Chapter 149: The Melancholy of the New Warlord

After Garen and Dalmatian reached a consensus, the marine underlings of Dalmatian hurried off to prepare for the signing of the Warlord agreement.

Taking office as a new Warlord of the Sea was by no means a trivial matter, so some basic formalities still had to be observed.

No matter how abbreviated the process might be, Garen at least had to leave the World Government with a photograph suitable for official newspaper publication.

During this brief period of rest, Garen and Dalmatian were far from idle:

After Garen presented his soon-to-be colleague Moriah with his treasured Seastone handcuffs as a gift, he and Dalmatian jointly conducted an in-depth "friendly visit" to moonlight Moriah's flagship.

Of course, in the eyes of Moriah, who had been reduced to little more than a prisoner, this was essentially a home raid.

Moriah, being engaged in the zombie manufacturing industry, was naturally no clean-handed entrepreneur, and this raid immediately uncovered a succession of appalling, hellish scenes.

Upon descending into the ship's hold, Garen and Dalmatian were greeted by a wave of suffocating putrid stench, intermingled with the foul odors of blood, sweat, and excrement.

Dalmatian remained expressionless.

To avoid losing face in front of Dalmatian, Garen also forced himself to remain expressionless.

In truth, he desperately wanted to buy a gas mask to wear, complete with a pair of built-in nose plugs.

Following a trail of weak, miserable wails, the two opened a tightly sealed bulkhead door, and the stench instantly multiplied manifold.

Inside was a crowd of living people crammed together like sardines in a tin can.

Moriah had been so eager to rebuild his zombie army that he naturally lacked the time to slowly dig up graves and steal corpses the old-fashioned way.

Lacking corpses, a desperate Moriah could naturally create his own corpses without a shred of guilt.

Therefore, these individuals were all prisoners of Moonlight Moriah, "materials" he had cherry-picked from his spoils over the past few days, prepared specifically for the creation of zombies.

Because of the intense battle between Garen and Moriah earlier, the interior of the hold had sustained multiple areas of damage, and the collapsed ceilings, walls, and pillars had injured many people.

Consequently, the living people Garen saw were mostly lying paralyzed in pools of blood, half-dead and barely breathing.

Amidst the chorus of wails, the calm expression on Garen's face finally shattered, instantly replaced by a surging tide of fierce anger.

Dalmatian appeared accustomed to such sights, his menacing and ugly face still devoid of the slightest ripple.

He merely turned abruptly, and in an indifferent tone, gave methodical instructions to the Marine soldiers following behind him:

"Organize a team and treat the wounded."

"Send those heavily injured to the medical bays on our warships."

"Temporarily house those with minor injuries together on the deck, record their identities and origins, and make preparations to send them back home."

With that, Dalmatian gripped the hilt of his sword and walked silently toward the next compartment.

Compared to before, his pace seemed somewhat hurried.

Garen closely followed behind, pushing open the door to the next compartment alongside Dalmatian.

They were met with an overwhelmingly thick stench of decay and blood, as if they had just stepped into a slaughterhouse.

Yet the scene inside was not as bloody as one might imagine; instead, it possessed the cold, immaculate cleanliness of a laboratory:

The floors and walls were scrubbed pristine, sharp surgical tools were arranged dust-free on instrument trays, and warm, sterile light shone brightly down upon neat operating tables.

However, on a long table nearby, a long row of corpse materials was neatly laid out.

Contrasting sharply with the tidy environment, it delivered an even greater visual impact.

Dalmatian glanced lightly at the corpses, which were mottled with dark purple-red lividity, and said coldly, "They died today."

"..."

Garen's expression darkened, and after a long, heavy silence, he articulated each word clearly: "I'm afraid a few more people will have to die today."

Without lingering further, Garen walked back up to the deck alongside Dalmatian.

Perona and Dr. Hogback were sitting paralyzed next to Moriah, shivering uncontrollably. The moment they saw Garen and Dalmatian appear, they instinctively trembled.

Garen's murderous gaze swept over the three of them before finally resting on Hogback, who was practically soaked in cold sweat:

"That corpse modification laboratory downstairs—is it yours?"

"N-No, it's not..."

Hogback trembled all over, so terrified that he began babbling nonsense.

Yet under the terrifying pressure of Garen's stare, Hogback ultimately stammered out an admission: "It is mine."

The cold sweat streaming down his face was enough for him to take a bath, and his voice was distorted by fright:

"But those were all Lord Moriah's decisions! I—I was just following orders!"

"This has nothing to do with me! I—I was forced..."

Moriah, sitting slumped on the ground, experienced a brief lapse in expression, the light in his eyes turning somewhat desolate.

"That's right..."

Moriah let out a long sigh, his expression gloomy as he said:

"I did all of these things!"

"He's nothing more than a lackey, what does he matter?"

"Yes, exactly, exactly!"

Hogback nodded repeatedly, screaming in a shrill voice:

"Moriah forced me to do all those things! I'm i-innocent!"

"I didn't want to do it either..."

The noisy chatter cut off abruptly as a flying greatsword pierced straight through Hogback's chest, ruthlessly pinning him to the ground.

Hogback was a brain worker; his own physical strength was negligible, and under this single blow, he drew his last breath.

Garen slowly walked over, pulled the greatsword out from Hogback's body, and said to Moriah:

"My apologies, colleague."

"My hand slipped just now, and I couldn't hold onto my sword."

Moriah's eyes were bloodshot, his breathing as heavy as a bellows, but he said nothing more.

Garen, meanwhile, walked over to Perona, fixing his gaze on the girl huddled on the ground.

This pretty young girl was dressed in a dark gothic lolita style, with pink twin-tails cascading behind a small crown on her head, giving her very much the air of a ghostly princess.

At the moment, Perona was wearing the Seastone handcuffs Garen had gifted her, her petite body completely sapped of strength into a soft lump, and her little face utterly pale.

She looked quite delicate, charming, and pitiful.

Yet Garen's gaze did not soften.

Looking at the blood-dripping greatsword in Garen's hand, Perona was immediately frightened to the point of trembling all over, shivering too much to make a sound.

"Stop!"

Moriah, who had remained silent until now, roared frantically:

"Perona is different from Hogback! She doesn't understand anything!!"

"I did all of these things! Perona shouldn't have to die!"

Perona had encountered Moonlight Moriah when she was very young.

At that time, Moriah appreciated Perona's Hollow-Hollow Fruit ability, and the eccentric Perona also liked the gloomy environment of Moriah's Thriller Bark.

Hitting it off instantly, Moriah brought the young Perona into his pirate crew.

Though Moriah did not view his subordinates as comrades back then, the young Perona still received preferential treatment under him.

The ghost princess Perona lived truly like a princess aboard Thriller Bark: she could whimsically have Hogback create pet zombies for her, brazenly mock fellow combatant Absalom to his face, and speak casually without regard for seniority to Moriah, who kept living beings at a distance.

Yet a Perona who grew up in such an environment could obviously never develop a normal concept of good and evil.

As long as it was Lord Moriah's action, Perona would unconditionally support it, remaining utterly indifferent to the life or death of others.

"Sigh..."

Garen let out a long sigh, ultimately granting Perona the preferential treatment due to a cute girl—

He wasted a few extra words on her:

"If I hadn't seen those terrible sights today, my attitude toward you probably would have been much better."

"However, even so..."

Garen glanced at Perona's board-like figure—defiant of worldly standards—and her petite stature, which was shorter than his greatsword:

"I don't really want to kill an underage girl with my own hands."

"I..."

Perona opened her mouth to refute, but prudently swallowed the rest of the words, lowering her voice: "I'm of age."

In such a life-or-death crisis, this was hardly the time to argue about her physical development.

Before Perona could even feel a sliver of relief, however, Garen turned to Dalmatian and said:

"Vice Admiral Dalmatian..."

"I'll leave this young girl to you Marines to take away and deal with."

"No problem."

Dalmatian cast a cold glance at Perona, his hand quietly resting upon the hilt of the sword at his waist. "I'll make sure she is properly 'dealt with'."

Perona's complexion turned even paler.

Falling into the hands of the ruthless Dalmatian meant she would undoubtedly meet a dead end.

Yet neither Garen nor Dalmatian had any interest in sparing her another glance.

"Damn you!!"

Moriah roared through clenched teeth.

His body shook violently, but restrained by the Seastone handcuffs, he could muster no real strength and could only emit a dying wail.

At that moment, a Marine soldier approached holding a camera and a document.

The soldier respectfully handed the document to Garen, then stood aside, raising the camera to aim at Garen and Dalmatian.

"Are we taking a photo as well?"

Garen took the Warlord appointment papers, and facing the lens, habitually put on a standard, amiable smile.

Dalmatian, also in the frame, forced a faint, almost imperceptible smile onto his face.

Although Dalmatian detested smiling, he compelled himself to do so for the sake of the World Government's propaganda, viewing it as his bounden duty as a soldier.

The two focused on posing for the photograph, completely unaware that at that very moment, two sharp gazes were watching them from the distant sea surface.

After the photo session, Garen quickly signed the appointment agreement and handed it back to the Marine soldier.

The soldier turned to leave, but Dalmatian called out to him:

"Draft another report when you get back:"

"State that after our departure, irreconcilable conflicts arose between Warlord Garen and Warlord Moonlight Moriah, and that Moonlight Moriah was slain during the resulting battle."

"Write it up quickly, it will be needed soon."

The soldier nodded in acknowledgment, while the trembling of Moriah's body intensified a fraction more.

"Very well."

Dalmatian turned back to Garen and nodded in acknowledgment. "You are now an officially recognized Warlord of the Sea by the World Government."

"Mm."

Garen nodded slightly in return. "Sorry to trouble Vice Admiral Dalmatian for coming such a long way."

"No trouble, it is my duty."

Dalmatian's gaze flickered slightly as he said to Garen:

"The Warlords of the Sea are not pirates, yet those scumbags have dragged this title through the mud until it is more repulsive than piracy."

"However, Garen, you are different from the other Warlords."

Dalmatian said with a hint of emotion:

"I hope you will truly fulfill the duties of a Warlord and become a pillar of support for the World Government and the Marines."

Naturally, Garen had no desire to pledge loyalty to the World Government, but he knew how to deliver a polished, crowd-pleasing speech:

"Naturally!"

"As a Warlord of the Sea, from now on I am the World Government's firmest ally."

"If the Marines ever encounter any troublesome enemies in the future, I will certainly do my utmost to assist!"

"Is that so?"

An aged voice suddenly sounded right beside his ear.

Startled, Garen turned his head in the direction of the voice, only to find that an elderly man with silver hair had somehow already stepped onto the deck.

Moreover, the old man's appearance inexplicably filled Garen with a sense of familiarity...

"Dark King Rayleigh?!"

The usually composed Dalmatian blurted out in alarm.

"What?"

Garen's face darkened, and he couldn't help muttering under his breath: "Oh crap, I—I was just joking..."