Chapter 32: Higher Than The Sun - Part 2

The corridor outside the fourth-floor cabins was packed with a throng of crew members, all eagerly awaiting the sound of their names from Matthew’s lips.

Holland struggled to weave through the crowd, turning sideways to slip past the sailors. Many greeted him with respectful nods as he passed.

“Captain! I’ve been working my tail off! Please, assign me to the second shift!”

“Captain! I’ve always wanted to try sake! Give me the second shift!”

“Captain! Put me on the second shift, and I’ll bring you a whole crate of sake!”

Holland rolled his eyes. A bunch of drunks, chasing the nightlife, he thought.

“…and Diz. Everyone I just named is on the first shift.”

Matthew, leaning against the stair railing at the corridor’s end, concluded his announcement. Immediately, a chorus of groans from those assigned to the first shift mixed with the cheers of those landing the second.

“Alright, alright! Enough whining. Second shift, back to work! First shift, meet me in the third-floor supply room for your radios,” Matthew barked before ascending the stairs, trailed by a group of disappointed crew members.

As the crowd thinned and the hallway cleared, Holland finally reached his destination.

Standing by the cabin door was Rain.

“Is Esther going ashore?” Holland asked, the question weighed with apprehension.

Rain nodded, as expected. “Will and Sonia are likely going with her. Don’t worry.”

“I’ve always trusted her,” Holland sighed. “But… is there something you haven’t told me?”

Rain’s face remained impassive. “What are you getting at?”

Holland searched his companion’s eyes, trying to read beyond the stoic expression—futile, as always. “Esther… Did something happen to her?”

The silence from Rain was unwavering. “What exactly are you talking about?”

A voice from his memory crept into Holland’s thoughts—Satoru’s, smug and mocking:

‘I know he’s just as good at killing as I am. Maybe even better. So tell me, Captain—have you ever doubted him?’

Holland shook off the intrusive voice. No, he had never doubted Rain—not after everything they’d endured together.

“Forget it,” Holland said, brushing away his unease. “Do you remember the night we were ambushed?”

Rain nodded. “The night you recklessly navigated through open waters, dodging torpedoes? Didn’t seem like you at all.”

Holland’s eyes narrowed. “It wasn’t me at the helm. It was Esther. She navigated through the Pharaoh’s Graveyard, threading through stone pillars like she had sonar in her head. So, I wondered—does she gain some kind of special ability that you didn’t told me about?”

Rain’s expression remained unreadable, silent.

Holland sighed. “Or… maybe she’s just got a photographic memory. With how she loves rambling about warship legends and samurai folklore, she probably memorized the sonar map before we went radio silent.”

Still, Rain said nothing.

“You still remember the task I gave you, right?”

Rain gave a single, curt nod.

“Good. Handle it.”

With that, Rain turned toward the stairs, and Holland entered the cabin beyond.

Inside, sprawled lazily across the bed, was Satoru. One hand held a book, his eyes locked on the pages without sparing a glance at the visitor.

“You could’ve knocked, Captain,” Satoru muttered, flipping a page. “What if I’d been in the middle of something… private?”

“Where’d you get that book?” Holland asked coldly, his patience thin. He always found the boy’s nonchalance irritating.

“Your ship’s research assistant is quite charming,” Satoru replied with a smirk. “Don’t blame her, Captain. A book can’t kill anyone… unless I get creative.”

Holland snatched the book from Satoru’s hand, stepping closer to the bedside.

Satoru sat up, exhaling an exaggerated sigh. “Why don’t you trust me, Captain?”

Holland’s voice turned dry, laced with sarcasm. “Might be because of the body count you’ve racked up since we met.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re unpredictable, and that makes you dangerous—to my ship and my crew.”

Satoru’s smile sharpened. “So… you’re finally throwing me off this vessel, then?” He cocked his head playfully. “Where are we docked?”

“Kyushu.”

The name hit like a hammer.

The smirk slipped from Satoru’s face, replaced by a rare crease of concern.

Holland caught the flicker of tension. “Something wrong?”

Satoru’s voice flattened. “I won’t set foot on any port under Saipan’s control.”

Holland felt a grim satisfaction at the boy’s discomfort—a first.

“Too bad,” he said curtly. “This is our final port before a long voyage. You’re disembarking tomorrow. Like it or not.”

He tossed the book back onto the bed and turned for the door.

“So, enjoy your last chapter.”

His hand closed over the doorknob—

—and Satoru’s voice, low and warning, cut the air.

“This place isn’t safe,” the boy said. “If I were you, Captain… I’d sail away before nightfall.”

Holland didn’t bother turning back.

He didn’t take warnings from wolves in sheep’s clothing.

Not even this one.

…

"Why are you the one running errands with me this time? Isn’t it usually Matthew?" Hector asked, his tone laced with curiosity. He adjusted the straps of his armor beneath his long trench coat, one hand slipping inside to brush against the trigger of the pistol at his waist.

Holland replied with a casual shrug, his eyes sweeping the bustling crowd with vigilance. “Gotta switch it up sometimes. The three of us can’t all leave the ship at once anyway. Thought you’d appreciate stretching your legs instead of standing guard for a change.”

“And me?” Arthur chimed in, pointing at himself with a puzzled look. “Why drag me along? I’d rather be touring the castle in the city. Do you know Kyushu Castle still has the throne of Sora Nobunaga? The very first king of Saipan who united the entire archipelago and founded the Saipan Empire fifty years ago!”

“Who?” Hector asked, clearly uninterested.

Arthur’s eyes widened at the ignorance. “Sora Nobunaga! The first King of Saipan, who unified the islands and established the Saipan Empire!” He was already gearing up for a historical monologue.

Hector, however, cut him off with a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. You’re desperate to see the damn castle. But we’re not here for sightseeing. You’re the ship’s academic officer—your job is to translate, not play tourist.” He shot Arthur a stern glare, making the younger man shrink back with a sheepish grin.

The three of them walked through the lively Kyushu fish market. Wooden buildings lined both sides of the street, their fronts converted into bustling storefronts or makeshift stalls. Some had been turned into small eateries with bamboo tables and chairs, while others displayed fishing gear with rows of rods hanging from the walls. Several katana shops caught Holland's eye, their blades gleaming behind glass displays. Maybe I should get Rain a new one, he mused. Rain had cared for his current blade so meticulously that it barely showed signs of wear, but he’d had it for years.

The market sprawled behind an ancient fortress that guarded the harbor. The city planning was evident—the buildings’ backs formed alleyways lined with vendors selling everything imaginable. The alley they walked through, however, was thankfully less crowded.

“You think we’ll need to leave in a hurry?” Hector’s sudden question made Holland pause mid-step.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Hector began, his voice low and thoughtful, “Rosa and Esther were assigned to the first shift, and you’re here with me. That leaves Matthew as the only one aboard who can pilot the ship.” Holland could feel Hector’s gaze drilling into his back. “You probably think I’m just some muscle-headed soldier, but I was a ship’s captain before I joined this crew.”

“Then why join this expedition?” Holland deflected smoothly. “I bet you weren’t thrilled when the president handed me the captain’s seat instead of you.”

“I think it was the right call,” Arthur chimed in, only to fall silent when Hector shot him a scowl.

“Heh,” Hector chuckled dryly. “Maybe I did resent you… at first. But now I see why you’re the captain and not me.”

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Holland raised a brow in surprise. He hadn’t expected the proud Hector to say that aloud, let alone in front of Arthur. “And what changed your mind?”

Hector’s expression darkened slightly. “If it had been me, I wouldn’t have brought that girl on board. Even now, I don’t agree with it.” He let out a soft chuckle. “But if you hadn’t brought Esther, we’d have killed that radio operator—and then all of us would’ve died at Giza. She’s the one who devised the plan to extract Rain at the dam. And let’s not forget who piloted the ship through torpedo fire in complete radio silence.”

A proud smile crept onto Arthur’s face. Holland found himself sharing that pride—for his protégé. “You’ve got quite the daughter, Arthur.”

Arthur’s chest puffed slightly with fatherly pride. “Yeah… and quite the troublemaker, too.”

Their shared laughter was soft but genuine.

Then Arthur’s smile faded. “I just… I’m afraid for her,” he admitted, voice quieter. “I promised her mother I’d keep her safe. But instead, I brought her into danger. Rain was right—I should’ve turned down this expedition. I should’ve stayed with her, safe and sound in Under D.C. But I let my dream win out… and dragged her into it.”

Holland opened his mouth to offer some reassurance, but Hector beat him to it.

“You can’t shield her from the world forever,” the big man said. “One day, she’ll have to choose her own path—without you. Teaching her to face the world with her own eyes is the best thing you can do for her.”

Arthur’s gaze softened with gratitude, while Holland looked at Hector with startled amusement.

“Where’d you pull that line from?” Holland teased, his voice dripping with mock surprise.

“Shut it,” Hector grumbled and gave Holland a playful but forceful punch to the shoulder, making him stumble.

The three continued their walk, conversation drifting into lighthearted banter—until Holland turned a corner and found himself facing a dead end. A tall, brick wall, two stories high, sealed the alley, connecting to the buildings on either side. From this angle, he could glimpse the fortress parapets above—and they were empty. No guards.

“A dead end?” Hector raised an eyebrow. “You sure you know where you’re going?”

“Of course I do,” Holland said, stopping before a stack of crates piled against the brick wall. “Kyushu’s fish market doesn’t have dead ends.”

Without further explanation, he pressed both hands against the crates and pushed.

They didn’t budge.

Holland turned back to his companions, flashing a sheepish grin. “Mind giving me a hand?”

“With pleasure,” Hector grumbled, rolling his eyes and stepping forward to help.

Together, they shoved the crates aside, revealing a hidden wooden door. Holland reached into his coat, retrieving a jingling ring of keys—over a dozen, each different, each worn from use.

Selecting one, he slid it into the lock and turned.

Nothing.

Both Hector and Arthur fixed him with a wordless, unimpressed stare.

“I’ll just… head back to the ship,” Arthur muttered.

“Yeah, I’ll check out the castle,” Hector added dryly.

“Faith in your captain is truly touching,” Holland replied, voice thick with sarcasm as he tried another key. No luck.

Arthur, ever helpful, commented, “Maybe you should label them, Captain.”

“Bite me.”

“Do you even know which—”

“Shut up and let me concentrate,” Holland growled, trying a third key.

Click.

The lock turned, and the door creaked open. Holland exhaled in relief, grinning. “Told you I had it.”

The trio stepped inside. It wasn’t an alley—it was a hidden tavern. The room was dim, lit only by a single lantern resting on a long wooden counter. Behind the counter, a bald man with a scar tracing from his scalp, across his eye, and down to his lips polished a glass in stoic silence. Behind him, shelves of liquor bottles glinted faintly in the lantern light.

Hector scanned the place with a scowl. “I thought you said we were here for supplies. This looks like a bar.”

Holland ignored him and approached the counter. He slipped his hand beneath his blood-red scarf, pulling free a necklace. Dangling from it was a small metal tag, his name etched into its surface.

The bartender froze, lowering the glass the moment his eyes landed on the tag. His scarred face lifted, meeting Holland’s gaze with unspoken questions.

“Tell him we want Château Calquemion and Montes wine,” Holland said.

Arthur, blinking, realized his cue and swiftly translated the request into Zen, the local language.

The bartender’s reply was short, his tone flat.

Arthur hesitated, his face paling. “‘He says: You haven’t heard, have you?’”

“Heard what?” Holland’s voice sharpened.

This time, the bartender’s response was longer, his words weighted.

Arthur’s voice trembled as he translated: “‘All operations across the Saipan Archipelago are on hold. Hunters have moved their kill zones westward. Captain… you’ve come at a bad time.’”

A cold edge crept into Holland’s chest. “Why are the bases closed?”

The bartender’s reply came swiftly, grim and heavy with warning:

“‘The King of Saipan is dead. General Miyamoto Kiyomasa has seized control and declared war on the Soviets. With the northern fleet gone to war, Kyushu has declared independence from Saipan. But the Dawn Empire won’t let them go without bloodshed. We expect an invasion to reclaim Kyushu. So, the hunt in this area is postponed.’”

War.

It was already here—sooner than Holland had feared. He’d sensed the unrest from Kyushu’s secession, but a full-scale war with the Soviets?

“Do you know when they’ll strike?” Holland demanded.

The bartender’s reply was curt, his eyes cold:

“‘If I were you, Captain—I’d set sail. Tonight.’”

“Shit,” Hector cursed. “I’m not tangling with a Yamato-class fleet. We’re out of here.”

“But… what about fuel and provisions?” Arthur protested. “They’re not going to invade tonight, are they? Shouldn’t we stock up first?”

Both turned to their captain, awaiting his command.

Holland’s jaw clenched as he weighed their lives against the risk. Then, his voice was firm.

“You two—get back to the ship. Radio the crew, order everyone aboard. Tell Matthew to prepare for immediate departure.”

“What about you?” they asked in unison.

Holland’s eyes glinted in the dim light.

“I’ve got unfinished business.”

With that, he turned and disappeared into the dark.

…

Before Holland stood a towering black ironwood gate, its surface weathered but unyielding. Sheer stone walls flanked the entrance on either side, and the gateposts were carved with the form of an ancient sea beast—serpentine and immense. Its body, armored in matte black scales, coiled with an elegance both graceful and menacing, and its elongated face, reminiscent of a crocodile’s, gaped slightly to reveal rows of dagger-sharp teeth.

Holland recognized the creature from Saipan legend—the Dragon, they called it. It was said to have once circled the entire archipelago with its colossal body. Saipan folklore claimed their ancestors, survivors from the Old World, had slain the beast with the mighty battleship Yamato, paving the way to settle the islands.

The captain of the Washington seized the iron knocker and slammed it against the gate twice. The heavy thuds echoed, and after a pause, the massive doors groaned and began to part, revealing a vast, meticulously arranged zen garden.

A robed attendant, his silk garments embroidered with intricate patterns, bowed but offered no greeting as Holland passed. His boots tapped against the polished stone path leading to Kyushu Castle.

The castle itself loomed ahead—an imposing four-story structure of ironwood and stone. The lower walls, constructed from ancient rock, supported the towering timber structure above. The entire edifice sat atop a five-meter stone platform, making it a fortress within a fortress. Holland couldn’t suppress a weary sigh at the architectural paranoia of the Saipan builders. His foot landed on the first of the many stone steps leading upward.

At the landing before the grand entrance—an ornate, smaller echo of the outer gate—two guards barred his path. Their muscular frames were rigid, right hands resting on the hilts of their katana. One barked a warning in the harsh cadence of Zen, the island tongue.

Holland didn’t break stride. He surged past them, his trench coat flaring. Then, with a swift, brutal kick, he shattered the castle’s intricately carved doors. The explosion of splintering wood and twisted hinges thundered through the chamber, sending shards and dust cascading across the polished floor.

Inside, the grand hall fell deathly silent. Rows of kneeling courtiers and retainers, seated on woven rush mats, turned as one to behold the intruder. At the chamber’s heart, upon a raised wooden dais, rested a throne—a masterwork carving of a dragon, coiled protectively around the seat. Each scale was meticulously etched, no pattern repeating, a testament to centuries-old craftsmanship.

Upon the throne sat an old man.

His white beard cascaded to his chest, and his long silver hair, bound into a ponytail, was crowned with a golden circlet fashioned into the shape of a dragon’s head.

The gathered assembly gawked in stunned disbelief, but the man on the throne rose abruptly, his finger thrusting forward as he shouted an order in Zen.

The guards lining the walls sprang into action. Blades hissed free of their scabbards as they closed in.

Holland reacted without hesitation. He sprinted forward, his body slipping like a shadow between sweeping arcs of steel. A katana flashed down; he sidestepped, the wind of its swing brushing his coat. Another guard tried to draw, but Holland’s shoulder slammed into his ribs, sending him crashing to the floor, winded and stunned.

The path to the throne was clear.

With a final bound, Holland seized the man on the dais, spun him around, and pressed the cold muzzle of a revolver against his temple.

A dreadful stillness claimed the room.

Every guard froze mid-step. The courtiers shrank back, their faces pale and aghast. Holland, his lips curling into a razor-thin smirk, surveyed their fear with a predator’s satisfaction.

“Your security’s gotten sloppy,” he said in English, his voice a purr of mockery. “So… since when did you seize the throne from Wasaru, Genzo?”

The old man’s breath hitched. His voice, when it came, was rough and hoarse. “Who… who are you?”

Holland tilted his head, amused. “You don’t recognize me?” He pressed the revolver harder against Genzo’s skull. “After everything I did to save your damned country?”

Genzo’s eyes, dull with age, suddenly sharpened with recognition. “You… The Hunter…? What are you doing here?”

Holland’s voice cooled to steel. “That’s my question. Why did you declare independence from Saipan? And more importantly—” his eyes flicked to the assembly, “—why the hell is your coastline undefended? You think the Empire will ignore Kyushu just because they’re busy with the Soviets?”

The old man’s lips trembled, and his voice cracked with urgency.

“It wasn’t my choice! It was Wasaru’s! He struck some cursed deal with the Soviets. Something about their technology… something that could—could bring his son back from the dead! The man’s gone mad these past years—lost in delusions, chasing shadows of his child. He doesn’t even recognize me anymore!”

Genzo’s voice grew strained, desperate. “I tried to undo it. I sent envoys to Saipan, tried to explain—tried to stop this! That this was the madness of a grieving man! I thought if we showed no hostility—no defenses—they’d listen. They’d understand.”

Holland’s eyes, cold as the abyssal sea, never left the trembling man’s face. “You fool,” he whispered, his voice laced with venom. “You haven’t heard, have you?”

Genzo’s voice faltered. “Heard… what?”

“The King of Saipan is dead,” Holland hissed. “The throne belongs to General Kiyomasa now. And by Saipan law, if the king dies without an heir, the ruler of the second-largest territory—” his lips twisted into a smirk “—inherits the crown.”

The horror in Genzo’s face was raw and immediate.

“You think Kiyomasa’s fleet is sailing here to negotiate?” Holland continued, each word a nail driven home. “They’re coming to raze this island to the ground. They’ll burn Kyushu, slaughter everyone who could even dream of claiming the throne—including you. And you—” his voice dropped into a whisper of contempt “—chose to do nothing.”

Genzo’s face drained of all color. His lips quivered as he stumbled through the words. “Then… then what should I do?” he rasped, his voice a threadbare plea. “Tell me… Hunter… What can I do?”

Suddenly—a tremor.

The earth beneath their feet shuddered violently. The great crystal chandeliers overhead swayed, their metal frames chiming discordantly as dust and grit rained from the ceiling. Beyond the walls, the unmistakable chorus of chaos erupted—cries of alarm, commands bellowed, and the distant boom of cannon fire.

The doors burst open once more, and a guard, his armor stained with sweat and his voice hoarse from shouting, staggered into the chamber.

“Saipan fleet!” he cried, terror cracking his voice. “The Saipan fleet is upon us!”

Holland’s arm lowered, the revolver disappearing back beneath his coat.

He turned on his heel, the tails of his blood-red scarf sweeping the floor as he walked away from the stunned Genzo.

“Get your people off this island,” he ordered, his voice sharp and final.

Genzo’s voice trembled from behind. “You—what are you going to do?”

At the threshold, Holland paused.

His lips pulled into a cold, merciless grin.

“Me?” His voice was a whisper, edged with fire and ruin.

“I’m going to war.”