The next moment, the man vanished from where he had been standing and appeared just a meter away from Karina—far too close for it to be a coincidence. His hand shot up, as if to strike, but—
"What do you think you're doing?" came Sabo's calm, almost icy voice.
He was already standing between them, catching the man's arm before it could reach Karina. Sabo's fingers closed tightly around the man's wrist, and his knuckles turned white from the pressure. The man's face stretched in surprise—clearly, he hadn't expected such a swift reaction.
"Let go…" the man rasped, trying to twist free, but Sabo only tightened his grip.
"Looks like you've mistaken this restaurant for an arena," he said in the same calm tone.
Patrons started whispering among themselves. Some stood up to get a better view. The chef poked his head out of the kitchen, frowned, but said nothing.
"You're lucky I'm not Gin," Sabo added. "He'd already be swinging a chair."
"I was already taking aim," Gin snorted, lazily poking at his fish with a fork. "Don't interrupt dinner, pal."
"Do you even know who you're talking to?!" hissed the purple-haired man, trying to hold onto a shred of dignity.
"No," Sabo cut him off. "And frankly, I don't care."
I waved at Sabo, signaling that this clown wasn't worth the time. With a trace of reluctance, he let go of the man's arm. The stranger yanked it back instantly, as if afraid it might be ripped off.
"You got lucky this time," the stranger growled, frowning slightly. "But luck runs out. Always does—usually at the worst moment."
"And you seem to have a habit of asking for trouble," Gin muttered lazily, not even turning his head, continuing to eat his soup. "Run along before your plate gets cold. And don't lean on it, or you'll cry."
The man gave us a cold stare, then ran his hand through his purple hair, spiked as if hooked upward, and stepped back.
"I am Whirlwind Erik. You'll be hearing that name again."
He spun on his heel and stormed out of the restaurant.
No sooner had the door swung shut behind him than a young waiter dashed over to us—scrawny, sweat-stained collar, eyes wide like a frightened rabbit.
"Hey! Don't you know who that was?!" he whispered in a panic. "That's Mr. Erik! One of Nelson's men!"
We exchanged glances. Sabo tilted his head slightly, Karina twirled her spoon in her soup like she was still bored, and Gin merely snorted, continuing to leisurely finish his fish.
"Please, don't provoke him!" the waiter begged, glancing from us to the door. "He's… unpredictable. And if Nelson finds out you crossed one of his men…"
"What?" I said, stretching. "He'll send us a bill for emotional damage? We just had dinner. He started it."
The waiter bit his lip, nervously scratched the back of his head.
"The head chef asked…" he gulped, "that you finish up and leave. He doesn't want any trouble."
I stood, adjusting the belt of my bag.
"Got it. Thanks for the soup. The fish was good."
"Especially when you're not surrounded by idiots," added Gin, rising.
We paid, leaving a tip—after all, the kid was just scared. And honestly, he had every right to be.
By the time we stepped outside, the sun was already beginning to set. The streets were still lively, but behind the colorful storefronts and buzzing conversations, there were other glances—covert, tense.
"They're watching," Sabo said, barely turning his head.
"You think Erik already sicced someone on us?" I asked.
"Definitely. He left too calmly. Guys like that don't walk away for nothing."
Karina suddenly stopped, her eyes locking onto one of the side alleys between two warehouses.
"Let's duck into that alley," she said quietly, nodding toward the narrow, shadowed lane.
Without a word, we slipped off the busy street and into the dark alleyway between the warehouses.
I leaned against the wall, scanning the surroundings. Sabo and Karina positioned themselves a bit farther in, hiding behind rusted barrels. Gin had his tonfas ready, gripping the handles with anticipation.
A minute later, just as expected, four marines entered the alley—clearly the same ones tailing us since the restaurant. They moved cautiously, muskets at the ready, eyes sweeping the area—but clearly didn't expect us to already be in position.
"They lost us but can still smell the trail," Sabo whispered. "Now."
It happened fast.
Karina slipped from the shadows first, striking one marine in the neck with such precision he didn't even manage to exhale. At that moment, Gin stepped out from behind the crates and slammed his tonfa into the gut of the second. Sabo, silent and smooth, approached the third from behind, grabbed the musket barrel, swept his legs, and knocked him out with a blow to the back of the head. I handled the fourth—straight punch to the stomach, grabbed his collar, and slammed him down. Unconscious.
"Quick!" I ordered, eyeing the unconscious bodies.
We dragged them deeper into the alley, where a rain barrel covered a sewer hatch. Karina began changing into one of the marine uniforms, and Sabo was already putting on a coat.
"Never thought I'd be dressing up as a marine," he grumbled.
"Well, it suits you," Karina smirked, fastening her belt.
A few minutes later, we were in full marine uniform—jackets, caps, even dog tags. On the surface, we looked like any patrol. We kept the muskets and clubs, hiding our own gear under the cloaks.
"Alright, now we act like locals," I said. "No chit-chat, walk with purpose. We're a patrol, heading back to base. If anyone talks to you—stay quiet, nod. Let them think we're the new guys."
"You think it'll work?" Gin asked, adjusting his collar.
"We need to get to HQ—and then reach the archive tower. Karina, you got the base map?"
"I do, but it's partial," she nodded. "Mess hall and barracks only. About thirty meters past the warehouse."
"Then let's move. The real game starts now."
We stepped out of the alley, keeping our posture sharp—just a group of marines returning from patrol. No one paid much attention—marine uniforms worked like magic, especially in a port crawling with patrol units.
We walked in silence. The street followed along the docks, wooden planks creaking underfoot. In the distance loomed the massive base wall—light gray, with the Marine flag fluttering from the mast above the main gate.
Real marines clustered at the entrance—some smoking, some switching shifts, and one bored-looking recruit leaning on his rifle. A sign above the gate read: Base #8. Entry by Pass Only.
I squinted.
"Time to get past the checkpoint," I said quietly, not turning my head.
Sabo adjusted his cap and stepped forward.
"Stick to the plan. You talk. We stay silent, nod, and keep our eyes open."
"Just like in the academy," Karina muttered with a smirk, then immediately put on a serious face.
We moved. Four "marines," marching in formation, didn't raise any alarms. One of the guards, noticing us, lazily pushed off the wall and stepped forward.
"Hey! Where are you coming from?" he asked, peering over our heads.
I pretended to be tired and annoyed.
"Cargo patrol from the docks. Chief Koro ordered us to report in after inspection. We've got the report and smuggling protocol."
"Koro?" the marine squinted. "The one on duty this afternoon?"
"That's him," I nodded. "Got the paperwork—wanna see for yourself?"
He hesitated, as if cross-referencing something in his mind, then waved us through.
"Alright, go on. Just steer clear of the tech wing—ventilation's busted. They shut it down."
"Understood," I said with a short nod.
Good thing the badges show who we're assigned to and who the sergeant is, I thought.
We passed him without hurrying or acting too confident—not weak, not suspiciously trained. Just another shift heading in.
Ahead lay the sunlit interior of the base—a true courtyard, surrounded by barracks, warehouses, and admin buildings. In the distance, drills thundered: marines practicing formations, others jogging with sandbags on their shoulders. The air smelled of metal, sweat, and warm dust.
Patrols walked the perimeter in pairs, officers stood on raised platforms, chatting and watching for order. No one stood idle—and we would've drawn attention instantly if we hesitated or froze.
"Keep moving," I said without looking back. "Too exposed here."
"Spotted a group," Sabo said quietly. "Six people. Heading into a building. Let's follow behind."
We exchanged glances quickly, then picked up pace like we knew exactly where we were going. Seconds later, we were walking behind a group of real marines—keeping pace, maintaining the right distance. Their leader glanced back occasionally but didn't seem to notice us—we looked like part of their unit.
A minute later, we were inside a building full of noise, smells, and the clatter of food trays. Dozens of marines crowded the place—some in line, some already eating, some arguing, gesturing wildly with spoons while holding their jackets with tired hands. We walked straight into the mess hall.
To our left, a massive steel counter where cooks served boiled rice, beans, stewed meat, and piles of dirty dishes nearby. The line stretched almost to the exit.
"New recruits?" a grumpy head cook in an apron suddenly barked at us, wiping his hands on his front. "Then grab a tray and move! Or are you on a special diet?"
I nodded like everything was going according to plan.
"Yes, sir!"
"Hey," Sabo muttered through his teeth but stepped forward to grab a tray.
"Plan's changing?" Karina whispered, moving closer.
"On the contrary," I grinned. "It's right on track."