At the Marine Headquarters' private dock, a sleek, custom-designed medium-sized speedboat sat quietly moored.
It wasn't heavily armed, but its engine and navigation systems were top-tier. Painted on the hull in neat white letters was "LC-01", short for "Lazy Custom No. 1."
This vessel had been specially built overnight by the Science Division under Vice Admiral Tsuru's urgent orders, a "comfort-type pursuit craft," made exclusively for Renzo.
Renzo trudged slowly up the gangway, still dressed in his usual wrinkled casual clothes, followed by his attendant, Potts.
Potts hugged a massive, overstuffed storage box filled with neatly packed rations from the headquarters cafeteria, durable food, sweets, and a single, incredibly soft memory-foam pillow.
"All checked and ready, Commodore Renzo," said a saluting officer, respectfully handing him a recording Log Pose and an encrypted Den Den Mushi.
"The Log Pose is set to the most probable route analyzed by Intelligence. There's enough food, fresh water, and fuel for two weeks at full speed. The Den Den Mushi links directly to Intelligence for updates."
Renzo took the Log Pose, glanced briefly at the trembling needle, then lazily stuffed it into his pocket.
He didn't even bother to look at the Den Den Mushi.
"Mm." He made a vague sound, more a sigh than a reply. His eyes drifted across the deck until they landed on a recliner set up in the shade, clearly a custom addition.
Without another word, he walked straight over, collapsed into the chair, shifted into the most comfortable position possible, then waved his hand lazily.
"Start sailing. Smoothly. Don't make noise."
"Yes, Commodore Renzo!"
Potts hurriedly set down the supply box and ran off to assist the navigator and sailors assigned to the ship.
The engines hummed to life, a deep and steady growl as the speedboat shot away from Marineford like an arrow loosed from a bow.
For Renzo, sailing ranked just below socializing on his personal list of worst tortures.
Noise, shaking, unfamiliar surroundings, every part of the experience tested his limits of tolerance.
But this time, things were a little different.
He lay with his eyes closed, yet didn't immediately fall asleep. His mind kept replaying Ain's muffled sobs in the infirmary, the heavy air of grief blanketing Headquarters, and that name, Edward Weevil, which stirred in him a thick, cold disgust.
That constant "noise" gnawed at his nerves, denying him the blissful, careless sleep he usually sank into.
A rare sense of purpose, one born purely from his desire to erase the source of irritation, began to take hold.
He didn't deliberately seek anything out. He simply hated, with passive, relentless intensity, everything that name represented.
For three days, the LC-01 followed the Log Pose's course through unfamiliar waters on the Grand Line.
During that time, Renzo spent nearly every waking hour in the recliner, eating, sleeping, and occasionally frowning when the boat rocked too much. Potts and the sailors moved carefully, hardly daring to breathe too loudly.
Yet on a level none of them could perceive, Renzo's supreme Observation Haki, intertwined with the Sloth Fruit's conceptual power, was operating in an utterly bizarre way.
He wasn't actively searching, he was repelling.
The irritation and disgust he directed toward "Edward Weevil," that colossal source of noise, radiated outward from him in invisible waves.
Those waves, like a command written into reality itself, spread across the surrounding sea, subtly warping the world's laws under the influence of his conceptual power.
Anything connected to that "noise" was instinctively being "rejected" by the world around him.
Like how water avoids a hot surface, Renzo's Domain of Absolute Sloth naturally repelled whatever disrupted his peace.
On the morning of the fourth day, Potts carefully brought over a tray with grilled fish and fresh juice.
Without warning, Renzo, who had been slumped and motionless, opened his eyes.
The usual lifeless emptiness in his gaze was gone, replaced by a sharp, irritated focus.
He sat up abruptly, eyes snapping toward the sea to the left front of the boat.
"Too noisy."
The words came out clear and cold, his brow furrowed deeply with visible annoyance.
Potts and the navigator jumped in alarm, following his gaze.
The horizon was calm, endless blue sky and sea, with a few seagulls wheeling overhead. Nothing unusual.
"Commodore Renzo?" Potts asked cautiously. "You said… noisy?"
"That way." Renzo lifted a hand and pointed precisely ahead to port.
"There's a particularly obnoxious noise over there. Brutal, chaotic… like a pile of rusty metal grinding itself apart."
He wasn't describing actual sound, but rather what he felt.
Through his perception, that "noise" was the violent, savage presence of Edward Weevil, the complete opposite of Renzo's quiet domain.
And right now, that aura was screaming in his mind.
The navigator scrambled over to the charts, calculating rapidly. His eyes went wide.
"That direction… it's about fifteen degrees off our set course! According to the map, the area's full of scattered islets and turbulent currents, it's not ideal for hiding large vessels-"
"Go there." Renzo cut him off flatly.
"Now. The sooner it's over, the sooner I can sleep."
His tone carried restrained fury, like a man who'd finally found the neighbor blasting construction noise all night.
The speedboat turned sharply, engines roaring as it surged full-throttle toward the new heading.
An hour later, the lookout shouted from the tower.
"Ship spotted! Port side! A… very strange-looking large ship!"
Renzo was already standing at the bow. The wind whipped through his messy hair as he squinted at the dark speck growing on the horizon.
The closer they drew, the clearer the monstrous silhouette became.
The prow was shaped like a massive grinning skull, vaguely reminiscent of Whitebeard's emblem, but twisted and deranged.
The hull was scarred, crudely patched, and stained with streaks of blackish-red that hadn't been properly scrubbed away.
An invisible, suffocating malice radiated from the ship, perfectly matching the "noise" Renzo had sensed.
"Confirmed! It's Edward Weevil's ship, the Son of the Beard!"
The navigator's voice trembled slightly. "They appear to be resupplying near that small island ahead!"
Potts and several sailors tensed immediately, gripping their weapons instinctively.
Renzo, however, remained utterly expressionless.
His cold eyes fixed on the distant ship like he was looking at a malfunctioning, ugly machine that wouldn't stop rattling.
The LC-01 didn't slow down or attempt stealth, it charged straight toward the massive, ominous vessel.
The gap closed rapidly; now they could see figures moving on the enemy's deck.
Clearly, the Son of the Beard had spotted them too.
A stir of motion swept across its deck as several men rushed to the railing, pointing and shouting.
The LC-01 came to a perfect stop less than a hundred meters away, executing a clean tail swing that sent seawater splashing high into the air.
Renzo stepped forward alone to the very tip of the bow, hands in his pockets. His posture was relaxed, even lazy, but somehow, his mere presence pressed down on the air like a weight.
He lifted his head, his gaze locking precisely onto the hulking, fat figure on the opposite deck, the man clutching a huge naginata, his dull eyes gleaming with bestial menace: Edward Weevil.
Weevil paused mid-bite on a chunk of meat, sluggishly turning his head toward Renzo as if sensing the sharp gaze on him.
He grinned, showing teeth flecked with meat scraps, and mumbled, "Huh? Another little bug? Mama, can I squish him?"
From behind him hobbled a short, cane-wielding old woman in sunglasses, Miss Bakkin.
She squinted at Renzo and his clearly naval ship.
"A Marine? Coming alone? Weevil, my sweet boy, go kill him!"
Renzo didn't even glance at her.
His eyes never left Weevil, staring as if at a hideous, noisy piece of junk he was finally ready to smash to silence.
The wind carried over the reek of cheap booze and blood from the pirate ship.
Finally, Renzo spoke.
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried effortlessly across the waves, calm, steady, and dripping with icy irritation:
"Hey. You're the one, right?"
"The one keeping me from sleeping."
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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