Dragon’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the dossier, his normally impassive face flickering with rare intrigue. "The Goa Kingdom actually petitioned the Marines? Sige’s moving too boldly—this contradicts his profile."

For days, the Revolutionary leader had pieced together fragments of the Bandit King’s past: whispers of 56 legendary pirates defeated, decades spent lurking in obscurity, a spider weaving webs unseen.

Why emerge now? The question gnawed at him—until a breathless agent burst in with new intel.

Ivankov’s giant head loomed over the report, sequined eyelashes fluttering. "Honey~! This gutter rat plans to storm Mary Geoise?! SNAP!" His heel-clack echoed like a gunshot. "The audacity! The flair! We must recruit this Sige-boy!"

Dragon’s calloused fingers traced the words "Final Objective: Toppling Celestial Dragons"—a mirror of his own life’s work. For the first time in years, his pulse quickened with something beyond resolve: kinship.

"A kindred spirit…" he murmured, imagining the Bandit King’s decades-long game. Lurking through the ages. Letting history forget him. All for this crescendo.

Ivankov pirouetted dangerously close to a bookshelf. "But darling, what if he wants the throne for himself?"

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

"Then we’ll cross that bridge," Dragon said, rising with renewed purpose. "But tonight…" He tucked the dossier under his arm, tattooed lips curling. "...we extend an olive branch to a fellow revolutionary."

——

Gray Terminal Mountains

Unaware of the storm his name invoked, Sige jogged along a mountain trail, marveling at his newfound stamina. KING’s heart really is cheat-mode. Though his muscles still ached, the Emperor Engine purred contentedly—no arrhythmia, no fatigue.

"Boss!"

"Afternoon, Boss!"

Nods and salutes greeted him at every turn. Sige returned them absently, basking in the peaceful routine. No talk of raids. No crazy schemes. Just… quiet.

Rounding the final bend to the hideout, he froze.

Dozens—hundreds—of bandits swarmed the once-desolate camp. Makeshift tents sprawled across the slopes. A towering brute with arms thicker than tree trunks hammered a flagpole into stone, the crude banner depicting a crown atop Red Line.

"Since when…?" Sige croaked, grabbing the nearest bandit—a two-meter-tall goliath with facial scars. "You. Are you mine?"

The giant beamed. "Sworn to you yesterday, Boss! South Ridge Clan, 200 strong!"

Sige’s knees nearly buckled. South Ridge? There’s a South Ridge?!

Before he could process this, a familiar bald head bobbed through the crowd. "Boss! The scouts report Marine ships nearing Goa!"

"Marines? Why would—"

"Don’t worry!" The zealot grinned, patting a stolen flintlock. "We’ve been preparing!"

Behind him, Sige glimpsed crates stamped "Property of Goa Royal Armory."

Oh.

Oh no.