary gaze, she raised her hand, her fingers trembling as she began to unbutton her thick coat.
Her movements were slow, almost difficult, as if she were opening not just a piece of clothing, but a heavy door sealed with endless darkness and humiliation.
Robin's brows furrowed, not understanding her actions, but her gaze was involuntarily drawn to them.
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Underneath the coat was a faded, old shirt. Seraphilia's fingers moved to the collar, paused for a moment, took a deep breath, and then gently pulled the collar to one side, easing it down slightly.
The light from the charcoal fire danced, clearly illuminating the exposed skin below her collarbone.
Time, in that moment, truly stopped.
All of Robin's interrogations, all her sarcasm, all her coldness and suspicion—the instant she saw that skin, it was as if struck by an invisible, colossal force, shattering into pieces.
It was no ordinary scar.
It was a vast, hideous, twisted mass of old, dark marks!
The skin showed unnatural folds and unevenness, the edges bearing the terrible remnants of what seemed like a red-hot chain forcibly branded on, then brutally torn away before being forced to heal!
Though skillfully faded by some ability, the brand-like nature, the texture of that inhuman mark etched deep into the bone, remained horrifying to behold. Under the flickering firelight, it seemed to writhe like a living thing.
Robin's breath stopped completely. Her pale blue pupils contracted sharply into pinpoints, reflecting that dreadful scar.
Her mind exploded. The roar of Ohara's cannons, the scholars' screams, Saul's falling figure... all the fragmented memories of the World Government's atrocities now overlapped and intertwined with the bloody, blurred brand before her eyes, ultimately covered by this more primitive, more brutal, more direct act of violence that turned a person into something inhuman.
Commodity.
Property.
An 'object' stripped of personhood, stamped with a mark of ownership.
This silver-haired girl—who had always been inexplicably kind to her, strong and composed, who could conjure cloud rabbits, tell dry jokes, silently prepare everything for her, even make her unconsciously want to grasp the hem of her coat in her sleep—had she also crawled out of some unimaginable, deeper hell?
Seraphilia adjusted her collar and rebuttoned her coat, her movements regaining their usual briskness, as if she had merely displayed an unimportant old object.
But the look in her eyes when she turned to Robin was no longer the usual calm acceptance or occasional softness.
Deep within those ice-blue eyes burned a cold, resolute flame Robin had never seen before, like magma suppressed beneath eons of ice, carrying a hatred intense enough to incinerate the world.
'This is no joke, Robin.' Seraphilia's voice was soft, yet it pierced Robin's eardrums more clearly than the sea wind, reaching straight into the depths of her trembling soul. 'You see, I... was never on their side.'
She paused, then spoke each word clearly and slowly:
'I joined the Marines not because I believe in their justice. It's because it's the fastest path I could find to gain strength, to get close to the core, to quickly... figure out exactly who is presiding over this darkness, and ultimately, to break it.'
Her gaze swept over the distant lights of the Navy Base, then returned to Robin's face, still frozen in shock.
'You're right. The Marines and the World Government are the masters of the hyenas.' Seraphilia's voice lowered slightly, carrying a terrifying clarity and a near-cruel rationality.'So, what I must do is not become a hyena.'
She raised her hand, gripping empty air as if holding the hilt of an invisible blade, her eyes sharp as a blade's edge.
'I will become the blade in the master's hand—the one that decides when the hyenas move, or even when they disappear!'
The sea wind howled, whipping through her silver hair and her words.