"War... it never ends?"
Morgans hung up the Den Den Mushi and slumped back in his office chair, muttering in disbelief. After a long silence, he suddenly burst into low, manic laughter.
"Kuwahahaha! Rogers Darren... you really are a complete lunatic!"
Clutching his stomach, Morgans howled with laughter, his face flushing red, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes.
Broadcasting to the entire world, Darren had used the North Blue Fleet's long-range, wide-area strike capability to intimidate the World Government's member nations, forcing the Government's hand. He had stabilized the situation in the North Blue and severed it from the World Government's political system—an unprecedented, world-shaking feat.
Even Morgans, who had watched countless tides of history rise and fall across the seas, couldn't help but marvel at Darren's audacity and skill.
Any ordinary person, having finally won such hard-earned "peace," would cling to it with everything they had, guarding it jealously. Even if the World Government retaliated, they would hold back, desperately preserving that fragile stability.
But Darren had declared, "The war never ended."
Beyond "madness," Morgans could think of no other word to describe him.
---
Grand Line, a deserted island.
The World Government's flag, emblazoned with its cruciform emblem, fluttered proudly from the mast of a snow-white Government vessel moored silently at the shore.
"No!"
A heart-rending shriek suddenly tore through the quiet sea breeze, filled with raw grief.
Bang!
A bullet punched through the Freedom Fighter's skull, exploding in a spray of scarlet.
He swayed for a moment, then collapsed heavily onto the ground, a dark pool of blood slowly spreading beneath his head.
The other Freedom Fighters turned away, faces ashen, jaws clenched so hard their teeth creaked.
Heavy shackles bound their wrists and ankles. Over a hundred CP agents surrounded them, guns leveled at the kneeling prisoners.
The waves rolled in and retreated in their eternal rhythm, but the seawater couldn't wash away the bloodstains on the pale sand, nor dispel the suffocating chill hanging over the shore.
Everyone stood rigid, as if frozen.
Everyone except one man.
He wore a tailored, Western-style suit in pale, muted tones that matched his short, silvery-white hair, radiating a noble, refined air.
His stiff, high collar concealed his neatly trimmed stubble. A dark hooded greatcoat draped to his ankles, pale medal-like emblems gleaming on his upper arms. A silver rapier hung at his waist.
He sat cross-legged on a coastal rock, idly twirling a ruby-inlaid revolver in one hand.
His crescent-short silver hair shimmered in the light like a crown of pure metal, dazzlingly bright.
Even seated so casually, the man gave off an aura of unreachable aloofness.
"Still refusing to cooperate?"
The silver-haired man sighed, a hint of weary disappointment in his eyes as he regarded the Freedom Fighters before him. He lifted his shoulders in a small shrug.
"All I want is a location."
"You think we'd betray our own and hand over our Headquarters' location?" one of the Freedom Fighters rasped, his battered face twisted in a sneer. "Keep dreaming."
"You so-called nobles, clinging to your illusion of superiority, actually think you can rule this world forever?"
"The flames of revolution will never die out. Leader Dragon will lead us—"
Bang!
The Freedom Fighter's head snapped back. The light drained from his eyes almost instantly.
White smoke curled lazily from the revolver spinning through the air, its ruby-inlaid frame pulsing with a sinister blood-red gleam.
Another warm body hit the ground.
"My apologies," the silver-haired man said mildly. "I wasn't speaking to you."
He blew the smoke from the revolver's muzzle. His cold, arrogant gaze never once flicked toward the fallen corpse, instead drifting until it settled on a figure standing a short distance away.
"Miss Ginny, East Army Commander of the Freedom Fighters," he said, bowing slightly with graceful precision. "It's an honor to make your acquaintance. I must apologize for resorting to such crude methods to arrange this meeting, my dear lady."
He wasn't wrong.
Ginny, East Army Commander of the Freedom Fighters, was undeniably beautiful.
Her pink hair was cut short, a pair of windproof goggles resting on her forehead and communication earpieces snug in her ears.
She wore a crisp white short-sleeved shirt over brown camouflage pants, with black military boots completing the look, giving her a sharp, capable bearing.
Even now, with blood staining her shirt and grime streaking her face, her natural poise and charm refused to fade.
"So all that encrypted intel I intercepted... was fake?" Ginny asked. Her hands were cuffed behind her back as she stared at the noble-looking man in front of her. She pressed her cracked lips together, her expression stiff. "You deliberately fed us false information?"
"No, no, not at all," the silver-haired man replied, shaking his head as if brushing aside a trivial misunderstanding. "The intel was real. The Government is indeed quietly moving to infiltrate the North Blue nations. Those ammunition transport routes you intercepted? All genuine."
"Your Freedom Fighters will seize those shipments, strengthening your forces by at least twenty percent."
Ginny's pupils shrank.
Now she understood.
This entire operation had been a trap—crafted specifically for her.
The man toyed idly with his revolver, a faint smile curling his lips.
"Only real intel could entice someone like you—the East Army Commander and chief intelligence officer—into taking a personal risk," he said. "Step by step, you walked deeper into the Government's encirclement without ever realizing it."
"Of course, I knew even that wouldn't be enough on its own."
"That's why I prepared something you simply couldn't resist."
Ginny's breath hitched. She stared at him, teeth clenched.
"You really know the secrets of the Buccaneer race?" she demanded.
The silver-haired man rose slowly from the rock, that same easy smile on his face as he strolled toward her.
He stopped before her and gently tipped her blood-smeared chin up with the cold muzzle of his gun.
"Yes," he murmured. "I know all the secrets you're so desperate to uncover."
"The Buccaneer race's past, its history, its legends, everything it once possessed..."
"More precisely, I know the true origins of Bartholomew Kuma."
"Haven't you been tirelessly chasing those secrets, that truth?"
"There's no need to struggle so hard. I could simply tell you everything."
Ginny froze, the blood draining from her face.
"No, that's impossible... You couldn't know that much! Not even the Celestial Dragons—"
"Who ever said I was a Celestial Dragon?"
The silver-haired man laughed softly, then suddenly raised his gun and fired at a Freedom Fighter standing right beside Ginny.
Bang!
A spray of blood painted the air. Ginny stood rooted to the spot, stunned.
"Allow me to introduce myself properly, Miss Ginny."
His face, flecked with fresh blood, wore an impossibly gentle smile as he bowed again, as mild and lofty as a benevolent god.
"I am Saint Jaygarcia Michael, the current Commander of the Knights of God."
To be continued...