Fame could be earned through many different paths in the pirate world.
Attacking marine warships, assaulting World Government member states, or defeating powerful rival crews, each approach carried its own risks and rewards. But after careful consideration of their current capabilities and resources, Oboro had chosen the most direct route to notoriety.
Target non-member countries.
The Hell Pirates needed substantial funding if they intended to grow beyond their current three-man operation. Every successful organization required resources to attract capable subordinates, maintain equipment, and establish the kind of presence that commanded respect throughout these dangerous waters. Even the Four Emperors understood this fundamental principle, their dominance over New World territories existed primarily to secure the wealth necessary for maintaining their massive fleets and allied forces.
Money was the lifeblood of any serious pirate organization, and non-member nations represented the most accessible sources of such funding. Without World Government protection, these territories couldn't summon marine support when threatened, making them ideal targets for ambitious crews seeking to build their reputations.
The North Blue's complex political situation added another layer of opportunity to their calculations. While most stable, prosperous regions fell under the protection of established powers, isolated pockets remained vulnerable to aggressive newcomers willing to challenge the status quo.
Fishhead Island had maintained its precarious independence for years precisely because it offered little strategic value to the major players who dominated North Blue politics. The tiny nation possessed no significant natural resources, commanded no important shipping routes, and maintained such a modest population that conquest seemed more trouble than it was worth.
Until today, when the Hell Pirates' black flag appeared on the horizon like a harbinger of change.
The attack began at dawn, swift and merciless in its execution.
In the modest capital city, a collection of industrial buildings and residential districts that sprawled across the island's eastern coast, flames painted the morning sky in brilliant orange while thick smoke billowed between factory complexes. Unlike the grand architectural displays found in larger kingdoms, this settlement prioritized function over form. Smokestacks and manufacturing facilities dominated the skyline, their utilitarian designs speaking to a society focused entirely on production and commerce.
The first wave of royal troops rushed toward the main thoroughfare where reports placed the invading pirates, their weapons ready and their formations disciplined despite the obvious panic spreading through their ranks. But what they encountered defied every assumption about conventional pirate tactics.
A single figure moved through their gunfire like a phantom, his blade catching the morning light as it traced deadly arcs through the air. Dom's enhanced speed allowed him to weave between bullets with supernatural grace, his form flickering like a mirage as muzzle flashes failed to find their target. Each step carried him deeper into their formation, and each swing of his Nichirin blade claimed another life with surgical precision.
In the span of mere seconds, dozens of soldiers collapsed with identical wounds, their throats opened by cuts so clean they seemed almost artistic in their execution. The survivors stared in horrified fascination as their comrades fell like wheat before a scythe, their minds struggling to process what their eyes insisted was happening.
Dom paused in the center of the carnage, rain beginning to fall as if the heavens themselves wept for the slaughter below. Crimson droplets mixed with the natural precipitation, creating rivulets of diluted blood that traced abstract patterns across the cobblestones. His gaze found the remaining soldiers who had taken defensive positions behind makeshift barricades, their faces pale with terror.
"This place doesn't belong to you anymore," he announced with casual finality, taking a measured step toward their positions.
The psychological effect was immediate and devastating. Several soldiers broke ranks entirely, abandoning their weapons as they fled screaming into the maze of side streets. Those who remained did so only because their legs had simply refused to carry them away from the nightmare unfolding before their eyes.
Meanwhile, in the city's industrial district, Dolan engaged a larger force of palace guards who had attempted to cut off the pirates' retreat route. Unlike Dom's elegant efficiency, his approach favored raw brutality that showcased the advantages of his demonic transformation. Each punch carried enough force to pulverize bone, while his enhanced durability allowed him to shrug off wounds that would have crippled normal humans.
The pale complexion and unnaturally sharp features granted by Oboro's enhancement cards made him appear more monster than man, an impression reinforced by the predatory grin that never left his face. Bullets that found their mark barely slowed his advance, while sword cuts that should have been disabling merely drew thin lines of blood that seemed to close almost as quickly as they appeared.
The demon blood coursing through his veins provided regenerative capabilities that transformed what should have been a desperate fight into a one-sided massacre. His opponents fought with the courage of professional soldiers, but courage meant little when facing an opponent who felt no pain and showed no signs of fatigue.
While his subordinates carved bloody paths through the city's defenses, Oboro made his way toward the palace with unhurried confidence. The guards who attempted to stop him never came close to landing a blow, they simply collapsed unconscious as his Conqueror's Haki swept over them in controlled waves.
The technique remained relatively weak compared to what true masters could achieve, but against ordinary soldiers it proved devastatingly effective. Bodies littered the palace corridors behind him, each one bearing the peaceful expression of someone who had simply lost consciousness rather than suffered violent death.
When he finally reached the throne room's ornate golden doors, Oboro paused to adjust his gentleman's hat before pushing them open with casual authority.
The scene that greeted him was exactly what he'd expected, a collection of terrified nobility clustered around their king like children seeking protection from a parent who possessed no power to provide it. The monarch himself was a corpulent man whose expensive clothing couldn't disguise the fear that had drained all color from his features.
"How is it possible?" the king stammered, his voice cracking with disbelief. "How did you get in here?"
Oboro's immaculate appearance suggested he'd taken a leisurely stroll through peaceful gardens rather than fought his way through an entire palace guard. No blood stained his elegant suit, no exhaustion marked his breathing, and his calm demeanor radiated the kind of absolute confidence that came from facing no genuine opposition.
"Who are you?" demanded a court official, his voice carrying more bravado than his trembling hands suggested he actually felt.
Whoosh.
The stone that shot from Oboro's fingertip moved faster than the eye could follow, punching through the man's skull with enough force to spray brain matter across the wall behind him. The body crumpled without ceremony, leaving a spreading pool of blood that reflected the throne room's golden decorations.
"Hell Pirates," Oboro replied conversationally, as if the casual murder had been merely an punctuation mark in their dialogue.
The remaining courtiers pressed closer together, their survival instincts warring with the paralysis of absolute terror. Several palace guards rushed forward with drawn swords, their training overriding their fear as they sought to protect their royal charge.
More stones followed in rapid succession, each one finding its mark with mechanical precision. The warriors collapsed in sequence, their weapons clattering uselessly across marble floors as death claimed them before they could close even half the distance to their target.
"You're not from the North Blue, are you?" the king managed to gasp, his survival instincts finally overcoming his shock. "Otherwise you'd never dare come here! This is Donquixote Family territory, "
The stone that silenced him struck with enough force to cave in his skull, ending both his threats and his life in a single devastating impact. The Fat monarch's corpse toppled backward, his crown rolling across the floor to rest against the base of his own throne.
"Please don't kill me!" wailed one of the surviving nobles, dropping to his knees in desperate supplication. "I have money, vast wealth! Take whatever you want!"
But Oboro had already conducted his reconnaissance of the island during their approach. The majority of buildings weren't residential or governmental, they were factories. Manufacturing facilities that bore the distinctive insignia of the Donquixote Family, producing weapons and ammunition for conflicts throughout the North Blue.
This entire "kingdom" was nothing more than an elaborate front for Doflamingo's arms dealing operation, disguised as a sovereign nation to avoid World Government oversight. The royal family served as willing puppets, their cooperation purchased with a fraction of the profits generated by their island's industrial output.
Puru puru puru.
The distinctive sound of a Den Den Mushi cut through the throne room's deadly silence. Oboro located the device next to the king's corpse, noting how the snail's features had already shifted to display the expression of an incoming caller.
He lifted the bloodstained receiver with casual interest.
Silence stretched between the connection for several heartbeats, each party waiting for the other to speak first. When words finally came, they carried the distinctive laugh that had struck fear into criminals throughout the Grand Line.
"Fufufufu... You certainly work efficiently! Killed everyone already?"
"Who is this?" Oboro asked with feigned ignorance, though his tone suggested he was enjoying the conversation.
"Don't play dumb, newcomer. You wouldn't dare destroy my business without knowing exactly who you're challenging."
"Doflamingo? What an honor to receive a personal call from such a legendary figure. To be honest, you're something of an idol to me."
Oboro's casual tone carried no trace of fear or deference, treating the conversation like a pleasant chat between equals rather than the deadly threat it represented. He even took the opportunity to pry a valuable necklace from the dead king's throat, adding insult to injury with calculated indifference.
"Fufufufu... I haven't returned to the North Blue for quite some time. I didn't expect the new generation to produce someone with your particular brand of audacity. You want money? I'll give you money, but you have to be alive to spend it."
The threat was delivered with Doflamingo's characteristic blend of amusement and menace, his voice carrying undertones that promised swift retribution for this unprecedented insult.
"No need to act so generous," Oboro replied with mocking cheerfulness. "Even through this connection, I can sense your anger. You're suppressing your rage right now, aren't you? I bet the veins on your forehead are about to burst. But times are changing, old man. Even legends like you need to make room for the next generation. You can't monopolize every profitable enterprise forever."
The silence that followed carried weight that seemed to press against the Den Den Mushi's shell. When Doflamingo finally spoke again, his voice had gained an edge that suggested his famous temper was indeed being tested.
"What's your name, captain? What do you call your little crew?"
"The Hell Pirates. Though I suppose we're still small-time compared to someone of your stature."
The answer clearly surprised the Heavenly Demon, most pirates facing his wrath would either grovel for mercy or refuse to identify themselves at all. This casual admission suggested either complete fearlessness or complete stupidity, and Doflamingo couldn't immediately determine which applied.
Modern pirates possessed ambition that often exceeded their common sense, particularly the younger generation who had Sir hearing stories about the legendary figures who dominated the seas. Some genuinely believed they could challenge established powers through courage alone, while others simply lacked the experience to understand the forces they were provoking.
"Interesting... We'll meet soon enough."
The connection ended with a sharp click, leaving Oboro alone with the corpses of Fishhead Island's former ruling class.
"How delightful," he chuckled, tossing the bloodstained Den Den Mushi aside without ceremony.
Everything had proceeded exactly according to plan. Doflamingo would indeed return to the North Blue to deal with this unprecedented challenge to his authority, bringing with him the kind of attention that would elevate the Hell Pirates from unknown newcomers to serious players in the region's criminal hierarchy.
The prospect of a new pirate crew daring to challenge one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea would generate headlines throughout the Grand Line's information networks. Even if their influence didn't immediately reach the New World, the story would certainly create a sensation throughout the North Blue's criminal underworld.
With that kind of reputation preceding them, recruiting capable subordinates would become significantly easier. Every ambitious pirate in these waters would want to join the crew that had earned Doflamingo's personal attention, whether through admiration for their courage or simple curiosity about their chances of survival.
The game was beginning in earnest, and Oboro looked forward to discovering just how far he could push the Heavenly Demon before their inevitable confrontation.