Can't be intercepted!?

Saint Figarland Garling felt the blood rush to his head, eyes bulging with bloodshot veins, his breathing sharp and ragged.

As the deputy commander of the God's Knights and a firsthand witness to the air raid on Mary Geoise, he understood better than anyone what kind of terrifying upheaval would erupt across the world if the truth got out.

This wasn't just about a few hundred dead Celestial Dragons.

Sure, those fools who lived in the Land of the Gods were technically his kin—but Saint Figarland Garling couldn't care less about their pathetic lives.

What mattered to him was the dignity of the entire Celestial Dragon race, and the absolute authority of the World Government!

If the outside world learned the truth behind tonight's attack on Mary Geoise, the seas would explode in a storm unlike anything seen before.

Someone in this world actually dared to launch a full-scale, direct assault on the Celestial Dragons' sacred land—the very seat of the World Government!

Half of Mary Geoise lay in ruins. Thousands of Noble Celestial Dragons had died under the relentless barrage from the flying fleet... and the so-called strongest military force in the Holy Land hadn't even had the chance to lift a finger.

If that news spread, the supreme dominance the World Government had spent eight centuries constructing would be critically shaken.

If even the untouchable "gods" can bleed, if the unreachable becomes tangible, then the seeds of rebellion and defiance will be planted. They'll take root, grow, and ultimately swell into a world-shaking storm.

If the World Government isn't invincible—if this colossus towering over the world for 800 years isn't as hopelessly powerful as they thought—then why should anyone follow its rules or keep paying the Heavenly Tribute?

Under that kind of storm, even the very foundations of the World Government could begin to crack.

"Damn it!!"

Saint Figarland Garling cursed through clenched teeth, grabbing the law enforcement officer by the collar and yanking him forward, eyes blazing red with fury.

"Have you identified which newspaper he was from!?"

The officer trembled in fear under Garling's murderous glare, stammering,

"H-he was a reporter from the World Economic News Agency!"

"Their president is that damn troublemaker, Morgans!"

Saint Figarland Garling's tone turned cold and menacing.

"I don't care what methods or resources you use. I'm authorizing you to involve the CP department if necessary... Just make sure every bit of information and data is erased!"

"Remember this—do it at any cost!"

A bead of cold sweat rolled down the officer's forehead as he frantically nodded.

"Yes, Saint Figarland Garling-sama!"

...

At almost the same time...

In the New World, on a secluded island.

A uniquely designed ship sat quietly moored along the island's edge. From its mast flew a flag bearing a microphone and seagull emblem, and the hull bore the words "World Economic News Agency."

Countless seagulls swooped in from all directions, landing precisely on the ship's deck. Dressed in black suits, news agency staff moved quickly from the cabin, systematically retrieving letters and intel from the birds and scanning them swiftly.

Suddenly, a sharp gasp broke the calm.

The startled cry sent several messenger seagulls fluttering back into the sky in panic, their wings slicing through the air like a scattered net.

"What the hell is this!?"

"Mary Geoise—the Celestial Dragons' Holy Land—was bombed by a flying fleet!?"

"No way!"

A young staffer stared at the report, so shocked his jaw nearly hit the floor, eyes wide as saucers at the photos and text in his hands.

After a few ragged breaths, he snapped out of it and bolted from the cabin, panic etched across his face as he shouted,

"President Morgans! Something huge just happened!!"

Inside the bustling cabin, the clatter of typewriters and telegraph machines echoed nonstop.

The sudden cry jolted the bird-like man lounging on a leather sofa mid-cigar.

"Something huge?"

He looked bizarre—like a giant upright bird, with a sharp beak, tiny eyes, and white feathers covering his body. His wings resembled human arms.

Despite the outlandish appearance, his attire was sharply refined, like an old-school gentleman.

A black top hat with a red-and-white feather sat atop his head, paired with a light blue shirt, a yellow bowtie, red-and-white plaid trousers, and a flowing black cloak.

No one would guess that this eccentric figure was none other than the most powerful underworld media mogul alive—the president of the World Economic News Agency and the man who held the pulse of global public opinion in his hands... "Big News" Morgans.

"Let me see that!"

Morgans snatched the intel from his subordinate and flipped it open eagerly.

The moment his eyes scanned the contents, he froze as if struck by lightning.

He stood motionless, hollow-eyed, pupils trembling violently.

"President... are you okay?"

"What's going on...?"

"Why isn't he moving?"

"..."

Everyone in the newsroom stared blankly at their boss, utterly confused.

Then suddenly—

"Big news! This is BIG news!!"

Morgans burst out, face flushed with excitement, wings-for-hands trembling uncontrollably.

"Kwahahahaha!! I've been waiting for this day!"

"Rogers Daren... the North Blue Fleet... flying warships... bombing Mary Geoise!"

"Kwahahaha!! You really went and did it... 'King of the North Blue'!"

"You actually called the Five Elders' bluff! Those five decrepit fossils must be losing their minds!"

"That means something insane must've happened on Philseque Island too!"

"Maybe Rogers Daren's already declared war on the Five Elders!"

"..."

Morgans couldn't stop talking, pacing back and forth, wildly gesturing, his eyes glowing with fiery enthusiasm.

"What kind of headline should I use for a scoop this massive?"

Click—

A chilling metallic snap echoed behind him. Morgans stiffened as he felt something cold and unyielding press against the back of his head.

"You're not writing any headline."

A raspy, menacing voice whispered behind him.

"President Morgans... I'm sorry. I can't let you publish this story."

The man in the war correspondent's trench coat clicked off the safety on his pistol, finger tightening on the trigger.

"...This is an order from the World Government."

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