The Grand Line did not disappoint in its absurdity. The weather shifted from hail to sweltering heat in the span of an hour, a tantrums of the sky that Dorian found delightful. It was a sea that refused to be predicted.
His stolen sloop, the Gilded Cage, drifted into the misty harbor of Whiskey Peak.
The town looked like a celebration carved out of rock. Giant cactus-shaped mountains loomed overhead, their spines bristling against the moon. From the shore, music drifted over the water—accordions, laughter, the clinking of glass.
"Welcome! Welcome, traveler!"
The shout came from the docks. A crowd had gathered. Men in suspenders, women in ruffled dresses, even a few children holding sparklers. They waved with a frantic, over-eager hospitality that smelled sweeter than rotting pineapple.
Dorian stood at the helm, his coat flapping in the warm night breeze. He tilted his head.
Too much sugar, he thought. The teeth will rot.
He docked the ship with a smooth, practiced ease. The moment the gangplank lowered, he was swarmed.
"You must be tired!"
"A hero of the sea!"
"Come, have a drink! The first barrel is free!"
A large man with a saxophone chin and hair rolled like decorative pastries stepped forward. Igaram. Or, as he was currently pretending, the Mayor.
"I am Ma-a-a-a-ayor Igaram!" the man bellowed, his voice vibrating with operatic false cheer. "Welcome to Whiskey Peak, the town of wine and song! You have survived the Reverse Mountain! You are a warrior!"
Dorian smiled. He let his eyes slide over the crowd. He saw the calluses on their hands—not from farming, but from gripping hilts. He saw the way their eyes didn't match their smiles. They were assessing the value of his coat, the weight of his purse, the threat level of his physique.
It was a town of spiders pretending to be butterflies.
"Charmed," Dorian lied, his voice a silken purr. "I was told the Grand Line was a nightmare. This looks like... dessert."
An hour later, Dorian sat at a large circular table in the town square.
He was surrounded by empty bottles. The "townspeople" were cheering, encouraging him to drink more. They were waiting for him to pass out. They were waiting for the fog of alcohol to dull his senses so they could collect the bounty on his head—or simply rob him blind.
Dorian lifted a glass of wine. He swirled it. He could smell the sedative mixed into the vintage. A crude sleeping powder.
Amateurs, he thought, disappointed. They don't even use a poison that tastes good.
He drank it anyway. His metabolism was a furnace; it would burn through this weak chemistry before it reached his fingertips.
"You hold your liquor well, brother!" shouted a woman with muscles like carved mahogany. Miss Monday. She slammed a mug down, the table rattling. "But can you match me?"
Dorian looked at her. She was strong. Physically, undeniably powerful. But her posture was rigid. She relied on force, assuming the world was a nail and she was the only hammer.
"I rarely compete in drinking," Dorian said, setting his glass down. "It dulls the nerves. I prefer... friction."
The music stopped.
It wasn't a natural stop. It was a signal. The moon slid behind a cloud, plunging the square into a bruised purple twilight.
The smiles dropped from the faces of the crowd like masks unhooked. Knives appeared from sleeves. Pistols clicked from beneath tables.
Igaram stood up, clearing his throat. "It seems, sir, that you have had enough. Whiskey Peak has a toll. Your ship. Your bounty. Your life."
Dorian didn't move. He didn't reach for a weapon. He didn't stand. He simply picked up a grape from the fruit platter and popped it into his mouth.
"I was wondering when the performance would start," Dorian said, chewing slowly. "The prologue was dragging on terribly."
"Kill him!" someone shrieked.
A dozen men—the "Millions" of Baroque Works—lunged. They were a chaotic mess of blades and yelling.
Dorian sighed.
Elasticity: 20%.
He flicked his wrists.
Two chains erupted from beneath his cuffs. They didn't shoot straight; they undulated, rippling through the air like eels in water.
The chains wove between the attackers. They looped around ankles, snagged wrists, and tangled weapon hilts.
Dorian clenched his fists.
Snap.
The chains contracted with violent speed.
The twelve men were yanked together into a single, groaning ball of limbs in the center of the square. Heads knocked against heads. Swords clattered uselessly to the cobblestones. They were bound not by knots, but by the sheer, relentless tension of the steel links, which Dorian held taut with merely a flex of his forearms.
"Messy," Dorian critiqued, standing up. The chair scrapped loudly against the stone. "You run like cattle. You swing like farmers. Is this the Grand Line? Or did I take a wrong turn back to the nursery?"
He looked at Miss Monday. She was staring at the ball of moaning men, her knuckles white.
"You," Dorian said, pointing a slender finger at her. "You have strength. Show me."
Miss Monday roared. She grabbed a massive wooden barrel—filled with wine, weighing easily three hundred pounds—and hurled it at him.
It was a siege weapon. A crushing blow.
Dorian didn't dodge. He raised his right hand. The chain, still holding the pile of men with his left, shot out from his right sleeve.
The chain wrapped around the barrel in mid-air.
Elasticity: 100%.
The chain acted like a bungee cord. It caught the heavy barrel, stretched backward with the momentum, absorbing the force—and then snapped back.
The barrel reversed course, flying back at Miss Monday with double the speed.
She gasped, crossing her arms to block.
The wood shattered against her guard. Wine exploded like blood, drenching her. She was knocked off her feet, sliding back ten meters, coughing and soaked.
Dorian retracted the chain. He looked bored.
"Physics," he whispered. "It's the only law I respect."
The square was silent, save for the groans of the trapped men.
Then, a new sound. A click.
From the shadows of a nearby roof, a pair of distinct figures watched. One was a man with a crown (Igaram). Beside him, a young woman with blue hair tied back, holding peacock slashers.
Miss Wednesday. Or, as the world would know her, Nefertari Vivi.
Dorian's eyes locked onto her.
He felt it. A shiver.
Not power. She wasn't strong—not yet. She was terrified. She was shaking. But unlike the others, who smelled of greed and cheap violence, she smelled of... burden.
She was hiding something heavy.
Dorian released the tension on his left arm. The pile of men collapsed, gasping for air. The chains slithered back into his sleeves.
He vanished.
Soru? No. Just pure, explosive speed.
He reappeared on the roof, directly between Igaram and the girl.
Igaram leveled a saxophone-gun at Dorian's face. "Stay back!"
Dorian ignored the gun. He leaned in close to the blue-haired girl. He invaded her personal space, his face inches from hers. He could see the dilation of her pupils.
"You don't belong here," Dorian whispered.
Vivi froze. "I... I am a hunter of Baroque Works."
"No," Dorian smiled. He reached out. Igaram's finger tightened on the trigger, but Dorian was faster. He brushed a stray lock of blue hair behind her ear. His touch was cold.
"You are prey pretending to be a predator," he murmured. "And you are doing it poorly. Your eyes are too kind for this work. And your posture..."
He tapped her shoulder.
"...You stand like someone waiting for a crown to be placed on their head."
Vivi's breath hitched. The color drained from her face.
Dorian pulled back, satisfied. The fear in her eyes wasn't the fear of death. It was the fear of exposure. That was a delicious flavor. A secret worth keeping.
"Don't worry," Dorian said, raising his voice so the whole square could hear. "I'm not going to kill you. You're all so... unripe."
He walked to the edge of the roof, looking down at the carnage of the "party."
"I was told there were monsters in this sea," Dorian called out. "Seven Warlords. Emperors. Where are they? Because if this is the best the Grand Line offers, I might die of boredom before I bleed."
He looked back at Vivi one last time.
"Grow up, little princess," he said, his voice dropping to a register only she could hear. "The garden is full of weeds. If you don't become a thorn, you'll be plucked."
Dorian leaped from the roof, landing softly on the cobblestones. He walked back toward his ship, stepping over the groaning bodies of the Millions.
He didn't look back.
He had tasted the appetizer. It was bland. But the girl... the girl suggested that the main course, somewhere down the line, might be complicated.
And complicated was good.
As he boarded the Gilded Cage, he saw a seagull drop a newspaper on the deck. A wanted poster fluttered out.
Portgas D. Ace.
Fire-Fist.
Logia.
Dorian picked it up. The young man in the photo was smiling. A confident, blazing smile.
Dorian traced the image with his thumb.
"Fire," he mused, licking his lips. "Now that looks like something that burns when you touch it."
He pinned the poster to the mast with a dagger.
"Find him," he commanded the empty air.
The Gilded Cage pushed off from the dock, leaving the confused, battered, and terrified hunters of Whiskey Peak in its wake. The Hunter was moving on.