The empty fifth chair, whose occupant should have been sitting here, was proof enough.
That unlucky colleague had reportedly encountered the "Red Count"
and had never been heard from again.
That man used no Devil Fruit and feared no seawater. He held an umbrella, but what ** was the cold gleam at its tip.
Rumor had it that his Observation Haki could peer into the patterns of memory. Within his domain, even the thought of escape had no time to take shape.
Rossi spent a tenth of a second paying his respects to the colleague he had never met.
Then he turned to the ** standing in attendance.
"Bring food for thirty,"
he said, "and two barrels of freshly squeezed juice."
Before he finished speaking, a burst of laughter came crashing in.
Deep and blazing, that laughter carried the oppressive force of an ocean tide, filling every inch of the corridor and room.
A burly silhouette blocked the light at the doorway.
A white suit stretched tight over bulging muscles. His short black hair stood stiff as an iron brush, and the stubble along his jaw added to his ruggedness.
He carried a coarse earthenware wine jar. Its clay seal remained intact, yet its fiery strength already seemed to seep out.
"Kid,"
the newcomer boomed, making the paper door tremble slightly, "a man ought to drink.
My treat."
His gaze lingered for a moment on that fist capable of crushing rock. Then Rossi raised his eyes, the corners of his mouth pulling into a smile with little warmth.
"Who would dare turn down Vice Admiral Garp?"
His tone was flat. "But I'll take juice.
A fight could start at any moment. A clear head matters more than anything."
Trebol huddled in a corner, his whole body almost melting into a