Not long ago, Crocodile had swung his blade at Whitebeard and come away with only one arm; the red-haired man who had left Roger's ship had overturned the decks of several veteran fleets in succession; and then there was that lone wanderer known as the "Marine Hunter"
who rode a raft with a long blade in hand, pursuing the sound of ** clashing with a sword's edge; not to mention "Moonlight"
Moria, who kept devouring other fleets in the New World, his shadow spreading toward the throne of legends.
Now the newspapers had added the names of the Donquixote Brothers-barely into the Grand Line, they had already torn down a Shichibukai's flag.
Ambition stretched like a taut bowstring, sending chills down the spines of many who had spent half their lives at sea.
When had this line of work become so crowded?
The sea breeze swept through the towering windows with its salty tang, setting the hanging velvet curtains flapping.
Deep within the castle, the man on the throne unconsciously tapped the armrest. An invisible pressure quietly spread, bringing fine beads of sweat to the backs of several Marine ** standing some distance away.
"This isn't what we agreed on."
The Silver-Haired Youth standing before the throne took half a step forward, neatly cutting off that suffocating gaze.
His voice was calm, as though he were stating some trivial matter that had nothing to do with him.
"Of course, we don't care about the title itself.
But if we want to do business on the Grand Line, an identity with enough weight behind it would certainly save us a great deal of trouble."
Months earlier, through that Marine Vice Admiral's mediation, they had struck a deal with Marineford's highest authorities: eliminate a troublesome figure entrenched in the New World, then