Early Preparations: Roger Takes the Bait

Rektol turned his head. In the distant storm, that red-sailed ship rode the wind and waves.

A man wearing a straw hat and sporting two black mustaches stood at the bow.

Gol D. Roger.

The howling wind pulled the main red sail taut, and the edges of the canvas snapped like whips. Waves over ten meters high smashed against the figurehead and shattered into white foam.

Roger pressed his straw hat down with one hand while gripping the wet rigging with the other.

His wide mouth split open to reveal a flash of pearly white teeth. Laughter that cut through the storm echoed across the sea.

"Rayleigh! Put the helm hard over! We'll skirt the flank and make landfall!" Roger yelled at the top of his lungs, spitting out a mouthful of seawater that washed down his throat.

On the aft deck.

Rayleigh was soaked through like a water ghost just hauled from the deep, his hands clamped desperately onto the huge wooden helm. The muscles on his calves bulged like stones.

"This current is bloody cursed! Do you think we're rowing a skiff?" Rayleigh gritted his teeth and complained.

Rektol stood on the fine steel ram of the ironclad warship.

He watched that red-sailed ship attempting to bypass the main battlefield, a cold sneer welling up in his throat.

Deep within his chest cavity, his second heart gave a sharp contraction.

Thump.

The dull, thrumming beat traveled through his blood vessels to his entire body.

Float-Float Fruit, gravity fully unleashed.

Rektol raised his right hand. With his palm facing the sea area where the Roger Pirates were located, he grabbed inward with all five fingers.

The air emitted a groaning, overloaded thud.

The undercurrents beneath the surface of the sea were instantly shredded. The reefs on the seabed gave off a cracking crunch, and vast swathes of black mud and sand churned upward.

The seawater, which had originally flowed gently toward the island's flank, directly changed direction under the savage pull of the gravitational field.

The horizon tilted abruptly between Rektol's five fingers, forming a gigantic, artificial downstream torrent.

The hull of the Oro Jackson emitted a cry of anguish.

Several brass nails popped out from the plank seams, pinging against Rayleigh's boots.

Rayleigh was just about to continue turning the helm when a terrifying, reverse counter-force suddenly surged from the wooden wheel.

Crack!

The steering wheel crafted entirely from teak snapped three of its spokes straight off. Wooden splinters drove into Rayleigh's palm, and his hand slipped, the momentum hurling him hard onto the deck. His back slammed against a wine barrel, and he grimaced in pain.

"The wind direction's changed! The current's gone mad, too!" Rayleigh spat out a mouthful of bitter, salty seawater and roared at Roger on the bow.

The red-sailed ship went completely out of control.

Riding down that inclined oceanic slope, it plunged straight toward the frontal battlefield like a wild horse with a broken tether.

Not far ahead lay the dense naval blockade and Rocks's massive flagship.

Roger gripped the railing tightly, watching the approaching flag of Rocks.

"Hahahaha! Looks like the ocean wants us to have a brawl first!" He showed not a shred of panic, instead reaching back to draw the Ace Greatsword from his waist. The blade scraped against the leather scabbard with a ringing clang.

Rektol stood at the bow and retracted his right hand.

He tilted his head and kicked Cracker, who was squatting nearby.

"Go grab two iron plates. Make 'em flat."

Cracker was in the midst of gnawing on a piece of black bread when the kick startled him. Swallowing the dry rations in his mouth, the fat man swept a hand.

Two palm-thick plates of fine steel flew out from the pile of scrap in the corner of the deck and hovered in mid-air.

Rektol extended his index finger. Two hundred million volts of blue-and-white electricity danced at his tip.

Using his finger as a pen, high-temperature current slashed rapidly across the steel plates.

The molten iron bubbled with a sizzle, leaving two lines of crooked, charred characters within seconds.

"Rocks is going to slaughter all the slaves head-on."

Having finished writing, he flicked his hand backward.

The gravitational field enveloped the two glowing, scorching steel plates, launching them like cannonballs toward the runaway Oro Jackson.

The steel plates tore through the rain curtain with a sharp, piercing whistle.

Clang! Clang!

Two loud crashes. The steel plates smashed straight onto the deck before Roger, gouging out two deep pits billowing black smoke.

The wooden deck was instantly scorched black.

Roger lowered his head. Icy rain poured onto the glowing red steel plate, rising in a pungent white mist.

He made out the charred characters upon it.

The smile vanished from his face instantly. Roger despised the slaughter of the innocent and of slaves above all else.

The fingers gripping his sword tightened sharply, his knuckles turning white.

"Roger! This could be a trap!" Rayleigh ran over from behind, clutching his hand and shouting in warning after a glance at the iron plate.

Roger refused to listen at all. He raised his head and stared fixedly at Rocks's flagship dead ahead.

"Lads! Cannons ready! Let's send Rocks a welcome gift!" Roger bellowed, his voice overriding the roll of thunder.

The cannons along the starboard side of the Oro Jackson rolled out in unison.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

A row of solid black iron cannonballs slammed toward Rocks's flagship, bursting into a flurry of fire and wood splinters.

Rocks was standing at the bow preparing to charge the naval defense line when he took a round of bombardment out of nowhere.

A cannonball smashed down near the mainmast, and the flying wood chips sliced open a pirate's neck, spraying fresh blood across the deck.

Rocks turned his head and spotted that red skull-and-crossbones flag.

The veins on his forehead bulged like earthworms, and thick blood vessels stood out on the back of his withered hands.

"Gol D. Roger! You're courting death!" Rocks drew his flintlock pistol and pulled the trigger directly at the red-sailed ship, lead shot tearing through the rigging on Roger's vessel.

"Fire! Blow that wreck to the bottom for me!"

Over on the side of the navy.

Sengoku stood on the warship, watching the Roger Pirates charge in like a pair of stirring sticks.

"Why has Roger gotten mixed up in this too?" Sengoku gritted his teeth and slammed a fist against the railing. "All fleets, fire at will!"

The three factions directly collided into a muddy mess right in front of the port at God Valley.

Cannon fire roared. Round shot skipped across the water's surface. Masts snapped, and burning canvas plummeted into the sea.

Cries of battle and screams merged into one.

Rektol stood at the edge of the ironclad warship.

The frigid sea breeze dried the rain on his face as he looked out at the distant battlefield turned into a pot of porridge.

Luring that wild bull Roger over would double the pressure on Rocks. Down by the Celestial Dragon treasury, nobody would spare them another thought.

Foolproof.

He turned around and walked toward the bridge hatchway.

"Cracker, drill activated. Submerge."

Cracker pressed his fat hand onto the control console, triggering the Magnet-Magnet Fruit ability.

The dozen-meter-long fine steel drill at the bottom of the warship began to rotate slowly, emitting an ear-piercing metallic shriek. The underwater reefs were ground into gravel by the drill, and vast swathes of turbid white foam roiled beneath the water.

The warship began to sink slowly, seawater swallowing the lower deck.

The very instant Rektol took a step.

The All-Knowing Eye's early warning drove into his meninges like a steel needle, sending a stabbing pain through his brain.

The originally overcast sky suddenly darkened.

It wasn't that the clouds had grown thicker, but rather that something was blocking out the light with a tyrannical posture.

Rektol jerked his head up.

The thick, lead-gray clouds at the zenith were smashed apart by a violent, brute force.

A giant void hundreds of meters wide appeared directly above the warship.

The air emitted an overloaded shriek, and atmospheric pressure spiked instantly. Katakuri, standing on the deck, was forced to bend at the waist as several of the bandages over his wounds snapped.

A black, shining iron fist wreathed in dense Armament Haki.

Carrying the terrifying, island-shattering momentum of a sonic boom, it plummeted straight down toward the deck of the ironclad warship.