Alubarna was loud.
Not with celebration—but with tension.
The capital breathed like a wounded beast: merchants arguing in hushed tones, guards moving in tighter formations than necessary, citizens glancing skyward as if expecting the sun itself to betray them. The desert winds carried dust through the streets, scraping against stone walls and banners bearing the crest of Alabasta—faded but proud.
Alpha felt it immediately.
Fear.
Not panic—but controlled, suppressed, institutional fear. The kind that came from living under something unseen yet omnipresent.
Beta hovered close, optics narrowing as it processed the density of movement and layered intent.
"Urban threat saturation: high. Hostile emotional signatures embedded within civilian population. Probability of covert operatives exceeding baseline norms: 73.1%."
Alpha's eyes moved slowly, deliberately, as they passed through the outer districts. "Baroque Works," he murmured. "They've poisoned the capital already."
They didn't get far before the trap sprang.
It happened in a crowded street—too crowded. A fruit vendor screamed as crates exploded outward, smoke and sand erupting simultaneously. Civilians scattered in chaos as masked figures emerged, blades gleaming, movements disciplined and practiced.
"Agents," Alpha confirmed instantly.
One stepped forward, coat fluttering. "Shadow of the Grand Line," the man said mockingly. "You've wandered into the wrong kingdom."
Alpha didn't answer.
He stepped forward.
The world narrowed.
The spear moved first—fast, brutal, precise. Alpha didn't strike blindly. He controlled space, driving enemies away from civilians, redirecting attacks into walls, carts, empty air. Haki flooded the area—not overwhelming, but oppressive, crushing confidence, slowing reaction.
Beta launched upward, servos screaming briefly as it split mid-air paths, intercepting ranged attacks. Darts shattered against reinforced plating. A blade bounced uselessly off a rotating limb before Beta slammed its attacker into the stone with calculated force.
"Formation compromised," Beta reported. "Enemy adapting poorly."
One agent snarled and lunged straight at Alpha, cloak falling away to reveal reinforced armor. "You think yourself untouchable—"
Alpha's spear cracked against his guard with bone-shaking impact.
"No," Alpha said coldly. "I think."
The follow-up strike shattered the man's stance. Alpha twisted, swept, and dropped him unconscious in a heartbeat.
Royal Guards arrived mid-fight.
Steel boots thundered across stone as elite soldiers in blue and gold surged in—but instead of chaos, they found control.
They watched.
They saw Alpha shift seamlessly between offense and restraint. Saw Beta neutralize threats without civilian casualties. Saw Baroque Works agents falling one by one, exposed, broken, revealed.
The last agent tried to flee.
He didn't make it five steps.
Alpha's spear pinned his shadow to the ground, the tip stopping a breath from flesh.
"Tell your handler," Alpha said quietly, leaning close, voice carrying killing intent without killing action, "that the capital is no longer theirs."
The agent broke.
Royal Guards moved in, binding the fallen operatives. Their captain—a tall man with scarred cheeks and eyes sharpened by loyalty—stepped forward.
"You fought like a Royal Guardian," he said. "But you are not one."
Alpha met his gaze. "I don't need a uniform to protect people."
The captain studied Beta, then Alpha's spear, then the unconscious agents. Finally, he nodded. "The palace will want to see you. Now."
The castle of Alubarna loomed above the city like a silent judge.
Inside, cool stone halls contrasted sharply with the desert outside. Torches flickered. Guards whispered. Advisors argued in hushed voices. Alpha felt eyes on him from every corner—curious, suspicious, hopeful.
King Cobra awaited.
Older than Alpha expected. Wiser too.
"You fight Baroque Works openly," Cobra said, studying Alpha carefully. "Most don't survive long enough to do that twice."
Alpha inclined his head. "They operate in your capital. That makes them my problem."
A sharp silence followed.
Then Cobra laughed—soft, tired, genuine. "You're dangerous," he said. "Not because of strength. Because you move without permission."
Beta hovered silently, sensors scanning the room.
"High-value political node detected," it reported privately. "Multiple concealed observers."
Cobra gestured to the map table. "Crocodile protects this kingdom publicly. Privately… he erodes it. I can't move against him openly."
Alpha's eyes hardened. "Then don't."
The king looked up sharply.
"Let the shadows clash," Alpha continued. "I don't need titles. I don't need banners. I'll tear out the rot quietly."
Cobra exhaled slowly. "If what you say is true… this will put you against a Shichibukai."
Alpha smiled faintly. "Good."
Far from the palace—
Smoke curled lazily from a cigar.
Crocodile listened as a trembling agent knelt before him.
"A… Alpha," the man stammered. "He fought in the capital. The king—he let him inside the palace."
Crocodile's smile didn't reach his eyes.
"So," he said softly, "the shadow has learned where the throne is."
At sea, Marine transponder snails clicked urgently.
"Captain Smoker," an officer reported. "Confirmed intelligence. The spear-wielder is in Alubarna. Direct contact with King Cobra."
Smoke poured from Smoker's mouth as his eyes narrowed.
"So," he muttered, "you've stepped onto the world stage at last."
In the palace, Alpha stood alone on a balcony overlooking the city.
The capital pulsed beneath him—fragile, defiant, on the edge of war.
Beta hovered beside him.
"Threat escalation confirmed. Probability of direct conflict with Crocodile: rising."
Alpha rested his hands on the railing.
"Good," he said. "Then let the desert watch."
Because the moment Alpha entered Alubarna's heart, the balance of Alabasta began to crack.
And the Grand Line would feel it.