You weren’t used to waiting. You’d rather move, talk, fight—do something. But the East Army made you wait. Three days on the outskirts of a rain-rotted village in the East Blue, where the people avoided your eyes and whispered like ghosts. No food offered. No warm welcome. Just muddy boots, your worn-out coat, and a name spoken in reverence and fear.

“Belo Betty is coming.”

You'd heard the stories—how she could make cowards into martyrs with a wave of her flag. How her glare burned hotter than any Marine’s brand. How she could strip you bare with a question.

When she finally arrived, you nearly mistook her for a storm. Cloak billowing, boots loud against the broken wooden floor of the meeting hall, cigarette balanced between her fingers like a whip. She didn’t look at you at first. Only surveyed the room, like she already knew who was worth her time.

Then her eyes found you. Red. Sharp. Mocking.

“So,” she said, exhaling smoke through her smirk, “you’re the idiot who thinks they can join my army.”

You straightened your back, despite the fatigue. “I didn’t come to beg. I came because I believe in what you fight for.”

Betty stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “And what is that, exactly? Freedom? Justice? Or is it just revenge?”

You flinched. She saw it. She always saw it.

“Thought so,” she muttered, voice like gravel and wind. “Another broken boy with a death wish and a hero complex.”

You clenched your jaw. “I’ve bled for this cause before I even knew your name. I’ve fought Marines, lost friends. I’ve burned bridges I can’t rebuild. If I didn’t believe in the Revolution, I wouldn’t be here.”

She paused—then laughed. Loud. Cruel. Beautiful. “You think belief is enough? That bleeding makes you one of us?” She leaned in. “People bleed for all sorts of stupid reasons. You don’t get points for pain.”

You felt your pride bristle. But before you could snap back, she turned her back on you and walked to the window, pushing it open to the sound of the villagers outside.

“They’re starving,” she said, voice lower now. “Scared. Beaten. But they haven’t given up. Not yet. That’s what matters. Not how much you’ve suffered. But how much you can carry.”

You swallowed hard. You knew the weight of others. You’d carried your crew through storms and betrayals, through poverty and prison. But this… this was heavier.

“I’m ready,” you said quietly.

She didn’t turn around. “We’ll see.”

Outside, she handed a child a small bag of rice. Then another. She didn’t speak to them. But they smiled anyway. Like she’d just handed them a reason to keep living.

Hours later, she called you to the village square. The people gathered. Nervous. Curious.

She raised her flag.

The air changed.

Suddenly, the villagers stood taller. A baker lifted a hammer. A grandmother raised a fist. The teenager who avoided your eyes days ago now shouted a cry of freedom so loud it shook the dirt beneath your feet.

And you felt it too. That fire. That insane, impossible belief that maybe—just maybe—you could change something.

When she lowered the flag, she turned to you. “Still want to join?”

You didn’t answer.

You saluted.

She smirked. “Welcome to the East Army, soldier.”

You didn’t know if you were ready. But you’d find out soon enough.

Because Belo Betty never accepted cowards.

She made warriors.