[Mad Hat Island, Year 1509]
Another year passed.
Four seasons had come and gone—bringing with them rain, heat, dry winds, and long, bitter nights. Every single day had been carved into an unrelenting routine, harder, more technical, sharpening both body and mind like a blade honed on stone.
At Lazhar's weapon shop—doubling as their home in the southern port district of Mad Hat—Bastien and Arthur now stood nearly shoulder-high to the old ex-pirate. Their shoulders had broadened, their bones toughened, and every movement they made was more deliberate, more efficient. Not yet grown men, but no longer the ragged street kids they once were.
That morning, sunlight bathed the cluttered backyard, where empty bullet casings, rusty iron, and torn-up target boards lay scattered. In the middle of it all, Bastien adjusted a small screw through a magnifying lens, assembling a component of his own custom-built long-range rifle.
Arthur sat nearby, munching on an apple while cleaning a fishhook. Meanwhile, Lazhar stirred his coffee on the outer table, wearing his torn old jacket—the one with a ripped shoulder he never bothered to fix.
"That thing's gonna blow up in your hands if you use cheap gunpowder," Lazhar said, not even glancing up.
"I know," Bastien replied calmly, not lifting his gaze. "I've modified the barrel. The pressure will vent out, not backfire."
"Smart-ass," Arthur muttered, tossing the apple core toward the trash barrel.
"You build guns, I build hooks. Same purpose—except mine brings in food."
Lazhar let out a low chuckle. "Your hook's only useful if we live long enough to eat."
"Survival is part of training, isn't it?" Bastien glanced at Arthur. "Remember that night we got lost in the north? Thought we were in a forest but ended up in a pirate scouting camp?"
"How could I forget? I almost pissed myself."
"You did piss yourself," Bastien smirked.
Arthur hurled a bolt at him—missed. "Screw you. I could punch your face in now, y'know!"
"Try me."
"That's enough," Lazhar cut in, standing up. "Today, you'll haul cargo from the harbor to North Hill. Strength training. Two sacks each. And don't forget, we go over ignition systems and double-flame triggers this evening."
"Again?" Arthur groaned. "That stuff fries my brain."
"It's the kind of stuff that'll save your life if your enemy has advanced firearms. You want to live, don't you?"
Arthur grumbled but nodded. Bastien took a deep breath and marked the last page in his self-written tech journal.
They now lived in an unending cycle of training—complex combat forms, precise weapons work, survival in brutal terrain, and sometimes, stealth missions to pirate-held zones just to test nerves and strategy. But amidst it all, there were moments of peace—fishing, hunting, or eating grilled fish on the roof, watching old ships sway in the harbor.
There, under the orange glow of dusk, they were still children.
But only from a distance.
---
Meanwhile, far from the southern docks, deep in the damp, iron-scented alleys of the northeast port, a man cloaked in black scribbled in his notebook. Under his hood, sharp eyes surveyed the island's every corner from afar.
The Marines' eyes remained hidden. They were waiting.
But that day—they knew—was drawing closer.