Avast, ye scurvy land-lubbers and ink-stained wretches! Captain Iron Ink here, reporting from the salt-sprayed deck of the *Gilded Hypocrisy*, where the air smells of old parchment and fresh treachery. The high courts of the Continent are at it again, trying to scrub the blood off their silk waistcoats while still clutching the stolen cutlass. They speak of international law like it’s a sacred parchment handed down by the gods of the sea, yet they treat it like a tavern bill they can ignore when the grog gets too expensive or the company too rowdy. You can’t claim to hate the smell of salt while you’re standing on a stolen deck, and you certainly can’t condemn the plunder of one port while you’re still counting the doubloons from the last three you sacked! It’s a bit of a laugh, if it weren't so bloody tragic.

The 'Old World' admirals are trying to play a game of selective memory that would make a ghost ship blush with shame. They point their spyglasses at the East and cry 'foul play' and 'sovereignty' with tears in their eyes, yet when the winds blow toward the lands they once bled dry for sugar and gold, they suddenly go blind in both eyes. This systemic double standard is a rot in the hull, mates. You cannot condemn colonialist legacies only when it suits your current trade winds or when the pirate in question isn't flying your own company’s colors. If you’re going to play the saint, you can’t keep a privateer’s commission in your back pocket for rainy days. The world isn't an 'à la carte' buffet where you pick the human rights you like and leave the ones that cost you a trade deal.

'It’s a buffet of bitterness!' cackled Quartermaster Quibble, sharpening a rusty hook against the ship’s rail. 'They want the à la carte menu of justice—a side of liberty for their favorites, but a main course of silence for the poor souls in the global steerage.' Even Lord Lying-Lungs of the High Admiralty was heard muttering in the charts room that 'certain territories have a different vintage of suffering,' as if the weight of an iron chain feels any lighter depending on which empire forged the link. It’s a mockery of the global order, and the crew in the lower decks—the ones who actually feel the lash and smell the bilge—are starting to notice the ink on the maps is starting to run thin. They see the map is red, but not from the sunset.

What does this mean for the high seas? It means the compass is shattered, and every captain with a cannon thinks they can rewrite the Laws of the Sea on the fly. When the great powers treat historical accountability like an optional tip for a cabin boy, the rest of the world stops looking at the lighthouse for guidance and starts looking at their own gunpowder stores. We’re sailing headlong into a fog where 'right' is whatever the biggest galleon says it is, and that’s a recipe for a whirlpool that’ll swallow us all. The trust is gone, sunk to the bottom of the locker alongside the promises of the last century.

So, keep your 'à la carte' condemnations, ye powdered wigs and lace-cuffed merchants! The tide is turning, and the bill for the last four hundred years of 'civilizing' is finally coming due. You can’t cherry-pick your morality like a crate of unspoiled oranges while the rest of the hold is full of rats and rot. Either the law applies to every flag on the water, or it’s just geopolitical posturing meant to distract us while you pick our pockets for the last of our copper. Belay your hypocrisy, or prepare to walk the plank of history while the rest of the world watches with arms crossed!