Late at night, inside the warship.
Zephyr sat at his desk, battle reports and personnel lists spread everywhere.
The famed "Black Arm" wasn't merely a warrior—
there was a strategist's calm in him as well.
The casualty numbers were horrific.
Few survived.
Fewer still brought back their comrades' bodies.
Names were crossed out one by one—
Until his pen stopped.
Gern Reginald Sigma.
"A Second-Class Soldier from the West Blue…"
Survival alone was miraculous.
Yet something felt off.
Too perfect.
The timing.
The appearance.
The tragedy.
Like a carefully staged performance.
"Adjutant," Zephyr said at last.
"Yes, sir!"
"What do you know of the West Blue branches?"
"Rampant corruption.
Officers sell posts. Soldiers bribe their way out of missions.
Someone like Gern, with no background, taking four years to reach Second-Class Soldier—
either painfully honest… or frighteningly clever."
Zephyr's gaze darkened.
Honest men don't survive God Valley.
Clever men… know how to weaponize tragedy.
"And Derrick's death—"
Zephyr cut him off.
"That boy's grief wasn't fake."
He tapped the name once, then made a decision.
Original promotion: Corporal
Revised:Sergeant
The adjutant's eyes widened.
Zephyr closed the file.
"The West Blue needs reform.
And reform requires a blade."
Moonlight gleamed off the sea.
"As for who that blade cuts—
that will be his choice."
Days later.
"Promotion order issued!
Gern Reginald Sigma—promoted to Branch Sergeant!"
The cabin exploded into uproar.
Gern accepted the order calmly.
Zephyr's signature cut deep into the paper.
"Please convey my thanks," Gern said quietly,
"to Vice Admiral Zephyr—for his recognition."