Chapter 19 – "Wanted Faces"
The night was heavy over the city; rain poured relentlessly, drumming on the metal roofs and turning the narrow alleys into mud and rust-colored sludge. Most residents had fled over the past days or locked their doors behind them in terror after rumors spread about an inevitable battle between the Navy and Adam's men. Under Adam's strict orders, Serena secured escape routes for those wishing to leave, arranged secret paths through the back market, and convinced the traders to flee with their families. By sunset, the city appeared nearly deserted, except for the fear and the sound of rain.
The children and Rick and Serena's apprentices had already been sent to a safe shelter on Adam's command. Only those meant to fight or treat the wounded remained in the Freedom House. Inside, Adam stood silently among his circle. His eyes scanned those who stayed with him. Organ crossed his arms, Bram wrapped a bandage around his fist, ready for battle. Jairo glanced into the shadows, almost testing the gateways with his eyes. Serena stood near the window, her sharp gaze monitoring the market entrances and alleys with the expertise of a smuggler and negotiator. Maya quietly moved healing supplies, calmly counting medicines and herbs, steadying her breath and hands as she reviewed Sheikh Najib's prescriptions in her mind.
Tonight, there was no room for show or chaos. We will survive because we know the price of staying. Each of you knows your role and will not fail.
Adam nodded to Organ and Bram:
"Hold the soldiers in the alleys. Break their ranks. Don't let them flank us."
Organ nodded firmly: "Understood."
Bram clenched his fist with a sharp smile: "Ready."
He then signaled Jairo:
"The sniper will be on the roof. Don't let him spot you first. Take him to the sky... and leave him there."
Jairo replied calmly: "He'll be forgotten."
Adam turned to Maya, his voice softer but firm:
"Check the wounded, treat what you can. Remember what Sheikh Najib taught you, and trust your instincts for the rest."
Finally, he looked at Serena:
"Focus on the back market. Stop any supplies reaching the Navy from below. I don't want food or weapons getting through."
Serena nodded briefly: "I'll close those arteries."
They stepped into the rain-soaked streets, tears of the sky flooding the narrow alleys. The Navy had arrived with clear orders: capture or kill the leader of the so-called "Eternal Skies" and his men — the name leaked by spy reports and some escapees' confessions. Three field officers led them: Jaro in front, his broad sword and taut muscles prominent; Kent, the sniper stationed on rooftops; and Lota, coldly directing soldiers with sharp commands.
Lota was not famous as a pure fighter but for her discipline and plans. What her official files didn't record was her poison skills: hidden small vials in her belt and coated daggers for surprise attacks her enemies never expected.
After minutes of slow crawling through muddy alleys and brief skirmishes, Adam found himself facing Jaro in the main square. Their steps sunk deep into the mud, rain beating on the helmets of fleeing soldiers around.
Jaro stared and laughed tensely: "I've wanted this moment. Let's see if you are the monster they say."
Adam didn't answer. He steadied, lowering his shoulders, bending into a low combat stance for maneuvering. His eyes flickered over Jaro's joints — front knee, sword grip, hip twist. He exhaled slowly, controlling his breath to save energy.
The fight began.
Jaro lunged first; the whistle of his sword cut through the rain. Adam stepped back half a step, twisted his torso as the thrust slid off his side, bent swiftly, and grabbed his opponent's wrist with one hand, throwing him off balance into the mud.
Jaro cursed, recovered, and attacked with a flurry — high and low, horizontal and vertical strikes. Sparks flew, metal screamed at the blows. Adam kept his left arm raised to block, fired a short punch from his right into Jaro's exposed ribs.
Jaro stumbled back.
Adam didn't let him catch his breath. He took a wide step, pivoted on his heel, delivering a low kick to the front knee — the critical weak point striking Jaro's balance instantly. Jaro groaned and swayed.
Adam closed in immediately, grabbed his collar, pulled him close, then struck hard between the collarbone and throat — a blow aimed to paralyze reflexes momentarily.
Jaro coughed; his sword stabbed wildly, cutting a shallow wound in Adam's side. Blood mixed with mud.
Adam roared in pain but drove his knee powerfully into Jaro's stomach, sending him rolling in the mud, curled in agony, vomiting dirt and blood.
The fight was far from equal throughout. Jaro was an experienced soldier; heavy steps carefully calculated, switching attack directions to confuse. Adam bent and rolled in the mud to dodge near-fatal cuts that nearly split him open.
Their breaths rose like two beasts growling in the rain. Mud clung to their feet, hampering movement. Sparks flew again as metal met metal, the smell of hot blood filling the cold air.
Adam felt the sting of his wound, blood soaking his torn shirt, teeth grinding. He saw Jaro's cold steadiness and strained smile, knowing his opponent was also exhausted.
They traded blows as if death was their only choice. Adam blocked a sword strike with his elbow, felt a temporary numbness in his arm; then swung wide with his other arm, hitting Jaro's jaw, spinning his head and leaving him reeling.
Blood ran with the rain; the earth turned into a field of red mud. At that moment, Jaro staggered, chest heaving like choking, but before falling, he gathered his fading consciousness, glared hatefully at Adam, screamed madly, and charged with a desperate last strike, his sword slicing fiercely through the air.
When Jaro yelled madly and lunged, Adam felt pure menace pierce his spine. His eyes widened, heart pounding like war drums, thunder roaring painfully in his ears.
In that fleeting moment, time seemed to slow. He saw the sword's path, Jaro's shoulder angle, the tremble of his right foot — all exploding in his mind like one image, a harbinger of death with no escape.
Adam growled, his body taut, exhaled sharply as if expelling fear from his chest. He bent sideways, dodged the sword that tore the air beside him, feeling the blade graze his wet hair.
Then he spotted the opening: exposed chest.
He raised his fist and unleashed all his strength in it as if pouring his weight, anger, training, and resolve into one blow. A tiny patch of skin blackened at his knuckles; a shard of Armament Haki burst uncontrollably—a primal mark of a greater promise.
His fist slammed Jaro's chest like a divine hammer. The sound of shattering bone was a dying beast's wail. The air escaped Jaro's lungs in a final gasp; his eyes froze, his body collapsed, hitting the mud lifelessly.
Adam stared at his hand as raindrops washed away the blood. The dark mark on his knuckles slowly faded, as if it never was.
He sat heavily on the ground, mud scattering around, leaning his elbows on his knees. His breathing was ragged, his chest rising and falling as if his lungs screamed for air.
He looked again at his fist, whispering between breaths:
"What is this...? Was that Armament Haki? Just a part... and I can't control it yet."
He turned his head sideways, spat blood mixed with rain, then closed his eyes for a moment—just a moment.
But the sounds around—the battle cries, the rain's roar, footsteps—brought him back. He opened his eyes, struggled upright as if his body weighed tons, but he moved.
The rain poured mercilessly on narrow alleys, mixing blood with mud. The sounds of clashing and shouting echoed among the crumbling walls.
The organization's troops fought fiercely against the Navy in side alleys, trying to break their lines and distract them. Organ shouted loudly, waving his huge hand:
"Men! Keep the soldiers off my back! Scatter their ranks!"
Lota, the naval officer, watched the chaos with narrowed eyes, wielding her polished short knife. Her face was misted by rain; her glance calm but deadly.
"Advance! Close the roads! Don't let them flank!" she ordered sharply, motioning with a decisive hand.
Organ charged forward like a living wall, punching a soldier in the chest, tossing him choking to the ground, then spun to kick another in the thigh, smashing him against a wall. Suddenly, he felt a cold scratch on his arm—a quick, precise stab from Lota's dagger, leaving a red, bleeding line.
He stepped back, hand clenched. A strange heat spread through his veins; his head lightened, breaths heavier.
"Poison...?" he muttered through clenched teeth.
Lota smiled faintly with sarcasm, her voice cut by the rain:
"Smart, but too slow. This poison will slow you... till death."
Her soldiers rushed to assist, but Bram had already approached, his bandages dripping mud and blood.
"Get out of my way!" he shouted, landing a heavy punch on one's face, breaking his nose and knocking him out. The second tried to stab him with a spear, but Bram skillfully dodged, twisted the arm behind the back, then pushed him to fall unconscious headfirst into the mud.
Organ pressed his wound with his heavy hand, breathing deeply despite dizziness, then bellowed in a deep voice:
"Bram! Help me finish this woman!"
Bram pounced like a tiger, dodging Lota's dagger attempts, then punched her jaw from the side. Lota staggered briefly, gasping.
She tried to stab Organ again, but his heavy grip caught her wrist, stopping her motion.
"Now, Bram!"
Bram struck her elbow hard, paralyzing her arm, then landed a deep punch to her chest. The sound of ribs breaking was heard in the rain; she gasped a last breath, her body shuddered, then fell silently into the mud.
Organ stared at her for a second, panting, his hand still trembling from the poison's effect. He spat blood and turned to Bram.
"Bram, take the men left. Drive the rest of the Navy out of the alleys. Let no one escape."
Bram smirked venomously, wrapping his muddy bandages around his fist.
"Understood."
Organ sighed, turned away with difficulty, and staggered toward the Freedom House, clutching his wound.
(Maya... I need you now more than ever.)
The rooftop was drenched by heavy rain; water flowed through tile cracks and dripped from edges. Lightning illuminated the shattered city, revealing merging shadows below.
Kent stood steady near the rooftop's edge, rifle slung over his shoulder, eyes scanning the darkness, searching for a target. A heavy pistol gleamed on his hip, shining in the rain.
Jairo crawled silently behind piles of broken bricks. Rain soaked his hair and washed blood off his wounded arm. His breath was ragged.
(He's a professional sniper... I'll die if I open a gate a second too late.)
He opened a small side gate and slipped through, emerging behind Kent.
Suddenly, the sniper turned as if he sensed him and pulled the trigger. The bullet pierced Jairo's shoulder and exited the other side, hot blood spurting on the cold rain.
Jairo groaned, staggered, slammed the gate shut, fell to his knees elsewhere on the roof.
(That bastard expects my moves!)
He opened another gate and dashed out but Kent fired his pistol; the bullet whizzed near Jairo's cheek, burning his skin. Jairo retreated, panting, blood dripping from his arm and thigh.
Kent stepped forward, narrowing eyes, raising his rifle to aim once more.
Rain intensified, clouding vision, but he remained steady.
Jairo pressed his wounded hand, his eyes trembling in the dark.
(I have to confuse him... make him lose his target.)
He opened three gates at once. From the first, he surged with a quick kick to Kent's leg, who dodged but stayed standing. Kent fired; the bullet tore a muscle in Jairo's side.
Pain overwhelmed him, but he cursed under his breath, leapt through the second gate, hit Kent's temple with a punch.
The bullet missed, hitting bricks; sparks and stones scattered.
Kent took two steps back, his nose bleeding, but remained firm, reloaded his pistol with one hand, face stoic.
Jairo opened another gate above, rushed out, and landed a heavy punch on Kent's chest. He heard bones crack under his fist.
At the same moment, Kent pulled a small knife from his chest and stabbed Jairo's side. Jairo gasped painfully; blood mixed with rain.
Both staggered.
Lightning revealed their faces, covered in blood and mud.
Jairo coughed blood, eyes gleaming with madness.
(I'll crush you. I won't let you escape.)
He gathered all his strength and opened a huge gate beneath Kent's feet. But the sniper fixed him with a challenging stare and fired the last bullet, hitting Jairo's shoulder, paralyzing him briefly.
Yet, Jairo endured the pain, stretched out his injured arm and grabbed his jacket.
"I'm done."
He opened a vertical gate to the black sky. Rain hit them like arrows.
Jairo jumped with it into open space.
Winds howled in their ears; the rocky ground was far below.
Kent shouted, attempting another stab, but Jairo slammed a punch against his jaw, loosening the knife.
At the last moment, Jairo opened a small gate beneath, dropped through, and vanished onto a distant low rooftop.
Kent kept falling into the void; his scream faded amid the storm before disappearing.
Jairo tumbled on the other roof, gasping, blood washing his face. He pressed on his heavily bleeding wound.
(Damn... I almost died... but I won.)
He raised his head, saw the burning city, heard distant battle cries.
(No time to rest... I must return.)
He crawled slowly to the edge, opened another trembling gate, and vanished into the shadows.
The rain continued unabated, washing blood from the alleys but failing to erase death's smell. After the soldiers' retreat, Adam and Organ gathered in a narrow alley near the back market. Adam pressed his torn side with his hand; blood bled between his fingers while Organ breathed with difficulty, limping, poison-stained clothes still soaked.
Jairo caught up through a short gate he opened from the roof to the ground, staggering upon landing. Blood ran from his wounded shoulder and gaping thigh wound; his face pale and wet with rain yet trying to stand tall.
The three exchanged quick looks, few words spoken. Just heavy sighs and silent agreement to return.
"To the Freedom House," Adam said hoarsely.
They moved together through the rain, heavy steps. The alleys were filled with mud and blood, some corpses half-buried in fetid water. The sounds of fleeing soldiers faded behind.
Approaching the building, they spotted some wounded fighters sheltering near the entrance.
Adam pushed the heavy door open; damp, wood, and warm blood aroma spread. The floor was muddy, footprints and blood trails marked the ground. Inside the tavern, their warriors waited with weary eyes and shallow breaths, some leaning against walls, others lying on tables.
Maya stood near the stairs to the treatment room, hands covered in dried blood.
"Hurry... the room is ready."
Adam signaled clearly:
"Jairo first. Organ, press your wound well. Move quickly."
They passed silently through the narrow corridor; rain pounded the roof above like it had rained for centuries.
Adam opened the inner room door. Warm air scented with herbs enveloped them. Oil lamps hung on walls, fire shadows danced. The room was imperfect but tidy and organized. Clean tools sterilized by fire, strong wooden tables prepared for treatment decorated the walls.
Maya preceded them inside, glanced outside sternly:
"Close the door quickly! We don't want cold air contamination."
A fighter shut the door firmly behind them.
Jairo sat first on the table, chest rising and falling rapidly, hand clutching his shoulder, knee trembling from thigh bleeding. Organ followed with heavy steps, sitting silently, pressing his swollen wound; pale face but sharp eyes. Adam paused, surveying them sternly before sitting quietly himself, as if the end of a storm.
Maya washed her hands in boiled herbal water and began pulling tools from the flame.
Adam took a small bottle from his pocket, placed it carefully near her:
"Local anesthetic. Use it on Jairo first, carefully, from top to bottom."
Jairo closed his eyes, his fist tightening the cloth around the table; his body trembled, then calmed a little.
Organ sighed heavily, forehead sweating, muscles taut but wordless, nodding silently.
Maya sterilized needles over the flame and cut bandages with deliberate movements.
Adam pulled out surgical thread, injected himself with local anesthetic, waited briefly, then started stitching his wound.
His hand trembled at first; the needle pierced slowly, faltering in flesh. He bit his lip to avoid sound, then plunged again with greater precision, adapting to memory and skills hidden in his hands.
Maya spoke quietly:
"When you pull the thread, don't tighten it too much. Close the wound but let it breathe a bit."
Maya nodded without replying, focused on stitching Jairo's injury.
Organ watched silently; his body tense, eyes half-closed, breaths slow and noisy.
Suddenly, faint knocking sounded on the door.
"The messenger Serena sent outside."
A fighter cautiously opened the door, poked his head inside:
"So far, no additional Navy movements."
Adam replied sharply but calmly:
"Return in ten minutes. If not back... we start the withdrawal plan."
The messenger left bowing his head, closing the door tightly.
The room filled with their ragged breaths, heavy and sharp, piercing the silence of flames and steam as Maya stitched, washed, and learned.
Time slowed in those moments... each stitch a silent promise they would not fall tonight.
As drums and commands dwindled, the Navy slowly withdrew, dragging the wounded and leaving corpses behind. Rain continued to fall heavily, washing blood but not the iron and rotting flesh smell. Muddy streets were dotted with bodies and severed limbs, some submerged in mud nearly hidden.
Adam stood in a narrow alley watching the fleeing soldiers glance back in caution and fear. He did not immediately pursue. His voice was low but decisive as he turned to Organ and Jairo:
"Let them run. Tonight is ours no longer, but the war isn't over."
His men gathered slowly, some limping, some bandaging wounds with torn cloth, some still pressing persistent bleeds. Their eyes were unfocused; breaths heavy. The tavern was their temporary refuge; its heavy door opening and closing with each seeker of warmth, treatment, or safe place to catch breath.
Inside, silence was dense. Eyes red from tears, smoke, or exhaustion. Rain patter on the metal roof was steady, like a clock counting down the time left before the next death round.
Days after the Navy's retreat, a warship sailed gray turbulent waters, sails flapping in cold wind. Below deck, in a locked hold smelling of damp and salt, a bound soldier sat hunched, burdened by heavy guilt.
He was not alone among survivors, but military reports noted he was one of few who retreated close to the Freedom House itself—the base where Adam and his men fiercely fought. Officers knew he was there when orders to flee were given and had seen what others never did.
The hold's gate creaked metallically as a high-ranking officer with harsh features entered, flanked by two soldiers. He stood before the captive, staring coldly, holding a small file.
He spoke in a sharp cold tone:
"I have conflicting reports. Some men say they saw the rebel leader only from afar. But you... were in the inner alleys. Nearly at the battle's heart. You saw them close."
The trembling soldier raised his head; sweat glimmered under the dim oil lamp, eyes wide with real fear.
The officer flipped pages:
"I know what the report says: you withdrew from your post without permission. You abandoned your position and your comrades. Your punishment could be hanging during wartime. But we are not bloodthirsty without cause."
The soldier swallowed hard, his voice hoarse:
"Please... I will tell you everything... everything I know about them... about their leader Adam, his orders, their defenses... Please, just lessen the punishment..."
The officer slowly closed the file, observing the fear on his face, then nodded slightly to the accompanying soldiers.
"Take him to the interrogation room. Write down every word he says. We want a clear plan about that organization called Eternal Skies and its members before we move again."
The two soldiers grabbed the prisoner by his arms, lifting him roughly. He screamed in pain as he was dragged across the wet wooden floor. The door closed behind them with a hollow, heavy sound, leaving only the murmur of the sea and the creaking of ropes in the wind.
Inside the interrogation room, the oil lamps swayed overhead, casting trembling shadows on the bound soldier's face. The officers sat around him in heavy silence, their pens recording every word he uttered, every twitch in his features. They extracted details from him drop by drop, like squeezing the last drop from a ripe fruit soaked in fear. When the night finally ended, they left carrying full files and papers stained with blotches, heading to the command room... where plans are made and wars are drawn.
In the command room, a heavy silence hung over the table filled with maps and reports. One officer placed a paper stamped with a red seal and said:
"This is his name: Grivan Drake. Captain of a sub-ship in the Shiki fleet, coming from the New World to the South Sea. Reports say he is arrogant and claims to be a 'Shiki man.'"
Another officer sneered while browsing the file:
"Don't overestimate him, he's not elite. Just a small tail in that massive fleet. Even his Armament Haki is very weak, barely used for defense."
But a more experienced officer interrupted, tapping his finger on the table:
"Be careful. The New World produces only monsters. Even these subordinate followers are sometimes stronger than we imagine. We must not underestimate any captain coming from there to the South Sea."
He then pointed to the reports about the recent battle:
"As for the others... we have not overlooked them. They killed three of our commanders. Adam himself fought fiercely but evacuated civilians before the battle, so we did not consider him a widespread terrorist threat. Nevertheless, his power and that of his men have become clear. We will put bounties on all their heads and spread them in every port. Bounty hunters will take care of them sooner or later. We must not let them grow in peace."
After days of studying files and reports, the South Sea Navy began issuing official wanted posters.
These posters were firmly posted on the walls of harbors and cities, warning sailors, merchants, and fishermen against dealing with them.
Adam "Sin of Greed" – 55,000,000 Beli
White-haired, tall, leader of an organized and dangerous group, killed a naval commander in direct combat. Suspected of imperfect use of Armament Haki, his ability to enforce discipline among his followers makes him a long-term threat.
Jairo "Gate of the End" – 28,000,000 Beli
A young man with sharp features, opens portals for instant teleportation, a highly dangerous tactician, seen leading deadly attacks that claimed the life of another naval officer.
Organ "Death Fighter" – 22,000,000 Beli
Large-built, brutal close-combat fighter, trains his men in killing techniques, responsible for downing one of the three field officers in the last battle.
Bram "Bloody Hand" – 9,000,000 Beli
A young man with spiky red hair, fiercely angry, attacks violently, covering his hands with the blood of his enemies, described as merciless and relentless.
Rick "Black Writer" – 10,000,000 Beli
Official writer of the organization, calm and precise, manages a small network of spies and informants responsible for secret information gathering and delivery.
Serena "Silent Smuggler" – 7,000,000 Beli
Head of supply and smuggling, skilled negotiator, very calm, training a young girl in the secrets of the market and smuggling.
Maya "Green Witch" – 5,000,000 Beli
Cook and healer of the organization, skilled with medicinal herbs, seen saving wounded fighters and returning them to battle, responsible for preparing food and medical supplies.
At the Freedom House, the papers were laid out on the broad table.
Rick slowly pushed them toward Adam, the sheets still damp with fresh ink.
Rick spoke calmly:
"This is how the Navy describes us. This is a warning to the world about us."
Adam flipped his own sheet carefully between his hands, staring at the red line that announced his bounty, then looked at the faces of his men around him.
He whispered in a low, clear voice:
"We will carry these names. And we will make them afraid to speak them."
But Rick was not finished. He pulled out another file and opened it.
"There is more... I found secret information in their internal correspondence. A man named Grivan Drake from one of the sub-ships in the Shiki fleet, on his way to the South Sea. The Navy will focus intense surveillance and pursuit on him."
He slowly looked around the group:
"This will give us more room to maneuver. We will use their preoccupation with him to expand our control and gather forces without heavy pursuit."
Adam clenched his hand on the paper, his voice sharp:
"We will exploit this chaos. And we will make this sea ours."
End of Chapter 19