"The World..." Dragon repeated, tasting the audacity of the claim. "Not the Pirate King? Not the Fleet Admiral?"
"Those are just titles," Argentus said coldly, clenching his small fist. "I don't want a title. I want the world they're all fighting over. I want to buy the land they walk on. I want to own the air they breathe."
Dragon threw his head back and laughed. It was loud, booming, echoing off the cliffside—a rare sound from a man made of stone.
"Hah! Arrogance! Pure, unfiltered arrogance!"
Dragon stopped laughing and looked down, eyes gleaming with approval.
"Fine. If you want the world, boy... then go and take it."
Dragon turned to leave, but he paused. The wind around him shifted, carrying the distant sound of trumpets and cheering from the harbor. He looked back at the boy, a dark thought crossing his mind.
"But first," Dragon said, voice dropping to a low rumble, "let me show you those who currently own it."
He didn't wait for an answer. A gust of wind wrapped around Argentus, lifting him off his feet. In seconds, they were soaring through the treeline, landing silently on a high cliff overlooking the Goa Kingdom's coastline.
Below them, the sea sparkled. But the beauty was marred by a monstrosity.
A massive ship approached the harbor—a floating fortress adorned with gold and white sails, flying the symbol of the World Government.
"Look," Dragon commanded, pointing a gloved finger.
Argentus squinted against the glare. The ship was immense, dwarfing everything in the harbor. Then, he saw movement.
A tiny, solitary fishing boat cut across the water, attempting to pass in front of the behemoth. A small figure was at the helm—a boy not much older than Argentus.
"A child?" Argentus whispered. "He's in the way."
"He is free," Dragon corrected softly. "He is setting sail for liberty."
On the deck of the massive ship, a figure emerged. He wore a thick, bubble-like helmet and white robes. He held a golden rifle. He didn't look like a warrior. He looked soft. Pampered.
Yet, everyone on shore was bowing.
The World Noble, Saint Jalmack, raised the rifle. He didn't hesitate. Didn't warn. He simply pulled the trigger.
BOOM.
The sound of heavy cannon-fire from the handheld bazooka tore through the air.
Argentus's eyes widened.
The shell hit the small fishing boat. Fire erupted instantly, consuming the wood and sail. The tiny vessel shattered into splinters, engulfed in black smoke and orange flame.
The boy's scream was lost to the distance, swallowed by the roaring fire.
"He... he just shot him," Argentus stammered, voice trembling. "For crossing the path? For sailing a boat?"
"He shot him," Dragon said, voice cold as ice, "because he held a flag of freedom. And to a God, freedom is an insult."
Argentus watched the wreckage burn. Watched the massive ship sail on, unbothered, as if it had merely stepped on an ant. The Noble on deck didn't even look back. He was already complaining about the smoke.
Argentus gripped the cliff edge until rock crumbled in his hand.
"That is a Celestial Dragon," Dragon stated, looming over Argentus like a shadow. "They are the descendants of the Creators. They own the law. They own the Marines. They own the air you breathe."
Dragon looked down at Argentus, eyes piercing.
"You said you want the world? Do you still think you can take it?"
Argentus stared at the burning wreckage. The fire reflected in his silver eyes, burning away the last shreds of his childhood innocence.
He didn't look away. He burned the image into his mind: The Golden Ship. The White Robes. The absolute, unchecked arrogance.
"I don't think I can take it," Argentus whispered.
He stood up, his small posture straightening into something rigid and unbreakable. He turned his back on the burning sea and looked up at Dragon.
"I know I can take it."
Dragon stared at the boy for a long moment. Then, a genuine smirk crossed his face. He glanced back at the wreckage—where his own subordinates were already moving underwater to retrieve the body—and then back to Argentus.
"Go then, Argentus D. Drake," Dragon said, wind beginning to howl around them, preparing to carry the Revolutionary away to his war. "Grow strong in the filth of this kingdom. And when you are ready... shatter the sky."
WHOOSH.
Wind blasted the cliffside. Argentus shielded his eyes. When he opened them, Dragon was gone.
Argentus was alone on the cliff.
Below him, the wreckage sank beneath the waves. Ahead of him lay Gray Terminal burning in fire.
The forest of Mt. Colubo was a green hell.
For the first few weeks, Argentus was not a predator. He was prey.
He slept in the crook of high branches, tying himself to the tree with vines so he wouldn't fall to his death. The nights were filled with the roars of giant tigers and the hissing of massive snakes.
Hunger was a constant, gnawing companion.
He didn't hunt. He couldn't. The animals here were monsters, three times the size of normal beasts. Instead, he watched. He waited for the giant tigers to kill a boar, eat their fill, and leave.
Once the predators were gone, Argentus would descend—a small, silver-haired shadow. He picked the bones clean. He fought off buzzards and wild dogs for scraps. He ate raw meat because fire attracted attention.
He grew thin, wire-taut. His skin became a map of scratches and insect bites. But his eyes never lost their focus. Every time he chewed on a piece of gristle, he muttered his promise.
"World."
Scavenging wasn't enough. He needed more calories to grow.
He ventured into the edge of Gray Terminal—the burning mountain of trash. He didn't look for valuables. He looked for teeth.
He found rusted steel cables. Jagged shards of glass. Broken bear traps.
He turned the forest into a minefield.
He dug pits and lined them with sharpened rebar. He strung wire at neck-height for the wolves. He learned the paths of the boars and set tripwires that dropped heavy logs.
It wasn't honorable combat. It was engineering.
The first time a trap worked, it was a giant boar. The log crushed its skull. Argentus stood over the beast, knife in hand, heart pounding. He didn't feel triumphant.
He ate well that night. He made a cloak from the boar's fur to survive the winter.
But traps were a crutch. Like Dragon had said: "The strong do not ask. They take."
A trap asks the animal to step in it. A king takes the animal's life.
Argentus stopped setting traps. Stopped hiding in trees.
He found a clearing near the river—the watering hole where the giant tiger, the "Lord of the Forest," drank.
Argentus stood in the open. He was nine years old now. He held a length of steel pipe he'd sharpened into a spear, the tip fire-hardened and ground to a needle point against rock.
The bushes rustled. The air grew heavy with the scent of musk and blood.
The Lord of the Forest emerged. It was a tiger the size of a small house, its stripes like scars, its teeth like daggers. It saw the small boy blocking its path. It didn't roar. It purred—a low, vibrating sound of amusement.
It pounced.
Two years ago, Argentus would have frozen. One year ago, he would have run to a trap.
Now, he moved.
He didn't retreat. He stepped into the charge.
He dropped low, sliding under the massive paws that could crush stone. As the beast flew over him, Argentus thrust the spear upward with every ounce of strength in his wiry body.
SHUNK.
The steel pierced the soft underbelly, driving deep into the heart.
The tiger crashed into the dirt, skidding to a halt. It thrashed once, twice, then went still.
Argentus stood, covered in dirt and blood. He walked over to the massive beast.
He placed his hand on the tiger's massive head.
"You were strong," Argentus whispered. "But you were just an animal."
He skinned the beast. He cooked the meat over a roaring fire, no longer afraid of who might see the smoke.
The fire crackled, casting long, dancing shadows against the trees.
Argentus sat on a mossy log, the heat of the flames licking at his skin. He didn't flinch. He didn't feel the cold of the night air, nor the heat of the fire. His body had forgotten what "comfort" felt like.
Two years ago, he'd been a twig—a gust of wind could have knocked him over. He'd been a crying child burying his mother with soft hands.
That child was dead. Eaten by the world.
In his place sat a predator.
He stood, the movement fluid and silent. He was only nine years old, standing at just a meter tall, but the density of his presence made him feel massive. The rough pelt of the Lord of the Forest—the giant tiger he'd slain—was draped over his shoulders like a king's mantle.
Beneath the fur, his body told the story of his survival.
His chest was no longer hollow—it was a cage of hardened muscle. His arms were corded with sinew, tight and snapping with explosive potential. Every inch of his skin was a tapestry of violence: a jagged white scar on his shoulder from a wolf's fang, a burn mark on his forearm from a steam pipe, and countless smaller nicks from thorns and claws.
He flexed his hand. The muscles in his forearm rippled like steel cables under tension.
He picked up his spear—a heavy iron pipe he had salvaged and sharpened. It weighed twenty pounds, but he twirled it in his fingers as if it were a toothpick.
He looked into the darkness of the forest. The eyes staring back at him—the wolves, the bears, the giant snakes—didn't growl. They retreated. They knew the smell of the apex.
"I have already defeated the strongest here," Argentus whispered, his voice raspy, deep for his age.
Soon he heard a movement near him, Argentus didn't twitch. He didn't turn his head.
He sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the fire, but his peripheral vision was locked on the stack of roasted boar meat sitting on the flat stone beside him. A chunk was missing.
Argentus calmly reached into his pouch and pulled out a handful of Magma-Root. It was a red, dried herb he used to poison rats. It wasn't lethal to humans, but it was hot enough to make a grown man claw his own tongue out.
With the casual motion of a chef seasoning a steak, he crushed the flakes over the remaining meat.
He didn't have to wait long.
Rustle.
From the dense undergrowth behind him, something pale shot out.
It didn't look like a human limb. It looked like a rope of flesh. A hand, small and grubby, attached to an arm that stretched... and stretched... and stretched. It crossed five meters of clearing in the blink of an eye.
Argentus watched, unblinking, as the rubbery hand slapped onto the spicy meat, grabbed the entire stack, and snapped back into the bushes with the speed of a recoil spring.
Snap.
For a second, there was silence. The forest held its breath.
Then—
"GYAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!"
(END OF CHAPTER)
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