Figarland Stanks

Lead-gray clouds hung low, like a filthy rag soaked in sewage draped across the sky.

Several thin shafts of sunlight pierced through gaps in the clouds, slanting across the gloomy sea and casting shattered flecks of gold among the waves.

A three-masted official ship flying the World Government flag was cutting through the waves, its white sails swollen with the cold wind blowing from the northwest.

A scarlet velvet carpet covered the deck, utterly out of place amid the gray sea and sky.

A high-backed chair inlaid with sapphires and rubies stood at the bow, with a young man seated upon it.

He had long red hair, with the hair at his temples braided into intricate plaits. The hood of his dark blue cloak rested on his shoulders, revealing the excessively ornate long-sleeved formal attire beneath it. Eight buttons adorned each side of the front, four pairs linked by fine silver chains, with a cravat tied at his collar.

Even seated aboard a rocking ship, he maintained an aristocratic elegance.

A member of God's Knights, Figarland Shamrock.

"Still refusing to talk? Filthy commoner, where exactly is the Revolutionary Army's rat hole?"

Shamrock raised his left foot and planted the sole of his boot on the back of the woman kneeling on the carpet, slowly applying pressure.

The woman was bound hand and foot in iron chains. Her short pink hair was matted with blood and sweat, and her face was mottled with bruises. Yet she still grinned, exposing teeth stained red with blood.

Ginny spat a mouthful of bloody saliva, droplets splattering across Shamrock's gleaming leather boot.

"I have nothing to say to trash like you. Calling people commoners every other word—you're nothing but garbage piled up by bloodline and privilege. You're not even worthy of carrying Brother Dragon's shoes—