Deep within Pangaea Castle, the seat of the world's highest authority.
The walls of this room, used for the "Navy Supreme Strategic Conference," were built from black basalt mixed with Seastone powder. Surveillance-snail mucus, barely discernible to the naked eye, flowed through the cracks. The dome resembled an overturned bowl, its surface etched with fragments of the crests of every "erased power" from the past eight hundred years-a silent mockery by the victors.
The long table was carved from a single piece of Adam Wood, its surface inlaid with a gold-thread world map, with the Four Seas and the New World marked in different colors. What lay spread across it now was not a map, but three battle plans, each dozens of pages thick, their covers stamped "Top secret."
At the head of the round table.
Two of the Five Elders sat on either side at subtly angled positions.
On the left was Saint Nusjuro-an elderly man with glasses and a goatee. He wore a pure white kimono embroidered with gold patterns, and the legendary Famous Sword, First Generation Kitetsu, hung at his waist. Its scabbard gave a faint click against the table, like a snake flicking its tongue. His arms were folded across his chest, his eyes half-lidded behind his glasses. His gaze rested on the photographs labeled "Plasma Bomb damage assessment," cold calculation flickering deep in his pupils.
On the right was Saint Saturn-the leader of the Five Elders, wearing a flat cap and holding a demon-headed cane. His back was perfectly straight, but the veins on the hand gripping his cane bulged slightly. Frowning, he flipped through several pages in the middle of the plan, where a long string of alarming budget figures was printed in bright red.
"..."
Saint Saturn's frown deepened. He raised his head