Don Krieg's declaration hung in the air like a death sentence: "I'm taking this ship."
The immediate reaction was chaos.
The few remaining customers who hadn't already fled now stampeded for the exits, screaming in terror. Several of the younger cooks, their faces pale with fear, dropped their pans and cleavers and joined the exodus. To them, this was not a battle; it was an execution. Facing the Pirate Fleet Admiral, a man whose name was a synonym for slaughter, was suicide.
Gin fell to his knees before his captain, his face a mask of anguish and disbelief.
"Don Krieg, please, no!" he begged, his voice cracking. "You promised me! You promised you wouldn't harm anyone in this restaurant! These people… this man… he saved my life!"
Krieg looked down at his loyal officer, his eyes completely devoid of emotion. "A promise?" he said, as if the word were a foreign concept. "I promised you that you would not die of starvation. I have fulfilled that promise. My other priority, as a captain, is the survival of my fleet."
He gestured vaguely towards the open sea, towards the mangled wreckage of his flagship. "That vessel is no longer seaworthy. My men… the hundred who survived… are either critically wounded or starving to death. I need a new ship. A sturdy, undamaged vessel to serve as my new flagship to return to the Grand Line." His gaze swept across the Baratie. "This one will do perfectly."
He looked at the defiant faces of the remaining fighting cooks. "I am giving you a simple command. Prepare food for one hundred men. Do it now, and I may be merciful."
The chefs, led by Patty and Carne, stood their ground.
"Never!" Patty roared. "We're not cooking a single scrap for scum like you!"
Krieg's lip curled into a sneer. "You refuse?"
His question was met with a new, quiet voice.
"No."
All eyes turned to Sanji. He was pushing himself up from the floor, wiping a trickle of blood from his lip with the back of his hand. He began walking, not away from Krieg, but towards the kitchen.
"Sanji, what are you doing?!" Carne yelled, horrified.
The other cooks, realizing his intent, moved to block his path, pulling out their weapons. Not just knives, but pistols, and in Patty's case, two bizarre, cannon-like contraptions strapped to his arms. They aimed their weapons not at Krieg, but at their own colleague.
"We won't let you, Sanji," Patty said, his voice a low growl. "We're not going to let you cook for these pirates. We're not going to let your foolish compassion get us all killed."
Sanji stopped. He turned to face the wall of his own armed and angry friends. He took a long, slow drag from his cigarette.
"My hands," he said, his voice calm and steady, "they exist for one reason: to cook food for people. I don't care if they are saints or sinners, marines or pirates. If someone in front of me is hungry, it is my duty as a cook to feed them. That is all."
He looked them dead in the eye. "If you want to stop me, you'll have to kill me."
The standoff was absolute. Patty, seeing the unbreakable resolve in Sanji's eyes, knew he would never back down. He made a decision.
"I can't let you throw your life away for your stupid code, you damn eggplant."
He lunged forward and, with a heavy chop to the back of Sanji's neck, knocked his friend unconscious. He then turned to face Don Krieg, a look of grim determination on his face.
"I'll handle this."
He aimed his arm-cannons at the pirate admiral. "TASTE MY MEATBALL CANNON!"
He fired. A barrage of hardened, cannonball-sized meatballs shot across the room, slamming into Krieg's golden armor. They hit with a series of dull thuds, then simply… bounced off, rolling harmlessly onto the floor.
The chefs stared, dumbfounded.
Krieg hadn't even flinched. He looked down at the pathetic food-based projectiles with utter contempt. He then revealed his own weaponry. Small portholes all over his armor clicked open, and a volley of tiny, needle-like projectiles shot out, striking the chefs. They cried out in pain and collapsed, wounded but not killed.
Krieg stood over them, a monument of golden armor and absolute power.
"I am the strongest man," he declared, his voice booming through the hall. "My Wootz steel armor is harder than diamonds. My body is a walking arsenal of deadly weapons. I command an armada of five thousand men. I have survived a hundred battles and bathed in the blood of my enemies. My name is a synonym for power, and those who defy power must die."
He raised his armored fist. "Now, you will follow my orders, or you will all perish."
Just as his declaration reached its peak, a new figure appeared at the top of the grand staircase. It was Zeff. He was completely calm, and in his hands, he held a giant, overflowing sack.
He walked down the stairs and, without a word, tossed the sack at Don Krieg's feet. It landed with a heavy thud. It was filled with bread, cheese, and dried meat.
"Food for one hundred men," Zeff said, his voice a low growl. "Take it and leave my restaurant."
The other cooks stared in disbelief, their faces a mask of betrayal. "Owner Zeff! What are you doing?! You can't just give in to them!"
Zeff ignored them. He looked directly at Don Krieg, and his expression was not one of fear, but of something else… pity.
"Listen to me, you chefs," he said, his voice loud enough for the whole room to hear. "And listen well. You're all panicking over nothing. Look at him. He's not a conqueror. He's not the ruler of the seas."
He pointed a finger at the imposing, armored figure of Don Krieg.
"He's just another defeated warrior who barely escaped the Grand Line with his life."
A shockwave of pure silence ripped through the restaurant. The cooks stared, speechless. The invincible Don Krieg… a loser who ran away?
Krieg, who had been basking in his own glory, froze. That phrase… "the Grand Line"… spoken with such weary authority, struck a chord deep within him. He looked at the old man properly for the first time. He saw the tall chef's hat, the absurdly long, braided mustache… and the peg leg.
His arrogant expression faltered, his eyes widening with a dawning, horrified recognition. A memory from a long-lost era of bloodshed and glory flashed in his mind's eye—of a fearsome, legendary pirate who was said to have eaten his own leg to survive.
Krieg's voice was a choked whisper, filled with a terror that had nothing to do with the current battle.
"That peg leg… that hat… You… You're… 'Red-Leg' Zeff."