[Marine Branch 16, Administrative Courtyard, 1520 Sea Circle Calendar, 07:15]
The iron doors clanged shut behind him, and Kael squinted against the morning light.
It was harsh. Pale. The kind of light that made everything look washed out and tired.
The air out here was different — thick, humid, oppressive. It smelled like rotting kelp at low tide, mixed with something sweeter. Cherry tobacco. Someone nearby was smoking the expensive stuff.
It was a hell of a contrast to the warehouse.
Out here, the world was loud. Enlisted men grunting as they hauled crates. Wooden cart wheels creaking over uneven cobblestone. The distant crash of surf against the sea walls.
Kael stood there for a second, letting his face settle into the right expression. Tired. Overworked. A man buried in paperwork who didn't have the energy to notice anything else.
They needed to see that version of him.
"Quartermaster Kael."
The voice was thin and reedy, with an arrogant drawl that set Kael's teeth on edge.
He turned slowly, shoulders slumping just enough to look respectful. Submissive.
Captain Valerius stood exactly six feet away.
The man was everything wrong with the East Blue Marine branches compressed into one walking, talking pile of corruption. Valerius had thinning hair slicked back with too much pomade, the color of wet straw. His face was narrow — rat-like, really — with sunken cheeks and a pointed nose that twitched when he talked. He was built like someone who'd never done a day of real work in his life. Thin shoulders, hollow chest, a soft little paunch at his waist. His Navy coat hung wrong on him, the cuffs frayed from nervous picking. A stained silk cravat was wrapped too tight around his neck.
There was a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Pale. Jagged. Kael knew the story — Valerius claimed it was from a pirate duel.
It was actually from a bar fight.
"Captain Valerius," Kael said quietly.
"The shipment for the 68th patrol division." Valerius stepped closer. The cherry tobacco smell was overpowering now, barely masking the stale wine on his breath. "I trust the requisitions are filled. My men deploy at noon, and I won't have them sailing with empty powder horns."
Kael pulled the brass-bound ledger from his coat. Flipped through the thick parchment pages slowly. Deliberately.
"Three hundred cutlasses, fifty kegs of black powder, and a month's supply of salted pork, sir." He kept his voice flat. Professional. "It's all staged on loading dock four."
Valerius sneered, his thin lips peeling back from yellowed teeth. He reached out — bony fingers snatching the requisition form Kael held out.
This spineless little bean-counter doesn't suspect a thing, Valerius thought. Easiest skim of my career.
"See that it's loaded swiftly," the Captain barked, tugging his coat into place with a sharp jerk. "And try to look a little more presentable, Quartermaster. You represent the World Government."
"Of course, Captain."
Kael kept his eyes locked on the polished leather of Valerius's boots. Respectful. Obedient.
He watched the man turn on his heel and march toward the docks, barking orders at enlisted men who scrambled out of his way like cockroaches.
That familiar stillness settled back over Kael's mind.
It was almost too easy.
Valerius was marching off to inspect three hundred brittle pig-iron swords that would chip on the first parry. Fifty kegs of powder Kael had deliberately left exposed to sea humidity three nights ago.
The real masterwork steel? The high-grade, dry powder?
Currently resting in the infinite dark of his vault.
They thought they were the predators of this sea. Thought the uniform gave them teeth.
But a blade was useless if it shattered. A gun was just a heavy club if the powder was wet.
Kael slipped the ledger back into his coat, fingers brushing against the cold, invisible edge of the dimensional space anchored to his soul.
Then he walked toward the mess hall to get some black tea.