The grim aftermath of the Devil Fruit deprivation was swiftly dealt with.
At Ragnar's casual command, a squad of Alabastan royal guards, their faces a mixture of awe and trepidation after hearing the agonizing screams from outside the door, carefully gathered the unconscious, powerless forms of Crocodile, Mr. 1, Mr. 2, and Mr. 3.
They were to be deposited in the deepest, driest cell the palace dungeons had to offer, their fate now a trivial footnote in the grander narrative unfolding.
The four transformed Devil Fruits, the spiraled banana, the velvety pear, the waxy grape cluster, and the dune-patterned apple, were collected by a silent Isabella and secured in the heaven dimension, they were tangible trophies of their captain's terrifying power.
With the unpleasant business concluded, the atmosphere lightened considerably as they were ushered into the palace's grand dining hall.
King Cobra, overflowing with gratitude, had commanded his kitchens to prepare a feast worthy of legends.
The long, polished mahogany table groaned under the weight of the bounty. Platters piled high with roasted desert grouse glazed in honey and spices, whole lambs slow-cooked with rosemary and garlic.
Massive bowls of fragrant saffron rice studded with almonds and raisins, towers of flatbread still steaming from the clay ovens, and an entire section dedicated to an assortment of sweet, sticky pastries and fresh fruits.
The crew, their bodies aching and souls weary from the recent conflict, fell upon the food with the relish of survivors.
Laughter and the clatter of cutlery replaced the tension of battle. Yet, as always, two figures at the table commanded a unique kind of attention with their eating habits.
Ragnar, seated at the head of the table, was a force of nature. He didn't so much eat as he consumed. Plates were cleared in seconds, bones were picked clean with precision, and serving platters were drawn towards him as if by a gravitational pull.
It was a sight that brought vivid, simultaneous memories to both Robin and Isabella. Robin recalled the bizarre, almost frightening scene on the deck of the Tidereaver, watching this man butcher and devour a massive Sea King with a primal efficiency that spoke of a metabolism far beyond human.
Isabella remembered it too, the raw, undeniable power on display even in something as simple as eating, a precursor to the divine energy that now flowed through her own veins.
A soft, amused smile touched Robin's lips. Leaning over from her seat beside him, she reached out and playfully poked Ragnar's cheek, which was bulging with a mouthful of spiced lamb.
"Such ferocity, Captain. One would think you were still fighting for your next meal."
Ragnar didn't even pause. He simply turned his head, swallowed the immense portion without seeming to chew, and gave her a look that was both deadpan and fond before immediately spearing an entire roasted grouse with his fork and bringing it to his plate.
His body, a vessel of ever-increasing Seraphim power, demanded colossal fuel. The stronger he became, the more his appetite expanded, a biological engine burning at an impossible rate.
On the other side of the table, a perfect mirror image of this culinary devastation was taking place. Roroano Zoro was engaged in his own personal war against the feast.
His three swords were leaned carefully against his chair, but he wielded his knife and fork with a similar, focused intensity.
He and Ragnar created a synchronized rhythm of consumption, a duet of endless appetite that left the rest of the crew in a state of bemused speechlessness.
Inspired by his idols, Bartolomeo, seated further down, puffed out his chest and tried to emulate the pace. He shoved a huge piece of flatbread wrapped in lamb into his mouth, his cheeks inflating like a chipmunk's.
He managed three frantic chews before his eyes began to water, and he was forced to grab his goblet and wash it down with a desperate gulp of water, gasping for air. He slumped back, defeated.
"I'm not worthy..." he wheezed, earning a round of laughter from the others.
Finally, after what seemed like an hour of sustained ingestion, the two bottomless pits reached their limit. In near-perfect unison, Ragnar and Zoro leaned back in their chairs, letting out deep, resonant burps of profound satisfaction. The sound echoed in the now-quieter hall, a testament to a battle well fought and a feast well won.
Zoro pushed his chair back and stood, stretching his powerful arms.
"I'm gonna take a walk," he announced, cracking his neck.
Nami, who was meticulously arranging a small fortune in gems she had "found" during the cleanup, didn't even look up. She merely rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they stayed in their sockets.
"You? With your abysmal sense of direction? You'd get lost between this table and the door."
"Nani?! How could I get lost? It's a straight line!"Zoro's brow furrowed instantly after hearing this woman's words.
"Hmph," Nami retorted, finally looking at him with utter disdain.
"I've never seen a person so fundamentally challenged by the concept of 'left' and 'right.' I bet you only left your home island in the first place because you took a wrong turn out of your dojo and just kept going."
A flush of red crept up Zoro's neck and spread across his face. His mouth opened, then closed. The sheer, unnerving accuracy of her jab, so close to the humiliating truth of his perpetual wanderings, left him momentarily speechless.
He let out a frustrated grunt, unable to form a coherent rebuttal, and stomped towards the door, muttering under his breath about "stupid navigators."
Nami watched him go, a triumphant "Hehe" escaping her lips as she admired his utterly defeated posture.
Ragnar, who had been observing the exchange with mild amusement, took a sip of his wine. His Observation Haki, a constantly humming radar in his mind, had been passively scanning the island since their arrival.
He had felt the familiar, smoky presence lingering on the edges of the city. "There's a Marine in the city," he said casually, his voice cutting through Nami's glee. "Smoker. The Logia user from Lougetown. Go play with him if you want."
Zoro, his hand already on the door handle, stopped dead. His earlier frustration evaporated, replaced by a fierce, predatory gleam in his eyes.
A Logia user. After his breakthrough in cutting steel and the significant refinement of his Armament Haki during the fight with Mr. 1, a tangible, elemental opponent was exactly what he needed to test his new limits.
The prospect of a real spar, a chance to carve through smoke and fire, was infinitely more appealing than a pointless walk.
A sharp, eager grin split his face. "Thanks, Captain," he said, his voice low and excited. Without another word, he yanked the door open and strode out, his sense of direction suddenly irrelevant.
He had a scent to follow now, the distinct, ashy tang of a challenge.
Ragnar shook his head slightly, a faint smile touching his lips as he watched his swordsman leave. Then his gaze shifted to the other end of the table, where Kuro sat, quietly nursing a glass of wine, his posture as impeccably composed as ever.
Ragnar shook his head slightly, a faint, almost paternal smile on his lips. He then turned to his ever-reliable strategist. "Kuro."
The dark-clad butler, who had been silently observing everything from his seat, immediately stood.
"Captain?"
"Follow him. Just in case," Ragnar instructed. He didn't elaborate. He didn't need to. 'Just in case' covered a multitude of possibilities.
Zoro getting hopelessly lost and starting a fight with the royal gardens, Smoker having unexpected backup, or the confrontation escalating beyond a simple spar. Kuro was the insurance policy.
Kuro gave a short, sharp nod, his glasses glinting. "Understood." He melted into the shadows of the hallway, a silent phantom set to tail the boisterous storm that was Roroano Zoro, ensuring that the captain's will, even in something as simple as a walk, was perfectly executed.