Oboro and his group slipped through the hotel's back exit like shadows fleeing the dawn. The urgent need to evade Marine pursuit had transformed them from a ragtag collection of pirates into something resembling a coordinated unit, their survival instincts sharpened by the very real threat of capture and execution.
Each member had donned whatever disguise they could manage—pulled-up hoods, altered postures, even fake limps to change their gait. It was crude camouflage, but in the chaos that had engulfed Sabaody Archipelago, such desperate measures might be enough to avoid immediate recognition.
Dom's intimate knowledge of the island's geography proved invaluable as he guided them through a labyrinthine network of back alleys, forgotten maintenance tunnels, and rooftop passages that most visitors never knew existed. The yellow-haired local moved with the confidence of someone who had spent years learning every shortcut and hideaway the archipelago had to offer.
By the time darkness finally settled over the island like a protective shroud, they had successfully navigated back to the lawless zone. The journey had taken the better part of a day, filled with close calls and detours whenever Marine patrols appeared on their intended route.
The contrast between different areas of Sabaody was stark and unsettling. In the tourist districts and hotel quarters, the streets had become ghostly vacant. Marine warnings had driven law-abiding civilians indoors, leaving behind an eerie silence broken only by the measured footsteps of patrol units. Shop windows remained shuttered, restaurants sat empty, and even the famous Yarukiman Mangrove bubbles seemed to drift more slowly through the abandoned spaces.
The underlying fear was palpable—ordinary citizens understood that when desperate pirates were cornered, innocent bystanders often became casualties of their desperation.
But here in the lawless zones, the atmosphere remained charged with violent energy. Sporadic gunfire echoed through the streets as small groups of pirates clashed with Marine search teams. The sounds of pursuit, capture, and resistance created a constant symphony of urban warfare that had become the new normal.
Shadows moved between buildings as criminals attempted to evade the tightening net, while white-uniformed soldiers maintained their methodical advance through territory they rarely dared to enter under normal circumstances. The delicate balance that had allowed criminal organizations to operate openly in these areas was crumbling under the weight of an unprecedented manhunt.
Under cover of darkness, as they moved through a narrow alley that reeked of garbage and desperation, Oboro's group encountered an unexpected obstacle. Three Marine soldiers were methodically posting official notices on crumbling brick walls, their backs turned to the approaching pirates.
The soldiers sensed movement behind them, hands instinctively reaching for their weapons as they began to turn. But Dom and his companions had been hardened by years of violence on the Grand Line. They moved with predatory efficiency, closing the distance before their targets could raise an alarm.
Steel flashed in the moonlight. Bodies hit the ground with wet thuds.
One of the pirates wiped blood from his blade with practiced indifference, then glanced down at the papers scattered across the alley floor. "It's the wanted poster for that escaped slave," he observed, nudging one of the documents with his boot.
The others crowded closer, morbid curiosity overcoming their need for haste. After all the chaos and disruption that had consumed their lives over the past day, they wanted to see the face of the person responsible for turning Sabaody Archipelago into a war zone.
"Don't waste time," Oboro interjected sharply, his voice cutting through their distraction like a blade. "Get to the auction house. This scene will be discovered soon, and we need to be long gone when reinforcements arrive."
The authority in his tone was unmistakable, carrying the weight of someone accustomed to making life-or-death decisions under pressure. Despite being the newest member of their group, his strategic insights had already proven invaluable. The other pirates found themselves deferring to his judgment without conscious thought.
It was an unusual dynamic—a rookie commanding seasoned criminals through nothing more than demonstrated competence. But the Grand Line had a way of stripping away pretense and revealing who truly possessed the skills necessary for survival.
As they resumed their urgent march through the darkness, Oboro deliberately fell to the rear of their formation. When the others had moved sufficiently ahead, he allowed himself a quick glance at the wanted poster that had captured their attention.
His own face stared back at him from the official bounty notice, the photograph clearly taken during his time as Saint Charlos's property. The image showed him in slave's rags, the explosive collar visible around his neck, his features marked by the systematic abuse he'd endured.
The posting was recent—the ink still wet, the paper crisp and unmarked by weather. The Marines were indeed moving with impressive speed to distribute his image throughout the archipelago.
They're trying to force me into a corner, he thought grimly. The world's will is pulling out all the stops.
Fortune had favored him so far. The combination of poor lighting, their focus on escape, and the stress of constant danger had prevented Dom and the others from getting a clear look at the wanted poster. But that protection wouldn't last much longer. Once daylight returned, or if they encountered another posting under better conditions, his identity would be exposed.
The ticking clock in his mind grew louder with each passing moment.
"This way," Dom called from ahead, his voice tight with tension as he continuously scanned their surroundings for threats. His local knowledge remained their greatest asset, but even he seemed shaken by the unprecedented level of Marine activity they'd witnessed.
Oboro quickened his pace to rejoin the group, filing away his concerns for later consideration. For now, survival took precedence over long-term planning.
Dawn was beginning to paint the eastern horizon with pale gold when they finally reached their destination. The auction house district represented one of the most surreal locations on Sabaody Archipelago—a pocket of elegant civilization carved out of the surrounding criminal chaos.
What greeted them exceeded even their worst expectations. Marine deployment around Doflamingo's auction house was nothing short of overwhelming. Uniformed soldiers stood at attention every ten meters along the main thoroughfares, their positions calculated to provide overlapping fields of observation. Patrol teams moved in precise formations, their routes designed to eliminate any blind spots or opportunities for infiltration.
The five pirates found themselves pressed flat against the rocky slope of a small hill, using sparse vegetation as camouflage while they studied the fortress-like security arrangement below. The scope of the operation suggested that multiple warships had been dedicated to this single location—a testament to how seriously the World Government viewed the escaped slave situation.
The auction house itself occupied the crown jewel position within this heavily fortified district. Despite being located in what was technically still the lawless zone, the surrounding environment bore no resemblance to the squalor and violence that characterized other criminal territories.
Elegant shops lined pristine streets, their facades maintained to standards that would satisfy even the most discriminating Celestial Dragon clientele. Carefully manicured Yarukiman Mangroves provided natural beauty and shade, while small artificial hills and decorative gardens created an atmosphere of refined luxury.
This was Doflamingo's domain—a carefully constructed stage where the Seven Warlords of the Sea conducted business that required both criminal connections and governmental approval. The contradiction was perfectly maintained through superior firepower and political maneuvering.
"There's no way to sneak in," one pirate whispered, his voice barely audible above the evening breeze. "The entire street is surrounded by Marines."
"Damn it, how many ships did they send?" another cursed softly, counting the white uniforms visible from their vantage point.
The mathematics of their situation was brutally simple. Discovery meant immediate death or capture, with no possibility of fighting their way clear. They had killed Marine soldiers during their journey here, which meant any encounter would be treated as an attack on military personnel. The rules of engagement would offer no mercy.
But retreat was equally problematic. Every moment they delayed increased the likelihood that other search teams would discover their location or that their previous crimes would be traced back to them. The net was tightening from all directions.
Subconsciously, all eyes turned to Oboro. In less than twenty-four hours, he had somehow established himself as their de facto strategist and leader. His calm analysis and tactical insights had guided them through impossible situations, earning trust that seasoned pirates rarely granted to newcomers.
Oboro withdrew his attention from the street-level fortifications and pointed toward a specific building in the distance. "There," he said simply.
The others followed his gesture to a three-story structure that appeared to have been caught in the crossfire of recent combat. Bullet holes riddled its walls, blast damage had carved chunks from its facade, and portions of its roof had collapsed entirely. Yet despite the devastating battle damage, the building's basic structure remained intact.
"That was probably the headquarters of some criminal organization before the Marines cleared it out," Oboro continued, his voice carrying the analytical tone they had learned to respect. "The fact that it's still standing means it has good bones. More importantly, it's already been searched and cleared—which makes it unlikely that regular patrols will check it again."
He studied the tactical situation with the practiced eye of someone who had planned countless infiltrations. "The challenge is reaching it without being detected. These soldiers aren't machines—they need rest breaks and shift rotations. We need to observe their patterns and identify the timing of those changes."
His gaze swept across the assembled pirates, measuring their capabilities and limitations. "We'll need to split into two groups. Moving together guarantees discovery, but smaller teams can exploit brief opportunities."
A smile played at the corners of his mouth, though it held no warmth. "Obviously, the first group takes the greater risk. If they're caught, there's no escape. But their success or failure will determine whether the second group attempts the crossing or aborts the mission entirely."
The implications hung heavy in the air. Everyone understood what he was proposing—someone had to volunteer for what was essentially a suicide mission.
Silence stretched between them as each pirate wrestled with their own survival instincts. These were hardened criminals who had carved their way through the Grand Line's dangers, but the prospect of deliberate self-sacrifice for the benefit of the group challenged their fundamental nature.
"I'll go," Oboro said simply, breaking the uncomfortable pause.
The reaction was immediate and telling. Relief flooded their faces with embarrassing obviousness, followed quickly by guilt as they realized how readily they had accepted his sacrifice.
"Excellent!" Dom exclaimed, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. "Don't worry—once we escape Sabaody safely, I'll make sure the captain knows about your contribution. You'll get proper recognition for this!"
"Just be careful," another pirate added with what sounded like genuine concern. "If something goes wrong, we'll create a distraction to help you escape."
"I appreciate that," Oboro replied, though they all knew such rescue attempts would be meaningless if he was caught in the open. "As the newest member of the crew, it's appropriate for me to take point on dangerous operations."
The words struck exactly the right note of humble dedication, further cementing their perception of him as a remarkably selfless rookie. None of them questioned why someone with his evident tactical expertise would choose to join a minor pirate crew, or how he had developed such sophisticated understanding of military operations.
After a moment's hesitation, Dom's conscience apparently got the better of him. "I'll come with you," he announced, his voice tight with nervous determination.
Oboro raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise. "Are you certain?"
"Someone needs to guide you through the local terrain," Dom rationalized, though his real motivation was clearly more complex. "Besides, I recruited you personally. I can't send you into danger alone."
"Very well."
Dom's decision represented a significant development. It suggested that despite his obvious fear, the man possessed at least some measure of genuine courage—a quality that might prove useful in the trials ahead.
The two volunteers slid down the hillside with practiced stealth, using natural depressions and shadow pools to mask their approach. Dawn was breaking in earnest now, painting the sky in shades of pale gold and rose, but darkness still lingered in the deeper recesses of the urban landscape.
The Marine soldiers had been on duty for hours, their attention dulled by fatigue and the monotony of guard duty. Yawns were becoming more frequent, postures more relaxed, vigilance slowly degrading as the human need for sleep asserted itself.
Approximately ten feet from Oboro's position, a Marine private stood with his rifle held at a casual angle, his eyes heavy with exhaustion. The young soldier represented exactly the kind of vulnerability that could be exploited by someone with proper training and patience.
To Dom's absolute horror, Oboro began walking directly toward the guard with a casual, unhurried gait that suggested he was simply a civilian going about his business. There was no attempt at concealment, no effort to remain hidden—just a confident stroll that defied every survival instinct Dom possessed.
Is he insane? Dom thought frantically, fighting the urge to grab his companion and drag him back to cover.
But Oboro's actions were based on careful calculation rather than reckless abandon. His enhanced perception allowed him to analyze the Marine's physiological state with medical precision—heart rate, breathing patterns, muscle tension, attention level. Years of combat experience had taught him exactly how to read human awareness and predict behavioral responses.
"In the One Piece world, the baseline physical capabilities are significantly higher than in other realities," Oboro mused silently as he continued his approach. "Both potential and raw power exceed what I encountered in Demon Slayer or Hunter x Hunter. But technical skill development seems less refined."
His eyes remained fixed on the side of the Marine's face, studying micro-expressions and involuntary movements that revealed the man's current mental state. The soldier's awareness was operating at perhaps thirty percent of maximum capacity—enough to notice obvious threats, but insufficient to detect subtle anomalies.
This allowed Oboro to calculate precise boundaries for safe movement. As long as he avoided entering the cone of the Marine's active attention and remained below the threshold that would trigger conscious detection, he could move with relative impunity.
When he had covered approximately half the distance to his target, Oboro smoothly altered his trajectory. The change appeared natural—like someone who had suddenly remembered an errand in a different direction—but the timing and angle were calculated to exploit the guard's visual blind spots.
At that exact moment, the Marine's instincts registered something amiss. Some primitive awareness that had been honed by months of dangerous duty sent a warning signal through his nervous system. He turned his head sharply, scanning the area where he thought he had detected movement.
The street appeared completely empty.
After several seconds of careful observation, the soldier shrugged and returned to his previous position. Whatever he had sensed was apparently nothing more than imagination—a common occurrence when fatigue played tricks on the mind during long watches.
Dom's face had gone pale with terror during those eternal seconds when discovery seemed inevitable. His heart hammered against his ribs as he realized how close they had come to triggering an alarm that would have brought dozens of Marines converging on their position.
The salvation had come from Oboro's supernatural awareness of human perception and movement. At the precise instant the Marine began his turn, the scarred man had dropped into a crouch and shifted sideways, placing himself in the narrow blind spot created by the soldier's own body position and the angle of available street lighting.
It was a feat that required not just physical coordination, but an almost superhuman understanding of spatial relationships and human psychology. Dom found himself staring at his companion with a mixture of awe and growing suspicion about the man's true background.
From their elevated observation post, the remaining pirates watched in stunned silence as Oboro led Dom through an intricate dance of concealment and misdirection. The scarred man seemed to possess an uncanny ability to predict exactly when and where each Marine would look, allowing him to thread between their attention like smoke through fingers.
Multiple times, guards appeared to look directly at the infiltrators' location, only to dismiss what they saw as shadows or imagination. The precision required for such maneuvering was breathtaking—a single miscalculation would have exposed them to immediate capture.
"How is he doing that?" one pirate whispered in amazement.
"It's like he can see through their eyes," another responded, equally bewildered by the display of tactical mastery.
The truth was both simpler and more complex than they realized. Oboro's enhanced soul perception, while constrained by this world's dimensional barriers, still allowed him to read emotional states and attention levels with remarkable accuracy. Combined with his extensive knowledge of human anatomy and psychology, he could predict guard behavior with near-perfect precision.
More importantly, his experiences across multiple realities had taught him that most people—even trained soldiers—operated according to predictable patterns. They looked where they expected to see threats, focused on areas that appeared obviously suspicious, and dismissed stimuli that didn't match their preconceived notions of danger.
By moving with confidence rather than stealth, by timing his actions to coincide with natural fluctuations in attention, and by exploiting the fundamental limitations of human perception, Oboro could achieve what appeared to be magical invisibility.
After several minutes of this carefully choreographed infiltration, both men slipped into a side street and vanished from the Marines' line of sight. The transition from extreme danger to relative safety was so smooth that the watching pirates almost missed it entirely.
Marine control focused primarily on the main thoroughfares and obvious approach routes. Once Oboro and Dom had successfully navigated past the primary perimeter, reaching their target building became a matter of basic urban movement rather than tactical infiltration.
As the two figures disappeared into the maze of back alleys and service passages that honeycombed the district, the pirates on the hillside found themselves grappling with a profound sense of unease.
What they had witnessed defied easy explanation. Their newest crew member—allegedly a complete rookie to pirate life—had just demonstrated skills that would have impressed veteran infiltration specialists. His understanding of Marine tactics, human psychology, and urban warfare suggested a background far more complex than his humble claims indicated.
"There's something not right about that guy," one pirate muttered, voicing what they were all thinking.
"Did you see the way he moved? Like he's done this a thousand times before."
"And those scars on his face... those weren't from any ordinary fight."
Dom's decision to accompany the mysterious newcomer suddenly seemed less about courage and more about suspicion. Perhaps the yellow-haired local had recognized something the others had missed—some detail that suggested their "rookie" was far more dangerous than he appeared.
But those concerns would have to wait. For now, all they could do was watch and hope that whatever Oboro's true nature might be, his interests aligned with their desperate need to escape this increasingly deadly situation.
The game was entering its next phase, and the stakes continued to rise with each passing moment.