Bastille did not immediately understand what Rowan meant.
He searched Rowan's expression for mockery, fear, or calculation anything that might reveal whether the pirate believed the rank of Vice Admiral to be trivial or insurmountable. Yet what he found unsettled him far more.
Hunger.
Rowan looked at him as though he had found worthy prey.
Prey?
Bastille was no ordinary branch officer. He was a Vice Admiral of the Marines, temporarily stationed in West Blue to suppress the surge of piracy destabilizing the region. He had crushed notorious pirates with bounties exceeding fifty million Berries more than once. His reputation had been forged in blood and steel long before this upstart ever earned the epithet Ghost Hand.
Soon, he would return to Marine Headquarters in the Grand Line to resume higher command duties.
And yet
This pirate dared to look at him that way?
Absurd.
Two warships were already positioned along the coastline. Their cannons were trained and ready. Even if Rowan attempted escape, the bombardment alone would reduce his vessel to drifting debris.
"It seems," Bastille said at last, his voice lowering beneath the iron mask he wore, "that surrender is not your intention."
No one could see his expression behind the ox-head helm, but the air itself seemed to tighten when both hands closed around the hilt of his massive Shark-Slayer blade.
Even from a distance, the pressure rolling off him forced the observing underworld figures to grow wary.
Among them stood Capone Bege, cigar clenched between his teeth, eyes sharp and calculating.
"Godfather," one of his men reported in a low voice, "Mr. Vito and Mr. Gotti are down."
"The Musketeer Squad has suffered over a hundred casualties. The artillery unit's losses are severe."
Marine soldiers moved past the fallen, herding prisoners and securing the perimeter. Though their gazes toward Bege's group were hostile, standing orders prevented open confrontation.
Bege exhaled a plume of smoke.
"The losses are heavy," he murmured, "but the outcome will decide everything."
His attention never left the standoff.
Vice Admiral Bastille did not underestimate pirates. Any man who could destabilize an entire sea and evade repeated Marine pursuit was dangerous. That much was certain.
But danger alone did not equal superiority.
With a thunderous step forward, Bastille swung.
The enormous Shark-Slayer blade cut downward in a diagonal arc, releasing a compressed flying slash a shockwave of steel and force that tore through the air toward Rowan.
The sheer mass of the weapon amplified the attack. Few could generate such destructive force so effortlessly.
Yet brute strength had its flaw.
Speed.
Rowan tilted his body just enough for the invisible slash to pass, the wind from it tearing through stone behind him.
"Soru."
The word was barely audible beneath the crack of displaced air.
Using the Rokushiki technique of the Marines, Rowan vanished in a burst of speed, reappearing within striking range. His eyes were calm, focused not reckless, not arrogant. Measured.
Bastille reacted instantly.
His blade rose and fell again in a crushing overhead strike meant to cleave Rowan in two.
"Hmph."
The distance was too short for an easy sidestep.
But Rowan did not sidestep.
His body flowed.
Kami-e.
Like paper caught in a shifting breeze, he folded around the descending steel, the blade slicing through afterimage alone.
In the same breath, Rowan's fist drove forward toward Bastille's torso.
Despite his towering physique, Bastille did not attempt to absorb the blow. He too employed Soru, shifting aside at the last possible instant while counter-slashing toward Rowan's back.
Rowan leapt.
Midair, he rotated smoothly and extended his hand.
His palm brushed the flat of the Shark-Slayer blade.
Just a touch.
Crack.
Metal shrieked.
The front third of the massive weapon twisted violently, spiraling inward as though seized by invisible hands. The steel compacted unnaturally, warping under a force that defied conventional mechanics.
The power of the Distortion Fruit.
Bastille's eyes widened behind the mask.
"You insolent pirate!"
Rage flared. He surged forward again, his movements accelerating as he blended footwork with blade technique. For a fleeting instant, his form seemed to divide afterimages overlapping as he unleashed three intersecting slashes in a single downward motion.
A technique born of combining Rokushiki mobility with advanced swordsmanship.
Rowan did not retreat.
"With a damaged blade," he said evenly, "you should not divide your power."
He chose one of the three slashes the true one and drove his fist upward.
The impact froze the flying slash midair.
For a heartbeat, it became visible warped, trembling, distorted.
Then
Boom.
The compressed blade-force twisted apart, shattering into fragmented shockwaves that sprayed outward, carving fissures across stone walls and earth alike.
Before the debris settled, Rowan stepped through the fading pressure.
His hand seized the remaining length of the Shark-Slayer blade.
Bastille pulled back instantly but too late.
Crack. Crack.
The steel compacted again, the forward half collapsing into a dense, jagged mass. Twisting fractures raced along the metal, leaving only the rear portion intact.
Silence fell.
"Vice Admiral Bastille's blade…"
"The Distortion Fruit just like in the intelligence reports…"
Marine officers tightened their grips on rifles and sabers. Some swallowed hard.
This was no mere upstart from West Blue.
This was a pirate capable of contending with a Vice Admiral head-on.
"Snipers!" a Captain barked. "Target Ghost Hand Rowan!"
"Majors and above advance! Support Vice Admiral Bastille!"
Orders rang out across the battlefield.
Bastille did not protest the assistance.
He was a Marine.
Victory outweighed pride.
Across the fractured courtyard, Rowan Ghost Hand Rowan rolled his shoulders once, eyes steady as ever.
Warships offshore.
Marines closing in.
A Vice Admiral before him.
At last, the hunt felt worthy.
And this time, he was not the prey.