People called Whitebeard the World's Strongest Man, yet tacitly excluded the Red Count from the category of "human"
beings.
Meeting his eyes let him glimpse one's thoughts; touching skin let him read memories-this had long since crossed the boundaries of what common sense could explain.
"Relax, young man."
The anticipated probing never came. The curve of the other man's lips deepened.
His metal chain swayed slightly as he spoke.
"I came for the power of a Devil Fruit."
The question hung frozen in the air.
A Devil Fruit?
Had he come for that "Bat-Bat Fruit, Mythical Zoan, vampire form"
fruit? Rossi knew that, in the distant future, this man would become its owner.
But that should have happened more than twenty years later: only after escaping his cage and hearing that the remnants of the old era were dying off one by one would he conceive the idea of using a fruit's power to regain his youth and fulfill his old acquaintances' unfinished ambitions.
The timing was wrong.
Far too early.
His perception spread rapidly outward like an invisible net, while the power of silence quietly erected a barrier, attempting to interfere with the other man's "sight."
A flowing layer of black covered his blade, and deeper within, an overbearing, intimidating force was brewing.
Yet the irritation in his heart would not fade.
At this point in time, by all rights, the man should have been on his way to challenge the Fleet Admiral.
Fighting two of the Navy's strongest combatants in succession-only the monster before him could do something so insane.
"I can feel it. You're in a terrible mood."
The Red Count's voice carried a composed, teasing note. The purple umbrella spun in his hand, tracing blurred arcs of light. "But I'm in a fine mood right now.