The month passed in furious labor, every day ringing with the sounds of hammer strikes, saw blades, welding arcs, and shouted orders. Dock One of Water 7 had seen the birth of many great vessels, but none had drawn such quiet reverence and sharp-eyed curiosity as the one Tom now guided to completion.
The ship was immense. Longer than most Marine warships, yet sleeker. Its hull was forged from a unique blend of deep-sea ironwood and steel harvested from a fallen meteorite Tom had kept secret for decades. The ship's frame gleamed a polished silver-white, the color of a storm rolling across clouded skies. It had no sails, no masts. Instead, two enormous rotors—each as large as a windmill—extended from either side, retracted flush into the hull when idle. At the rear, a massive propeller was nestled between reinforced stabilizers. This was the ship's heart.
She moved not with the sea, but with the storm.
Victor Creed—Logan D. Victor Creed—watched the final plates go into place, arms crossed, wind constantly swirling at his heels. His coat flared behind him, white as the ship, his gaze set on the horizon.
Tom approached from the scaffolding, wiping his hands on a cloth. "We just finished reinforcing the hull against altitude drag. That propeller in the back should keep her moving even without wind. But knowing you..."
Victor nodded. "I'll give her the sky."
Tom chuckled, stepping up beside him. "We tested the turbines. They can handle the stress. But you're going to need to monitor the air pressure. The ship's weight won't matter if you don't keep those currents balanced."
"I've been training for this," Victor said. "Every day since Ohara."
Tom sobered at the name. "And now? You're heading back."
Victor looked out to sea. "To West Blue. The trail's cold, but there are whispers. The demon child lives."
Tom placed a hand on the metal hull. "Then the Byakko will carry you there."
Byakko. The White Tiger. A name not chosen for flair, but for meaning. It was the beast within Victor. The fruit that had changed his path. And now, it would be the name of the ship that carried his will.
Launch day drew a crowd. Not because of announcements—Victor had made none—but because the workers of Water 7 felt the moment coming. The ship, hidden under tarp and scaffolding for weeks, now stood revealed under the midday sun.
She floated in the drydock, massive and motionless. No flags. No emblems. Just the sleek white frame, the dual rotors folded along her sides, and the gleaming rear propeller that hummed faintly.
Victor walked the gangway alone.
Tom watched from the scaffolding with his crew, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Victor paused at the wheel. The control panel was custom-built, no rudder. Everything here worked on his wind. Levers for altitude, pressure stabilizers, thrust calibration—Tom had outdone himself.
The ship's engine activated with a deep thrum, the propeller at the rear churning water as it spun. No steam. No fire. Just smooth, focused energy.
Victor extended his hands.
The wind obeyed.
Two cyclones spun to life around the side rotors, lifting the Byakko gently from the water. The crowd gasped as the ship hovered, suspended on air currents woven by the Phantom Hunter himself.
With a whisper of pressure release, the Byakko ascended into the sky.
From above, Water 7 looked like a floating dream—a city of canals and cranes, laughter and labor. Victor let the moment settle, standing at the forward deck. The winds cradled the ship like it belonged in the heavens.
He turned the propeller at the rear to full throttle.
The ship surged forward.
Victor's coat whipped behind him as he moved, adjusting the wind flow on the port and starboard rotors. He didn't need maps. He could feel the pull of the West Blue. Every current in the air spoke to him.
He set his course.
To where the fire had begun.
To the West Blue, where Ohara once stood.
The Byakko soared across the sky like a specter of storm and steel. It left no trail but a whisper of wind. Below, ships caught glimpses of it—an airborne fortress of polished white gliding across the clouds. Rumors spread like wildfire.
"A ghost ship!"
"A Marine prototype!"
"A god's chariot!"
Victor ignored them all. He kept the ship silent, the winds muted, his Haki constantly extended in all directions.
Observation. Constant.
He searched for signs, not of life, but of memories. Of whispers.
The West Blue neared by the third day.
He passed over the Calm Belt, using the Byakko's elevation to avoid the Sea Kings. The ship held steady, each adjustment made with a flick of his hand.
He slept only in bursts. Trained in the ship's hold. Kept his claws sharp, his senses sharper.
He had only a name. A legend, buried under the trauma of a massacre.
Nico Robin.
The demon child.
The last light of Ohara.
He didn't believe the World Government's stories. He knew propaganda. He had helped write it once.
Now, he would find the truth.
On the fifth day, the Byakko hovered over the coast of Ilusia Kingdom, far to the west. Victor adjusted the ship's descent, letting it hover several hundred feet above the ocean, cloaked in low clouds.
From here, he could see the waterbody called West Blue unfold like an old memory. Islands scattered here and there.
He remembered patrols.
He remembered fire.
He remembered the day Ohara vanished beneath the Buster Call.
He closed his eyes and breathed.
Then, he opened the logs.
Tom had embedded a World Map and data feed system into the Byakko's console. It tapped into intercepted Marine transmissions, pirate sightings, and merchant gossip. Victor scrolled through recent reports.
Pirate activity.
Merchant disappearances.
A small island north of the ancient Ohara site—Booksong Isle—had reported sightings of a cloaked figure matching the general profile of a "fugitive scholar."
He marked it.
He would begin there.
The Byakko settled into lower altitude as the sun dipped behind the clouds. The stars came out, and Victor sat at the bow, watching them without a word.
The ship was silent save for the hum of the rotors.
He thought of Garp.
His mentor. His teacher. The one who told him justice came from within, not from orders.
He thought of Ohara's fire.
And of the child who had survived it.
The world might call her a demon.
But he had seen true demons. And he had hunted them.
Now, he would find the girl who carried the truth.
And protect it.
In the dark, under the stars, the Byakko drifted.
Like a white tiger in the clouds.
And Victor Creed watched the world, waiting for the next sign.
The hunt had only just begun.