Trickster Mage

"Eschbach... actually got tied up?"

"What a fearsome bald man!!!"

Dick craned his neck, staring at the mountain-like back locked in a stalemate, his eyes wide. It had been a long time since he'd seen Eschbach fight so restrained. Since, since when was it?

Ah! Right, since two years ago, when Eschbach awakened Observation Haki, he'd never again seen Eschbach drag out a fight. Every time, he crushed his enemy with absolute violence—a few punches and kicks, and even an iron man would be ground into iron filings.

"A Paramecia user?"

Casper squinted, muttering under his breath.

"Your Highness, should we..." Dillon lowered his head, glancing at Aleus, who was watching the spectacle with keen interest.

"No need."

Aleus waved a hand.

"That bald man's ability is interesting—imbuing air with heat, earth with elasticity, stone with weight... Dillon, do you have any intel on that bald man?"

"Apologies, Your Highness. Our intelligence is all purchased, and there's no data on that... bald man. However, based on the kingdom's collected records over the years, he bears some resemblance to a pirate rookie who entered the New World fifteen years ago."

"Fifteen years? That far back?"

As a power in the New World, the Ekmondo Kingdom had always been meticulous about intelligence gathering. Though not on the level of the Queen of Pleasure District or Big News Morgans, they recorded any notable figures or events. The pirate rookies charging into the New World each year were always a focus of attention.

Aleus reluctantly pulled his gaze away from the front, tilting his head slightly to look at Dillon. "Who was he?"

"I saw the newspaper from back then in the kingdom's archives. It was Marineford Era 1502, the fourth year of this so-called Great Pirate Era. At the time, thanks to the Pirate King's words before his execution, the number of pirates on the seas had surged more than tenfold, and all sorts of monsters flooding into the New World followed one after another..."

"The point, Dillon. Get to the point. I'm not Dick the idiot—I know this basic history." Aleus rolled his eyes.

Why was he giving a history lesson here?

"Yes, Your Highness. I digressed."

Admitting his mistake bluntly, Dillon reorganized his words, paused for two seconds, and spoke again: "Marineford Era 1502, among the most prominent pirate rookies in the New World at the time was one with the epithet 'Trickster Mage,' whose real name was Marcus. He publicly declared he would challenge Whitebeard, but later vanished without a trace. Some speculated Whitebeard had casually crushed him... Now it seems this Trickster Mage never actually challenged Whitebeard—he was recruited by Umit instead."

"Trickster Mage... Do you know anything about his ability?"

"No. Even back then, no one seemed to have figured out what Devil Fruit this Trickster Mage had eaten—not even the Navy uncovered his secrets. It remains a minor unsolved mystery to this day. Also..."

Dillon hesitated before adding, "Back then, that Trickster Mage still had hair. He wasn't bald." He disliked saying such things—it always felt like gossiping about someone's physical flaws behind their back—but duty demanded he speak.

"Went bald and got stronger, huh? Interesting. Let's see what this Trickster Mage is capable of... Tch! Looks like I can't enjoy the show in peace until I deal with this nuisance. Hey there! Greetings, King of Maritime Transport. I'm Sokachio Aleus."

Aleus stopped Dick, who was about to act, and cheerfully greeted the King of Maritime Transport.

Led by the King of Maritime Transport, Umit, a total of fourteen people appeared on a Mushroom Rock not far ahead of Aleus and his group.

"Black Prince, Sokachio Aleus... Not bad presence. No wonder you crushed Venkura like that!"

Umit didn't rush to attack either. Instead, he scrutinized Aleus with a piercing gaze, as if his sharp, experienced eyes wanted to dig into Aleus's very bones. "But don't think a little skill lets you run wild in the New World!!!"

"Boom—!!!"

The Mushroom Rock shattered.

The recoil from Umit's charging sprint ground it to dust.

His tall hat and coffee-colored coat were blown high into the sky by the shockwave. Umit, with his thick, bushy beard, revealed the steel-like, solid muscles hidden beneath his coat. He swung his fist, unleashing a fierce attack that could shatter the earth.

A roaring gale of a punch swept forward, peeling away layers of the rocky ground.

That punch—

Was hard.

"Sss—! That hurts!"

Aleus's facial muscles twitched slightly as he let out a pained groan from deep within.

His right hand—broken. Bent in an impossible direction, blood dripped from the torn flesh, staining the ground beneath him drop by drop.

"Kid, without a sturdy body, you can't survive in a hellhole like the New World, where they eat people without spitting out bones."

Umit opened his mouth, revealing a row of clean white teeth. His beard, thick as seaweed, swayed gently in the sea breeze. He looked at Aleus's bloodied right arm and grinned—a savage hunter's smile, the grin of a starving predator spotting the finest prey.

Fists—

Followed one after another.

Not giving Aleus a moment to catch his breath, Umit swung his fists like falling meteors, blow after blow, hammering Aleus relentlessly.

That was the rule of the New World—pure, unadulterated survival of the fittest. Here, strength was reason, the bigger fist was the law, and the harder punch was justice. Umit didn't underestimate Aleus for his youth.

On the contrary, the younger Aleus was, the heavier Umit's punches became.

No longer young himself, Umit knew full well that this world ultimately belonged to the young. When he grew old and frail, some youngster would inevitably step over his old bones to claim his position, his power, his wealth. That was the inevitable trend of the era, an unstoppable tide.

But still!

The clearer he saw his future end, the more the lifelong prideful King of Maritime Transport refused to accept his fate. If he were willing to resign himself, he'd still be a fisherman in his hometown harbor, not the King of Maritime Transport, commanding respect from all sides.

So, he would use his fists—while he still had the strength—to pound every challenger who dared covet his position into meat paste.