On a sea where sailing frigates served as the undisputed masters of the waves, long-distance voyages were a grueling ordeal. Without a network of islands for resupply and repair, sustaining a grand fleet was nearly impossible. This was the cold logic behind Venculla's decision to land. Simply annihilating the Whale Tail fleet wasn't enough; if they didn't seize the island itself, their supply lines would stretch to the breaking point, and the sheer weight of logistics would sink the fleet more effectively than any cannon.
Thus, whether by choice or necessity, a ground assault was inevitable.
Under the command of "Ghost Sword" Venculla, a massive tide of Amento soldiers and opportunistic pirates swarmed the shore. Like a blackened carpet of locusts, they surged toward the solitary granite tower standing amidst the ruins of the harbor.
The fleet numbered over fifty vessels. Even if they weren't all top-tier galleons, the scale was staggering. The flagship carried nearly a thousand souls; second-rate ships held seven hundred; and even the most common third-rate vessels carried five hundred men. Subtracting the essential sailors left to man the rigging, the landing force remained a monstrous presence.
Twenty thousand men had set foot on Whale Tail Island.
As the saying goes: When ten thousand men march, they cover the horizon.
From his vantage point on the tower, Elus looked down at the swarming masses. Watching the sea of humanity press toward him like frantic ants was an intriguing sensation—especially when every single one of those "ants" was screaming for his head.
"That's quite a lot of people," Elus remarked.
He stood on the terrace, leaning casually against the railing. Below, pirates brandished their cutlasses, hacking fruitlessly at the tower's reinforced gates, while disciplined marksmen raised their flintlocks, aiming their sights at the Prince.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Lead shot whistled through the air, streaking toward the terrace.
And yet, they achieved nothing.
With a lazy flick of his hand, Elus batted the bullets out of the sky as if they were bothersome gnats. As the host of the [Bat-Bat Fruit · Mythical Zoan · Model: Murciélago], and with the Hogyoku's reality-warping assistance, he had perfectly inherited the specialized traits of the Black-Winged Demon. Chief among them was the fundamental defensive technique: Hierro.
Hierro, the "Iron Skin." It was a biological armor, a hide as hard as tempered steel, reinforced by the density of his spiritual pressure. Ordinary attacks simply could not find purchase against it.
Stopping bullets with a bare hand was hardly worth a second thought. Even if he stood perfectly still and took a direct hit from a cannon, he wouldn't flinch. He had tested this in the palace; without the use of Armament Haki, common physical strikes were incapable of breaching the defense of his Hierro. Only a Great Grade blade or a Supreme Grade sword—and even then, likely requiring the wielder's Haki—could hope to draw blood.
BOOM!
The base of the tower suddenly erupted.
The heavy ironwood door, reinforced with thick steel plates, didn't just break—it exploded outward.
Having grown tired of the incessant pounding and shouting outside, the maid had finally snapped. Fran's kick sent shards of iron and splinters of wood flying into the crowd, prompting a chorus of agonized shrieks from the pirates at the doorstep. But she wasn't finished. A frustrated Fran was not a girl to be trifled with.
"You're all far too loud," she declared.
She threw a single, straight punch. The resulting shockwave was like a localized gale, a wall of pressurized air that swept across the plaza. The pirates and soldiers caught in its path weren't just knocked down; they were blown clear back into the sea. In an instant, she had carved a wide, empty path through the dense crowd.
"Fran! Those are my prey!" Elus shouted down from the terrace, sounding genuinely offended. "I told you not to—"
His sentence cut short as a shadow materialized behind Fran. A man, tall and thin as a bamboo pole, swung a three-meter-long serrated cleaver with a vicious horizontal arc, aiming to take her head in a single stroke.
CLANG!
Fran blocked the serrated edge with her forearm.
A translucent, rose-gold aura shimmered around her sleeve—a manifestation of her spirit that held the Haki-infused blade at bay.
"'Skull Hunter' Gazette, bounty: 103 million Berries," Fran recited, her voice cool and steady.
A thin, dangerous smile touched her lips. She tilted her head back, looking up at Elus on the terrace. "Your Highness, please note: I did not initiate this. This is strictly passive defense."
Before her words had fully faded, her left hand shot out in a blurring piston-strike.
The punch hit Gazette square in the solar plexus with the force of a naval cannon. The Skull Hunter, caught off guard by the sheer density of her power, nearly doubled over. Had he not coated his gut in Armament Haki at the last microsecond, the strike would have pulverized his internal organs.
The sneak attack thoroughly enraged the pirate, a man infamous for his obsession with flaying the scalps of his victims.
"I'll rip that pretty head off your shoulders and peel your skin slowly!" Gazette roared, his eyes bloodshot as he swung his jagged blade in a frenzied whirl.
"The Skull Hunter, hm? What a loud, tedious fellow," Elus muttered, withdrawing his gaze from the chaos below.
He turned around, propping his elbows on the stone battlements, and looked up at the man perched on the very roof of the tower.
"'Ghost Sword' Venculla. Since you've gone through the trouble of sneaking all the way up here, why the hesitation? Get on with it."
"Soccachio Elus, First Crown Prince of Echemondo..." Venculla gripped his slender rapier, his eyes narrowing. "The dossiers said you were a master of political maneuvering but lacked any real martial talent. It seems our intelligence officers have made a catastrophic error."
Venculla didn't strike immediately. He even raised a hand to signal the soldiers below to cease fire on the terrace.
"Prince, surrender. If you can convince your father to cede this kingdom to Lord Umit, I can represent his interests and offer your family a path to survival. There is no need for this to end in a massacre."
"...Are you actually trying to talk me into surrendering?" Elus blinked, looking genuinely bewildered. He felt like he'd stumbled into the wrong script.
"What? Do you find me arrogant? Or perhaps you think your 'Beautiful Sword' and 'Fighting Dog' are enough to stop Lord Umit's will? Let me be clear: it is impossible. Even with Whitebeard's flag flying over your ports, you cannot obstruct his path."
"If you do not wish to be ground into dust, if you do not wish for your bloodline to vanish from the annals of history, then—"
"You talk too much," Elus interrupted, his voice laced with boredom. He'd heard enough of these uninspired platitudes.
"...It seems that until you witness the true face of this world, you will be unable to make a wise decision, Prince."
Venculla leaped from the rooftop.
A cold, ghastly streak of sword-light sliced through the air in an impossible arc, curving with supernatural precision toward Elus's kidney.