Kapitel 268: Chapter 268
What had once been a game, a world of fiction, was now dangerously real—and these figures were unlike any I'd even heard of, were they really part of the old world that had just vanished into history.
Their bounties were staggering. Even the lowest of them sat at nearly 3.7 billion berries—an amount that would have made them legends two decades ago. Only Rocks D. Xebec had ever soared to such heights and beyond in that era. And now, these three stood at the center of it all.
"Have we managed to gather anything else about these three?" I turned to Lucci, my expression taut. I needed answers, not just numbers.
"Not much, but we do have some records that we were able to collect from back home" Robin interjected. Her voice, calm and steady as always, cut through the tension on the deck as she shuffled through a stack of notes. "These are the latest intel just arrived from Dressrosa."
She adjusted her reading glasses and began, "First, there's Dorian LaCasse." Her tone darkened as she read his name.
"Once part of a prestigious merchant family, Dorian was well-respected in high society until he vanished from the public eye. When he resurfaced, it was not as the merchant heir, but as a ruthless pirate, He is the weilder of the Logia-type Abura-Abura no Mi—a devil fruit that allows him to transform into and manipulate oil at will."
Little Robin's eyes narrowed slightly, her brow furrowing as she went through the report. "It seems like his reputation precedes him in the New World and beyond. Dorian has left behind entire fleets reduced to smoldering wrecks, with oil-slicked corpses floating in his wake. His cunning, combined with the unpredictable nature of his powers, has made him a figure of dread both for pirates and Marines alike. He's known to enjoy playing with his prey—turning battlefields into oil-soaked death traps."
I clenched my fists, another Logia devil druit that I was not aware of had surfaced again. Manipulating oil might seem mundane compared to other Logia powers, but in the right hands—and with the right cruelty—it was more than enough to turn any confrontation into a massacre.
Robin continued, her voice shifting slightly. "Next, there's Izumi Arakaki, the Crimson Dragon. She hails from Wano Country and is the user of the Ryu Ryu no Mi, Model: Crimson Wyvern. Her ability to transform into a massive, winged dragon grants her both flight and fire, but it's her raw strength that sets her apart."
"Two Admirals," she paused, her voice almost showing signs of doubt. "Izumi singlehandedly took down two Marine Admirals during her reign of terror. She's not just powerful; she's tactical, always striking where it hurts the most. Her strategic mind, combined with the devastation of her dragon form, has left entire fleets in ruin."
I could feel the weight of those words, maybe even Robin felt it was exaggerated—taking down two Admirals wasn't something even the current Emperors could achieve easily. This wasn't just brute strength.
Izumi Arakaki was someone I needed to keep an eye out for because cornering and killing a Marine Admiral was no easy feat. She must be a force to reckon with on every level.
"If she's back in the game," I muttered with a glint in my eyes, "the New World may never be the same again."
"And finally," Robin paused, "we have Scarlett Lachlan. Or as she's known in the pirate circle: the infamous Bloodsteel." She glanced at me, gauging my reaction.
"Her origins trace back to the East Blue, and she shares the same hometown with none other than the legendary Marine hero, Monkey D. Garp. But what many don't realize is that her full name is Scarlett D. Lachlan—a carrier of the infamous 'D.'"
That information put a plaful smile on my face. Another monster from East Blue; sure, let's keep calling it the weakest of all seas. The 'D' lineage was always tied to legends, to individuals who shaped the world, for better or worse.
"Scarlett is the user of the Magnet-Magnet Fruit, giving her the power to manipulate magnetic forces. In battle, this ability becomes a nightmare. She can rip weapons from her enemies' hands, turn entire battlefields into chaotic storms of metal, or collapse ships with a thought. And if that wasn't enough," Robin added, "she wields Conqueror's Haki, strong enough to bend even the most hardened wills."
"Wait… Scarlett fought Xebec?" I asked, incredulous as my gaze fell on that particular line on the report.
Robin nodded gravely. "She was the final obstacle on Xebec's path to becoming the absolute overlord of the New World. Though he ultimately bested her, the fact that she stood against him—when no one else dared—speaks to her strength and cunning."
"And yet," Robin continued, her voice lowering as if sharing a secret, "she started her journey as a Marine shipwright, of all things. Many believe her years within the Marines gave her the insight she needed to outmaneuver them time and time again. In the years following her defection, she's carved a bloody path, showing no hesitation in unleashing her unique blend of brutal efficiency and cold intellect."
Scarlett, Izumi, Dorian—these weren't mere pirates. These were legends in their own right, returned to the spotlight after years in the shadows.
"So," I murmured, "they've been gone for two decades, but why now? What's bringing them back? And even more importantly, how did the World Government convince them to make them join the Shichibukai..?"
"We don't know," Robin admitted, "but given their reputation and years of absence, they likely haven't built a strong force in their absence. They might lack the crews they once commanded."
I nodded, still deep in thought. Three figures of this magnitude reemerging wasn't just coincidence, there was something that was linking all three—it was a sign. A shift in the balance of power, and one that could tip the scales in ways the world hadn't seen since the Pirate King's era.
"We need more information," I said, glancing toward the maps spread across the table. "Their bounties, their power, their histories—it's all meaningless if we don't know what they're planning. We can't let ourselves be caught off guard."
Robin sighed, setting down the last of her notes. "All we have right now are rumors and fragmented intel. But with figures like these… rumors are dangerous enough."
The weight of her words settled into the room like a fog. There was no telling how much chaos these three would bring. But one thing was certain—if we didn't move quickly, we would lose all the advantage that we had gained over the years.
"I want their movements monitored closely. If they even show a remote interest in Dressrosa or the Donquixote family, I need to know immediately. Is that understood?" My gaze shifted to Miyamoto, who gave a crisp nod of acknowledgment, his sharp eyes already focused on the task at hand.
"Understood, Ross Kun," he replied, his voice steady, a reflection of the discipline he always carried. There was no need for further instruction—he knew the gravity of the situation.
Dora, standing off to the side, hesitated for a moment before speaking. "Are these people... Dangerous, Ross?" Her voice was laced with curiosity and a hint of apprehension.
She had spent enough time with the crew to understand the risks we faced, but the looming threat of these new Shichibukai had stirred something deeper—an awareness of the kind of enemies that lay ahead.
I turned toward her, offering a wry smile. "Yes," I said, my tone calm but weighted with the reality of it. "Very much so. They're not just dangerous... they're some of the deadliest figures in the world. But eventually, we'll have to face them. But what I really want to know is the hand that is guiding them from the shadows…" My chuckle broke the tension, though the uncertainty in the air remained.
The emergence of three such powerful adversaries was unsettling, yes, but it also made things far more interesting.
The game had changed, and it had become more dangerous than ever. But that was the thrill, wasn't it? The unknown, the risk, the razor-thin line between victory and defeat. The idea of overcoming forces like Dorian, Izumi, and Scarlett stirred something deep inside—a challenge unlike any other.
As I turned away, looking out over the vast ocean, I could feel the weight of the moment settling in. The calm before the storm. The winds were shifting, and with them came the whisper of chaos.
"Don't worry," I added, my voice softer but carrying with it a quiet determination. "We'll overcome them. One way or another."
The game was far from over—if anything, it had just begun. And now, with these new pieces in play, it was going to be more dangerous than ever before. But that was exactly how I liked it.
********
Spider Miles, North Blue
"Arrrgh! I'm fed up with this kid!" The supervisor of the metal plant bellowed, slamming his fist down on the table with enough force to rattle the rusted tools scattered around. His frustration echoed through the factory floor, where the constant clang of metal against metal rang out.
"All he does is eat, and he never works! The kid eats enough to feed ten grown men!"
He stormed over to the far corner of the plant, where the source of his anger sat—a boy, about eight or nine years old, with a mop of unruly black hair and a round, pudgy face. His small eyes were barely visible under his thick brow, giving him a dopey, almost perpetually confused expression.
Despite the scolding, the boy didn't seem to register the supervisor's fury. Instead, he was focused entirely on stuffing his face with chunks of bread and whatever scraps the workers had left behind.
This was Buffalo.
"Oi, Buffalo!" the supervisor roared, waving his arms in frustration. "You're supposed to be workin', not eating!" We didn't bring you here just to be a bottomless pit!"
Buffalo looked up, blinking slowly as if trying to process the words. His cheeks were puffed out like a chipmunk's, crumbs falling from his mouth as he chewed.
It was hard to tell if the boy was oblivious or simply didn't care. He was short and stocky, with a build that suggested he should've been able to pull his weight at the factory—but instead, all his energy seemed to go toward eating.
After the Donquixote Family had regained control of the entire North Blue, Spider Miles had been transformed into a massive industrial hub. The once-forgotten island, covered in piles of discarded metals and broken machinery, had been repurposed into a smelting facility for the Donquixote Pirates' weapon industry.
With the ever-growing demand for fresh materials, the factories were constantly in need of workers. For most of Spider Miles' residents, this was a golden opportunity. The island was a dump, but the factories offered something rare—a chance to earn a meal.
Everyone rushed to get a job, even the children. Buffalo was one of them, though the concept of "work" seemed to elude him. His bulky frame, despite being so young, was a result of constant overindulgence, and now, instead of lifting metal scraps or sorting through the endless piles of ore, all he seemed to do was eat.
"He's just a kid," one of the workers muttered under his breath, eyeing the boy with a mix of pity and exasperation.
"Yeah, but he eats like he's starvin' every day!" the supervisor snapped, rubbing his temples.
"And no matter how much we give him, he just keeps goin'!"
Buffalo blinked again, finally swallowing the mouthful of food he had been working on for what felt like an eternity. His round face scrunched up in confusion, and he tilted his head slightly.
"Work?" he asked, as if the idea had just occurred to him. "But... hungry."
The supervisor sighed heavily, throwing his hands up in defeat. It was hopeless. No matter how much they tried to get this kid to work, his hunger always seemed to come first.
"Fine, fine," the supervisor muttered, turning away. "Just stay out of the way. If you're not gonna help, at least don't make a mess!"
Buffalo's only response was a slow nod as he reached for another piece of bread, oblivious to the chaos around him. Despite his lack of productivity, there was something strangely endearing about the boy's simplicity. He wasn't malicious or lazy in the traditional sense—just singularly focused on one thing: food.
As the workers returned to their stations, the factory roared back to life. Machines hummed, fires blazed, and the clang of metal striking metal filled the air once more.
Spider Miles continued its relentless march of production, feeding the Donquixote Pirates' ever-growing war machine. And in the corner, Buffalo continued to eat, his small world revolving around nothing but the next meal.
"Take stock of all the materials! We're already two days behind schedule! If the higher-ups start breathing down my neck, I won't hesitate to lop off a few heads!" a fierce-looking man barked, his voice booming across the factory floor.
His rough appearance and scarred face marked him as no ordinary worker—he was a grunt from the Donquixote Pirates, and the emblem of their Jolly Roger was stitched proudly on his worn, weathered coat. A dozen equally menacing men trailed behind him, each one looking just as ruthless.
As the trucks rumbled off toward the port, loaded with freshly smelted metals destined for the Donquixote Pirates' main base in the New World, the pirate's gaze swept the factory. His sharp eyes narrowed when they landed on Buffalo, who was sitting lazily in the corner, once again stuffing his mouth with bread.
"What the fuck is this?" The pirate growled, his anger flaring at the sight of the boy. "We're behind schedule, and this little bastard is just sitting here, eating like there's nothing better to do!"
The pirate's fury boiled over. He wasn't an officer, just a grunt tasked with overseeing production, but even at his low rank, he had enough power to instill fear in the hearts of the workers. He was part of the infamous Donquixote Pirates, after all, and here on Spider Miles, that meant he held sway over life and death.
Buffalo, oblivious to the storm brewing around him, continued to munch on his bread, his small, round face smeared with crumbs. He didn't even notice the pirate approaching, his heavy boots stomping across the factory floor like a predator stalking its prey.
The supervisor, who had been about to leave, froze when he saw where the pirate's attention had landed. His stomach dropped. He knew Buffalo was a glutton, but this... this was bad.
"Oi, oi!" the supervisor called out, rushing to intervene before things got ugly. "The kid's just a runt! He's not worth your time! Let him be, I'll—"
But it was too late.
The pirate shoved the supervisor aside with a snarl, sending him stumbling backward into a stack of metal crates.
"Out of my way!" he snapped, not even bothering to look at the man. His eyes were locked on Buffalo, who had finally looked up, confused by the sudden commotion but still chewing, unfazed.
"You think you can slack off while the rest of us bust our asses?" The pirate hissed, his voice low and dangerous. He grabbed Buffalo by the collar of his ragged shirt, lifting him off the ground as though he weighed nothing.
The boy's eyes widened slightly, but his hands instinctively reached for the bread he had dropped, more concerned about his meal than the furious pirate in front of him.
The other workers, who had been keeping their heads down, glanced nervously toward the scene. They had seen this before—pirates taking their frustration out on anyone they could. But this time, it was a child, and even though Spider Miles was a harsh place, this felt... wrong.
"Hey, he's just a kid!" one of the workers shouted, stepping forward hesitantly. "You don't need to—"
A swift kick to the man's gut sent him crumpling to the floor before he could finish his sentence. The pirate barely spared him a glance, his grip tightening on Buffalo.
"Any more of you feel like playing hero?" The pirate sneered, his gaze sweeping the room. The workers all went silent, fear choking their voices. Even the supervisor, though desperate to help the boy, knew that interfering further would only make things worse.
Buffalo hung limply in the pirate's grip, his chubby face still dumbstruck as he looked down at the half-eaten bread on the floor. "Hungry," he mumbled, as if the entire situation was lost on him.
"Is that all you care about?!" The pirate's patience snapped, and with a vicious roar, he threw Buffalo across the room. The boy's small body slammed into a stack of crates, sending them tumbling down with a crash. Workers flinched, but no one dared move. The tension in the air was suffocating, the factory falling into an eerie silence.
Buffalo groaned, more from confusion than pain, and slowly sat up, rubbing his head. Despite the violent throw, he didn't cry out or plead—he simply blinked, looking around as if trying to figure out what had just happened.
"Pathetic," the pirate spat, wiping his hands on his coat as though touching Buffalo had dirtied him.
Buffalo's blank expression, completely dismissing the pirate's threat, only fueled the man's rage. His earlier outburst hadn't been enough.
The boy's nonchalance made the pirate's blood boil. As he glared at Buffalo, he heard the snickers of his crewmates behind him—mocking laughter cutting through the factory's clangs and hums.
"Oi, can't even scare a dumb kid, huh?!" one of the goons jeered, nudging the pirate beside him.
"What kind of pirate are you?"
The sneering only made it worse. Fury twisted the pirate's face into a snarl. His pride, already bruised, now felt like it was being stomped on in front of everyone. He looked around wildly, searching for something—anything—that would shut the boy up and silence the laughter.
Then he saw it. An old, rusted pipe lying in a nearby pile of scrap metal. Without a second thought, he lunged for it, gripping it tightly in his rough hands. The metal was corroded, brittle in places, but it would do.
Before anyone could react, he brought the pipe crashing down toward Buffalo's head.
CRACK!
The sickening crunch echoed through the factory as the pipe connected with Buffalo's skull. The boy slumped to the ground, unmoving. For a moment, the workers gasped in horror, their faces pale. Some looked away, unable to witness the cruelty unfolding in front of them.
But the pirate wasn't done.
The goons behind him cheered, their cruel laughter louder now, as if Buffalo's suffering was nothing more than a spectacle for their amusement.
"That's more like it!" one of them shouted, clapping his hands as if he were at a circus. "Teach the little bastard a lesson!"
"Enough!" one of the workers cried, stepping forward. "He's just a kid! You'll kill him!"
But the pirate, fueled by the jeers and his own blinding rage, raised the pipe again, his eyes filled with fury. This time, there would be no mercy.
Just as the pirate was about to bring the pipe down once more, something shifted in the air. A sudden, suffocating pressure descended upon the factory, as if an invisible mountain had fallen from the sky and pinned everyone in place.
The workers froze where they stood, eyes wide with shock, while the pirate's men, who had been gleefully cheering moments before, were suddenly crushed to the ground, their faces contorted in terror.
The pirate himself faltered, his grip on the pipe loosening as his legs buckled beneath the overwhelming weight of the force pressing down on him. His rage vanished, replaced by a cold, creeping fear that sent a shiver down his spine. The factory fell into complete silence.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The steady sound of a swordstick tapping against the metallic floor echoed through the vast space, cutting through the thick, oppressive air. Every head turned toward the source of the sound, eyes wide with disbelief.
From the far end of the factory, a figure slowly approached. He walked with a calm, deliberate pace, leaning on a Shikomizue, each step measured as if he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.
His large, imposing figure was draped in a simple, dark cloak, and his blind eyes stared straight ahead, yet there was no doubt he saw everything. His presence was overwhelming, the air around him charged with a quiet, restrained power.
This was Issho—known to the world as Fujitora, a core member of the Donquixote family, a pillar of the Emperor's crew.
His expression was serene, even kind, but the pressure that emanated from him was unmistakable. It was as though the very heavens bent to his will, and every soul in the factory felt it.
The air around him seemed to ripple with the weight of his gravity based powers, though he showed no outward sign of exertion.
Behind him, two figures followed. They were the overseers of Spider Miles, the ones charged with ensuring the factory met its quotas for the Donquixote Pirates. Both men looked uneasy, their postures stiff, as if even they were affected by the immense pressure coming from the blind man, even they themselves had no idea that such a member from the core family would make a personal visit to North Blue.
Issho's cane tapped the ground again, each step resonating with finality. The pirate who had been about to strike Buffalo was now on his knees, the rusted pipe forgotten, trembling under the weight of Issho's presence.
His earlier bravado had been replaced with pure, unfiltered terror. Issho came to a stop, the tip of his cane resting lightly on the ground. The entire factory seemed to hold its breath.
"For what reason," Issho began softly, his voice calm yet carrying a weight far heavier than any metal in the plant, "does a grown man beat a child?"
*****
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Silent_stiele
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