The moment Capone Bege judged the operation a failure, he acted without hesitation.
His flintlock snapped back into its holster. He turned sharply and began to withdraw.
There was no rage. No panic. Only calculation.
"Leaving already?" Rowan's voice carried calmly across the fractured street. "Don't you think it's a little late for that?"
Ghost Hand Rowan had no intention of letting the Godfather of the West Blue slip away.
He stamped forward.
The pavement shattered beneath his foot.
With explosive acceleration bordering on the threshold of Rokushiki's Soru, Rowan shot forward like a cannonbolt.
Bege reacted instantly.
This was no ordinary pirate captain.
Though Rowan's burst speed rivaled trained Government agents, Bege twisted mid-step, leaping backward while drawing his firearm in one fluid motion.
Bang! Bang!
Two sharp reports split the air.
Seastone bullets.
At this range, even Rowan treated them with caution.
He pivoted sideways in a tight arc, allowing the rounds to slice past his torso by inches.
Behind him
"Godfather!"
From the rubble, Vito and Laki forced themselves back into the fray.
Blood still ran down their sleeves, but they understood one truth:
If Bege fell, they would not leave this street alive.
They charged together, Seastone staves raised.
Rowan regarded them without emotion.
"You're willing to die for him?"
His tone was neither mocking nor impressed.
"Then I won't disappoint you."
He shifted his grip on his blade.
This time, there was no refracted illusion. No distortion field masking movement.
Only raw force.
The sword descended.
It was not a refined flying slash, nor the polished technique of a master swordsman. It was power made manifest strength amplified by advanced physical conditioning.
Air pressure compressed violently beneath the descending arc.
"Block it!" Vito shouted.
The two officers crossed their Seastone rods overhead.
Clang!
Steel collided with Seastone.
Sparks erupted.
The rods did not fracture Seastone was extraordinarily durable but the impact transferred directly through their arms.
Crack.
The pavement beneath their boots split.
Rowan pressed down.
Muscles coiled beneath his sleeves; veins stood out sharply along his forearms.
The force multiplied.
The street ruptured beneath the trio as the pressure forced Vito and Laki downward inch by inch.
Their teeth clenched.
Their arms trembled.
They could not match him.
With a sharp exhale, Rowan twisted his wrists and shifted momentum.
The blade slid free and carved downward in a brutal diagonal arc.
Stone tore open in a three-meter gash.
Both men were hurled apart by the shockwave.
Rowan stepped forward without hesitation.
One thrust.
The blade pierced Vito cleanly through the chest.
"Vito--!"
Laki roared and swung his Seastone staff in a desperate arc.
Rowan deflected it with a short, brutal parry and reversed his cut in a seamless motion.
The strike was precise.
Laki's body fell before his staff struck the ground.
Silence swallowed the immediate battlefield.
Rowan did not look back at the fallen officers.
They had chosen their position.
He sheathed his blade and turned his gaze down the street.
Capone Bege had already gained distance.
Rowan's foot struck the ground again.
The stone beneath him shattered in a spiderweb pattern.
With full acceleration, he surged forward, closing an entire street in seconds.
Bege heard the rush.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Another volley of Seastone bullets forced Rowan into evasive movement, but the pirate captain was losing ammunition.
Rowan's eyes narrowed.
"Seven earlier," he murmured. "Five just now."
He stepped in behind Bege.
"You're empty."
His blade flashed downward
Clang!
A massive weapon intercepted the strike inches from Bege's skull.
The impact rang like a bell across the empty street.
Rowan's sword halted against a colossal blade shaped like a heavy cleaver commonly called a Shark-Cutting Sword.
The man holding it wore a Marine coat draped over his shoulders.
Justice emblazoned across the back.
Rowan's gaze sharpened.
The officer stood tall and broad, wearing a distinctive ox-shaped mask.
"Ghost Hand Rowan," the Marine said evenly, pushing back against the blade. "We finally meet."
The insignia on his shoulders bore the rank of Rear Admiral.
"I am the commanding officer of West Blue's T4 Base," he continued. "Rear Admiral Bastille."
The name was familiar.
Bastille a Marine who would one day rise higher within Headquarters ranks. But here, in the West Blue, he served as a base commander tasked with maintaining order in turbulent waters.
Bege exhaled smoke slowly behind the Marine's shoulder.
Of course.
He had not entered this operation blindly.
Contingencies had been arranged.
Marine presence had been scheduled to "respond" at precisely the correct time.
Bege's lips curled faintly.
"Any proper plan," he said, adjusting his coat, "accounts for failure and secures a clean exit."
Rowan withdrew his blade.
Steel scraped against steel, sparks trailing between the two weapons before separating.
Neither edge showed visible damage.
"So," Rowan said quietly, eyes flicking between pirate and Marine, "the West Blue Marines now respond conveniently to civilian reports filed by gangsters?"
Bastille snorted, resting the enormous blade against his shoulder.
"We respond to criminal activity," he said. "And your name has been on Marine Headquarters orders for months."
His tone hardened.
"Surrender peacefully. Or I will subdue you by force."
The street stilled.
Smoke drifted between three powers.
A pirate captain seeking escape.
A Marine Rear Admiral enforcing justice.
And between them
Ghost Hand Rowan.
Rowan glanced once at Bastille's insignia.
Rear Admiral.
He let out a low, quiet laugh.
It was not loud.
Not wild.
But something in it carried a dangerous edge.
"What's amusing?" Bastille asked.
Rowan lifted his head.
The faint curve of his lips could barely be called a smile.
Yet it was.
Cold.
Predatory.
"Rear Admiral," Rowan said softly.
"…That is a very interesting rank."