The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm amber hue over Whiskey Peak. As the shadows stretched long across the cobbled streets, the townspeople bustled with energy, preparing a lavish feast in honor of their new "guests."
Torches flickered to life along the main road, illuminating tables piled high with roasted meats, fragrant stews, vibrant fruits, and barrels of spiced wine. The entire town buzzed with celebration—cheerful, generous... and almost too perfect.
Zino and his crew were escorted to the central square, where music danced through the air and villagers twirled in rhythm to lively tunes. The mood was infectious; even the more cautious of the Silent Orca crew began to ease into it.
"This is a lot," Nojiko murmured, accepting a drink from a grinning townswoman. She sniffed it before sipping. "They're treating us like royalty."
Gin, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, didn't touch his cup. "Or like cattle before the slaughter. Makes you wonder what they want in return."
Zino sat at the head of one of the banquet tables, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. He offered smiles, nodded along with small talk, but his fingers tapped a soft rhythm against the wood.
Something was wrong. Not overt—no drawn blades or glares—but something beneath the surface itched at his senses. Like a calm sea just before a storm.
From beside him, a quiet voice slipped through the noise. Miria leaned in, her tone casual but her eyes razor-sharp.
"Don't get too comfortable," she said. "This place reeks of lies."
Zino shot her a sideways glance. "So you feel it too?"
Miria gave a subtle nod. "Not with my eyes or ears," she murmured. "But you'll understand soon enough."
Zino frowned, his gaze sweeping across the square. Laughter rang out. Smiles everywhere. The townsfolk greeted them with warmth and cheer, yet a faint chill traced his spine.
It wasn't anything he could point to. But occasionally, when he passed certain villagers, something shifted. Their smiles didn't quite reach their eyes. Their emotions didn't match their faces.
He shook it off. Probably just the stress of the Grand Line.
Still, his attention lingered—longer than usual—on certain faces. His senses buzzed, as if his body was picking up on something his mind hadn't caught up with. Not trained instinct, not yet. But something was waking.
Around him, the rest of the crew had let down their guard.
Sanji danced with local girls, spinning them with flair and charm. Alvida roared with laughter, clinking mugs with hefty townsmen. Ussop performed exaggerated tales of sea monsters and near-death escapes to a group of wide-eyed children. Even Zoro had accepted a drink—though his swords stayed within reach, and one eye stayed open.
Only Miria remained at a distance, arms folded, sharp eyes scanning every face in the crowd. Watching. Measuring.
Binko and Hibari sat quietly nearby, untouched food in front of them. Their expressions were calm, but alert.
"Is this how people act when they're just happy?" Binko muttered under his breath.
"No," Hibari replied calmly, one hand inching toward the small tool pouch at his side. "They're playing a part."
As night deepened, the music slowed into a gentler rhythm. Lanterns flickered in the cooling breeze. Laughter still echoed, but now it felt forced—too polished, too rehearsed. The wine flowed freely, and some of the crew began to show signs of weariness.
Zino stood and stretched with a yawn. "Alright. Let's find a place to sleep. We'll explore more in the morning."
"I could use a bed," Ussop mumbled, wobbling slightly as he stood.
"I'll sleep with one eye open," Gin muttered, his tone low but alert.
Miria didn't move.
Her eyes were locked on the mayor—Igarappoi—who was still laughing heartily, a mug in one hand, and a never-ending grin on his face.
Zino noticed. "Still suspicious?"
Miria's voice was barely above a whisper. "That man's smile hasn't dropped once in three hours. No one is that cheerful for free."
Zino glanced at the man once, and already identified him. Igaram, Captain of the Arabasta royal guards. Though he knew his identity, he didn't tell it to Miria, and kept silent.
Just then, the feeling before returned. That strange pressure at the edge of his mind. It's not fear. It's more like some kind of awareness.
Something was close—watching. Waiting. His eyes scanned the crowd, but saw nothing out of place.
He blinked—and the feeling vanished like mist.
'What was that…?'
He shook it off and walked back toward the crew.
As he passed Gin, he leaned in and muttered, "Sleep light tonight. Something's off."
Gin smirked, slipping his tonfas back into place. "Now you're thinking like a captain."
...
Night had fully settled over Whiskey Peak.
The festive lanterns still glowed along the streets, casting warm light across cobblestones—but the laughter and music had faded, replaced by an uneasy stillness.
Inside the guest inn, Zino's crew sat in quiet rest, but not comfort. Zino remained alert, his instincts prickling with a creeping sense of wrongness. At the edge of his awareness, something pressed—faint, unfamiliar, but not entirely alien.
The scene around them was oddly serene. Beds lined the room, barrels of supplies stacked neatly, and friendly townsfolk still milled about, smiling and chatting. It was too perfect.
Too calm.
Zino's gaze remained fixed on the entrance. Miria, seated nearby, stayed silent, her sharp eyes scanning with practiced patience.
Then—
CRASH!
The front doors burst inward, slamming off their hinges.
Dozens of hooded figures flooded into the inn from the street and rooftops. Steel flashed in the lamplight, and smiles gave way to sharpened eyes and deadly intent. The cheerful villagers were gone. In their place stood trained killers.
Baroque Works Agents.
Their numbered ranks were hidden beneath cloaks, but Zino didn't need to see tags. He could *feel* it.
"Showtime," he muttered, already rising to his feet.
He dashed forward in an instant, palm raised. He had been waiting for this.
"Rankyaku!"
A slicing air blade shot across the room, cleaving through the first wave of attackers. Cloaks tore, agents screamed, bodies tumbled backward through shattered tables and chairs.
Up above, on the staircase, two figures stepped into view under the moonlight spilling through a high window. One wore a golden crown and brandished twin steel bats—*Mr. 9*. Beside him, a poised woman in elegant blue—*Miss Wednesday*—readied her peacock slashers.
"Well, well," Mr. 9 sneered, spinning his weapons with a grin. "So the new pirate *is* here after all. Let's give him a welcome he won't forget."
The battle ignited in full below them—steel clashing, feet pounding, shouts echoing.
In the middle of it all, Zino stood perfectly still.
His senses stretched out, more refined than ever—picking up footfalls, heartbeats, flickers of breath, the faintest trace of bloodlust.
He was almost sure of this feeling. It's almost certainty, but something still felt not enough, as if that feeling still lacked a little more.
Then—suddenly—from the staircase behind him, a sharp spike in intent.
Light footsteps, fast and precise. Too agile for a brute, too confident for a bystander.
Zino didn't move.
A streak of blue and white dropped from above.
"Peacock Slash!"
Twin curved blades shimmered in the moonlight, attached to peacock-feathered chains. They tore through the air toward his blind spot—if he had one.
With a single step, Zino vanished, reappearing a few feet away. The blades whistled past harmlessly, brushing the edge of his clothes.
The wind of the strike tugged at his shirt. That was all.
Miss Wednesday landed where he had stood, blinking in confusion. "He moved…? But I didn't even see it…"
"You're not an assassin," Zino said calmly, glancing over his shoulder, observing the familiar girl. He knew who she is.
Nefertari Vivi, princess of Arabasta.
Her eyes narrowed. "I don't have to be one to take down a pirate."
Zino arched a brow. "You're swinging ribbons. I've fought people who hit harder."
"Tch—don't mock me!" Miss Wednesday growled and lunged forward, flinging her peacock slashers in a flurry of arcs.
Zino didn't budge.
From his hand, a thin coil of smoke unfurled—subtle, almost like mist. Then with a sudden pulse, it erupted outward, blanketing the battlefield in thick smoke.
Miss Wednesday halted mid-attack, eyes darting.
"Where—"
She felt it—a presence behind her.
A hand tapped her shoulder.
"Too slow."
She whirled around, startled, but it was already too late.
Zino's fingers flicked. A compressed burst of air shot past her defenses, unbalancing her. Then, with precise force—not lethal, just enough—he struck her side.
Her body went limp. She collapsed, unconscious.
Zino exhaled quietly. The smoke around him thinned.
"Not a killer," he muttered, gazing down at her. "Just someone forced to play the part."
Zino turned to the last remaining figure on the staircase—Mr. 9, who stood frozen in place. Moments ago, he had been ready to strike alongside Miss Wednesday, but everything had changed in an instant.
He had watched, wide-eyed, as Zino disappeared from view and reappeared like a ghost—too fast to follow. Before Mr. 9 could even react, Miss Wednesday was already down.
That's when he realized… they were outmatched.
Way outmatched.
As Zino's gaze locked onto him, Mr. 9 snapped from his daze. Panic overtook him, and he turned tail, scrambling to escape—completely abandoning his partner without a second thought.
Zino didn't hesitate.
*"Soru!"*
His figure blurred, a black streak flashing through the air.
*"Hokoken!"*
Zino's fist struck true, crashing into Mr. 9's chest with explosive force. The air trembled. A shockwave rang out.
Mr. 9 was launched backward, slammed into a stone wall, and crumpled to the ground—coughing blood before losing consciousness.
At that moment, a new presence entered the fray.
From the hallway, Miria stepped through the smoke and chaos, her arm coated in shimmering black Armament Haki. Her calm footsteps echoed as she launched herself forward. One swift punch.
Boom!
Her fist drove an agent into the floor, the ground cracking beneath the impact.
"Hunters…" she said coldly, brushing back her hair. "You picked the wrong crew to mess with."
The force of that single strike made the remaining agents falter. Their confident smirks faded. The illusion of cheerful hosts was shattered.
Then came the retaliation.
Zino's crew spread out like a storm.
Alvida swung her mace with a fierce grin, Zoro's twin blades gleamed under the moonlight, Gin spun his tonfas into position, Sanji lit a cigarette as he cracked his neck, and Usopp was already firing precise slingshot shots from the rooftops.
The enemy hesitated. The Orca crew advanced.
And then the battle erupted.
No—*a massacre*.
The agents fell one after another, outclassed in every exchange. Within minutes, the cobblestone streets of Whiskey Peak were littered with unconscious bodies. And with each passing moment, it became painfully clear:
They had never stood a chance.
As the church bell tolled midnight, the last Baroque Works agent collapsed with a dull thud. Silence settled over the town square, broken only by the faint groans of the fallen.
Zino stood motionless at the center, his sleeves fluttering gently in the night breeze. He slowly turned his head, scanning the scene—not with his eyes, but through a heightened awareness pulsing through him.
Observation Haki!
He had finally grasped it—the subtle, elusive sense that had been teased him. It felt similar to Kami-e, the evasive instinct of Rokushiki, but deeper… more attuned. This wasn't about sensing movement—it was about sensing presence, emotions, and intent.
But there was no joy in this newfound power.
His senses absorbed the emotions that lingered in the air like residue: pain, regret, fear, and buried deep beneath, a greedy bitterness. These weren't just enemies. These were the same townsfolk who had welcomed them with laughter, feasts, and music just hours ago.
Now, the truth lay bare—sprawled unconscious across the stone streets, their disguises broken. Baroque Works agents, every one of them.
Zino exhaled slowly. "Whiskey Peak… you looked beautiful from afar," he murmured. "But your welcome was just a trap."
From the edge of the square, Miria crossed her arms and brushed the dust from her coat. She observed her son with a knowing look.
"Welcome to the Grand Line," she said calmly.