The arc the blade traced in the sunlight reminded him of a clash in some stretch of sea several years ago.
Back then, the other ship's sail had borne not the Donquixote emblem, but a slender sword piercing the waves.
"He used to be a sheriff."
He exhaled a mouthful of smoke, which blurred the corner of his mouth. "Took his whole village aboard a ship and fled.
Ran into us just after entering the Grand Line."
He still remembered the number on the wanted poster: thirty million Beli.
Not particularly high, but enough to turn a former lawman with ideals into an outlaw at sea.
But there were many kinds of outlaws-some craved plunder, while others only wanted a patch of land where they could stand firm.
In the sandy arena, the man known as the "Sea Swordsman"
shook the blood from his blade.
Most of his old followers had long since shed their pirate garb and scattered among the port's warehouses or the Family's workshops.
He himself had put on a patrol uniform, and his swift sword had earned him a string of promotions in the disciplinary records.
Cheers erupted from the stands.
Pica stubbed out his cigarette and leaned back in his chair.
The sunlight heated the metal railing, and the cries of distant seagulls drifted on the wind.
Everything was orderly, like a clock with precisely meshing gears.
But beneath the gears, unseen dust was always quietly shifting.
Camille had the Family's mighty tree at his back.
Food was never scarce, someone guided his training, and instruction from experts was always available.
Before long, his diligence had translated into tangible strength.
Fierce slashes tore through the air, forcing his opponent back again and again as scarlet liquid kept spraying through the air and onto the ground.