"FIRE!"

Official Mo stands on a ship’s decks. He overlooks the coastal city of Meln, where the sound of crashing waves mingles with the cacophony of cannon fire. His eyes narrow in mild amusement as he watches the relentless bombardment of the city below.

Mo lazily raises his eyeglass to his eye. He observes the fiery arc of each cannonball as it plunges toward the city's imposing walls, creating bursts of dust and debris upon impact.

"Your firepower isn't so bad, sir Fajii!" Mo calls out to the admiral in charge of the navy, his tone filled with condescension. He watches as the admiral nods in acknowledgment but remains focused on the ongoing siege.

Far from the soaring rebellion in the northern Bos region, this uprising in the southeastern port city of Meln is of a different nature. It's a revolt born of discontent—a coalition of furious fishermen protesting exorbitant taxes, disgruntled soldiers who were forcibly drafted and separated from their homes, and opportunistic pirates hoping to exploit the chaos for profit.

The city of Meln, with its intricate canal network and formidable fortifications, is a near-impenetrable fortress. Taking it by storm would be a fool's errand, so the empire had dispatched one of its most skilled admirals. For weeks, his formidable navy has blockaded the coastal city, cutting off its supply lines and reducing it to a state of desperation.

Admiral Fajii stands tall on the ship's deck, his eyes fixed on the relentless barrage of cannon fire. He doesn't turn to face Official Mo but acknowledges his comment with a hearty laugh.

"I'm glad you think so, Official Mo! With these cannons, these rebels will surrender in no time!" Fajii's voice carries a note of pride in the firepower at his disposal.

Mo, however, wears an expression of impatience, his glasses in hand as he wipes them clean. "Wait for their surrender? Aren't those fancy cannons of yours able to break the walls?"

Fajii chuckles heartily at Mo's question, shaking his head with amusement. "You think too highly of our cannons, Official Mo! Even Crouching Tigers are not able to break Moukopl walls. They're made with the strongest materials, and their base is too large. Their foundation of stone and wood is plainly unbreakable."

Mo sighs, his expectations tempered by the admiral's explanation. He places his glasses back on his nose, adjusting them with a resigned air. "Is that so..."

Official Mo is a middle-aged man, his features reflecting the weariness and cynicism of someone long accustomed to the bureaucratic intricacies of the Moukopl Empire. He has a lean and somewhat haggard appearance, with sharp, angular facial features.

His hair, once perhaps a deep shade of black, has grayed at the temples and thinned with the passage of time. He wears it meticulously combed, though the effort doesn't entirely conceal the signs of aging.

Mo's most distinctive feature is the pair of wire-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. The glasses are constantly in need of adjustment, which he does with an absentminded habit, as if the act of wiping them clean or pushing them back up provides him with a sense of control in a world filled with chaos.

His eyes, behind the glasses, are a piercing shade of brown, keen and calculating, capable of assessing situations with a quick, analytical glance. Yet, they also hold a perpetual hint of boredom and impatience, as though Mo views the world with a detached cynicism.

As the conversation unfolds on the ship's deck, a lieutenant approaches his captain with haste, a hint of excitement in his voice as he delivers his report.

"Captain! They raised a flag on the furthest docked ship!"

The captain repeats the news to Admiral Fajii, his tone laced with anticipation. "It seems like they're already surrendering, Sir!"

The admiral laughs heartily, praising the strength of his navy. Mo, on the other hand, can't help but feel a pang of disappointment. He had secretly yearned for real combat, a spectacle of might and power that would satisfy his desire for action. Instead, it appears that the rebels of Meln have chosen surrender over a futile battle.

Upon Admiral Fajii's command, the bombardment from the Moukopl fleet comes to a gradual halt, the thundering cannons replaced by an eerie silence that hangs over the city of Meln. The ship that had raised the flag of surrender begins to move slowly, cautiously approaching the imposing Moukopl vessels that surround it.

As the rebel boat draws near, one man stands tall on its deck, his physique sturdy and weathered from a life at sea. He looks every bit the fisherman, with sinewy arms and a sun-worn face. The boat itself is in surprisingly fine condition amidst the imposing Moukopl navy that surrounds it.

With his hand raised in a gesture of peace, the fisherman addresses the Moukopl officials. "Please, stop the fire! We surrender!"

Official Mo, leaning against the ship's railing with an air of boredom, listens to the plea with a condescending sneer. "You idiots should have thought it through, you and your family will be sentenced to death."

Desperation fills the fisherman's eyes as he pleads with Mo. "Please, Official Mo, we were threatened by those pirates. They said they would kill us if we didn't give them the city!"

Mo's tone grows more contemptuous as he continues his rant, oblivious to the man's pleas. "Then you should have died. Don't you understand that it's your duty as a citizen to defend it with your lives? The empire's laws demand unwavering loyalty, even if it means sacrificing everything. Your weakness and treachery have brought shame upon us!"

Mo's harsh words continue to rain down upon the surrendering fisherman, who can only clench his fists in frustration and despair. Each sentence from Mo seems to weigh heavily on the man's conscience, reminding him of the dire consequences of his actions.

As Mo carries on with his tirade, Admiral Fajii stands nearby, his expression carefully neutral despite the burning desire to intercede. He knows he has crucial information to share with Official Mo, but he waits for the right moment to do so.

Finally, as Mo concludes his rant by emphasizing the unworthiness of the fishermen's lives, Admiral Fajii seizes the opportunity to capture the official's attention. He steps closer, clearing his throat before speaking.

"Official Mo," the admiral begins, "there's something you should see. There's no way this man could have single-handedly moved a boat of this size all the way here."

Mo furrows his brow, finally turning his gaze towards the boat in question. He examines it more closely, and realization dawns upon him. The vessel is indeed too large to be maneuvered by a single man, raising questions about the circumstances of its arrival.

"Then what are you waiting for? Search the boat!" Mo barks his command, his voice filled with irritation.

Mo's command to search the boat is relayed swiftly by the admiral to his captain, who in turn instructs his men to board the fisherman's vessel. The tension in the air becomes palpable as the Moukopl crew members approach the boat, their movements careful.

The fisherman, now visibly frustrated and stressed, watches helplessly as the Moukopl crew closes in. Mo's taunts only serve to heighten the man's anxiety, his face etched with worry.

"What are you hiding?" Mo sneers, his voice dripping with contempt. "Anything you attempt is futile!"

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Inside the boat, a cacophony of noises erupts, voices overlapping in hurried whispers. The fisherman's desperation grows as he realizes that the empire's suspicions have been aroused.

Admiral Fajii, sensing the rising tension, orders his archers to raise their bows, ready to respond to any threat that may emerge. The atmosphere is charged with apprehension as the situation teeters on the brink of uncertainty.

Suddenly, from within the bowels of the fisherman's boat, a group of more than twenty men emerges. Their motley appearance suggests a mix of deserting soldiers and pirates. The tallest among them offers a cheer of approval to the fisherman, praising his efforts.

"Well done, my friend," he exclaims, clapping the fisherman on the back. "You played your part admirably, but it seems the Moukopl have sharp noses."

The mood on the deck shifts abruptly as the men from the boat seize the Moukopl crew members who had entered their vessel. In a swift, brutal act, the crew members are dragged out by their feet, lifeless bodies leaving a trail of blood that stains the wooden deck.

With a grim determination, the pirates and deserters proceed to throw the fallen crew members into the sea, their actions accompanied by shouts of defiance and offense directed at the Moukopl navy.

Mo, his face contorted with anger and frustration, directs his scathing words at the group of pirates and deserters who now stand defiantly before him.

"It turns out that on top of having no sense of duty, you people also have no sense of morality," Mo sneers, his voice filled with disdain for their actions.

The tall pirate, undeterred by Mo's harsh words, throws back his head and laughs uproariously. "The shard laughs at the broken pot!" he retorts, a sardonic smile on his face.

He goes on to argue passionately about the corruption and brainwashing he believes plagues the Moukopl Empire. "You officials are so blinded by your arrogance and greed that you've lost sight of what matters," he proclaims. "You force citizens to pay taxes, promising protection, but in the end, they're the ones who have to defend their own homes with their lives."

Mo, his patience wearing thin, counters the pirate's arguments with a dismissive tone. "A pirate like you doesn't pay any taxes, so you're hardly suited to speak of civic duty," he retorts. "In the end, you'll be hanged like every other pirate, your words meaningless."

The pirate, however, only chuckles in response, his eyes holding a glimmer of amusement. "You've missed the point entirely," he says, his voice filled with a conviction that challenges the very foundations of the empire's values. The ideological clash between the official and the pirate intensifies, each side unwavering in their beliefs.

The pirate, undaunted by Mo's dismissal, steps closer, his eyes locking onto the official's with a challenging gaze. "You see, Official Mo," he begins, his voice carrying a hint of frustration, "it's not about whether I pay taxes or not. It's about the principles behind them."

Mo's expression remains one of rigid disapproval, but he allows the pirate to continue speaking.

The pirate's voice grows more impassioned as he explains his perspective. "Citizens pay taxes to ensure their safety and well-being, not to become pawns in your power games. The empire's promise of protection rings hollow when it's the citizens who must bear the brunt of the burden."

Mo, his convictions unshaken, continues to defend the empire's principles. "Citizens pay taxes because it's a blessing to live within the civilized walls of the Moukopl Empire," he asserts confidently. "They should be eternally grateful not to live like dogs outside. The taxes they pay are a small price to pay for the protection and prosperity they enjoy."

The pirate, however, counters Mo's argument with a sly grin. "And how much in taxes are you personally paying, Official Mo?" he inquires, his voice laced with skepticism.

Mo's demeanor falters for a moment, and he hesitates, unable to provide a clear answer. His silence speaks volumes, a tacit acknowledgment that he enjoys the privileges of his position and is not subject to the same burdens as the common citizens.

The rebels' laughter echoes in the air, their amusement at Mo's inability to respond to the pirate's question evident. Mo, growing frustrated and realizing he can't win this argument with a group of savages, resorts to a desperate order.

"Kill them!" Mo commands, his voice edged with anger and defeat. He turns to the admiral, signaling for the archers to prepare to unleash their deadly volleys.

However, the tall pirate, seemingly unfazed by the impending threat of death, begins to laugh once again. "Official Mo," he taunts, his voice filled with a strange mix of mockery and determination. "You talked about duty and morality? Then this is what we are willing to die for."

Suddenly, the rebels raise weapons that are unlike anything Mo has ever seen before—long, slender barrels with wooden stocks. These mysterious devices gleam ominously in the dim light.

Mo's eyes widen in astonishment as he beholds the strange contraptions. They appear otherworldly to him, with their intricate metalwork and enigmatic mechanisms. He can hardly comprehend the nature of these weapons, let alone their potential.

Then, in an instant, the world around Mo erupts into chaos. A deafening roar fills the air as the weapons discharge with a blinding flash of light and smoke. The projectiles launched from the weapons strike with astonishing force, tearing through the air and ripping into the ranks of the Moukopl navy.

Their destructive power is undeniable. Mo watches in horror as his own men fall, their bodies mangled and broken by the deadly projectiles.

The strange and potent weapons, while devastating in their initial assault, reveal a fatal flaw—they can only be fired once. As the smoke clears from the rebels' first volley, they are left with empty, useless sticks in their hands.

With a swift and calculated transition, the pirates abandon their spent weapons and draw their swords. Their movements are fluid and deadly as they board the Moukopl ships, taking the empire's forces by surprise.

In the chaotic melee that ensues, the pirates wield their swords with lethal precision, slashing through the ranks of the Moukopl crewmen who are still recovering from the shock of the attack. Their initial advantage allows them to dispatch several foes with ease.

However, as the Moukopl forces regain their composure and rally together, the tide of the battle begins to turn. Overwhelmed by the sheer numbers and discipline of the empire's troops, the pirates find themselves gradually losing ground.

Despite their formidable skills and the shock value of their weapons, the pirates ultimately succumb to the relentless Moukopl forces. One by one, they are subdued and overwhelmed, their resistance coming to a brutal end.

The decks of the Moukopl ships bear witness to the fierce struggle, and when the dust finally settles, the last of the rebels lie defeated, their daring attack thwarted by the empire's superior numbers and training.

Official Mo, still visibly shaken by the unexpected attack, turns to the admiral with a look of curiosity and intrigue. His voice is tinged with fascination as he inquires, "Sir Fajii, what were those weapons? I've never seen anything like them."

The admiral, a seasoned veteran of the Moukopl navy, wears a knowing expression as he explains, "Those were muskets, Official Mo. Small cannons of sorts, favored by pirates for their ability to create chaos and surprise their enemies."

Mo's eyes widen with intrigue as he absorbs this new knowledge. "But why have I never seen them before? Why isn't the Moukopl Empire using them?"

The admiral nods in understanding. "That's because these weapons are not typically used on the mainland. Only the navy is familiar with them, as they're more common among pirates who roam the seas. And while they may be surprising and frightening, they have their drawbacks. Their range is limited, accuracy is inconsistent, and reloading them takes time. In a large-scale battle, traditional weapons and tactics still prove more effective."

Mo listens attentively, his fascination giving way to a deeper understanding of the complexities of warfare and weaponry. The admiral's words underscore the importance of strategy and practicality in the military, revealing that sometimes the most impressive-seeming weapons may not necessarily be the most effective in the long run.

Mo, still captivated by the potential of the muskets, leans in closer to the admiral. "Preposterous," he mutters, his voice filled with determination. "We should acquire a substantial number of those weapons; they seem quite promising."

The admiral nods, acknowledging the potential advantages of incorporating muskets into the empire's arsenal. "I don't entirely disagree with you," he concedes, "but I lack the authority to implement such a change throughout the entire army."

Mo, undeterred by the bureaucratic obstacles, offers a confident solution. "No worries," he responds with a sly smile. "I'll have a word with His Highness. I'm certain he'll be intrigued by the idea."

The admiral's curiosity shifts to a different topic. "Speaking of His Highness," he begins cautiously, "is he still surrounded by those eunuchs?"

Mo sighs deeply, a hint of frustration in his voice. "Yes, unfortunately," he admits, shaking his head. "Those scoundrels have poisonous tongues, and they've even managed to convince His Highness to grant an audience to one of those northern barbarians. Would you believe it?"

The captain, his attention drawn to the sole survivor of the surprise attack, addresses Admiral Fajii with a question. "By the way, Admiral Fajii," he begins, gesturing toward the fisherman, "what should we do with him?"

The admiral, considering the implications of the survivor's presence, turns to Official Mo for his opinion. "What do you think?" he inquires, looking for guidance.

Mo, seemingly lost in thought, ambles around the deck as if he hasn't heard the admiral's question. His gaze falls upon one of the muskets lying nearby, and he bends down to pick it up, examining it with curiosity.

"Sir Fajii," Mo finally addresses the admiral, his interest piqued, "would you mind showing me how these weapons are reloaded?"

The admiral, recognizing Mo's genuine curiosity, responds, "For that, you're going to need munitions."

Mo, disappointed by the lack of munitions, approaches the surrendering fisherman with purpose. Without warning, he raises the musket and slams it forcefully against the fisherman's head. The man collapses, blood streaming from the wound.

"You were right, Sir Fajii," Mo remarks coldly, his tone devoid of remorse. "Traditional methods are often the best. Hang him."