[Author Note]
[We hit 100k views 🎉 So here is a bonus chapter. Thanks for the support whoever reads this book. ❤️]
The familiar skyline of Loguetown emerged from the sea haze, a bustling port town built upon the weight of history. Unlike the sleepy villages they had left behind, this place hummed with the energy of commerce, naval power, and the lingering ghost of the pirate king.
As the Tidereaver glided into a secluded, shadowed dock away from the main naval traffic, Ragnar gave the order.
"Secure everything. We're going ashore."
With the ship made ready, Ragnar stood at the very edge of the dock. He raised a hand, palm facing the dark-hulled caravel. The air around the Tidereaver shimmered, warping like heat haze on a summer road.
The solid wood of the hull and the canvas of the sails seemed to dissolve into countless iridescent fragments, folding in on themselves before vanishing completely from the physical world.
In the space of a single, indrawn breath, the ship was gone, stored safely within the impossible geometry of Ragnar's pocket dimension. A few stray fish nibbled at the water where its reflection had been.
A collective, almost imperceptible tension left the crew. Their home and their greatest asset were now utterly secure.
"Right," Ragnar said, turning to face them, his golden eyes scanning the busy streets leading up from the docks. "We have business. Kuro."
"Captain." The former assassin stepped forward, his posture now one of a disciplined executive rather than a servile butler.
"Take the funds and acquire our inventory. Be thorough. Food, water, medical supplies, sailcloth, lumber for repairs. I want a list of everything purchased and its cost."
"Understood." With a curt nod, Kuro melted into the flow of the crowd, his dark clothing making him just another shadow in the bustling port city.
Nami immediately clapped her hands together, her eyes gleaming with a predatory financial light.
"Alright, girls! Shopping time! This is one of the biggest markets in the East Blue. We need new clothes, proper soaps, and…" she shot a look at Zoro, "...we need to get someone new swords before he gets us all killed with those rusted pieces of junk."
"My swords are fine." Zoro scowled, crossing his arms.
"They're not!" Nami retorted, poking him hard in the chest. "You have lost I don't know how many fights to Ragnar on the ship, remember? Your precious Wado Ichimonji is the only one that didn't get shattered. You need proper gear if you're going to be the World's Greatest Swordsman, or are you just all talk?" It was a low blow, expertly delivered.
Zoro's scowl deepened, but he couldn't refute the logic, or the painful memory of his swords shattered in a mere spar. He grunted, which Nami took as acquiescence.
"Good. Nojiko, Isabella, Robin, you're with me. We'll find a decent blacksmith and drag this lump there after we get some decent dresses." Nami said.
"I am curious to see the literary offerings of such a historic town." Robin offered a serene smile.
Isabella simply nodded, her luminous presence drawing a few curious glances from passersby. Nojiko shrugged, always ready for a new experience.
Ragnar watched the group dynamics with amusement. "I'm heading to the execution platform. I want to see it for myself. Everyone, meet back at the central square in two hours. Don't cause trouble, but don't take any either."
With a chorus of acknowledgments, the crew split apart, each drawn by their own desires. Nami led her shopping brigade towards the market district with determined strides, already mentally spending their treasure. Zoro trailed behind them, looking thoroughly miserable.
Ragnar turned and began to walk, not following a map, but a pull in his blood, a historical gravity that guided his steps. He moved through the crowded streets, a tall, imposing figure whose handsome features and confident gait turned heads.
He ignored the stares, his focus inward, feeling the echoes of the past grow stronger with every step.
He arrived at the town's main square. It was a vast, open space paved with worn cobblestones, surrounded by shops and taverns. And there, in the very center, raised on a dais, was the iconic execution platform.
It was simple, almost disappointingly mundane, a wooden stage with a single post and crossbeam. But the air around it seemed thick, charged with the residual energy of the moment that had launched a thousand ships and defined an era.
People milled about, tourists and locals alike, some taking pictures, others just standing in quiet contemplation.
Ragnar walked to the base of the platform, his head tilted back, imagining the scene. The crowds, the Marines, the stoic figure of Gol D. Roger kneeling, and then… those final, legendary words.
He was so engrossed he didn't notice the change at first. The cheerful chatter around him began to falter, replaced by hushed, urgent whispers.
The crowd subtly shifted, creating a bubble of space around him. Eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and morbid curiosity, were locked on him.
"...it's him…"
"...the Sea Scourge…"
"...forty-eight million…"
"...he killed Marine colonels…"
The murmurs spread through the square like a ripple. His bounty poster had clearly done its work. His face, the image of him strangling Colonel Nezumi, was recognized.
He was no longer an anonymous tourist; he was a notorious pirate standing on the most famous piece of real estate in the East Blue.
….
Meanwhile, in the heavily fortified Marine base that overlooked the town, the air was one of disciplined routine.
In a Spartan office, a mountain of a man with a stern jaw and close-cropped white hair sat behind a desk, three cigars smoldering simultaneously in his mouth.
Lieutenant Smoker of Loguetown was reviewing patrol reports, his expression one of profound boredom. Capturing small-time pirates was beneath him, he longed for the chaos of the Grand Line.
BAM!
The door to his office swung open violently, slamming against the wall. A young Marine soldier stood panting in the doorway, his face pale.
"Lieutenant Smoker, sir! Urgent report!"
"Spit it out." The smoker didn't look up from his paperwork.
"The pirate! The one with the new bounty! 'The Sea Scourge,' Vortex D. Ragnar! He's here! In Loguetown!"
That got Smoker's attention. His head lifted, his sharp eyes narrowing. A forty-eight-million-dollar rookie making a brazen appearance in his town was anything but boring.
"Where?" Smoker's voice was a low growl.
"He was seen heading towards the square, sir! Towards the Pirate King's execution platform!"
A slow, grim smile spread across Smoker's face beneath the cigars. It wasn't a pleasant expression. He pushed his chair back, the legs screeching against the stone floor.
He stood to his full, intimidating height, grabbing the large, solid Jitte that was leaning against his desk.
"Hmph. Damn pirate," he grunted, the words laced with anticipation. "Coming here to pay his respects? He can pay them to me from the inside of a cell."
He strode past the panting soldier, his voice booming down the corridor.
"Marines! Prepare to move out! We're taking a trip to the square. It's time to teach this 'Sea Scourge' what it means to defy the Navy!"
….
The air in the square grew thick and heavy, the festive atmosphere evaporating like mist under a harsh sun. The whispers had become a palpable wave of tension, a collective intake of breath held by hundreds of throats.
All eyes were fixed on Ragnar, who remained an island of calm at the center of the storm, his gaze still locked on the execution platform as if communing with a ghost.
He could feel it, the moment was coming. The inevitable clash. This was Loguetown, the town of beginnings and ends. It was only fitting that his final act in the East Blue would be a statement.
The sound was unmistakable: the synchronized, heavy tread of disciplined boots on cobblestones. A path cleared through the crowd as a phalanx of Marine soldiers marched into the square, their rifles held at the ready.
And at their head was a man who seemed to be made of equal parts muscle and smoke. Lieutenant Smoker, his white Justice coat flapping behind him, his three cigars glowing like demonic eyes.
He carried his Jitte with the casual ease of a man who had used it to break countless bones.
He came to a halt about twenty feet from Ragnar, his soldiers fanning out to form a loose, threatening circle.
"Vortex D. Ragnar," Smoker's voice boomed, echoing in the suddenly silent square. "The Sea Scourge. You have a lot of nerve showing your face here."
Ragnar finally turned, slowly, deliberately. His golden eyes swept over the Marines, then settled on Smoker. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips.
"Lieutenant Smoker. The 'White Hunter' of Loguetown. I've heard you're quite the obstacle for up-and-coming pirates."
"I'm the end of the line for scum like you," Smoker growled, pointing the tip of his Jitte at Ragnar.
"You're under arrest for piracy, murder of Marine officers, and general disorderly conduct. Surrender now, and your crew might get lighter sentences."
Ragnar actually chuckled, a low, confident sound that unnerved the surrounding Marines.
"My crew is none of your concern. And as for surrender…" He spread his hands slightly. "That word isn't in my vocabulary."
"Have it your way," Smoker snarled.
In a move faster than the eye could follow, Smoker's right arm elongated, transforming into a billowing cloud of thick, white smoke that shot across the square.
The Logia-type power of the Smoke-Smoke Fruit. To the terrified onlookers, it was an unstoppable force. The smoky fist surged forward to grab Ragnar by the throat.
It never connected.
Ragnar didn't dodge. He simply raised his own right hand, his fingers curled into a claw. And as he did, his entire forearm, from wrist to elbow, was instantly sheathed in a deep, impenetrable blackness, the hardened armor of Armament Haki.
The plume of smoke smashed into the blackened arm with a sound like a cannonball hitting a fortress wall. THUUUMP! The shockwave blasted outwards, making the nearby Marines stagger and sending dust devils skittering across the cobblestones.
Smoker's eyes widened in sheer, unadulterated shock. His smoke solidified back into his arm, which he jerked back as if burned.
"Impossible!" he breathed, the cigars nearly falling from his mouth. "You… you can hit me?"
"The rumors of my abilities are not exaggerated, Lieutenant," Ragnar said calmly, the black sheen receding from his arm. "Your intel is lacking. A fatal flaw for a hunter."
"OPEN FIRE!" Enraged and humiliated in front of his entire garrison, Smoker bellowed.
A volley of gunfire cracked through the square. Civilians screamed and dove for cover. Ragnar didn't move. He stood his ground, and as the bullets reached him, they simply… stopped.
They flattened against an invisible, concussive barrier that shimmered into visibility for a split second, a dome of pure Conqueror's Haki, a pressurized wall of will that halted the lead projectiles in mid-air before they clattered harmlessly to the ground.
The Marines stared, their rifles lowering, their faces masks of terror. This was beyond anything they had ever seen.
"You rely too much on your Devil Fruit, Smoker," Ragnar said, taking a step forward. The Marines took a collective step back.
"It has made you arrogant. You believe yourself untouchable in this backward sea. You are a guard dog who has forgotten what real teeth feel like."
He took another step, his presence expanding to fill the square. "I am not here to fight you. This is not my destiny. But I will give you a lesson. A reminder."
He vanished.
In the next instant, he was directly in front of Smoker, having moved with such speed he seemed to teleport. Before the Marine could even react, Ragnar's left hand, once again coated in that terrifying black armor, shot out and grabbed Smoker by the throat.
It wasn't a chokehold, it was a statement. He lifted the heavier man clear off the ground with effortless strength.
Smoker gagged, his hands clawing at Ragnar's iron grip, his Devil Fruit powers useless against the Haki-infused hold.
"Remember this feeling," Ragnar whispered, his voice cold and clear in the dead silence.
"This is the power that will shatter the world you serve. The Age of the Marines clinging to their 'Justice' is ending. My era is beginning."
He held him there for a long, suspended moment, letting every Marine, every civilian, see their invincible lieutenant utterly dominated.
Then, with a contemptuous flick of his wrist, he threw Smoker backward.
The White Hunter crashed into a squad of his own men, sending them tumbling like bowling pins in a clatter of armor and pained grunts.