The fog rolled thick across Batro's coast as the massive Marine vessel loomed like a phantom in the harbor.
Its hull was pitch-white, with dark gray armor plates running along the sides like bones. No banners. No flair. Just a single, silent insignia painted at the front of the ship:
A ghost-white bird.
The Ghost Signal Fleet.
Dax stood at the edge of the dock, Vice Captain coat whipping in the salt-heavy wind. His sea-green eyes looked up at the ship that would carry him away from the only home he'd ever known.
Behind him, Batro Island was waking up.
Ahead of him… was everything he couldn't yet imagine.
He adjusted the gloves on his bruised hands.
His ribs still ached. His shoulders were still taped under the coat. But he stood straight, firm — a little taller than he did three days ago.
The ship's lower ramp dropped with a loud clank, revealing two rows of uniformed Marines standing at attention. Their gear was darker than standard issue — no polished gold, no shiny brass. These were warriors, not symbols.
Then, from both sides of the ramp—
SALUTE.
Twenty Marines raised their arms in perfect sync.
"VICE CAPTAIN VERNO, WELCOME ABOARD!" they shouted.
Dax froze for just a second, caught off guard.
Nobody ever said that to him before.
Not on Batro.
Not in training.
Not even in his dreams.
He blinked once, then stepped forward, boots clanking against the metal ramp, coat dragging behind him like a flag of purpose.
He returned the salute. Not stiff. Not overly proud.
But with quiet, burning fire.
"…At ease," he said, voice steady. "Let's get to work."
The Marines lowered their salutes and stood aside as he passed, eyes tracking him with curiosity and a trace of respect.
Some had heard the rumors.
Some had seen the fights.
None knew what kind of Vice Captain he'd be.
But they all felt it: this wasn't just another promotion.
This was a storm wrapped in a Marine coat.
And he was about to meet the crew who would either follow him… or try to break him.
Dax made his way up the ramp, passing through the saluting Marines, his boots echoing across the steel deck. The salty wind whipped his Vice Captain coat behind him like a cape.
As he reached the top of the ramp, a quiet voice cut through the air like a blade.
"You're late, Verno."
Dax looked up.
Standing near the helm, arms crossed behind his back, coat swaying lightly, was Vice Admiral Rael Vos.
Unmoving. Unblinking. Unmistakable.
Rael's cold, hawk-like eyes studied Dax—not with annoyance, but calculation. As if he were still being judged. As if every step Dax took still meant something.
"I was early," Dax replied calmly, stepping onto the deck.
Rael gave the faintest nod. "Good. Marines who follow clocks die. Marines who read the winds survive."
He turned to the ship's navigator, a small, serious woman with storm-gray hair and a compass tattooed beneath her eye.
"Set course for Sector 8," Rael ordered. "Pirate activity in the Steel Fang Cluster is rising. We're going hunting."
"Aye, Vice Admiral," the navigator replied immediately.
Rael's voice rang across the ship.
"All hands — ready for departure. Ghost Signal sets sail in five."
The crew moved like a machine — no shouting, no scrambling, just fast, fluid discipline. Sails were unfurled. Cannons checked. Anchors reeled up like thunder rattling through the ship's bones.
Rael turned back to Dax, speaking low but firm.
"This fleet doesn't carry symbols. Doesn't carry politics. Only weight."
He stepped closer.
"Your badge isn't rank, Verno. It's a target. And I expect you to wear it like one."
Dax stood tall.
"I plan to, sir."
Rael's lip twitched — not quite a smile, but the closest he ever got.
"Good."
Then he raised his voice one more time.
"Ghost Signal — CAST OFF!"
The ship lurched forward, parting the sea with force and silence. Batro Island grew smaller in the distance, vanishing behind thick mist and crashing waves.
Dax stood at the bow now, hand on the rail, the wind blasting across his face.
He wasn't a recruit anymore.
He was a Vice Captain, standing aboard a ghostlike warship led by one of the most feared men in the Marines.
No banners. No songs.
Just steel. And justice.