South Sea, on North Island, in the Presidential Office

A tall man in his thirties stood before a wall-sized map of the Southern Sea, eyes fixed on the 13 islands marked in different colors.

Broad-shouldered, dressed in an old Orbital Force uniform, his gray brows were drawn together into a single hard line. His eyes burned like steel. His name was Mongo, the first President of the Southern Archipelago Federation, and Supreme Commander of its navy.

Behind him stood his Chief of Staff, Chalas, also head of the Presidential Office, and Mongo’s most trusted aide.

The Federation had existed for barely two months. Its organization was still rough, its parliament not yet functional, and yet the war with Shelter 70 waited for no one.

For the time being, the Navy reported directly to the President’s office, and most officials held dual naval ranks.

Chalas’s tone was grim as he reported, “Shelter 70’s submersibles continue to attack our ships. Yesterday, another freighter was sunk two hundred nautical miles east of North Island. 15 crew members were lost. Our rescue ships arrived too late, the attackers had already vanished.”

Mongo said nothing, his eyes locked on the red circle in the map’s upper corner and the small number beside it.

That freighter had carried little cargo, just supplies and construction gear. Among the crew were five geologists and biologists, and two security guards.

Their mission had been to beach the vessel along the unclaimed northwest coast of the Ocean Edge Province and establish a research outpost.

The goal was twofold. It was to search for freshwater and mineral deposits for future settlements, and study the true situation of the Ocean Edge Province, to see what the so-called Kingdom of Heaven of the Torch Church really looked like.

Mongo had never fully trusted the Torch Church’s promises. Even after visiting the shore himself and seeing the supposed harmony between man and nature, he preferred independent verification.

If his own experts could conduct fieldwork, even on the outskirts, they could better control the technology exchange, rather than be led around by the Torch Church.

But someone clearly didn’t want that to happen. It was their third freighter sunk.

All evidence pointed to Shelter 70, but Mongo still harbored doubts.

He knew the people of Shelter 70 well. Like all blue coats their defining trait was confidence, bordering on arrogance. That arrogance came from the memory of their lost civilization, its knowledge, and its methods. They believed absolutely in their intelligence.

To them, the Torch Church’s ideas were less frightening than laughable. Even without a better solution, they were certain the Torch Church’s methods would fail.

For 20 years, the Southern survivors’ ports had never closed to the north. A man that convinced of his own superiority doesn’t waste time silencing those he considers delusional. So why attack research vessels?

To sink trade ships was one thing, but to destroy science expeditions? That made no sense.

Three times in a row, and all off normal routes. It was no accident.

“... Looks like they intend to fight this war to the bitter end,” Mongo finally said.

Chalas nodded gravely. “Indeed. Their attacks are growing broader, more indiscriminate. We must prepare for a prolonged conflict.”

Mongo turned to him. “Suggestions?”

Chalas cleared his throat carefully. “On our own, we can’t win this. Their submersibles strike unseen. At this rate, we’ll have no ships left in two months. They can stay hidden in their shelter indefinitely while we can’t live in the sea. Prolonging this war only favors them.”

He hesitated, then continued. “The Torch Church has offered to take over the underwater settlement near Shelter 70, to establish a safe zone there. We could delegate the Coral City district to their care. That would secure the nearby current generators, underwater cables, and desalination plants.

“If we can stabilize power and water supply, it’ll boost the morale of our island federation.”

Coral City, the 14th settlement of the Federation, and the only one directly under Shelter 70’s control, lay five kilometers from the wreck of the Heavenly Court Space Station.

Its 30,000 residents had once been researchers and technicians, overseeing energy systems and studying a Hive.

When war broke out, Shelter 70 severed all ties, blowing up current generators and cutting power and oxygen to Coral City, nearly killing everyone inside. The Federation had rescued them in time and relocated the survivors to the northern islands.

Coral City was the closest settlement to the Hive, full of usable infrastructure and research data.

The Torch Church wanting to take it over was unsurprising, they had been eyeing it for years.

Mongo raised an eyebrow, half amused. “How generous of them.”

Chalas bowed slightly. “I doubt it’s out of kindness, sir. The site’s abandoned, if leaks or collapses occur, it’ll soon be uninhabitable. Letting the Torch Church restore it relieves us of the burden, and if Shelter 70 attacks a facility under their protection, it’ll be seen as an act of war against them. For us, we have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

Mongo’s tone remained flat. “Our quarrel with Shelter 70 is ours to settle. Coral City is none of their concern.”

Seeing the President’s firm stance, Chalas could only sigh and bow his head. “Understood, sir. It was only a suggestion.”

Mongo turned back to the map. “Anything else to report?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on.”

Chalas straightened his back and spoke. “The New Alliance’s airship has arrived southwest of us, over the Baiyue Strait.”

Mongo’s eyes narrowed. He had heard of them, a rising faction from the River Valley Province, 2,000 kilometers away. Only a few traders from Silvermoon Bay had ever been there, and their tales were inconsistent.

“What do they want?”

“Unclear for now,” Chalas admitted. “Governor Channing of Ring Island reports they seem to be building a settlement near the strait. About 300 people arrived yesterday, and we don’t know how many are left today.”

Mongo couldn’t help but chuckle, coughing into his fist.

Chalas smiled faintly too. “They haven’t shown hostility, but their motives seem... ambiguous. This morning, they sent a telegram through Ring Island’s government.”

“Let me see it.”

Chalas handed over the paper.

Mongo scanned it briefly. It was short. It was a friendly greeting to their neighbors, and a declaration of territorial ownership over the area.

He barely took it seriously. A month ago, he had asked the Torch Church to establish a cooperative test site on Baiyue Province’s east coast. The Torch Church refused, citing complicated conditions.

Apparently, neither the Torch Church nor Shelter 70 could handle that land. He doubted some distant newcomers could do better.

And then he saw the telegram’s signature, and burst out laughing again.

“... ‘French Fry Harbor’? What kind of name is that?”

Are they serious?

Chalas smirked. “Sounds like a joke.”

“Maybe so,” Mongo said, handing it back. “But let’s be polite. Send a reply. ‘Wish you lots of fun in the jungle. If you don’t mind, build a few more settlements while you’re at it, don’t be shy.’”

He paused before a smirk formed on his face. “And when you deliver it, send my regards to their administrator.”