Whiteflame snapped his palm. A huge biscuit platform formed beneath the three women's feet; he rose with them and flew back toward the sky-island.
When they landed, the island was empty of living things.
Through the collapsed gate they could see bones scattered among pools of fresh blood—Shiki's crew had all been reduced to fodder, their life energy harvested to feed Whiteflame's IBM.
"I don't like this building," Whiteflame said coolly, waving a hand.
Rumble—
The entire structure atop the island tore free, shot up into the clouds, then, as if cut loose, fell straight into the sea.
"Ah! Everything's gone—where are we going to sleep tonight?" Baby-5 pouted, crestfallen.
"Don't you like shopping?" Whiteflame replied without emotion. "The Nine Dragons is ruined, and the things you bought aboard the Gild Tesoro are gone too. But Gild Tesoro's money remains—take it."
He raised his hand; seawater surged forward and deposited a dozen large chests at their feet—treasure seized from Gild Tesoro.
"Yay! Great! I knew Whiteflame would take care of me!" Baby-5 squealed and planted an enthusiastic kiss on his cheek.
With Shiki gone, the sky-pirate legend had been erased. Whiteflame would now take command of this new Nine Dragons and reign in the sky.
The town below wasn't as prosperous as the Gild Tesoro's port, but it was still a settlement on the Grand Line—far from shabby.
While the women went shopping, Whiteflame didn't idle. He bought a huge amount of high-end tiles and timber.
"All set."
With a flick of his hand, and to the stunned stares of the townsfolk, Whiteflame lifted the building materials into the sky and returned to the new Nine Dragons. Facing the ground he'd nearly flattened, he pressed his palm down; the earth sank, forming a wide pit.
As Whiteflame's hand moved, the materials seemed to take on a will of their own—rushing in, stacking and assembling at lightning speed into the design he had in mind.
Building a house was strenuous work. Even with Whiteflame's near-unbelievable strength, sweat drenched his brow; construction still sapped him. Fortunately, he could swap with his IBM to replenish energy and keep working.
Two hours later, Whiteflame retracted his hand, wiped his brow, and switched out once more.
"Not bad," he murmured.
On the flattened ground stood a building—an edifice fashioned in the style of ancient Huaxia architecture. Eaves, tiles, doors, windows, decorative patterns—everything matched Whiteflame's impression of classical Huaxia design.
From afar it looked like a delicate palace suspended in the sky, a dreamlike sanctuary.
This was exactly what Whiteflame wanted.
When the three women returned and saw the gleaming ancient palace, they all lit up.
"Wow!! Did you build this, Benefactor? It's beautiful!" Rebecca's eyes sparkled.
"Oh my—I've never seen anything like this! Whiteflame, I adore you!" Baby-5 gushed.
Monet was stunned. She had assumed Whiteflame's strengths were purely martial. That he could design and construct such an elaborate, elegant building left her even more unable to read him.
"Nothing to fuss over. Let's go. We have a course to keep," Whiteflame said flatly. He waved and the new Nine Dragons resumed its set heading.
The townspeople watched in curiosity and awe as the ship drifted into the distance. Only after it vanished at the horizon did they come back to themselves.
Not long after Whiteflame and his crew left, a commotion arose on the shore.
"Warships! So many Navy ships!"
"Why are the Marines gathering here? Are they chasing a major pirate?"
"Look! Isn't that Admiral Kizaru himself? To see him in person—what an honor!"
A flotilla of more than a dozen naval vessels tightened formation and closed on the coast. On the bow of the lead ship stood a tall man in a yellow-and-white suit, gold-rimmed frog-shaped sunglasses on his face.
"Admiral Kizaru!" the marines called, lining up and saluting.
"Where are they?" Kizaru's figure appeared directly before the commanding major, hands in his pockets.
"They went southwest not long ago, one man and three women," the major reported quickly.
"You didn't try to stop them?" Kizaru asked, his sunglasses catching the sun.
The major broke into a cold sweat. "They were too many. I feared provoking them—civilians would get caught in the crossfire. I didn't want to fire recklessly."
Stop them? Of course not.
What would a single major do against a fleet sent by a Marine Admiral? It would be suicide.
Kizaru's eyes flashed cold for a heartbeat. He wasn't ignorant of the major's caution.
He looked southwest.
"He killed Shiki? That guy's getting more interesting by the minute."
"If someone so interesting has appeared, we can't just walk away."
Kizaru had heard the news from Sengoku: Shiki had fallen to Whiteflame. Sengoku wanted Kizaru to abandon the interception, but Kizaru refused.
The killer who cut down the Celestial Dragons' assassin. The man who slew the legendary Shiki. A possible future Yonko-level sea emperor—all of those titles spoke to Whiteflame's value.
If Kizaru brought Whiteflame's head back, his own status would be secured for life.
"Don't run—no matter how far you flee, it won't help," Kizaru murmured. "Prey marked by me never escapes my grasp."
A murderous glint crossed his gaze. He leapt back aboard, the fleet turned around, and the dozen-plus ships set off southwest in pursuit.
Coco Village, in the southwest of the East Blue—an outlying island that had once been peaceful. Years ago, that peace was shattered when a band of brutal fish-men landed and conquered the village with sheer, overwhelming force.
Peace became a memory; a reign of terror became reality.
Arlong, leader of the Arlong Pirates, seized dozens of towns on the island and used them as his stronghold to build his "Fish-Man Empire." He extorted protection money and killed anyone who couldn't pay.
Blood flowed across the land daily, and lives vanished from Coco Village one after another. Arlong's cruelty crowned him the island's king.
No one dared resist—he was too strong.
Arlong's bounty was twenty million Beli—the highest in the East Blue. Together with his vicious crew, no one could stand against him; the people were helpless.
"Arlong's here!"
"Hide, quick!"
"He's back! We're doomed this time!"
On the cold, empty streets, Arlong's squad strode through. People avoided eye contact, cowered, and stifled any sign of defiance—one wrong look could mean death.
At the front walked the leader: a fish-man in a casual shirt and shorts, a knit cap, and sandals. His outfit was unremarkable—what mattered were his towering frame, sharp eyes, and cruel smile.
Arlong—the man hated and feared by countless souls; he ruled the island like a tyrant.
He patrolled, collecting tribute. Anyone who couldn't pay was executed on the spot—he'd snap their necks with his bare hands without a second thought.
"Ha ha ha! See them—humans are trash! Look at the fear in their eyes—that's the kind of reverence reserved for gods!"
"Fish-men are born superior. These weak humans are beneath us; they belong under our rule."
"Look at them groveling—pathetic!" Arlong's laughter echoed through Coco Village. The villagers clenched their teeth in anger but dared not protest.
The fish-men stopped before a shabby house.
"Come on, humans—pay up or I'll take your life!" one of them barked.
"I'm sorry…" A dirty little boy shuffled out. His patched clothes and trembling steps betrayed terror. "My grandma is very ill—we have no money. Please—please spare us."
"No money?" A fish-man peered into the bare room. A pale, gaunt grandmother lay under a threadbare blanket.
"So what?" the fish-man sneered. "Arlong said it plain—no money means life forfeit. Since your grandma's near death anyway, I'll help her along. You humans are worthless—does it matter to me?"
He shoved toward the house to finish them off.
"Stop right there!"
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