Night Raid on Salt Harbor

Colin accidentally ate a Devil Fruit while resting on the patrol boat.

The flesh tasted like shit. Not figuratively. It really tasted like shit.

Colin's face twisted. He bent over and retched twice, but he had already swallowed it. Godo burst out laughing, and even Kafka's mouth twitched. Doni didn't laugh. He stared at Colin, his eyes suddenly widening.

Colin's back split open.

Two lumps rose over his shoulder blades, stretching his uniform taut. The fabric tore at the shoulder seams. The lumps grew larger, and something pushed out from beneath his skin—gray-brown feathers, down at first, then flight feathers, squeezing out one by one, streaked with blood and mucus. When the wings spread, they spanned nearly three meters. Their feathers shifted from dark brown to pale gray, with a dull golden sheen along the edges.

Everyone on the patrol boat froze.

Colin looked down at the wings jutting from his back, then turned his head to see them, twisting his neck almost 180 degrees. His eyes bulged. He tried moving a wing. The right one swept out and knocked the cigarette from Godo's hand; the left struck Doni in the face, sending him down on his backside with his bowl overturned on his head.

"Don't move." Jack's voice came from the helm.

Colin went rigid. He didn't dare move. He had no idea how to control the wings. They felt like extra parts grown onto his body—he could feel them, and they were strong, but they wouldn't obey him. They trembled, their feathers rising and settling.

"What is this?" Colin's voice shook.

"A Devil Fruit." Jack came over and stood before Colin. He took hold of the right wing and felt along it from base to tip, pausing at every bone as though inspecting the construction of a weapon. Colin grimaced in pain but made no sound. "Bird-Bird Fruit, Falcon Form. Zoan."

Colin went pale. In his two years at the 16th Branch, he had heard plenty of rumors about Devil Fruits. The sea rejected anyone who ate one. They lost the ability to swim and would drown if they fell in. He opened his mouth to speak, but Jack had already let go and turned away.

"Go back and practice. I have big plans for you."

Three days later, Colin stood on the dock with his wings spread behind him. Their span had grown again, and the feathers were darker, with a cold metallic glint along the flight feathers. He took a deep breath, jumped, and beat his wings hard.

He flew. It wasn't pretty. He looked like a chicken whose tail had been stepped on, wobbling from side to side, lurching up and down, and tumbling twice before nearly plunging headfirst into the sea. Then he steadied himself in the air. His wingbeats changed from frantic flapping to a rhythm, then from rhythm to control. His eyes adjusted to the light at that height, his pupils narrowing from circles to ovals. His vision sharpened: the outline of the coast, the details of the dock, the ripples on the distant sea. With a falcon's eyesight, he could make out the color of a seagull's feathers from three nautical miles away.

Colin circled once and landed on the dock, folding his wings behind him. His legs shook. His hands shook. His whole body shook. But his eyes shone like two stars.

"Sir, I can fly."

Jack looked at him and nodded. "You're coming with me to Salt Harbor tonight."

That night, in Salt Harbor's warehouse district.

Jack wore a Mafia coat seized from a cargo ship. Its raised collar hid half his face. A newly issued saber hung at his waist, its hilt wrapped in cord for grip, its blade gleaming coldly in the moonlight. He wrapped black cloth over the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes exposed.

Colin descended from the sky. His wings carried him silently through the night wind onto a warehouse roof, where he crouched, his pupils widening in the dark. His falcon night vision showed him the whole warehouse district clearly: the outline of every building, the course of every alley, the position of every hidden guard.

"Two at the front gate, one in the alley on the left, one on the roof to the right, and another in the passage between the warehouses at the back." Colin's voice came through the communicator, low but clear. "The two at the gate are smoking. The one on the left is dozing against a wall. The one on the roof is looking down. The one at the back is pacing."

The two Mafia guards at the front gate were smoking. Their cigarette tips glowed and dimmed in the darkness as they leaned against the warehouse's iron door. One complained about how exhausting the day's work had been; the other said he was going to find a woman tomorrow. They heard footsteps and looked up. A tall shadow emerged from the darkness: the hem of a coat, the hilt of a saber, and a pair of expressionless eyes.

One guard opened his mouth. He meant to ask who the stranger was, but before the breath in his throat became a word, Jack's fist struck. Hardened knuckles smashed his jaw down the middle, driving shards of bone into his tongue and throat. Blood sprayed from the corner of his mouth. He flew backward into a stack of wooden crates, splintering them and scattering boards across the ground. He lay embedded in the wreckage, limbs hanging limp, his neck bent at an impossible angle.

The sound of splintering crates carried far through Salt Harbor's night air.

The warehouse lights came on. Footsteps, curses, the clack of guns being loaded. More than a dozen men rushed from deep inside, carrying torches and guns. Firelight danced in the dark, revealing the tall figure at the entrance: black coat, raised collar, saber at his waist, and a still-twitching body beneath his boot. The torchlight fell on his face. Black cloth covered its lower half, leaving only his eyes. There was nothing in them. No anger, no killing intent, no emotion at all.

The man in front raised his torch for a better look, and his pupils contracted. He recognized the face—not because he had met Jack, but because he had seen the wanted poster. Iron Cage City's new Executioner, the madman who had killed Lynx and Doberman. Word had spread through the Mafia's underground network across the West Blue: a slave fighter taken from a fishing village had killed Lynx and Doberman, then vanished into a sea of flames. Everyone thought he was dead, but he had survived. Wearing a Marine uniform, he had appeared at the 16th Branch, raided Moretti's slave ship, killed six men, and rescued eleven children.

"It's him!" the leader shrieked, nearly dropping his torch. "Shoot! Shoot!"

Gunfire cracked.

The first bullet struck Jack's chest. Its tip flattened against his Hardened Skin, ricocheted, and hit the warehouse's iron door with a ding. The second hit his left shoulder and lodged in the surface of his skin, leaving only a white mark. The third missed, passing his ear and punching a hole in the warehouse wall.

Jack didn't stop. He walked forward at an even pace, each step firm, his boots crunching over gravel and splintered wood. He raised his fist and drove it into the face of the first Mafia man to charge him. The bridge of the man's nose snapped sharply on impact. His head jerked back, his neck cracked, and his body crumpled as if its bones had been pulled out. He fell, the back of his skull striking the concrete with a thud.

The second Mafia man swung a machete down onto Jack's left shoulder. The blade struck his Hardened Skin with a dull thump and curled at the edge. The shock split the web of the man's hand, and blood seeped between his fingers. He stared at his ruined blade, then at the white mark on Jack's shoulder. His mouth opened, but Jack gave him no chance to shout. A punch to the chest shattered his ribs and sent him flying into three men behind him.

The third Mafia man dropped his gun and turned to run. He had taken only one step when Jack seized the back of his collar. Jack hoisted him off the ground by his coat and shirt. His arms and legs flailed, his face turning dark red. Jack hurled him into a stack of barrels. They burst apart, spilling liquor across the floor. He lay amid splinters and liquor, blood bubbling from his mouth.

A fourth fell, then a fifth, then a sixth. One after another, they went down. Some never moved again after one punch. Some crawled across the floor. Others managed to get up, only to take a second punch. Gunshots, flashes of steel, cracking bones, and screams rebounded between the warehouse walls until they blurred into noise.

Godo and Kafka rushed in through the side door. They had volunteered for the night raid. Jack hadn't refused or agreed; he had merely looked at them. They took that as permission. Godo carried an iron club, Kafka gripped a Short Knife, and by the time they entered the warehouse, seven or eight men were already on the ground.

What a bunch of pushovers. I haven't even broken a sweat, and they're already down.

Godo paused. He had expected a hard fight, but Jack had already cleared most of the room. He swore and swung his club into the head of the nearest Mafia man, knocking him out. Kafka crouched before a man who was still breathing and pressed his Short Knife to his throat. His hand shook, and so did the blade's tip, but he held it there.

"Where are they?" Kafka's voice shook, but every word was clear. "Where are the people you took?"

The Mafia man pointed a trembling finger toward an iron door at the back of the warehouse, mumbling something indistinct. Kafka got up and ran to it.

The iron door was locked with a heavy padlock and three loops of chain. Kafka struck the lock with his Short Knife. The blade chipped, but the lock didn't budge. He slammed his shoulder into the door three times. It stayed shut, and his shoulder bruised.

Jack came over. He gripped the chain, drove his hardened knuckles into the gaps between its links, and pulled. The chain snapped in the middle, its links clattering to the floor. He tore it away and pushed open the door.

Inside was a storeroom packed with crates and burlap sacks. The crates bore markings for weapons; the sacks held food and medicine. In the far corner, several children huddled together. The youngest was still sucking on a finger. The oldest stood in front, clutching an iron bar, eyes wide and lips trembling.

Jack crouched and looked at the children. Their eyes glinted in the darkness, reflecting his outline. He said nothing. He reached out, drew them from the corner one by one, and handed them to Kafka. Kafka carried the children outside, his legs shaking beneath him, but he ran fast.

At the other end of the warehouse, Godo blocked several Mafia men trying to escape through the back door. His iron club whirled like a windmill, dropping one man with each blow. By the end, the club had bent. He threw it down, picked up a machete from the floor, and kept fighting.

The first segment of the Colossal Consumption charge bar filled on the system panel. An explosion blew the warehouse's iron door from its frame and hurled it into the opposite wall, punching a large hole through it. Dust billowed as shards of iron and splinters flew. Jack emerged from the haze, smoke still rising from the knuckles of his left hand.

Deep in the warehouse, an iron door was pushed open from the inside.