Wiping the cold sweat from his brow, Pearl immediately turned around and bellowed, "Geek! Get the Den Den Mushi over to the Great Sir, now!"
Before long, a pirate built like a small mountain pushed through the crowd, running over with a Den Den Mushi cradled in his hands.
"Sir, the Den Den Mushi is here!"
This pirate, named Geek, stood well over three meters tall. His muscles were knotted like gnarled wood, and his skin was dark as coal; he looked like a living iron tower. As he ran, Rowan could actually feel the sand beneath his feet vibrating.
Frowning, Rowan took the snail from the man's hands and waved them both away. It wasn't because the call he was about to make was secret; it was simply because the fawning, sycophantic expressions on these two were nauseating. Especially Geek—that honest, rugged face was never meant to squeeze out such a hideous, groveling smile.
Even Rowan, who had survived a century in this world, found it hard to stomach. Once they had retreated, he dialed a number.
Loguetown, Marine Branch Base.
Inside a smoke-filled Colonel's office, Smoker sat with his legs crossed, reviewing intelligence reports from his subordinates. The two cigars clamped in his mouth glowed rhythmically, steadily thickening the gray haze in the room.
Bulu-bulu-bulu... cough! Bulu-bulu-bulu... cough!
The Den Den Mushi on his desk emitted a strange, hacking sound, breaking Smoker's train of thought.
"Hello, Smoker speaking. Make it quick," he said, picking up the receiver, his voice icy.
"What? How many idle warships are at the base? Why are you asking that? Who is this? Identify yourself!"
"Ro... Mr. Rowan?!"
At the mention of that name, Smoker shot out of his chair like a spring, his posture instantly straightening. Soon, a confused voice echoed from the other end of the line.
"Smoky-boy, is the snail on your end broken? Why does it keep coughing?"
Smoker finally noticed that the smoke in his office had become so thick he could barely see his own hand. For him, a Smoke-Smoke Fruit user, this environment was like a greenhouse. But for the Den Den Mushi in his hand, it was a disaster area. The fact that the snail was still functioning at all was a testament to its hardy constitution.
However, even with its special resilience, the snail was currently on the verge of fainting.
Horrified, Smoker scrambled to throw open the windows and the office door, letting the air circulate.
"Little Snail, Little Snail, hang in there... please hang in there..."
Though he had never met Mr. Rowan in person, the name of this legendary Marine had been mentioned more than once by his mentor, Zephyr, during his training days at Headquarters. To Smoker, Rowan's exploits were legendary. According to Zephyr, if they ever met Rowan, they were expected to show the utmost respect—technically, they'd have to call him "Grand-Master."
Smoker never imagined his legendary "Grand-Master" would call him today. Seeing the snail slowly regain its breath, Smoker finally exhaled. Although it was accidental, if Zephyr, Sengoku, or Garp found out he had effectively "smoke-tortured" Mr. Rowan's call into a disconnection, there would be hell to pay.
"It's... it's nothing. Maybe the snail caught a cold," Smoker lied, his lower body completely transformed into smoke, floating outside his office window to get fresh air. He scratched his head. "Mr. Rowan, why do you need warships?"
What followed was the most absurd thing Smoker had heard in his entire career.
"Huh? You said... you captured a pirate crew?"
"How... how many?"
"Over four thousand?!"
At that number, Smoker's composure shattered. His eyes nearly bulged out of his head. Over four thousand pirate captives? Was the old gentleman playing a prank on him?
Though he wanted to voice his doubts, Smoker bit his tongue. After getting the coordinates of the island, he immediately arranged for three warships that weren't on mission to depart Loguetown at full speed.
Approximately three hours later.
In the vast expanse of the East Blue, three medium-sized warships were racing through the waves. At the bow of the lead ship, Smoker stood in his custom Justice coat, two cigars still firmly in place. He stared at the horizon, his expression grim.
"Tashigi, how much longer until we reach the destination?" he asked without turning. A puff of smoke drifted from his lips and dissipated in the wind.
Tashigi—a young woman not yet twenty with deep blue hair—clutched her famous blade, Shigure, and adjusted the glasses that had slipped down her nose from running. "Colonel Smoker, the navigator says we should reach the island in about twenty minutes."
"Twenty minutes? Understood."
Smoker took another deep drag. Even after three hours, the number Rowan had cited on the phone made him shiver. Over four thousand prisoners? Even as a Logia-type user, Smoker couldn't fathom how a single old man had accomplished such a feat.
Did Vice Admiral Garp arrive in secret? he wondered. But he had spoken to Sengoku this morning and heard Garp's voice in the background. If it wasn't Garp, who in the East Blue could pull off such a grand achievement? An Admiral? Smoker shook his head. If an Admiral had descended upon the East Blue, the intel would have reached him instantly.
A crew of four thousand... Smoker knew exactly which fleet that had to be. To swallow an armada like that in one go, the East Blue branches would normally need to coordinate at least five bases for a joint encirclement.
He sighed. He'd know the truth soon enough.
"Colonel Smoker, look!"
A sharp cry from Tashigi broke his meditation. Following her pointing finger, a small island came into view. But what caused Tashigi to scream wasn't the island itself—it was the mass of dark shadows floating in the water before it.
Smoker's brow furrowed. A massive pirate fleet? But it doesn't look right...
"Get me the binoculars," he barked.
Tashigi immediately handed him a high-precision telescope. When Smoker leveled it and looked again, his jaw nearly hit the deck.
"That's..."
Gulp.
He couldn't help but swallow hard. His breathing became heavy and ragged as the reality of the scene came into focus.
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