The World Government's flag, shaped like a cross, fluttered proudly in the cold winds of the North Blue, crackling sharply like the sound of war drums.

The wind was bitter.

Daren had never seen so many Celestial Dragons in his life.

Aboard one of the Government's official vessels, he stood in a brand-new uniform, leaning against the damp railing.

Cold sea winds howled over the water, rippling across his large white cloak.

He lit a cigar, his expression indifferent as he watched the impeccably dressed Celestial Dragons on the deck, eyes half-closed.

They were unlike the usual Celestial Dragons he'd seen—those grotesque, pig-like degenerates.

These hundred or so Celestial Dragons carried themselves with striking poise. They stood tall and refined, their features sharp, their bearing that of the elite. It was obvious they had received an advanced education.

They weren't clad in those ridiculous astronaut suits and air helmets either. Instead, they wore hunting gear—practical and suited for combat.

Black military boots polished to a mirror shine, wrinkle-free waterproof pants, and light armor plating over their vital spots—all glinting with a metallic sheen.

In their hands were costly weapons: longswords, chain hammers, battle axes, rapiers—each one an exquisite piece of craftsmanship.

If one ignored the fact that they were Celestial Dragons, they might've passed for dignified, even heroic figures. Their appearance had flair and presence.

They sat around an ornate, oversized brazier, laughing heartily and clinking glasses as they discussed the upcoming "hunting expedition."

They looked excited, eager to begin.

Beneath them lay soft pelts, carefully laid out in advance. Behind them, a retinue of servants brought out rare delicacies and expensive liquor.

Not even the freezing North Blue wind could dissipate the thick scent of cologne and alcohol hanging in the air.

To an outsider unaware of the truth, this scene might've looked like a group of aristocrats preparing for a casual hunting trip—not the prelude to a brutal, inhuman massacre.

Then again, maybe to these nobles born in the clouds, that's exactly what it was.

"The Celestial Dragons' coming-of-age ceremony... heh."

Smoke drifted from Daren's deep-set eyes as he watched the group he was supposed to "protect."

A faint, mocking smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Hey, Vice Admiral—come have a drink with us!"

A red-haired youth from the group suddenly raised his glass and called out enthusiastically to Daren.

"No need, sir. Thank you for the invitation."

Daren declined flatly.

The red-haired youth was strikingly handsome and exuded a carefully crafted air of confidence and sharpness. He seemed to be the unofficial leader of the group.

But Daren could see the arrogance and domineering pride in his eyes—

well concealed, but unmistakable.

"Before we left, my uncle told me—Vice Admiral Rogers Daren of Marine Headquarters is a living legend on these seas.

Surely you'll have just one drink with me?"

The redhead slowly stood, smiling at Daren.

At his words, the other Celestial Dragons—clearly following his lead—went quiet, turning to watch the exchange with smirks and amused eyes.

Daren frowned and replied with a question.

"May I ask who your uncle is, sir?"

The red-haired Celestial Dragon straightened proudly.

"Haven't you met him already?"

"My uncle is Saint Figarland Garling, current Deputy Commander of the God's Knights."

"My name is Saint Figarland Barbo."

Ah. That explained it.

No wonder he spoke in the same tone—sharp, sarcastic, and full of veiled superiority.

Barbo poured himself another glass and strolled over. The sea breeze reddened his already flushed face, and his steps were slow and heavy with drink.

"So, what do you think? My uncle speaks very highly of you. Told me I should learn from you…"

Standing before Daren, he exhaled wine-soaked breath.

"But this is a real problem for me, you know... I'm supposed to inherit the 'crown' of the Grand Hunt, just like my uncle did. One day I'll even lead the God's Knights.

So tell me—what exactly should I learn from you?"

Daren's eyes narrowed.

"Barbo-sama, you're drunk."

He glanced at the wine glass in Barbo's hand.

"I'm on duty and cannot drink. Please understand.

As for what to learn—Saint Garling was simply being polite. You don't need to take it seriously."

Barbo's smile suddenly turned cold.

"So what you're saying is... you're not going to show me any respect?"

Respect. Always respect.

Daren found it absurd.

Why were red-haired guys always so obsessed with "respect"?

Still—he had to admit—red-haired guys really were just... irritating.

As the drunken arrogance spilled from Barbo unchecked, Daren let out a quiet sigh.

His gaze turned sharp in an instant.

The howling wind on the sea came to a sudden halt.

Barbo's hand began to tremble violently, the liquid in his glass rippling like disturbed water.

To him, Daren seemed to transform into a monstrous force—his eyes radiating a killing intent so fierce, it felt like an invisible hand was wrapped tightly around his throat.

His windpipe constricted. Barbo sobered instantly.

With rising panic, he realized—he couldn't breathe.

His muscles clenched uncontrollably, and his face flushed bright red.

"Ha... ha... ha..."

Barbo's mouth opened reflexively under the crushing sensation of suffocation, like a fish out of water gasping for air—but not a single breath made it in. All he could produce were strained, meaningless sounds.

The sheer terror gripped him, his eyes reddening as blood vessels burst. Every part of him screamed to flee.

But his body, under the weight of that overwhelming aura, was locked in place—frozen and immobile.

At that moment, the other Celestial Dragons finally realized something was wrong.

They shot up from their seats in a panic.

"What are you doing!?"

"Damn it!"

"Let go of Barbo!"

"..."

They shouted in alarm, but none of them dared to step forward.

Ironically, the Vice Admiral's hands were still resting naturally at his sides—he hadn't even touched Barbo.

"Since Saint Garling holds me in such high esteem, I'll shamelessly offer you a little lesson, Barbo-sama..."

The towering Marine Vice Admiral, standing three meters tall, looked down at the Celestial Dragon before him and suddenly grinned.

"Respect isn't something others give you—it's something you respect."

"Isn't that right, Saturn-sama?"

Daren turned his head toward the cabin, where an old man in a black flat hat was slowly emerging, leaning on an ancient cane.

He smiled as he asked the question.