Five Months Later

West Blue, Ejadi Island.

The sky was black as ink, so thick it seemed impossible to dissolve.

Murky waves battered the rotting dock pilings without end, letting out dull, despairing moans.

The sea wind swirled like a blade across the docks, tugging at the tattered scraps covering the civilians curled up in the shadows, yet unable to carry away the bottomless ash-gray despair in their eyes.

On the dock, those gaunt civilians stared numbly at the horizon as usual. Deep within their clouded eyes lay the last remaining hope, crushed over and over by despair—a hope that some ship, some person, might take them away.

This was one of the strategic buffer zones tacitly recognized by the five great families of the West Blue underworld. No ruler in their right mind would place a battlefield on their own turf unless they had been driven into a corner.

Because of that, no strong voice had ever unified the island. Bloodshed and conflict erupted every day, and coupled with the difficulty of sea travel, even civilians who wanted to flee found it nearly impossible.

Coming to the docks like this and waiting for that miracle with its minuscule chance of appearing was the only resistance they could manage.

Amid those deathly silent stares, an abrupt speck of black suddenly pierced the horizon.

That black dot tore through the dim sky at astonishing speed, plunging straight toward the rotting dock.

In the blink of an eye, a massive shadow heavily shrouded the beggars overhead. That enormous presence drifted down as lightly as a weightless feather.

It was as though invisible hands had seized the civilians by the throat. Their eyes nearly burst from their sockets, their cracked lips opened and closed soundlessly, and their bodies trembled like sieves.

How could a person fly?

Having never left the island, they simply could not comprehend what was happening before them.

Adams, carrying a travel backpack, did not spare them even a glance. He started forward, heading deeper into the island with steps as steady as if he were measuring the land.

His thoughts flowed back like icy seawater.

Five months ago, after the Buster Call had ended, he had been forced to remain in Ohara for some time due to certain special circumstances.

During that time, he had not only met Saul, but also Dragon, and had even met Vegapunk once.

Then came more than a month of flight through the skies. Using his ability, he safely delivered the scholars to Sky Island.

Only after doing all that had he returned to the West Blue alone.

"Run! Inside... it's started again!"

Suddenly, a hoarse, twisted scream cut through Adams's memories.

He looked toward the source of the voice. The dirt road ahead leading to the town in the island's interior had completely erupted into chaos.

The terrified crowd was like an anthill doused in boiling water. A dense mass of heads surged and shoved, weeping and howling as they carried their pitiful belongings, forming a desperate muddy torrent that rushed madly toward the docks.

A woman clutching an infant stumbled as the raging crowd swept her along, nearly losing her child.

She staggered into the hard side of Adams's towering body, as though she had slammed into a high wall. The pain jolted her awake.

She squeezed out the last of her strength and screamed:

"Turn back! Inside... they're killing people!"

Several equally weathered old faces flashed through gaps in the crowd, their voices trembling with the terror of death:

"Go back! Young man, go back! Ahead is hell!"

Adams ignored them. He neither stopped nor looked back. His huge body moved steadily against the desperate human flood and continued onward.

The battlefield ahead was precisely the destination of this trip. If shootouts did not often break out here, he would not have chosen this place as the first stop of his return. To him, only chaos could make him stronger as quickly as possible.

Civilian District

On both sides of the street, storefronts that had once enjoyed brief moments of prosperity were now nothing but charred frames and collapsed bricks.

The gun smoke had yet to disperse. Like a filthy burial shroud, it hung low between the broken walls and ruins.

Just as the five great families had buffer zones between them, the smaller gangs did as well. Naturally, they had chosen the residential areas of defenseless civilians as their battlegrounds.

Bang! Bang!

Flintlock muzzles spat brief, violent flashes. Stray lead bullets tore through the smoke with shrieking death cries and slammed into the walls, sending rubble and dust cascading down and leaving deep scars behind.

Squelch!

The cold gleam of bladed weapons flashed through the gloom, piercing flesh with precision and a dull impact. Warm blood splashed outward, blooming into dark red flowers across the dust-covered ground.

Two savage, muddy torrents collided, strangled, and devoured each other here.

On one side, vicious dagger tattoos twisted and jumped with bulging muscles across bare necks and arms.

On the other, heavy anchor emblems covered equally bare chests and arms, soaked in sweat and blood until they seemed even more weighty.

Roars, curses, and dying wails mingled with gun smoke and the stench of blood, forming a mad symphony of death.

At the center of the battlefield, within a wide circular area tacitly left empty by the lackeys on both sides, the two leaders were engaged in the most primitive and bloodiest kind of struggle.

The leader of the Blood Anchor Gang was built like an enraged bull. Every heavy punch he threw carried a dull whistle through the air, as if it could smash stone.

His opponent, the leader of the Dagger Gang, was like an eel slick with oil—short but sturdy, always twisting away from those lethal heavy blows at the last possible instant. Sometimes, he even seized an opening to drive a vicious punch from an awkward angle into his bull-like opponent's thick back or ribs, earning furious roars and even more frenzied attacks in return.

Right in the center of that chaos, a new presence forced his way in with overwhelming dominance.

He ignored the whistling stray bullets and the bodies rolling and grappling on either side. As casually as if walking into his own backyard, he stepped over shattered stones and puddles of blood that had not yet dried.

Such a conspicuous target, such an eerie intrusion, instantly tore apart the chaotic rhythm of the battlefield.

The fighting abruptly slowed.

Gun barrels instinctively lowered half an inch. Blades raised halfway froze in the air. Those tangled together pulled apart, their wary eyes and irritation at having their rhythm suddenly disrupted all fixing on the enormous figure that had appeared out of nowhere.

The leader of the Blood Anchor Gang panted heavily, his chest heaving like a broken bellows. He viciously wiped away the bloody foam trickling from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

He glared at Adams's strikingly young, even somewhat boyish handsome face, which did not match his massive build at all. Shock and the fury of being offended mixed in his eyes as he rasped in a voice like sandpaper scraping:

"Brat, where did you come from?!"

The Dagger Gang leader beside him had one eye swollen black and blue, making his already sinister face look even more twisted. He stared fixedly at Adams, his shrill voice like a poisoned needle piercing the eardrums:

"Whoever you are, this isn't a place for children! Get lost, or I'll chop you up and feed you to the dogs!"

They were people who lived by the blade, not ignorant fools like those on the docks.

By all common sense, this brat's body, far beyond that of an ordinary person, meant his strength was likely extraordinary. He only wanted to get rid of this variable as quickly as possible.

"Get lost!"

"Go back and drink milk, brat!"

"This isn't a place you should be. Watch out, or you'll lose your life."

The lackeys immediately understood and began roaring at the tops of their lungs. Their vulgar abuse merged into a threatening wave of sound, trying to force the uninvited guest back.

Adams's gaze swept over the faces twisted by brutality and suspicion, over the vicious tattoos on their bodies, and over the ruined street stained by blood and fire. Then he slowly spoke:

"I came here for only one thing: to throw all of you into Davy Jones's Locker."

TO BE CONTINUED