"Smoker, don't take this the wrong way—but compared to Lunair Port, your Loguetown's management is a mess."
Inside the Navy base, Jin handed over his gifts and—ever the uninvited guest—started chatting casually with Smoker.
Smoker's expression darkened.
"Hey, hey! Just because you're a king—and Hina's boyfriend—doesn't mean you can bark orders in my base. This is my turf!"
He'd already heard about Hina's promotion and was genuinely happy for her. They were old comrades, after all.
But the news that she was dating a king had caught him completely off guard.
Not that he was jealous.
Smoker wasn't that kind of man.
His friendship with Hina was pure—built on trust, not romance.
He simply couldn't stand kings or nobles.
And who could blame him? The world had too many arrogant royals, all rotted by privilege.
In that sense, Jin was a victim of reputation alone.
Jin smiled faintly. "With your temper, surviving in the Navy must be hell. The sea isn't about endless fighting—it's about people, about the world itself…"
Then he leaned forward slightly. "But to find someone as upright as you, in this world of politics and deceit—that's rare."
He genuinely admired Smoker.
Among all those Admirals and Vice Admirals spouting "Absolute Justice" or "Ambiguous Justice," Smoker stood out.
He had both integrity and compassion—a heart that burned for justice, yet still human enough to feel.
Far better than that obsessive workaholic, Koby.
If only he'd been born with stronger bloodlines, or greater potential.
But compared to the second-generation monsters of the New Era, Smoker was just… a normal man.
A man who had clawed his way to the rank of Vice Admiral—an achievement that most Marines could only dream of.
Smoker frowned impatiently. "So what are you trying to say?"
Jin smiled. "Simple. If the day ever comes when you lose faith in the Navy—come find me."
"You?" Smoker scoffed. "Don't joke with me."
Before Jin could reply—
BOOM!
Gunfire. Explosions. The thunder of cannon fire shook the walls.
Both men froze, conversation cut short.
Smoker darted to the window, peering outside. "What the hell's happening out there?!"
"R-report! We're under atta—"
"Where's Tashigi? She's on patrol, right?"
Throwing on his Justice cloak and grabbing his weapon, Smoker rushed for the door. At the threshold, he paused, glancing back at Jin.
"Sorry. Emergency."
"Go ahead," Jin waved him off calmly. "I already know what's going on."
His bond with the Demon Carrier let him sense everything that happened near it—distance meant nothing.
"BASTARD!!!"
Bartolomeo roared. He charged forward, a transparent barrier shimmering before him.
The streets were chaos—gunfire, smoke, screams. Most people had broken down at the sight of the carnage. But not him.
He burned with fury.
Bartolomeo was a brutal, deranged man. He had once shelled an innocent city just to watch it burn—
A fanatic who filmed tortured pirates and spread the footage for laughs.
The world had branded him "The Pirate Most Wanted to Disappear — No.1 on the Global Hate List."
But for all his cruelty, his loyalty to his comrades was absolute.
So when he saw his own men dying under enemy fire, rage swallowed him whole.
Law leapt down from the ship to meet him head-on.
Their blades clashed—once, twice—until Law's sword struck something invisible, glinting like glass in the sunlight.
"A Devil Fruit ability?"
Bartolomeo sneered. "Pointless. I'm the Barrier-Man! No attack can touch me!"
He pushed forward, the invisible wall forcing Law back, step by step—almost to the water's edge.
But then—
Crack!
Law stamped the ground, propelling himself into the air.
"ROOM!"
The air rippled as his Operation Room expanded, covering the port in a ghostly dome.
His hand gripped Kikoku.
Shing!
A flash of cold steel.
He landed, blade still outstretched, then slowly sheathed it with a satisfying click.
"Useless! I told you—" Bartolomeo froze mid-sentence.
He looked down. His lower body was gone.
"Wha—?!" He looked up again—his legs were running forward without him, while his upper half collapsed with a thud.
"AAAAH! I'M GONNA DIE! I'M—"
He rolled across the ground in panic, hands clutching his face, screaming like a terrified child.
"Boss Bartolomeo!!!"
"Big bro's been cut in half!"
"That guy—!"
His men charged forward in blind fury.
Law's eyes flashed. He raised his sword hilt.
"Cut."
Thwip! Thwip!
Inside the ROOM, everything—men, weapons, bodies—was his to command.
He was the surgeon, and the battlefield was his operating room.
One by one, the attackers fell—sliced cleanly into pieces. Legs. Arms. Torsos.
And yet—
"W-what the hell—?!" someone gasped.
Bartolomeo blinked. He wasn't… dying?
He looked down—his intestines, his blood—they weren't spilling out.
His halves still worked.
And around him, his men's severed limbs crawled and twitched.
"Hey, my hand! Come back!"
"That's my foot!"
"My head—my head's running away!!"
The spectators stood frozen, watching a grotesque yet ridiculous scene unfold.
Their minds couldn't process it.
The absurdity even broke Deuce's tension; he let out a long, shaky breath.
"…That noise will bring the Marines. We need to go, Ace."
He turned—
"Huh? Ace?"
Gone.
"ACE!"
Deuce looked around frantically—then—
"FIRE FIST!!!"
He snapped his head up.
High above, Ace's right arm blazed with searing flame, transforming into a giant fist of living fire.
"Damn it!" Deuce's face went pale.
Ace's obsession with fame had flared again.
To him, defeating a strong opponent meant glory—another step toward the top.
It was reckless. Naive. Stupid.
But that was Ace.
A flame that burned too bright—
Fated to consume itself…
And leave behind only white ash.