Chapter 7 - The Man of The Sea “Marin L. Daley” A Novel Ver.

One Year Before the Trials

15,000 feet beneath the continent — WUG Underground Tribunal Chamber

Silence ruled the chamber.

An empty courtroom stretched banners of the World United Government are hanging. Two officers dragged a man down the aisle—his head bagged, wrists chained, steps echoing in the hollow dark.

They threw him into a metal chair before the judges’ bench.

The engraved plate read: MARIN L. DALEY.

The bag came off with a sharp scrape of fabric. Daley exhaled, blinking against the floodlights. His eyes adjusted quickly—expression calm, cold, barely irritated.

Three judges loomed before him, elevated behind the bench: one center, two flanking. All wore the same detached confidence.

“Mr. Marin Lameer Daley,” the center judge began.

“Do you know why you’re here?”

Daley tugged once at the chains. They rattled.

“Was that supposed to be a joke? I don’t remember signing up to be abducted.”

“You’re here,” the judge replied regal and smoothly, “because the government trusts you. You share its vision. You’ve been chosen to execute it.”

Daley’s lip curled. “You bagged me, chained me, and called it trust? What’s stopping me from breaking free right now and killing you all? Would that count as a peace treaty?”

The judges didn’t flinch. The one on the right spoke next, tone clipped and superior.

“There’s no need for dramatics. You’re not a prisoner. You may leave if you wish. But by now, you should know how we handle classified matters.”

Daley grunted, unimpressed. The room’s air tightened.

“Then tell me why I’m here.”

The third judge cleared his throat and lifted a paper embossed with the WUG seal.

“We’ve received orders from the hands: To start the First Phase, the relocation of all F-Class citizens. Marin Daley, you are appointed as Chief of this operation. You will ensure devastation across all five districts.”

Daley’s mind sharpened. A mass relocation? Impossible. And they expect me to lead it?

The judge continued reading.

“A year from today—during the Trials—the mission begins. Recruits will assist unknowingly.”

The center judge leaned forward, eyes glinting.

“I’ve heard the blessed boy joins the academy next year. You’ll have plenty of help.”

Then, quieter—almost affectionate:

“You’re one of us, Daley. Power creates order. You understand that, don’t you?”

Daley didn’t answer.

“And if anyone stands in your way,” the judge added, smiling faintly,

“you have clearance to kill them.”

Present Day

F-Class District 3 — Rainstorm

The man once known as Marin L. Daley stood in the center of a flooded street, back turned to the bodies around him.

Four recruits—24, 37, 64, 71—all dead laying on the the asphalt holes on their chest, craters forming beneath their weight.

Rain poured relentlessly, washing blood into the gutters.

The Man of the Sea.

“This plan,” Daley murmured, voice flat, “should’ve taken effect long ago.”

Steam rose from his skin as pressure gathered around him.

“…Hell’s Whistle.”

The air buckled.

A shockwave thundered outward, splitting the street like glass. The atmosphere itself seemed to kneel beneath him.

Weight equal to half a million tons pressed down on everything within reach.

Elsewhere

A cracked WUG propaganda poster clung to a concrete wall.

The Founder’s Son stared from the paper—expression empty, eyes cold. Rain streaked his printed face, bleeding the ink into mud.

Across the poster, someone had scrawled in red paint:

THEY’RE ALWAYS WATCHING.

⸻

Above the Storm

Through the clouds, a comet of flame tore downward—Sergeant Kert Kingsley.

His flame burned red-hot, ripping through the rain as he dove.

Wait for me, he thought. I’m almost there.

Below, the F-Class District flickered faintly under the storm’s shroud.

Later

F-Class District 4 — Ruined Streets

The rain hadn’t stopped. Lightning split the horizon, revealing a cratered street.

Recruit 32 lay unconscious in the mud.

In the distance, footsteps approached—measured, deliberate, leaving faint trails of flame in the rain.

Kert Kingsley emerged from the haze, drenched, trembling beneath restraint.

In his hand, he picked up a shield engraved with a single name.

“…Sora.”

⸻

Memory

A photograph: four young recruits outside the WUG Academy gates.

Sora and Maki grinned in the center, arms around each other.

Mark leaned aside, half-smiling.

Kert looked half-annoyed, half-proud, caught off guard in the moment.

CHARLES SORA – Recruit 100 – Joyful

MAKI Y’BARBO – Recruit 11 – Playful

MARK Y’BARBO – Recruit 9 – Irritated

KERT KINGSLEY – Recruit 1 – Annoyed

From strangers… to siblings.

The day they joined the academy.

Present — Rain Returns

The storm drowned the world.

Sora lay motionless in the floodwater, wound hole blood mixing into the current.

Kert begins to step forward to him.

Each footstep echoed through the storm.

Kert reaches his body and stands frozen, clutching his brother’s shield to his side. His face—pale, grief-shattered.

“How could I let this happen…?”

“You were all I had left.”

He knelt, placing his hat over Sora’s still face.

“If I’d been here sooner… maybe never left… Brother.”

The rain whispered over them, soft and endless.

Then Kert stood. Straightened. The flame returned this time extremely hotter-PURE FLAME.

White fire engulfed him—every nerve, every breath. His body turned to dark armor and ash-like, a vessel forged in grief.

He fastened the shield to his back.

“Allow me,” he said quietly, “to borrow your shield.”

The Final Trade.

⸻

Flame exploded into the storm—then vanished.

Only the echo of light remained.

A cracked watch slipped from above, striking the ground beside Recruit 32’s unconscious body. The Sergeant’s watch blinked weakly beside it.

⚠ WUG ALERT — DISTRICT 4 EMERGENCY

All available units — immediate response required.

The beacon pulsed red through the rain.

⸻

Across the District

A white shockwave rippled through the air!

An instant later, two bodies crashed through a crumbling home.

Inside, Yota pinned Artemis against a shattered counter, forearm pressed to his collarbone.

Blood dripped from Artemis’s temple. Despite the blow, he smirked.

“Who the hell are you?” he rasped. “Actually—how dare you?”

Yota’s fist cracked across his face before the taunt could finish, Artemis’s head snapped sideways.

“I should be the one—!” Yota roared.

Yota turns, seizing Artemis by the collar, and hurling him straight through the wall.

THRAAASH!! KRSHHHHH—!!

Yota finishes “—asking you!!”

Artemis’s body crashed into bedroom, crumpling beside a shattered dresser.

Through the gaping hole, Yota steps in calm.

“If I hadn’t come,” Yota says, voice steady,

“you’d have killed him. Wouldn’t you?”

To his left a closet door—barely open.

Inside, a father and mother huddled with their two children. Faces streaked with tears and trembling hands pressed over the children’s mouths to keep them quiet.

The father leaned close, voice barely a breath.

“…shhh…”

The moment hung there—terror and mercy sharing the same air.

To be continued…