Grand Line, Florian Triangle.
This place was shrouded in thick, impenetrable fog all year round. Sunlight could barely pierce through it, and the air was filled with a cold, damp, rotten stench.
A dilapidated sailing ship drifted slowly through the dense fog like a ghost, its hull covered in the scars of time and battle.
At the bow, a skeleton dressed in a tattered gentleman's suit, with an afro atop his head, leaned elegantly against the high railing. He had no flesh or blood, only stark white bones, yet he somehow retained the aura of life.
"Yohohohoho~ Yohohohoho~"
With a throat that had no vocal cords, he hummed that familiar melody—"Binks' Sake." His song drifted across the empty, deathly still sea, carrying endless loneliness and sorrow.
Suddenly, he stopped humming and turned his hollow eye sockets toward the depths of the fog. He had heard a sound unlike the waves or wind—the regular beating of wings through the air.
"Oh? Are there living creatures in a place like this?"
Brook wondered curiously.
The fog parted, and a figure slowly descended onto the deck. The newcomer wore formal attire and had a pair of pure white wings on his back. His face was as pale as a sick man's, and he held a cane, his lips curved in an eerie half-smile.
When Lafitte landed on the deck and saw Brook's perfectly skeletal appearance, a flicker of surprise still crossed his pale face despite his prior preparations.
Seeing a moving skeleton in person was, after all, an extraordinary experience.
He habitually let out a low "hohoho" laugh, lightly tapped the deck with his cane, and got straight to the point.
"Hohoho, good evening, Mr. Skeleton. I am Lafitte. By order of our captain, I have come specifically to invite you to join