Chapter 29

Paul looked at him and couldn't help speaking:

"Boss, this is only temporary..."

"I'm starving, Paul."

Thompson cut him off, grease trickling from the corner of his mouth.

Decades ago, this town hadn't yet known "Big Bucks"

as a name.

Back then, he had only been an orphan called "Baldy Bedbug"

who spent all day scanning everything around him with hungry eyes.

Tearing, snatching, devouring-that feeling had returned now.

He swallowed the remaining meat in a few bites, the familiar viciousness flaring in his eyes again.

"Next,"

he wiped his hands, his voice dropping, "it's our turn to **."

Thompson tossed the stripped bone onto the cluttered dining table. By the time he turned around, every trace of warmth had vanished from his face.

"Burn it all."

On the Pinta's deck, Rossi tossed Doffy a metal cylinder.

Several gazes immediately converged on it.

"Think of it as a whistle that makes a tremendous noise."

He explained, "When air rushes out through the holes, it produces a sound powerful enough to damage your ears.

-Hold it steady. For you, this thing is no different from a sharpened knife."

The Calm-Calm Fruit itself had no offensive capabilities, but some principles had held true since ancient times: if the mountain wouldn't come to you, you went to the mountain.

Since this ability could counter sound-based attacks, even block incantations on the level of the soul, and perhaps suppress rhythms like war drums... could its sound-isolating properties be used in reverse to create Sound Waves that couldn't be defended against?

Ordinary ** devices were hard to use effectively in a world where everyone moved like phantoms, unless someone was willing to clutch ** and take the enemy down with them.

Sonic blasts covered a wide area, but they also made no distinction between friend and foe-apart from Rossi, who could control silence, anyone using them would only make everyone present suffer together.

"No."

Doffy suddenly shook his head, the corners of his mouth pulling upward. "You just said adding something else inside would turn it into something that releases a bright light?"

"Yes..."

"Then make a few of those."

Rossi raised his eyes.

Doffy behind oval sunglasses, Vergo behind square lenses, Trebol behind small round lenses, Diamante behind brown-tinted lenses-he paused for a moment.

"...Flashbangs really would suit you."

His gaze passed over the silent Pica as he considered whether he should also get something to shield his eyes.

Otherwise, if light thrown by a companion dazzled him during a fight, things might become ridiculous.

Reality had no rule protecting teammates from friendly fire. He always remembered that.

Of course, these were only stopgaps.

"Don't rely too much on these external tools."

Rossi's voice was calm. "At most, they can handle... reasonably troublesome opponents."

Before crossing over, he had been passionate about making little gadgets by hand, but he had never imagined that this skill would one day be put to these uses.

The arrangements of fate really could make him chuckle sometimes.

"True strength ultimately comes from a tempered body."

He recalled a rumor he had heard on Jaya: among the United Legion, which made its living salvaging wrecks, there was a Captain Masira whose voice could shatter a ship's planks.

That man's bounty was thirty-six million Beli.

Against an enemy of that caliber, these cylinders in his hands could probably buy nothing more than a moment's stunned hesitation.

Rossi knew that, even with ears covered and eyes tightly shut beforehand while rolling sideways, that deafening blast and blinding flash were not entirely impossible to endure.

A low chuckle echoed through the cabin.

"Strength ultimately comes from within."

Doffy set the metal device aside and held up an oak barrel nearly as tall as himself with both arms, repeating his squats.

Sweat dripped steadily down his jawline, spreading dark stains across the deck.

The changes Rossi had undergone lately were plain to see, and they had drawn a string taut deep inside Doffy.

After Trebol and the other three joined them, although Rossi had stopped them from becoming so-called "family"

, they barely concealed the respect and obedience they showed Doffy.

Coupled with Rossi's complete lack of interest in command, who owned the Pinta had long since become obvious to everyone.

Since he was accepted as their leader, he had to carry himself like one.

The clash at sea came sooner and more fiercely than expected.

They had originally thought that, while drifting at sea, they would remain beyond their opponent's reach, however deep his roots on land.

They could take the initiative or retreat at any time, slowly wearing down their opponent's patience and strength.

But when countless fishing boats and merchant ships spread outward from the coast of Spandamruze like a vast net, searching the nearby waters almost inch by inch, Rossi immediately sensed danger.

He ordered everyone to sail away from coastal waters.

Sure enough, before long, a ship flying a military flag latched onto the Pinta's wake.

Boom-

Splash!

A cannonball tore through the air and smashed into the sea, throwing up a pale curtain of water several meters high.

Cold, salty spray splashed over the deck, making the figures aboard move faster.

"Catch the wind to starboard! Turn the sails three!"

At the helm, Doffy tried to swing the ship in a semicircle and bring its broadside guns to bear on the enemy behind them, but the warship was clearly more maneuverable. It clung stubbornly to their stern, making it difficult for them to turn.

"Leave it to me."

Rossi spoke quickly. "Push the cannons to the stern. Now!"

Pica and Vergo pushed the cannons toward the stern, loaded them, **, and sent cannonballs screaming out.

But this return fire was more a gesture than anything-the Pinta was still fundamentally a merchant ship.

To accommodate cargo, it was equipped mostly with short-barreled cannons that were light and short-ranged. They might suffice against ordinary pirates, but against the astonishing range of the long, heavy guns aboard a proper warship, they were hopelessly outmatched.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The enemy ship fired volley after volley, the shots landing ever closer, the waves they threw up almost crashing over the stern railing.

Rossi and the other two kept loading and firing, but the difference in range was an unbridgeable gulf.

They couldn't hit it. They simply couldn't.

The stern deck let out an overburdened ** under the repeated tremors.

Fifty meters away, the warship turned broadside and spat out a row of blazing white flames, the smoke pouring from its gun muzzles trailing gray-white streaks across the sea.

The shriek of iron shot tearing through the air drowned out the waves-

Someone slammed into him from the side.

Rossi's knees struck the planks. Then his entire field of vision lurched upward before plunging back down.

The dull impact of his forehead against the deck reverberated inside his skull, yet his eardrums caught none of the ** roar.

When he pushed himself up, he saw Pica lying facedown among shattered planks, the fabric and flesh of his back mingled in a dark-red mass embedded with dozens of sharp-edged fragments.

"Port broadside."

Beneath the brim of his tricorn, his mustache rose with the corners of his mouth.

His spyglass had long since been put away, and he held his sword level, as steady as a statue.

The mustached captain surveyed the results through the thinning smoke: the single-masted sailing ship's stern looked as though a giant beast had bitten into it, its ** keel gleaming deathly white in the morning light.

Several figures moved among the wreckage.

He remembered the figure on the bounty notice-one hundred million Beli, enough to send any Marine Branch into a frenzy.

The Jedi Family rarely made its stance so public, and even more rarely mobilized every informant in the port to hunt down a few nobodies.

The unrest in town last night had been baffling at first, until intelligence arrived through the Gilded Den Den Mushi.

Now the answer lay before his eyes.

"Load solid shot."

The sword tip dipped slightly. "Prepare the second volley."

Soldiers beside the deck guns pushed a ** cart, brass shell casings rattling softly along the rails.

Someone murmured a prayer from his hometown. More stared at the mass of wreckage gradually slowing on the sea.

The wind blew from the northwest, carrying the harsh taste of salt mixed with **.

The Pinta's wheel had stopped turning.

Vergo pulled his legs free of the wood chips and pressed a palm below Pica's shoulder blade-no large pieces of metal were embedded there, but warm blood kept seeping from countless tiny wounds.

He tore off his shirt hem and tried to press it against the main bleeding points. The cloth instantly soaked dark.

"He's still breathing."

Rossi knelt beside him, checking the pulse in the wounded boy's neck.

The beat against his fingertips was faint but steady.

He looked up at the approaching warship. It was adjusting its course again, the dark mouths of its cannons once more pointing their way.

Waves slapped against the holes in the hull, and the gurgle of seawater pouring in grew clearer.

"We're sinking."

Doflamingo's voice came from the base of the mainmast.

He leaned against a broken mooring post, his left foot twisted outward at an unnatural angle, yet his face still wore that habitual expression, as though he were watching some farce.

Sunlight fell on Sanji's blond hair, a few loose strands stuck to his cheekbone with blood.

The warship completed its turn, the spray cleaved by its bow tracing curved white lines along either side.

The mustached captain lowered his sword and held his spyglass in one hand instead.

Through the lens, the blond-haired boy on the sailing ship's deck suddenly raised his head and looked precisely in his direction from a hundred meters away.

The corners of his mouth curved upward.

The captain frowned.

The next second, he saw the blond-haired boy raise his right hand, spreading all five fingers toward the sea-

It wasn't a gesture calling for help.

It was some kind of... pulling motion.

Without warning, the seawater off the warship's port side bulged upward.

Rossi's question caught in his throat.

This certainly wasn't the time for conversation, but he couldn't suppress his confusion.

It made sense for Pica to shield Vergo from an attack, but to include him in that protection too... the bond between them was nowhere near that deep.

"You're Doffy's little brother. Besides..."

The speaker stood up.

He was a "boy" over two meters tall

, only eleven years old, his entire back already soaked in blood.

He rose steadily, his voice betraying no fluctuations.

"Taking damage... that's my duty in this group."

On the warship's deck, the commander with the two-part mustache narrowed his eyes.

He could see the damage caused by this volley without a spyglass.

There were usually two ways to immobilize a ship: destroy its rudder so it couldn't turn, or shoot down its mainmast.

The cannonballs just now had been aimed squarely at the target vessel's steering mechanism.

The cabins, galley, and other structures at the stern had been blasted beyond recognition, the gaping holes like skylights.

Yet the rudder had somehow escaped a direct hit.

The commander gave a faint, dissatisfied click through his nose.

Fine, then. Prepare the next volley-

Hm?

The merchant ship ahead, which had just taken their cannon fire, was actually turning its bow.

"Perfect."

He raised a hand. "Aim for the mast this time."

"Rossi, it's up to you!"

Doffy's shout came from the helm.

Real naval combat was often brutal and left one feeling helpless.

Veins bulged along his arms as he gripped the wheel, yet all he could do was stake everything on Rossi's next move.

Trebol, who had been helping Diamante handle the sails earlier, had now nimbly climbed to the top of the mast.

Having shed that layer of camouflage provided by his ability, his tall, thin figure reached downward, a string of sticky threads dangling to the deck.

Smack.

Rossi caught the strand of mucus.

Fully armed, he then leaped onto the edge of the gunwale.

"Let's begin, Trebol-"

"Sticky grappling line!"

At the top of the mast, Trebol swung his arm with all his might.

At that same instant, Doffy steered the Pinta into a sharp turn.

Bang!

Kicking hard off the ship's rail with both feet, Rossi used that pull to swing sideways and backward through the air toward the warship, as though on a swing.

At that moment, the sailors aboard the warship were cleaning the cannon barrels and reloading **.

They pulled the firing cords and aimed the cannons again-this time at the mainmast of the turning Pinta.

"What is that thing?!"

A gunner suddenly pointed into the air, his voice distorted by terror.

The others instinctively looked up.

In their field of vision, a "boy"