Clang!
A long sword pressed against Damila's shoulder, freezing him in place. The words that had been forming in his mouth died instantly.
The micro Den Den Mushi in his palm crackled—an urgent voice on the other end called out—but fell silent within seconds. Whoever was on the other side clearly realized Damila had been compromised.
Gawain glanced at the device in his hand, his voice cold and steady.
"Have I not treated you well?"
Damila lowered his eyes and set the Den Den Mushi down slowly, as though accepting his fate.
"The captain has treated me very well," he replied quietly.
Gawain's expression darkened.
"Then what you've done disappoints me deeply."
Damila's voice trembled faintly, his words rehearsed like a justification he'd told himself many times.
"Captain… do you know how many people die to pirates every year?"
"So I've started attacking civilians?" Gawain snapped back.
"But… you are a pirate!"
"And what of it?" Gawain sneered.
"You may not have been with us long, but even you should know—aside from Lancer and a few captured prisoners, almost everyone on this ship is a civilian driven to piracy because they couldn't afford the World Government's taxes."
"Do they deserve to die too?"
"I…"
Damila faltered, guilt flickering in his eyes. But it was too late.
Without another word, Gawain raised his blade and, in one swift stroke, ended it.
Thud!
The headless body collapsed to the ground. Blood spurted from the severed neck, pooling dark and fast at his feet.
Gawain stared down at the corpse, unmoved.
Damila might have had his reasons, his doubts, even his regrets—but the moment he betrayed them, he made his choice.
And choices had consequences.
As Gawain turned to leave, a voice rasped from the tiny Den Den Mushi lying in the dirt.
"Even without Damila's report… I know where you are. I'll crush you piece by piece!"
The voice was low, hoarse, and filled with absolute confidence. It didn't threaten; it promised.
Gawain recognized it instantly—Morgan, the naval lieutenant who had nearly killed the body's former owner. His pursuer.
Had this been the old Gawain—the one they once called the "Knight"—he might have run.
But that man was gone.
The current Gawain looked down at the bloodstained sword in his hand, and a trace of ferocity lit up in his eyes.
"Then I'll be right here. Waiting."
With that, he stomped down on the Den Den Mushi, crushing it beneath his heel. A spray of warm blood from the battlefield splattered around him.
The Next Morning
Damila's body was found by the crew.
Word spread quickly: he had been a Navy informant, an undercover operative planted to betray them.
Panic set in.
The realization struck like lightning—though they had trained hard these past weeks and grown stronger, they were still miles away from matching the Navy's elite.
And Morgan wasn't just any officer.
With superior numbers, better weapons, and the backing of the World Government, this wasn't going to be a fight. It was going to be a slaughter.
Some men broke down within minutes, falling to their knees on the sand and sobbing.
"Is the Navy coming…?"
"Damn it…"
One of the younger pirates cursed under his breath, eyes darting toward the sea. But there was only a wrecked ship lying on the shore.
Its hull was battered and blackened with burn marks. The pirate flag on the broken mast fluttered weakly in the wind.
Overhead, vultures circled, then descended. They landed beside Damila's corpse, pecking greedily at his opened abdomen, feasting on soft organs with no hesitation.
The gruesome sight pushed several pirates to the edge of madness.
"The mast is broken… and the keel's almost split in two. We're dead in the water. Is this really the end?!"
"No! We can still build a new ship! If we hurry—maybe we can reach a nearby island—"
"The nearest island is hundreds of miles away. Even if we managed to rebuild something seaworthy, we'd never get past the Sea Kings out there."
Gawain's voice cut through their desperation, cold and final. The last flicker of hope dimmed in an instant.
Heads turned. All eyes were on him now.
This was the man who had struck down Lancer with a single blow—who once inspired awe and hope with his calm authority.
But now… there was only dread.
He had been injured for days, barely recovered, yet still continued to teach them swordsmanship. In their eyes, he hadn't weakened—but even at full strength, no one believed he could stand against Morgan.
"Even if you're the captain… you can't beat Morgan," someone muttered bitterly.
Others nodded, the air thick with despair.
Gawain said nothing.
He simply walked to the side of the wrecked ship. The long sword at his waist slipped free—cold steel catching the light as it sliced through the air.
Boom!
A sharp explosion thundered across the beach, sending a cloud of dust billowing into the air.
From within that haze, Gawain's voice rang out—calm, steady, and commanding:
"Leave Morgan to me."
"You just need to train hard before they arrive—do whatever it takes to improve your chances of survival."
"Not for me. For yourselves."
His voice faded into the settling dust.
As the cloud began to clear, the crew finally saw what had happened—and what they saw left them stunned and speechless.
The pirate ship, once stretching dozens of meters, now lay cleaved cleanly in two. Everything from the hull to the keel had been sliced straight through. The interior had been split like a loaf of bread—neat, decisive, and terrifying.
A single stroke.
He had cut a ship in half with one sword.
To them, such a feat belonged only to the monsters of the Grand Line—legends of the sea. The old Gawain, the man they once called captain, had never possessed such strength.
"Was the captain always this strong…?"
"No… He wasn't. He's grown stronger these past weeks!"
"We all had it wrong. He must've been training when no one was watching!"
"He's the hardest-working one in the entire crew!"
Gawain blinked at the unexpected praise. His face flushed slightly, but he didn't correct them. The system was his greatest secret, and letting them believe it was sheer hard work? That would save him a world of trouble.
Around him, the pirates—once gripped by fear and hopelessness—were beginning to stir with renewed spirit.
"If he can do that with a sword… maybe he really can fight Morgan!"
The same pirate who had moments earlier called for escape now looked at the destroyed ship with a spark of determination in his eyes.
The rising panic among the crew gave way to silence, and then—hope. Every eye turned to Gawain.
"Get back to training," he ordered.
"Yes, Captain!"
In that moment, Gawain's standing in their hearts soared. His authority became absolute—bordering on mythic.
The crew picked up their blades and returned to the training grounds. Every technique Gawain had taught them was practiced with renewed discipline. Some switched to wooden sticks and began practicing counters, parries, and set formations.
Gawain watched them, silently pleased. As he looked on, a realization dawned in his heart—something profound and clear.
In the original story, Moria believed he could rely on the strength of his subordinates to become Pirate King. That had been a fatal mistake.
It was putting the cart before the horse.
Only when the captain was strong enough to stand alone—strong enough to repel all invaders—could he earn the unwavering loyalty of his crew.
Only then could an invincible pirate crew be forged.
Night fell quickly.
In the stillness, the system's familiar voice echoed in Gawain's mind:
Swordsmanship – LV5: 11/1600 → 58/1600
Physique – LV4: 366/800 → 418/800
That day alone, his gains in swordsmanship and physique had doubled.
Over the next few days, as the crew trained obsessively under his guidance, their efforts continued to feed him a steady stream of experience points.
His physique level was now only a few dozen points away from reaching the next stage.
A few nights later.
The moon hung high, stars scattered across a deep navy sky. A salty breeze drifted in from the ocean, carrying a subtle chill.
The crew, exhausted but satisfied after a long day of practice, began making their way back to the mountains to rest.
But then—
They looked up.
Flames bloomed across the heavens.
Fireballs streaked through the sky like shooting stars, and a rain of artillery shells descended upon the island.
Boom!
Boom!
Boom!
Explosions lit up the darkness, tearing through the forest. Trees erupted in flame, the inferno quickly spreading.
The cool night breeze turned into a searing gust, the heat licking at exposed skin like a scorching blade.
"The Navy's here!"
Out at sea.
A massive warship loomed under the night sky, unmoving and monstrous—like a beast crouched at the edge of the world.
At the bow stood a man, axe resting casually in his hand, his silhouette solid as iron.
It could only be one person.
Morgan.