Illusion

"Alright, the things I needed to do are pretty much done. Shisui, notify the other clan members to gather. I'll be there later."

"Understood."

The call ended.

Yoru stuffed the Den Den Mushi back into his chest, brushed off some nonexistent dust from his clothes, and put his easygoing smile back on as he walked over to Rayleigh.

"Old man, looks like our chat has to be cut short for now."

Yoru spread his hands, a hint of regret in his tone: "The kids back home got a bit out of hand, stirred up some small trouble. I've got to go clean up the mess."

Rayleigh's hand, brushing resin, finally stopped completely.

He looked up, meeting Yoru's gaze through his glasses, his expression complicated.

With his Observation Haki, it was hard not to catch every word of that call.

Defeating the CP0 leader... kicking a Celestial Dragon... an Admiral...

That was no small trouble—that was punching a hole straight through the heavens.

"You..." Rayleigh opened his mouth as if to say something, but in the end just shook his head and sighed:

"You're a bunch of incredible brats. How long have you even been on the island?"

"Can't help it. Young folks, hot-headed."

Yoru said with a grin, as if he were commenting on the nice weather.

"So, old man, sure you won't reconsider my offer? Becoming our swordsmanship teacher—I guarantee it's way more exciting than slapping resin around here."

Rayleigh looked at him, then suddenly laughed—a carefree laugh weathered by countless storms:

"Exciting? This old man just wants to drink in peace, coat ships, and read the papers once in a while. Your path is too wild for me. I'd like to keep this old life of mine going a few more years."

"Too bad."

Yoru didn't push it. He pulled a crystal bottle filled with clear liquid from his chest and set it on a nearby wooden crate:

"This is some good liquor I brought from home. Consider it an apology for taking up your time, and a little welcome gift. If you ever change your mind, or just want to try a different kind of drink, feel free to look me up."

With that, he waved at Rayleigh, turned, and hummed a tuneless little song.

He swayed lazily out of the alley and soon disappeared around the corner.

Rayleigh watched his back vanish, then looked down at the bottle on the crate.

He picked it up, uncorked it, took a small sip, and squinted slightly:

"Lying little brat. This stuff's pretty average."

"Uchiha..."

He murmured the unfamiliar surname, his gaze drifting toward the faint wail of alarms echoing from beyond the alley.

"Is this sea about to see new waves stirred up by a bunch of reckless kids?"

"Roger... are these the kind of people you were waiting for?"

He shook his head, carefully tucked the bottle into his chest, and picked up the resin brush again.

He went back to his daily work.

On Sabaody's 25th block, the once-bustling open plaza had been cleared.

Dozens of medical staff in white uniforms and CP agents scurried around in tense activity.

A makeshift medical tent had been set up in the center of the square, surrounded by at least three layers of heavily armed guards. Everyone's face was grim, as if facing a full-scale invasion.

Uchiha Yoru stood at a distance, his gaze slipping through the gaps in the crowd to the tent entrance.

Through the occasional flap of the curtain, he could see the obese figure of Saint Charlos lying inside.

His glass bubble had been shattered and removed. He wore an oxygen mask, and his body was hooked up to various monitoring devices.

"Vitals are stable for now, but there are multiple soft tissue contusions, mild internal shock, rib fractures... and most importantly, severe psychological trauma."

The doctor's report came in fragmented bursts.

"Useless! A bunch of useless idiots!"

A CP official who seemed to be in charge hissed in a low, furious voice:

"The Saint was attacked and seriously injured right under your noses! What the hell are you people good for?! Where is Lord Kong?!"

"L-Lord Kong... he's also badly injured, receiving emergency treatment elsewhere." The reporter's voice trembled.

Chaos reigned. Fear pressed down on every World Government agent's heart.

No one knew how furious Saint Charlos would be when he woke up, or how much of that rage would fall on them.

After observing for a moment, Yoru used the Transformation Technique to turn into a white-uniformed medic.

He swaggered right in, and sure enough, no one noticed him.

The space inside the tent was slightly larger than it appeared from outside, but still cramped.

A thick mix of disinfectant and blood hung in the air.

Saint Charlos lay on the central hospital bed, groaning and whimpering. Even while injured, his mouth mumbled vague curses about "commoners" and "kill them all."

Several doctors surrounded him, moving with caution.

The high-ranking CP members stood a bit farther off, discussing the pursuit of the attacker with grim expressions.

Yoru's entry drew a glance or two, but given his attire, they assumed he was a special medical consultant or observer sent by higher-ups, and raised no questions.

Yoru walked straight to the bedside, studying with interest Saint Charlos's fat face, twisted by pain and rage.

A lead doctor nearby looked up at him, about to speak.

Uchiha Yoru raised a hand, signaling him to wait.

Then he leaned down, as if to closely examine the patient's pupils.

His face drew near Saint Charlos's.

Saint Charlos's murky eyes met Yoru's.

In that instant, deep within Uchiha Yoru's black pupils, the Three Tomoe Sharingan silently surfaced, rotating slowly.

Saint Charlos's body jolted violently, a short, strange gurgle escaping his throat.

His eyes rolled back uncontrollably, showing large swaths of white, but it lasted only half a second before returning to normal.

To outsiders, it looked like nothing more than a common twitch or discomfort from a severely injured patient.

Only Saint Charlos himself knew that deep in his consciousness, a cold, commanding voice had been branded:

[I am Uchiha Yoru. From now on, obey my orders, and you will have peace and protection. When the Navy asks, say the attacker was an unidentified pirate who has fled far away, and that you will not pursue the matter further. Wait for my contact, then act as instructed. This is top secret; do not leak it.]

The command was simple and direct.

For someone like Saint Charlos, whose willpower was nearly nonexistent and who had just suffered immense shock and pain—

The Sharingan's genjutsu was like a sledgehammer smashing tofu, meeting no resistance.

After planting the command deep in Saint Charlos's consciousness, Yoru straightened up, the Three Tomoe in his eyes already fading back to ordinary black.

He nodded to the somewhat puzzled doctor beside him and said in a deliberately lowered voice:

"Severe shock, neurotic stress reaction. You can adjust the sedative dosage slightly. Let him rest more and avoid stimulation."

The doctor nodded instinctively, finding the new physician's words reasonable.

Yoru lingered no longer, turning and walking out with steady, composed steps.

As he passed the high-ranking CP members, he even gave a slight nod, as if to acknowledge their hard work.

Only after he left the tent and merged back into the surrounding crowd did a doctor mutter belatedly:

"That colleague just now... which department was he from? I don't recall seeing him before."

But at that moment, Saint Charlos on the bed suddenly started groaning again, his voice clearer than before:

"A pirate, a pirate attacked me... ran away? Forget it... my head hurts... I want to rest... stop investigating! Annoying!"

The CP members froze, exchanging glances.

Was His Holiness... dropping the matter?

Or just rambling from shock?

They hurried forward to confirm, but Saint Charlos only waved his hand irritably.

Repeating phrases like "don't investigate," "head hurts," and "I need quiet."

Finally, he threw a tantrum and smashed a medical instrument.

Chaos erupted once more.