[ Somewhere in the Cursed Sea ]

On a rocking, shabby sloop with torn sails, the air is thick with commotion.

Two drunken sailors are locked in an argument over a bottle. The taller one clutches it tightly, keeping it out of reach of his shorter rival.

"You've had enough, Rigby," says the taller man, before taking another swig.

"You bastard! Give it here, Finn!" Rigby growls, straining harder to grab the bottle.

The two drunks were so engrossed in their "battle" over the bottle that they didn't notice the massive shadow creeping over their tiny sloop.

"Finn, Finn… there's something in this booze. It's like… everything's going dark," Rigby muttered in an irritated voice, rubbing his eyes furiously.

Finn, still holding the bottle, reached out and clapped a hand on Rigby's shoulder.

"Hey, that's not the drink," he said, spinning Rigby around with force toward the source of the shadow.

What loomed above their little boat wasn't a stormcloud. It was the towering bulk of a massive warship. Its sails were pristine white, and from its tallest mast, a flag snapped in the wind: a white banner with a blood-red cross, the emblem of the Navar Empire. The two men froze, their drunken stupor giving way to wide-eyed panic.

"Finn! It's.. what the hell are they doing? They're not stopping!" Rigby stammered, his voice climbing in pitch as the warship hurtled toward them, showing no sign of slowing down.

"Hey! HEY!" Finn bellowed, waving his arms frantically toward the looming vessel. But even as a figure peeked briefly over the warship's railing, nothing changed.

Rigby turned, eyes wild. "We have to jump! Now!" he yelled.

As the warship's bow crashed into their sloop, splitting it cleanly in two, both men leapt into the sea. The sound of splintering wood and shattering crates roared around them.

Finn surfaced first, sputtering and clutching a loose plank.

"Those bastards!" he yelled as he hauled himself onto the makeshift raft. Moments later, Rigby broke the surface, coughing and splashing toward Finn, who extended a hand to pull him up.

The warship groaned to a halt, its massive bulk now eerily still in the water. A rope ladder unfurled from its side, landing dangerously close to where the two men floated.

"Hey, a ladder," Rigby said, pointing at it.

Finn gave him a skeptical look but nodded. "Better than drowning, I guess."

Together, they swam toward the ladder. Rigby struggled, his bulk weighing him down, but Finn gave him a shove upward as they climbed. Near the top, Rigby nearly slipped, his foot catching on the rope, but Finn grabbed him by the back of his shirt and hauled him up.

They tumbled onto the warship's deck, gasping for breath, only to be surrounded by sailors in spotless white uniforms. Dozens of cannons lined the deck, and crew members bustled with precise efficiency.

One of the uniformed men, tall and stern-faced, stepped forward and barked an order. "Take them to the admiral's quarters".

Before Finn or Rigby could protest, they were seized by strong hands and marched across the deck.

The size of the warship was overwhelming, its rows of artillery and sharp-dressed crew reminding them of just how small their shabby sloop had been.

Before long, they were brought to a set of imposing doors. A sailor rapped on the wood sharply before slowly pushing them open.

Finn and Rigby were shoved inside, their eyes adjusting to the dim light of the admiral's quarters.

The room was immaculate, filled with maps, instruments, and a heavy oak desk. Behind it sat a figure in a gleaming white coat, her face partially obscured by shadow.

As she shifted slightly, the light caught her features: a sharp, striking face framed by flowing white hair that seemed to shimmer like frost. Her piercing gray eyes held a cold, calculating gaze that seemed to strip away every defense.

Admiral Clea, the White Death, looked up from her papers with an air of quiet menace.

"Well," she said, her voice low and dangerous, "what have we caught here?"

"Pirates, my lady! They tried to sneak aboard and steal supplies. Their small boat has already been sunk, and we've brought them here for you to decide their fate," one of the sailors declared, standing at attention with his fist pressed to his chest.

Rigby and Finn exchanged a wide-eyed glance, their disbelief clear, but neither dared to say a word.

Admiral Clea made a soft sound, as she stood abruptly. In one smooth motion, she drew her gleaming silver saber. The blade flashed through the air and stopped just shy of Finn's neck.

"Where is Greenskull?! Where is he hiding?!" she demanded, her voice as sharp as the weapon itself.

Finn's eyes widened in terror. He hadn't even seen her move, and the sudden cold touch of steel at his throat was more than his rattled nerves could handle. With a gurgled gasp, his knees buckled, and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

Rigby, still reeling from what had just happened, stared at the admiral in horror. It took him a moment to find his voice. "We—we don't know him, ma'am! We've never even met him! I swear, we don't know anything about him!"

Clea's piercing eyes bore into him as if trying to extract the truth through sheer force of will. For a long, tense moment, the cabin was silent except for the creak of the ship and the faint rustle of charts on her desk.

Finally, she sheathed her saber with an audible click and sat back down as if nothing had happened. Adjusting her coat, she cleared her throat. "Lock them up. When we dock at Porto Bay, they'll be handed over and publicly executed like every pirate should be."

Her tone was calm, almost indifferent, as though she were discussing routine maintenance on the ship rather than two men's impending deaths.

The sailors didn't hesitate. They grabbed the still-dazed Rigby and Finn's limp body, dragging them both toward the brig.

As they were hauled out of the admiral's quarters, Rigby couldn't help but glance back one last time. Clea was already bent over a set of maps, her expression unreadable, as if the encounter had been nothing more than a fleeting distraction...

[ In the Admiral's Quarters ]

"Shall we change course to Porto Bay?" asked a tall man dressed sharply in a pristine uniform, his bearing formal and confident—perhaps the ship's captain.

"No," Admiral Clea replied, her voice even and firm. "The plan remains the same. I want to search the northern waters of the Cursed Sea. He couldn't have just vanished… hah," she let out a dry chuckle and leaned her chin against her hand, clearly lost in thought.

"But, my lady," the captain hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, "venturing that far will bring us dangerously close to the world's end. Once the thick fog appears, the crew will grow uneasy—they know the giant stone spires rising from the depths lie ahead. They'll realize we're near the End of the World."

Clea tilted her head slightly, her expression unreadable, before a faint smirk tugged at her lips. "A little superstitious, are we?" she asked, her tone tinged with amusement.

"It's not superstition," the captain said, his voice firm but measured. "Hundreds of ships have been lost in those waters. I understand your…" he paused, searching for the right words, "your obsession with Greenskull clouds your otherwise sharp judgment, but—"

The sentence died unfinished as Clea moved like a phantom. Her silver saber flashed through the dim light of the room, and the next moment, the captain's head separated cleanly from his shoulders, tumbling to the floor with a wet thud. Blood sprayed across the immaculate desk, pooling in the grooves of the map she'd been studying.

"—you will not speak to me like that," Clea said coldly, her eyes fixed on the lifeless gaze of the severed head. For a moment, the room was utterly still, save for the sound of blood dripping onto the floorboards.

She gave a soft tsk, wiped her blade clean with a cloth she plucked from the desk, and then snapped her fingers sharply.

The door opened almost immediately, and a sailor stepped in. His expression didn't falter as his eyes fell on the captain's body slumped on the floor, nor did he seem shocked by the crimson-streaked mess. His composure suggested this wasn't the first time he'd witnessed such an event.

"Inform Grygori that he's the new captain," Clea said calmly as she slid her saber back into its sheath. "And clean this up."

"At once, Admiral," the sailor replied with a crisp salute, stepping back to relay her orders and fetch a crew to deal with the remains.

Clea sat back down as if nothing had happened, adjusting her chair and returning her focus to the bloodstained map. The corners of her lips curved upward in a faint, unsettling smile. "No one gets in my way," she murmured to herself, tapping a finger against Greenskull's name scrawled on the parchment before her...