Killing those pirates took Crocodile about as much effort as flicking sand off her sleeve.
The townsfolk, though, lit up at the sight.
"They wiped out those thugs just like that."
"Warlords really are something."
"Crocodile."
"Crocodile."
…
They chanted her name. Her reputation here was already cementing.
"I am not holding my breath for Pluton anymore, but Ozz did say the Poneglyphs are useful."
Little Sand mulled over finding someone who could actually read them. No rush. Baroque Works was still in its seedling phase.
…
"Golden Lion, huh? I heard he was once a swordsman known across the world."
On a lonely skiff in the Grand Line, Dracule Mihawk lifted his eyes from the newspaper beneath his hat brim.
A pity. Ever since he cut off his own legs and strapped blades where calves used to be, Shiki's swordsmanship had to have slipped.
"Still worth a bout if the chance comes."
He dipped the black blade Yoru into the sea and gave a leisurely stroke. The plank-boat glided forward.
Up ahead and coming the other way, a pirate ship lumbered into view.
"Look, look, there's a guy out there."
"He's rowing with a sword. Hah. That is hilarious."
"Looks familiar though."
Before they could place him, a green blade of energy a thousand meters tall split the horizon.
It carved the sea open like a zipper, halved Sea Kings cleanly on the way, and bore down on the ship.
Under a hundred horrified stares at the prow, their expensive ship cleaved in two with tidy precision and toppled apart in geysers of spray. Pirates below decks floundered up into chaos, thrashing for driftwood.
Some managed to cling to planks, drenched and shaking, and watched a tiny skiff drift smoothly through the freshly opened channel between their halves. On the skiff stood a man with a black blade and hawk eyes that cut deeper than steel.
"You were in my way."
Mouths hung open. Pupils rattled. And at last they recognized the man who had just sunk their pirate dreams.
One of the Seven Warlords of the Sea.
Hawk-Eye Dracule Mihawk.
…
New World, ten thousand meters above the waves.
Lightning threaded the cloudbanks. In black-bellied squalls a spear of living light flashed, and if you slowed time to a crawl you could see him: a man from the waist up, lightning from the waist down.
"Why am I hauling cash from Sabaody to the Golden Lion's withdrawal point."
Enel, bank courier.
A crate taller than a man rested on his shoulder. He was still on the clock. A foul mood made him smite the occasional unlucky ship en route.
"Insects without fortune do not deserve the sea."
…
Time rolled on. Stories spread.
After leaving the Moby Dick, Ozz headed somewhere unexpected.
A future-flavored island.
Egghead.
"So, you Den Den Mushi'd me about good news. What is it."
"Vegapunk."
The instant he stepped onto the island the art style changed. Not quite the fever-dream city from the newspapers yet, but thanks to Vegapunk's tinkering it had begun to gleam with machine-bright promise.
A few days earlier, the reclusive doctor had called him out of the blue.
Said he had something Ozz would like. If Ozz had time, he should come.
Ozz did. He and the Seagull King dropped in. Patron privileges. Egghead was partly his, after all.
"Mr. Ozz, I called because I have developed something interesting. You will be intrigued."
"Will I."
They strolled across Egghead while Vegapunk teased the bait. Ozz's skepticism was earned.
He had read the script once already, and at his level very little still qualified as novel. Supreme blades, Devil Fruits, rare races, odd treasures.
He had seen a lot.
He had seen the sky from above.
"You are deciding too soon. I am certain you will be interested."
Vegapunk had begun offloading his brain, which made walking and talking easier again. He did not reveal the punchline yet.
They passed tall glass tubes bubbling with unknown solutions. Ozz remembered something.
"You said long ago you started on the cloning project. How far."
The Seraphim plan. Back then Ozz refused to provide samples but he was curious now. The system could assign command priority. Even a Seraphim of a Warlord listened to a random naval officer in combat if the hierarchy said so.
As a benefactor but not a Government lapdog, Ozz wanted his hand on the keys. Nothing excessive.
Equal to the Five Elders would do.
Most of the Seraphim would be modeled on his Warlords anyway. One of the master keys had better be his.
"You mean the Seraphim. Very early preparations."
Vegapunk had not cracked it yet. When Ozz mentioned top-level authority, the doctor hesitated.
"The World Government, especially the Five Elders, may not accept that."
A company man's dilemma.
"Add thirty percent to your research budget."
Ozz did not waste air. He threw hundreds of billions at the problem.
"That is acceptable. If I do not tell them, the Elders will not notice."
Those old men. Vegapunk was not convinced they could read his notes even if he stapled them to their foreheads.
Ozz nodded, satisfied, and followed him into a deep lab. Instruments and equations he could not be bothered to decode lined the walls. Vegapunk went straight to a bench and lifted a curious device.
He turned with a smile that said he was waiting for the moment Ozz finally looked surprised.
"Mr. Ozz, tell me."
"Would you like to go play in the past."
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