The sea was calm, the water lapping gently against the hull, but Alma's thoughts were anything but. She leaned against the railing of the sm
The sea was calm, the water lapping gently against the hull, but Alma's thoughts were anything but. She leaned against the railing of the small ship, the newspaper spread open in her hands. The bold headline stared back at her in ink thick enough to bleed:
Warlord of the Sea Donquixote Doflamingo Exonerated, But Still Faces Punishment.
She sighed, folding the paper in half with a snap. A breeze caught her curls, and she tucked them behind her ear with practiced ease, nearly dislodging the white rose pinned there. She adjusted it quickly, fingers lingering longer than needed.
"This doesn't add up," she muttered under her breath, eyes narrowing.
Of course it didn't. How could it?
That smug bastard had been involved. Her father's last student. And somehow—out of all the bloated pigs strutting around in their bubbles and silks at that gathering—only Vlancio Shepherd ended up dead.
Vlancio fucking Shepherd.
Her jaw clenched. Enemy of her family. Enemy of everything she was. She should have felt triumphant. Vindicated. But instead her gut twisted.
Because she knew—knew—that the so-called "hero of the day," Captain Harlow Gale, was the real culprit.
She had no idea how he'd pulled it off, but the facts spoke for themselves.
The man managed to snuff out that disgusting animal and slip away without a single drop of blame sticking to him—like a hair pulled clean out of dough.
It almost defied logic.
Her lips curled as she thought about it. On one hand: the bastard was finally dead. On the other… she hadn't been the one to kill him. Not even her father's student. Just some poor sod on the auction block who Gale had—somehow—talked into doing the dirty work.
"Miracle, huh?" she said bitterly, her eyes trailing the horizon. "When I tried, I barely managed to stick a knife into that pig's gut before Mary Geoise went up in flames looking for me."
She shook her head, remembering the chaos. The alarms, the screams, the endless flood of Marines swarming like ants kicked out of a nest. She and her comrades had barely escaped with their lives.
And worse, their little strike had led to the Marines tightening their grip, launching a global hunt that set back the Revolutionaries' plans by months—maybe years. A massive fuck-up.
Her chest tightened. "But you…" she muttered, her grip tightening on the newspaper until the paper crumpled. "You pulled it off clean. Somehow."
She hated him for it. She admired him for it. She didn't know what she felt.
Her mind wandered back to Vlancio Shepherd. His gaudy rings. His sweating, piggish face. The way he had leered at her father all those years ago.
Her lips pressed thin.
"Did you know, at least?" she whispered. "Did you even realize why you were dying? Did it hit you, just before the end? Or did you go out snorting like the pig you were?"
The white rose trembled in her hair as the sea breeze picked up again, and for a long moment Alma just stared out at the horizon, silent, caught somewhere between satisfaction and a hollow, gnawing resentment that it hadn't been her blade that ended him.
...
The bar was loud, rowdy, and smelled like salt, sweat, and spilled booze—everything you'd expect from a port town in Paradise. A dozen pirates crowded around crooked tables, bragging about their spoils, their women, and their narrow escapes from the Marines.
The latest papers were scattered about, their ink already stained with rum.
"Serves that flamingo bastard right," one pirate barked, slamming his mug down with frothy beer splashing over the rim. "World Government's lapdog finally got his leash yanked. Shoulda happened ages ago."
"Keheheh, I'll drink to that!" another laughed, clinking mugs. "A Warlord, brought low. What a sight it must've been."
But before they could toast again, a voice cut through the din—low, casual, yet sharp enough to carry over the noise.
"Outta all the things you boys oughta be worried about from that mess…"
The pirates turned, blinking toward the corner of the room.
"…Doflamingo's punishment should be the least of your concerns."
The speaker leaned back in his chair, one leg up on the table like he owned the place. A muscular young man, his scalp shining under the lantern light, dressed in worn monk robes that looked like they'd seen better decades.
He wasn't even looking at them—he was busy tipping back a bottle of rum, guzzling it down like it was water from a mountain spring.
And it wasn't his first, either. The table in front of him looked like a graveyard of glass, an hour's worth of empty bottles lined up like fallen soldiers.
One pirate squinted at him, unimpressed. "And what the hell should we be concerned with, baldy?"
The young man lowered the bottle with a satisfied sigh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He grinned wide, almost boyish, despite the raw muscle in his arms.
"I'd be happy to tell you…" He tilted the bottle sideways, showing the hollow clink of emptiness. "…but I reckon a good drink will make me even happier."
The pirates exchanged glances, half amused, half annoyed. Then one—broad shoulders, missing teeth—let out a bark of laughter.
"Why the fuck not? Just had a good haul. But what you got to say better be worth the price of the bottle."
The bald monk's grin stretched wider as he practically sprang out of his chair and plopped himself down at their table like he'd been invited weeks ago.
"Now that's the spirit!" He slapped the table, sending a nearby mug wobbling dangerously close to tipping. "Name's Poqin, gents. A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
The pirates shuffled, eyeing him up. The broad-shouldered one leaned in. "I'm Redtooth Jengo, and these here—"
"Yeah, yeah," Poqin cut him off with a dismissive wave, reaching for the fresh bottle they'd just ordered. "Look, I'm too drunk to remember your names and I've only got room left for maybe one or two more bottles, tops, before I black out. So how 'bout we skip introductions and get straight to the part where I scare the piss outta you?"
He popped the cork with his teeth, spat it onto the floor, and took another long swig while the pirates stared at him.
Inside, Poqin was buzzing—partly from the alcohol, partly from amusement. 'Man, Gale would love this. Sitting around with pirates, drinking our weight in booze, shooting our mouths off... too bad he isn't here. Whelp, more drinks for me, at least... '
He set the bottle down with a thud, leaned forward, and lowered his voice just enough to make the table lean closer.
"So. You wanna know what you should be worried about?"
His grin turned sly, sharp.
The pirates leaned in, their earlier grins slipping into thin lines. One of them rapped his knuckles on the table impatiently.
"Anytime today, baldy."
Poqin chuckled, swishing the rum in his bottle before taking another deep gulp. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve, flashing a grin.
"Alright, alright, don't lose your sea legs over it. The main takeaway here, gentlemen…" He leaned forward, voice dipping low. "…is that a Celestial fucking Dragon kicked the bucket."
That got their attention. A couple of them stiffened, one even glanced nervously toward the door, as if a Marine would burst in the second the words were spoken.
"That," Poqin went on, tapping the table with one calloused finger, "should scare the hell outta of everyone. Especially pirates like yourselves who are already on their shit list."
One pirate scoffed, waving his hand. "What? Don't tell me you're one of those people who buys into that crap. World Nobles, 'gods' walking the earth?"
"Pfah!" He spat on the floor, earning a dirty look from the bartender. "If it weren't for the fact that an Admiral would hunt me down for so much as sneezing in one of their directions, I'd find one myself and gut the bastard like a fish."
The table gave a half-hearted laugh at his bravado, but Poqin just shrugged, lips quirking.
"Well, that's the problem, ain't it?" he said lightly. "People are gonna see the news… and they're gonna get itchy. Especially the ones with a score to settle with those Celestials."
He swirled his bottle dramatically like he was holding court, smirk tugging at his lips. "Think about it. The slave who killed the Dragon? Poof. Gone without a trace. The man who orchestrated the whole thing? Behind bars, but still breathing." He tilted his head, grin widening. "And his boss? He gets a slap on the wrist and a 'don't do it again' from the Marines."
The pirates exchanged looks, still confused.
One crossed his arms, leaning back in his chair. "Maybe," he said slowly, "the World Nobles aren't as untouchable as they'd like us to believe. Maybe they just don't have enough dogs on leashes to bite everyone who threatens them."
Poqin's grin sharpened, the lantern light catching on his teeth as he swirled what was left of his rum.
"Oh, they've got enough dogs. I should know." He flicked his wrist as if counting them off. "Dogs, wolves, cats… hell, a whole menagerie of beasts they keep locked away for when things get messy."
He leaned back in his chair, balancing it dangerously on two legs. "It isn't that they don't have enough animals on a leash. They just can't sic 'em on old doflamingo without chewing off their own hand in the process."
His grin widened briefly, but then he waved the thought away like smoke. "But that's not what matters." He jabbed a finger lazily toward the table of pirates. "Not to you, anyway."
The men exchanged confused looks. Their amusement from earlier was gone, replaced with the kind of silence that creeps in when you start to wonder if the drunk in front of you is actually drunk—or just knows something you don't.
One pirate finally shifted uneasily, scratching at his beard. "Then what should matter to us?"
Poqin tipped his bottle back, draining the last drops before thunking it dramatically against the wood.
"That some people," he said, his voice lowering, "are gonna be stupid enough to take a crack at the World Nobles, thinking they can get away with it."
He paused, letting the words sink in before grinning again—sharp, wolfish. "And when that happens… they're gonna feel the need to make a lasting example."
The pirates frowned, but their eyes stayed glued to him.
"And I'm not talking about hanging the stupid bastards," Poqin went on, his tone suddenly all too serious. "Or even killing their entire families. Nuh uh."
His grin vanished. Just like that. His face was sober, cold.
"The seas will turn red with the blood of pirates and anyone who isn't inclined to bend to the World Government. And only then—only then—when everyone finally understands what it means to kill a god… when enough people die screaming so the rest of the world remembers…"
He exhaled, slumping slightly back into his chair. "…only then will the lucky and strong few who survived get to sigh in relief."
The pirates sat stiff, staring at him. A couple swallowed hard.
And then, like flipping a switch, Poqin leaned back and let out a hearty laugh. "KEHEHEHE! Then again, what do I know? I'm just a bald monk who can't hold his liquor!" He raised his empty bottle toward the bar. "Barkeep! Another round!"
...
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