Tuwindis was sent flying through the air, coughing up blood and shattered teeth.
White Flame's kick had landed with devastating force—far beyond what a mere man like Tuwindis could ever withstand.
"One kick and you're already done?"
White Flame strode toward him, steps slow and deliberate.
"Y–You bastard… don't get cocky!"
Tuwindis spat blood, trembling with rage and fear. In desperation, he ripped the pistols from his belt and fired twice.
BANG! BANG!
White Flame's body blurred. Both bullets missed, whistling past him like smoke.
"You think something as crude as a gun will work on me?"
He stepped forward and slammed his boot into Tuwindis's chest.
CRACK!
The floor splintered beneath the impact, leaving a shallow crater.
Tuwindis convulsed, spewing two more mouthfuls of blood. His body went limp.
"Spare me…" he gasped weakly, eyes wide with terror. "Please… I'll leave Dressrosa. I'll never cross you again—just let me live!"
If it were anyone else, Tuwindis might have fought to the end.
But this wasn't just anyone.
This was the man-eating monster of Dressrosa—the terror whispered about for a month straight, the horror that left nothing behind but bones.
He had seen one of those crime scenes himself. The memory alone had kept him awake for nights.
The thought of being eaten alive chilled him more than death itself.
"Spare you?"
White Flame's tone was calm, almost casual.
"Sure. I can do that… after you've gone to hell."
His eyes hardened. Then he drove his heel down.
SPLAT!
Tuwindis's skull burst like a melon. Blood splattered across the floor.
White Flame's expression didn't even twitch.
"Little Black. Your turn."
Behind him, black particles gathered, swirling into shape until the familiar bandaged specter emerged.
"Delicious… so good…" the IBM rasped before lunging, tearing into Tuwindis's corpse with savage hunger.
White Flame turned back toward the warehouse.
The one‑legged toy soldier—Kyros—was darting between crates and pillars, his wooden body moving with astonishing agility as he fired his musket.
Even in his toy form, he fought like a legend.
"Still strong even as a toy," White Flame muttered, lighting another cigarette. "No wonder they called you the man who won three thousand matches."
He exhaled smoke—then noticed one of the traffickers bolting for the door.
"Naive fool."
White Flame leaped from the stairs, snatched a discarded musket from the floor, and pulled the trigger.
BANG!
The fleeing man's head burst apart before he reached the exit.
"It's him! He's still alive!"
"Boss Tuwindis is dead! We're screwed!"
"Kill him! Avenge the boss!"
The remaining traffickers turned their guns toward him, fury and fear twisting their faces.
White Flame's eyes glowed crimson.
"You dare raise your guns at me? Then die screaming."
He vanished from sight—
reappearing among them in a blur.
His claws tore through one man's chest, ripping his heart clean out. Blood splashed across his face, and he grinned faintly.
His movements were fluid, perfect—
every strike, every dodge, a reflection of the countless combat skills he had absorbed from those Little Black devoured.
Within seconds, the warehouse became a slaughterhouse.
Men fell one after another, their blood soaking the cracked concrete.
And with each kill, the heat inside White Flame grew.
Tuwindis's strength was flooding into him—
raw, burning power.
"Quick! Kill them!"
From outside came shouts—more than twenty new voices.
The rest of the slavers had returned, drawn by the gunfire.
White Flame's lips curled.
"More meat for the feast."
He dropped the cigarette from his mouth, crimson light dancing in his eyes—
then he charged.
Outside, gunfire erupted again.
Kyros fought through the chaos until his gun clicked empty. He switched to hand‑to‑hand combat—
but found there was no need.
Every enemy near him was already falling, torn apart by someone faster, stronger, and infinitely deadlier.
Five minutes later, silence returned.
The floor was slick with blood. Corpses lay piled high.
And in the middle of it all stood White Flame—drenched in red, blood dripping from his hair and coat, surrounded by the dead.
He looked less like a man and more like something born in hell.
Lighting another cigarette, he took a drag, his killing intent fading into calm indifference.
The slaver gang had been wiped out.
Not one left breathing.
A one‑sided massacre.
"Rebecca, are you hurt?"
Kyros rushed to the corner, cutting her ropes.
"Soldier-san!"
Rebecca collapsed into his arms, sobbing uncontrollably.
The other girls, trembling but alive, quickly thanked their rescuers—first the soldier, then the silent monster who had saved them—and fled into the night.
Kyros turned and bowed deeply.
"Man‑eater… no—thank you, sir. You have my gratitude."
Rebecca mimicked him shyly, bowing as well.
"Thank you, Mister Savior…"
White Flame glanced at them, saying nothing. He just took another drag of his cigarette.
"Little Black. Clean up."
The room filled with a wet, ripping sound.
Rebecca gasped in horror as one of the corpses beside White Flame began to vanish—
flesh being torn away by something unseen, exposing the glistening organs beneath.
She turned pale and vomited.
Kyros, long accustomed to the sight of death, remained silent.
"Sir… you're bleeding," Rebecca said suddenly, noticing the blood soaking through his shirt. "You've been shot!"
White Flame looked down. He hadn't even realized.
"When did that happen…"
"Let us take you to a doctor!" Kyros urged. "If that wound gets worse, you'll—"
"No need."
He flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot.
"Shoot me."
"…What?"
Both Kyros and Rebecca froze, staring in disbelief.
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