Ash’s heart raced as he glanced over his shoulder. The rear camera displayed a terrifying swarm of pirate ships in relentless pursuit, like a dark, buzzing hive chasing its intruder. This was the first time Ash had felt like he had truly stirred up a hornet's nest. Without hesitation, he pushed the captured pirate flagship’s engines to their limit, praying its enhanced performance could save him. If it couldn’t, he had no doubt those enraged pirates would tear him apart.

Fortunately, the Crimson Eagles’ flagship wasn’t just any ship. Its speed and defensive capabilities were far superior to the other vessels. Clearly, the late Ferdinand, the one-eyed captain, had invested heavily in his personal safety. Now, Ash was reaping the benefits.

The desperate chase was relentless. Some pirates, frustrated by their ships’ inability to close the gap, deployed mechs to cling onto the flagship and fire at it directly. Shotguns, heat rifles, sniper lasers, and even particle cannons battered the hull. Yet, whatever modifications Ferdinand had made to his flagship proved effective. The hull shrugged off most of the attacks with ease, the sniper lasers leaving only faint scratches.

Back on one of the pursuing ships, Iron Fang—the new leader of the Crimson Eagles—was fuming. His once-powerful voice was tinged with regret. "Why the hell did we make that ship so damn durable?" he growled, slamming his fist onto the console.

Inside the flagship, Ash couldn’t help but chuckle as he realized the futility of their attacks. With every passing moment, the distance between him and the pursuing pirates grew. Exhausted but temporarily safe, Ash switched the ship to autopilot and leaned back in the soft command chair. His arms ached as if pierced by needles, and the adrenaline crash hit him hard. Sleep came almost instantly.

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When Ash woke, six hours had passed. The cabin smelled faintly of blood, reminding him of his earlier battle. He wrinkled his nose and grabbed Ferdinand’s lifeless body, unceremoniously shoving it into the waste disposal chute. Turning to Malcolm, Ferdinand’s gaunt strategist, Ash was surprised to find him still alive. Given the force of Ash’s earlier blow, it seemed impossible.

Curious, Ash crouched down and examined Malcolm closely. His sharp gaze caught the faint outline of a garment beneath Malcolm’s tattered clothing. Removing the strategist’s shirt, Ash discovered a strange yellowish vest interwoven with black threads.

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“What’s this?” Ash muttered, tugging at the vest. It was incredibly tough, resisting even his strongest pull. Intrigued, Ash donned the vest and tested it by striking his own chest. Instead of pain, he felt a sudden warmth as the force dissipated across the garment. Realization dawned—this vest redistributed impacts evenly across its surface. A survival tool like this was invaluable. Smiling, Ash tucked it beneath his outer clothing.

Malcolm stirred, groaning as he regained consciousness. His eyes fluttered open, and he immediately noticed his missing vest. His face paled as he looked at Ash’s cold expression.

“D-don’t come any closer!” Malcolm stammered, his voice quivering. “I—I’m begging you, spare me, boss!”

Ash raised an eyebrow but said nothing, watching as Malcolm scrambled backward, trembling.

“I’ll do anything!” Malcolm blurted out. “Please, I swear I’ll be loyal! I’ll follow you anywhere, do whatever you ask—just don’t kill me!”

Ash studied him silently for a moment, then slowly drew his knife. “Why should I let you live?” he asked, his tone ice-cold.

Malcolm’s desperation intensified. He swallowed hard and began speaking rapidly. “I—I know this area like the back of my hand! I can help you evade the Crimson Eagles! I know all the local factions, the hidden routes, everything! I can even run errands or act as your strategist—whatever you need!”

Ash’s sharp instincts told him the man wasn’t lying. The strategist’s knowledge could indeed be useful. After a moment’s consideration, Ash sheathed the knife. “Fine,” he said flatly. “You live. But if you betray me…” His hand flicked, and the knife flew like a black bolt of lightning, embedding itself deep in the wall beside Malcolm’s face.

Malcolm froze, feeling the cold blade graze his cheek. His eyes darted to the knife, then to the nearly indestructible wall it had pierced. “U-understood!” he stammered, bowing repeatedly. “I won’t disappoint you, boss!”

Despite his outward relief, Malcolm’s mind raced. Though he had survived this encounter, he knew his new master was far from ordinary. Ash’s cold demeanor and lethal efficiency marked him as a true killer. While Malcolm had once been the second-in-command of the Crimson Eagles, he understood his position had always relied on Ferdinand’s favor rather than respect from the crew. Now, with Ferdinand dead and Iron Fang in charge, there was no place for Malcolm among the pirates.

“This could work,” Malcolm thought, straightening his posture. “A new master, a fresh start.”

Ash, uninterested in Malcolm’s internal monologue, cut him off with a curt question. “Your name?”

“Malcolm, sir,” he replied, bowing deeply.

Ash gave a short nod. “Then let’s see if you’re worth keeping alive.”