The bound captives knelt on the blood-streaked deck, their shoulders heavy with exhaustion and despair. A moment ago, when the white sails of the Marine battleship had crested the horizon, hope had surged through them like a second wind. Even the merchant captain, pale and weakened from blood loss, had drawn in a shuddering breath of relief.
"Thank the seas…" he whispered, his one good hand clutching the rail for balance as the bandaged stump of his other arm still bled through the cloth. "The Marines… they'll see us through this hell."
All around him, his crew and the handful of passengers exchanged looks of weary gratitude. Some prayed. Some even dared to smile through split lips and swollen faces. Hina, bruised and bloodied but still defiant, felt her chest tighten with resolve. The sight of those disciplined white sails, that proud Marine insignia fluttering in the dusk — it was vindication. Her dream of justice wasn't a childish fantasy. The protectors of the sea had come.
But the captain's eyes, seasoned by decades at sea, did not soften for long. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. By all rights, the pirates should have been scrambling — hauling up anchors, snapping orders, using the hostages as bargaining chips. That was the way of cutthroats and sea-scum: fight, flee, or hide behind human shields. But here, none of that happened.
The pirate ships did not ready their cannons. No muskets were leveled at the captives' heads. Instead, the vessels drifted almost lazily, their sails slack, their decks eerily calm. The bloodthirsty crew, moments ago howling with triumph, had grown quiet. They moved with the ease of men awaiting orders, not men staring down the might of the World Government.
Even the pirate captain, who had been moments from dragging Hina off as his prize, had stilled. His grip on her chin loosened. At first, his face had twisted with fury at the sight of the Marine ship, spitting curses and roaring in frustration. But as the battleship drew closer, cutting steadily across the waves, something shifted. His expression hardened — then settled into something that was not panic at all.
It was anticipation. The merchant captain's breath caught in his throat as realization chilled him.
"No…" he muttered under his breath, his lone hand trembling against the railing. His eyes darted from the still pirates to the looming silhouette of the Marine vessel, the proud insignia on its sails shining in the dying sun. His heart thundered as the truth clawed its way into his mind. "This… this isn't right…"
The other captives began to sense it too. Relief withered into dread. Their murmurs faltered, eyes widening, necks craning toward the incoming battleship. The Marine ship sailed with purpose, its lines sharp and orderly, but there was no cannon fire, no alarm bells, no call to arms.
Instead, its deck remained strangely silent.
The pirate captain released Hina with a derisive chuckle, wiping her spit from his cheek with the back of his hand. He looked not at her, nor at his trembling crew, but out across the waters — at the Marine battleship drawing ever nearer.
"Looks like our friends finally decided to show," he muttered, his voice low and venomous, carrying just enough for the captives to hear. He straightened, the swagger returning to his stride, but it was different now. Not bravado in the face of doom. No — this was the easy confidence of a man awaiting a long-expected ally.
Hina's blood ran cold. The word echoed in her mind, louder than the crash of waves or the groan of the ship's timbers: friends.
The Marine battleship slid alongside the battered merchant vessel with terrifying grace, its white sails blotting out the dying sun. For a fleeting moment, the captives' hearts had soared. Marines meant justice. Marines meant salvation. But now, as the gangplank slammed down and disciplined boots thundered across to the deck, the cold truth set in.
This was no rescue.
The air grew heavy with despair as a single figure landed lightly on the blood-soaked planks, his spotless boots avoiding the gore as if by instinct. His white coat billowed behind him, the golden insignia of rank gleaming at his shoulders. His movements were sharp, precise — the signature of an elite trained directly at Marine HQ.
"Commodore Basil Krieg," the merchant captain rasped under his breath, recognition dawning. His face paled further than the blood loss already allowed. So it was true… the rumors weren't just tavern whispers.
The Commodore's sharp eyes swept across the scene — the broken bodies, the trembling captives, the pirates still bristling with weapons. His lips curled into a smile that was neither kind nor cruel, just cold.
"Oye, oye," Krieg drawled, his voice like steel dragged over stone. "Aren't you becoming a little too comfortable, Raoul the Scythe? Attacking ships so close to a Marine-protected trade route… or perhaps you've grown bold enough to develop a death wish?"
The pirate captain — Raoul, the butcher of the North Blue Sea, bounty 117 million — stood his ground, cutlass still at his side. His jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing with clear distaste, though his words came smooth and practiced.
"You jest, Commodore. We had no such intention. These bastards…" he nudged one of the captives with his boot, "ran faster than I'd expected. Took some effort to reel them in, and before we knew it, we'd strayed a little close to your waters."
Though he called him friend, venom laced the word. But Krieg didn't flinch, didn't even acknowledge the hatred burning behind Raoul's eyes. Instead, he gazed at the prisoners — the bound, bloodied sailors and civilians, their faces etched with pleading hope.
"Sir! Please—save us!" one of them cried, voice cracking with desperation.
Krieg didn't even blink. Instead, he stepped closer to Raoul, his tone conversational, as though they were old acquaintances sharing drinks instead of standing on a deck slick with blood.
"You know I cannot simply overlook such an incident," Krieg murmured. "Not when it happens here. Should word of this… inconvenience reach Marine HQ, I'd be forced into a most awkward position. And you wouldn't want that, would you?"
Raoul's lips twitched into a sneer. "We had a deal. I pay, you look the other way. That's how it's always been."
"Yes… normally." Krieg's gaze turned sharp, his smile thin as a blade. "But that deal applies elsewhere. Out on the fringes, away from my jurisdiction. Now you've dragged this filth into my patrol waters, where my reputation is on the line. That requires…" His gloved hand flicked lazily through the air. "…compensation."
"Please!" the same bound prisoner wailed again. "You're Marines! You swore to protect—"
BANG!
The pistol's roar cracked the air like thunder. The man's plea died with a choking gasp as he toppled sideways, his blood pooling dark across the deck. Smoke curled lazily from Krieg's pistol barrel. His face remained impassive, though a flicker of irritation crossed his brow.
"I despise interruptions," he said flatly, sliding the pistol back into its holster.
The merchant crew shuddered, a horrified silence spreading among them. Even Raoul's hardened cutthroats exchanged uneasy glances. The pirate captain, jaw clenched, barked a sharp order. One of his men scrambled back across the gangplank and returned moments later, straining under the weight of an iron-banded chest. It thudded heavily onto the planks between the two leaders.
As the pirates stood tensely, more of Krieg's soldiers filed onto the merchant vessel in orderly lines. Their rifles gleamed, their boots clicked, their eyes cold and dead. Not one of them spared a glance at the captives. Not one offered aid. They may as well have been blind to the bound, bleeding men and women at their feet.
A Marine soldier flipped open the chest. Inside, stacks of banknotes, gold coins, and bloodstained pearls glittered in the fading light. A king's ransom by any measure. Krieg crouched, his immaculate gloves plucking up a bundle of notes. He turned them between his fingers, as though examining a curiosity. Then his nose wrinkled in disgust.
"Is this supposed to be a joke, Raoul?" he asked, voice quiet but laced with menace. His eyes lifted, cutting like daggers into the pirate captain's skull. "Do I look like a man here to scrounge for chump change?"
The words sank into the crew like ice. The pirates stiffened. The captives trembled. Even Raoul the Scythe, murderer of thousands, a pirate who was feared throughout North Blue, shifted his stance ever so slightly. Because here, in the blood-soaked silence of the Grand Line, one truth was clear, the Commodore was the most dangerous man on this sea.
Raoul's jaw twitched as he glared at the Commodore. The tension was thick enough to choke on, the sea itself seeming to still under the weight of their standoff. Finally, he exhaled through gritted teeth.
"That chest alone is worth at least fifty million berries—"
Shhhk!
The whisper of steel rang louder than a cannon. In less than a breath, Krieg's blade was unsheathed, its tip kissing the pirate captain's throat. A bead of blood welled up, sliding slowly down his neck.
"And your head is worth more than a hundred million," Krieg said softly, his voice silken, his smile razor-thin. "So tell me, Raoul… do you still feel like bargaining with me?"
The world seemed to hold its breath. Raoul's crew froze, their hands tightening on hilts and pistols but not daring to move. The captives stared wide-eyed, bound and broken, the brief flicker of hope in their hearts extinguished once more.
Raoul's nostrils flared, his pride howling for him to cut this smug bastard down where he stood. But the icy weight of reality pressed against his throat, sharper than Krieg's blade. He forced his gaze down, teeth grinding audibly.
"…Bring the other chests," he snarled.
One by one, his men trudged across the gangplank with heavy iron coffers, setting them down in a neat row before the Commodore. Gold glimmered. Pearls rolled. Bloodstained notes fluttered in the salty breeze. A dragon's hoard fit for a king.
Krieg finally sheathed his blade, his expression softening into a smile — this one genuine, as though the stench of blood and despair was a perfume he found pleasant. He spread his arms magnanimously.
"Now this seems like a fair compensation." He turned on his heel with the confidence of a man who owned not just the ship, but the very sea beneath it. "I wish you luck in your future endeavors, Raoul. But I must caution you — do not repeat such an intrusion upon my waters. Next time, I will not be as merciful."
The Marines moved efficiently, hauling the heavy chests back toward their battleship like ants carrying spoils. The prisoners stared, numb, as their last hope was carted away piece by piece.
But amidst the silence, one voice rang out.
"You—!"
The Commodore stopped mid-step, boots clicking against the planks. His head turned slightly, enough to catch the glare of a bloodied, battered girl with wild pink hair matted to her face. Her wrists were bound, her right arm hung limp, a sword wound still bleeding sluggishly from her shoulder. Yet her eyes burned hotter than any cannon fire.
"Hina says… you are worse than pirates."
A ripple of shock ran through captives and pirates alike. The Commodore's jaw stiffened, his posture taut.
"At least pirates show their fangs. You wear justice as a mask." Hina's voice was hoarse, but each word fell sharp, deliberate. "Hina says… a man like you is unfit to wear that coat. Unfit to call himself Marine."
The Commodore's lips peeled back, his pride stung deeper than any blade could cut.
"If Hina survives this day," she pressed on, her swollen eye narrowing with pure defiance, "Hina will cleanse Marines of filth like you. Hina will drag you down from that throne of lies. Justice does not need men like you—justice needs those who believe."
Her voice rose, trembling with fury and conviction both. "Remember this, fake Marine—Hina says one day, people like her will bury people like you."
Gasps tore through the deck. Bound sailors stared in awe. Even the pirates, who had expected her to beg for her life, were stunned into silence by her audacity.
The words struck like cannonballs. They were defiance made flesh, a spark in the suffocating dark. Krieg's lips curled back, revealing teeth clenched in suppressed fury. For a man of pride, to be denounced as worse than a pirate by a half-dead slip of a girl—it was intolerable. His hand twitched toward his pistol.
But Raoul moved first. With a snarl, his saber whistled from its sheath, the blade screaming as it cut through the air, aimed squarely for Hina's throat.
The act was as much for survival as for cruelty. Raoul knew exactly what would happen if Krieg's rage turned on him and his men. Better to silence the girl himself than let the Commodore decide this little spectacle was worth spilling more blood — pirate blood.
The bound prisoners cried out in horror. Hina's chin lifted, her eyes blazing even as cold steel rushed toward her. For all her wounds, for all her trembling, she didn't flinch. If this was her end, she would meet it on her feet — defiant, unbroken.
Hina's eyes shut tight, her breath caught in her throat, bracing for steel and death. But instead of pain, a sharp metallic CLANG! reverberated across the blood-soaked deck. The sound bit through the chaos like a bell of reprieve.
Gasps rippled from the captives, and even the pirates faltered, their killing frenzy frozen by the sudden interruption. Hina dared to open her eyes. Her vision blurred with blood and sweat, but then she saw it.
The saber that had been meant for her neck—caught mid-swing. The edge was locked against a black iron jitte, its jet black edge pinning the blade as though the attack had been nothing more than a child's toy strike.
The young man who held it leaned casually into the weapon, a single cigar glowing between his lips, white smoke curling lazily around his face. His gaze was calm, almost bored, as if none of this madness was worth his time.
"Tch," he muttered, his voice gravel dragging against steel. Then, quieter—low enough only Hina could hear, "So much for your Marine justice…"
The words cut deeper than the blade that had almost killed her. Raoul's eyes bulged, shock quickly twisting to rage. "You bastard!" he snarled, wrenching his saber free and hacking down again with furious abandon.
But Smoker barely moved. His jitte flicked once, twice, three times—each swing from Raoul met only with the dull clack of iron turning it aside. To the onlookers, it wasn't even a duel. It was a storm being swatted away by a man too disinterested to even look bothered.
"Too slow," Smoker drawled, sidestepping a heavy downward chop. Another swipe, another lazy parry. Raoul's sweat flew, his teeth clenched in fury. His opponent wasn't even trying.
The deckhands and prisoners could hardly keep track of the exchange, but one man had seen enough. Commodore Krieg's face drained of all color, his lips twitching in horror. He recognized the young man, the presence, and the calm predator's aura. That face. That weapon. That smoke.
This wasn't some drifter who had slipped onto a merchant vessel. This was a monster in human skin. A name listed among the most dangerous pirates in Marine HQ reports. A bounty so high that it definitely belong to the waters of the first half of the Grand Line. A young man tied to one of the great Yonkō.
"No… it can't be…" Krieg muttered, his breath catching in his throat.
And then it ended. Smoker's jitte hooked under Raoul's clumsy guard, wrenching his saber wide. In the same motion, his other hand snapped forward, gripping Raoul's throat with casual cruelty in a vise-like grip.
CRACK!
The sound of breaking bone echoed louder than any cannon. Raoul's body went limp instantly, his neck twisted at an angle no man could survive. Smoker tossed the corpse aside with a flick of his wrist. It hit the deck with a dull, lifeless thud, rolling to the feet of stunned pirates.
Silence blanketed the ship. Not a single one moved, pirate or otherwise. Not a single blade was raised nor a single musket aimed. They all felt it—the instinctive, primal dread of sheep before a wolf.
Smoker exhaled slowly, a plume of smoke drifting from his mouth as his cold eyes lifted, no longer on the pirates, no longer on the bound captives, but fixed squarely on the trembling Commodore Krieg.
Smoker's boots squelched against the blood-slick deck, each step deliberate, slow, and unhurried. The cigar between his teeth flared as he exhaled another stream of smoke that curled lazily around him, as though the battlefield itself bent to his will.
"I take it you recognize me, Commodore…?" he chuckled, voice low and taunting, each word digging into Krieg's pride like the edge of a blade.
Krieg flinched, but before he could reply, his men—desperate to regain control—snapped into motion. Muskets lifted. Rifles cocked. Pirates, too, driven by blind fury at the sight of their captain's broken corpse, roared as they raised their weapons. Dozens of barrels aligned on the lone figure walking across the deck. Fingers squeezed triggers.
"FIRE!"
The volley came like thunder. The air filled with the crack of rifles, the whistling of lead, and the desperate cries of men trying to drown their fear in noise. Smoke and flame burst from gunpowder. A storm of bullets cut through the deck, slamming into Smoker from every direction.
And yet…
He did not falter. He did not fall. Each bullet tore into him—through chest, arm, throat, skull—and each hole that ripped through his body exploded into white smoke, dispersing in wisps before reforming seamlessly. His figure rippled, blurred, reassembled, until it was as though the attack had never happened.
The only sound beneath the storm of gunfire was the steady crunch of his boots, closer and closer, echoing through the silence between each volley.
"Wh-what the hell…?" one pirate whispered, his voice cracking as he lowered his rifle with trembling hands. His eyes were wide, pupils dilated, face pale as he watched the impossible unfold before him.
"…Demon…" another pirate choked out, his voice no louder than a breath. The word spread like wildfire in their ranks, whispered, muttered, repeated with growing dread. "A demon… He's a demon…"
The Commodore said nothing, but his clenched jaw and the sweat streaming down his brow betrayed him. And then Smoker stopped.
For the first time, he raised his jitte slightly, letting it tap once against the wood of the deck. The sound was dull, final, like a judge's gavel declaring sentence.
From the center of his chest, smoke began to coil outward, thick and heavy. It twisted and writhed, tendrils stretching like serpents, until with a sudden snap of his will, they sharpened—countless lances of compressed smoke spearing outward in every direction.
SHHK! SHHK! SHHK!
The first wave tore through the nearest pirates, impaling them clean through. Men screamed, blood spraying across the deck as they were lifted off their feet, skewered like dolls. The second wave ripped through the marines who had just fired, their uniforms blooming red as their bodies were pinned to the mast, the railings, the very planks beneath their feet.
It was slaughter. The smoke was no longer white. It was stained crimson, painting the deck in streaks of gore. Each lance struck with perfect precision, reaping life after life in a single motion. Muskets clattered to the floor, hands that moments ago gripped them now twitching in death.
And in the eye of the storm stood Smoker, untouched, unhurried, as though the carnage around him was nothing but dust swept aside. The pirates who remained stumbled back, weapons slipping from their hands. Even the marines—men sworn to uphold order—could not move. Their instincts screamed louder than any command: run.
"You… you—why are you here…?" Krieg finally managed to choke out, though his voice wavered. His pupils were blown wide, his breath shallow. He still couldn't believe it—the White Wolf of the Donquixote Pirates was standing before him.
A monster in human skin. Barely in his twenties, yet already with a bounty of 420 million berries on his head. Krieg's mind screamed the obvious truth: I can't win. With my half-polished Rokushiki and scraps of Haki, I don't stand a chance against him.
Still, desperation clung to him like sweat.
"What is someone from a Yonko's crew doing here, on the first half of the Grand Line…?" Krieg forced out, though the words trembled. His brain was already spinning, clawing for an escape route. But no matter how he turned it over, every path ended the same. In blood.
Smoker exhaled a plume of smoke that curled around his head like a crown. A low chuckle rumbled from his chest.
"Would you believe me," he drawled, "if I told you I was simply sightseeing?"
The casual mockery hit hard like a hammer. Around them, the survivors—pirates, marines, merchants—shifted uneasily, still blind to the true weight of that single word: Yonko. They didn't grasp it yet, but Krieg did. Oh, Krieg did.
He licked his lips, fear twisting his features. "L-Let me go. We have no grievance, no reason for blood. This… this was all a misunderstanding. You've already taken that bastard's life. Surely you understand… if you harm me, a Marine Commodore, Marine HQ will respond. Even a Yonko's dog will be hunted. The Admirals themselves—"
His hand moved, almost imperceptibly, toward the small of his back. The pistol waited there, hidden beneath his coat. A single bullet, tipped with seastone. His last card. One clean shot, that's all it would take. But Smoker's eyes narrowed, the faintest sigh slipping from his lips.
"Why," he muttered, almost bored, "do men like you always resort to underhanded schemes…?"
FWOOSH.
In the blink of an eye, his form blurred, vanished, and reappeared. Soru. Before Krieg could so much as flinch, Smoker was behind him. His hand clamped around Krieg's wrist, crushing bone with the pressure of a vise. The Commodore's eyes went wide as his pistol clattered uselessly to the deck.
"Wha—!"
With effortless strength, Smoker hoisted him into the air like a child's doll. Then, with a savage twist of his hips, he slammed Krieg into the deck.
CRACK!
The sound of snapping bone echoed like thunder, silencing every soul on the ship. Krieg's scream tore through the night, raw and animal, his arm bent at an angle no body should allow. Blood bubbled at his lips, his composure shattered utterly. Smoker loomed over him, cigar still glowing, smoke coiling like a noose around the Commodore's body. His voice, calm and cold, carried across the stunned deck.
"You should've stayed in your little base, Commodore."
Krieg writhed beneath Smoker's grip, his once-pristine coat now drenched in sweat and blood. His broken arm hung limp, twisted grotesquely at the elbow, and yet his eyes darted wildly, still searching for some escape, some trick that might cheat death. Smoker leaned down, cigar smoldering inches from Krieg's pale face.
"You talk of justice. Of Admirals. Of reputation," he said, voice low, almost gentle, but laced with venom. "But all I see is rot in a Marine's coat. Worse than the pirates you pretend to hunt."
Krieg's mouth fumbled, his words spilling out in panicked gasps. "N-no, please! You—You can't—if you kill me, Marine HQ—!"
CRUNCH.
Smoker's jitte pressed down against Krieg's throat, silencing him with the awful sound of cartilage giving way. His body went limp in an instant, eyes frozen in a glassy stare of disbelief. The proud Commodore of Marine HQ died not with dignity, but like the coward he was, broken on a ship's deck.
For a moment, there was silence. The marines who had stood so tall now trembled, their rifles slack in their hands. The pirates who had been howling with rage moments ago cowered, their bravado leaking out like spilled rum.
Smoker rose, exhaling a deep plume of smoke that fanned across the bloody deck like a storm cloud. His voice cut through the stillness.
"Sigh… I guess now I have to clear out the dregs…!"
Then, he raised his arm. Smoke coiled and swirled, gathering with unnatural weight, thick and heavy as iron. The air itself seemed to suffocate as a massive vortex of white engulfed him, the sky above dimming as though the sun itself recoiled.
"White Hell…" The words rolled like thunder, and then his fist came down.
BOOOOOOM!
A colossal pillar of smoke, dense as steel and wide as a mast, hammered into the sea. The Marine battleship and the three pirate galleons vanished in an instant beneath the crushing tide of smoke-forged destruction. Wood splintered, iron screamed, and the sea erupted into a chaos of shattered hulls and boiling waves. When the haze cleared, nothing remained of them—only smoldering wreckage bobbing weakly on the crimson-stained waters.
The few captives still bound on the merchant vessel stared in horror and awe. The chains that held them clattered to the deck as Smoker's smoke tendrils uncoiled, setting them free. Yet none dared move closer. Not even to thank him.
The one-armed merchant captain, his face bloodied but alive, finally found his voice. His gaze locked on Smoker, and his lips trembled. "You… you're… the White Wolf…"
It wasn't gratitude that filled his eyes. It was fear. Fear of the monster who had just annihilated four ships with a single punch. Smoker's expression didn't change. He had seen that look too many times before—he had expected nothing less. "Don't worry," he muttered, turning away, his tone dry, almost weary. He exhaled, smoke curling from the corners of his mouth.
"I know when I'm unwelcome…"
A billowing cloud of smoke wrapped around him, carrying him upward like a phantom. He stepped off the deck and into the air, each stride forming a solid plank of smoke that held his weight. Higher and higher he rose, until he was nothing more than a silhouette fading into the twilight sky.
The wind carried away his last words, barely audible to the survivors below, especially Hina.
"…Be grateful I chose to intervene." And then he was gone, leaving only wreckage, silence, and the heavy memory of the day the White Wolf walked among them.
Hina, battered and bruised, stared after him. She grabbed onto the railing with her trembling hands. She wanted to shout. To thank him. To say something—anything. But the words died in her throat.
He's a pirate…
The thought clashed violently with the memory of his hand pulling her back from the sea, of his jitte deflecting Raoul's killing strike, of his fist obliterating the predators who would have defiled them all. Her lips trembled, her fists clenched.
"Why…?" she whispered to herself, tears mixing with the blood on her face. "Why would a pirate save me…?"
"Hina will not let you walk away next time… Hina will demand her answer."