I'll Protect This Person

Three days later.

The ground floor of Iron Cage City had never been so crowded.

There were three times as many gamblers in the stands as usual, and even the corridors and stairways were packed. Some held bottles of liquor, some clutched betting slips, and others leaned over the railings to blow smoke rings below. The air was thick with tobacco, alcohol, and sweat, so thick it felt like you could wring it out.

The VIP box on the second floor had been redecorated. The old tables and chairs were gone, replaced by a rosewood coffee table and leather sofas. Chilled liquor and cut cigars sat on the table, along with crystal ashtrays that gleamed beneath the lights. The Arena Master stood at the door himself, white cloth in hand, polishing the tabletop and glasses over and over without missing a corner.

Bege had arrived.

When he came up the stairs, all of Iron Cage City fell silent for a moment. It wasn't the silence of people cowed into submission. Everyone simply stopped talking at once and instinctively shut their mouths.

Capone Bege was in his early thirties, with sharply defined features and an impeccably tailored suit. The buttons on his cuffs were Pure Gold. He wasn't particularly tall or imposing, but the way he carried himself made it impossible to underestimate him.

Four bodyguards followed him, all dressed in suits with guns bulging beneath their jackets. The one in front stood out most. He was over two meters tall, with shoulders as broad as a door, and his jacket looked ready to split at the seams. Expressionless, he held his chin slightly raised and swept a downward gaze over the iron cages on either side of the corridor.

The Arena Master hurried forward with a bow, rubbing his hands together and smiling ingratiatingly. "Mr. Bege, you're here. This way upstairs, please."

Bege didn't look at him. He went straight to the box. The Arena Master trotted after him, his dress shoes tapping rapidly against the metal corridor.

Inside the box, Bege sat on the sofa and crossed his legs. One bodyguard stood behind him, while the other three spread out along the sides, hands in their pockets and eyes scanning the stands and cage. The Arena Master stood beside Bege, bent at the waist, and poured him a drink with both hands on the bottle. His fingers trembled as the liquor flowed. A few drops spilled onto the table, and he hastily wiped them away with his white cloth.

Bege picked up the glass but didn't drink. He watched the liquor swirl inside. "You brought him?"

"He's here, he's here." The Arena Master nodded vigorously. "We kept him in a cell at the very bottom. He was brought up just now and is in the preparation room behind the cage. Don't worry, tonight's main event will be spectacular."

Bege set the glass down and traced a finger around its rim. "That marine. Did you question him?"

"We did." The Arena Master lowered his voice and leaned toward Bege's ear. "He's a corporal from the 16th Branch. The Military Police caught him stealing military rations. Your people handled that side of things, so the handover went smoothly."

The corner of Bege's mouth lifted. "Stealing rations? What kind?"

"Half a sack of rice and a crate of compressed biscuits." The Arena Master chuckled. "For starving civilians on the island. There are still fools like that around."

Bege said nothing. He took a sip and looked through the glass window at the cage below.

The cage stood at the center of the arena. Today it was twice its usual size, with new wire that gleamed coldly under the lights. A layer of fine sand covered the floor to prevent slipping—and to keep the blood from flowing too quickly.

Behind the iron gate in one corner of the cage, a man in a marine uniform huddled in the shadows.

He was in his early twenties. Two buttons were missing from his uniform, and his torn collar exposed a bruise beneath his collarbone. His face was injured too: one eye was black and blue, and dried blood marked the corner of his mouth. His hands were chained in front of him, the other end fastened to a post of the cage. He kept his head down, chin pressed to his chest, afraid to look anywhere. His shoulders trembled faintly.

The gamblers in the stands began to stir.

"Is that marine tonight's sacrifice?"

"Heard he's from the 16th Branch. Got caught stealing."

"Who cares what he stole? He's dying in that cage tonight."

"What are the odds? What are they?"

The numbers on the odds board changed three times before settling at nine to one against the marine. Not because he could fight, but because his opponent was Iron Cage City's new executioner, the monster who had killed Lynx. Nobody thought a marine corporal caught stealing rations would last a minute in the cage.

The Arena Master glanced through the glass at the marine in the corner, then at the iron door leading to the underground passage. He said something to a guard beside him. The guard nodded and hurried downstairs.

The iron door to the underground passage slid open.

Jack emerged.

He wasn't wearing prison clothes today. The Arena Master had given him a new outfit: black trousers, black boots, and a dark gray sleeveless shirt that left the muscles of his shoulders and arms exposed under the lights. He had grown another size since the week before. His shoulders made the passage door look narrow, nearly brushing both sides of the frame as he came through.

The cage door closed behind him.

The metallic clang of the bolt sliding home echoed around the arena. Someone in the stands drew a sharp breath. Someone else muttered a curse. More people gripped their betting slips so tightly their knuckles turned white.

The Arena Master stood in the box, spread his arms, and tapped the glass with his short whip. Every eye turned toward him.

"Tonight's main event!" His voice carried through the entire arena by Amplifying Den Den Mushi. "Iron Cage City's new executioner versus a deserter from Marine 16th Branch! Betting is closed. The victor—"

"You're a marine?"

Jack hadn't spoken loudly, but the cage was so quiet that even the people in the back row heard all three words.

The Arena Master broke off. He froze for half a second, his whip suspended in midair.

The marine deserter in the corner raised his head. One eye was swollen, and the other was bloodshot. He looked at Jack, his lips trembling and his Adam's apple bobbing.

"Y-yes."

His voice was faint and shaky. His hands clenched unconsciously inside the chains, turning his knuckles white.

Jack walked over and crouched in front of him. Given his size, the movement felt less like someone looking down and more like a mountain bearing down. He met the deserter's eyes. "What did you do?"

The deserter shrank back until his back pressed against the cage wire. It dug lines into him, but he had nowhere else to go. His lips moved, producing a sound barely above a whisper.

"Stole... stole military rations."

Jack's expression didn't change.

Thinking Jack hadn't heard, the deserter spoke louder, though his voice still shook. "I stole rations. Half a sack of rice and a crate of compressed biscuits. The Military Police caught me."

"Why?"

The deserter's eyes reddened. Not from pain. Something long buried surged up from his chest and lodged in his throat, leaving him unable to speak. He swallowed, and his voice came out hoarse.

"Civilians on the island are starving. The mafia took all the food, and the marines don't care. The branch commander doesn't care. Nobody cares. They just watch those people starve to death." His voice cracked on the last words like glass striking the floor. "I thought no one would notice one sack of rice. I thought..."

He couldn't finish.

Jack watched him. Three seconds passed.

Then he stood and turned. His gaze passed through the cage wire, over the gamblers and mafia members in the stands, through the second-floor window, and fixed on the man sitting in the middle of the box with his legs crossed.

Capone Bege.

Bege held his glass, still smiling. But his eyes had changed. This big man had caught his interest.

Jack spoke.

"This man is under my protection."

His voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear.

The arena went still for a second.

Then an uproar erupted. Gamblers sprang from their seats. Some shouted, "What does that mean?" Others yelled, "Is he refusing to fight?" Someone tore a betting slip in half and threw it into the air. Voices collided across the stands, but every face wore the same expression: disbelief.

The Arena Master went pale.

The color drained from his face in an instant. His lips moved, but something seemed stuck in his throat, and all that came out was an indistinct breath. He turned to Bege, panic and appeal plain in his eyes.

Bege's smile remained, but it had changed. The earlier air of lofty composure was gone, replaced by the excitement of a hunter seeing his prey bare its fangs. He set down his glass, tapped the rim twice, and lifted his chin.

The bodyguard behind him moved.

The man, over two meters tall, leaped from the box. It was nearly five meters to the ground. He landed with his knees slightly bent, his iron boots punching two shallow pits into the stone as dust spread from his feet. On impact, the muscles of his shoulders tore through his suit jacket. Fabric burst apart across his back, exposing thick trapezius and lat muscles.

He began to transform.

Zoan. Dog-Dog Fruit. Doberman form.

Once transformed, he was larger still, standing nearly two and a half meters tall. The muscles across his shoulders and back ripped the remnants of his jacket away. Scraps of fabric fell to the ground, baring a body packed with hard muscle. His breathing grew heavy, each exhale carrying a low growl from his throat, like a large dog warning its prey before the attack.

The gamblers' uproar turned to screams. Not of fear, but excitement. Some shouted "Doberman!" Others yelled, "Bite him to death!" Others frantically tried to place more bets, crowding a betting window that had already closed until it opened again.

The Doberman user stood outside the cage, claws hanging at his sides and scoring four shallow lines in the stone floor. He tilted his head. His neck cracked as he stared at Jack inside the cage, lips peeling back to reveal a mouthful of canine teeth.

Jack didn't look at him.

He turned toward the marine deserter in the corner. The deserter huddled against the wire, eyes wide, the Doberman user reflected in his pupils. He knew this man had come to kill him. He couldn't understand why stealing half a sack of rice meant he deserved to die here.

Jack looked away from him and faced the Doberman user. He clenched his fist, then released it. His steel-hardened knuckles crackled against his palm.

A system panel flashed at the edge of his vision. Heartsteel stacks: 4/40. Colossal Consumption fully charged. The Ghost icon glowed quietly in his skill bar.

Only one thought filled his mind.

Another Devil Fruit user.