Chapter 31

His voice mingled with bloody froth, yet carried a strange ease. "We'll be the ones who win."

Just then, a distorted roar erupted from the direction of the cabins:

"Stop-all of you, stop!"

Anderson halted.

He recognized that voice-the captain who was always twirling his little mustache and holding forth in the banquet hall.

Now that voice was steeped in terror, even taking on a sobbing note.

An absurd silence suddenly fell over the battlefield.

The smell of ** had yet to dissipate, but the rhythm of the fighting was forcibly cut short.

The sailors exchanged looks, their guns lowering involuntarily.

Doffy's figure appeared in the shadow of the cabin doorway.

One hand gripped someone by the back of his collar; the other held a pistol, its muzzle pressed against the man's temple.

The man he held knelt on both knees with his hands raised high, his pose as comical as if he were performing some ancient ritual.

"Put down your weapons."

Doffy's voice was steady, yet carried across the entire deck. "Unless you want a new captain."

"D-do as he says..."

The mustached man echoed him shakily, every word wrapped in the desire to survive. "I'm the captain! That's an order!"

Anderson's jaw abruptly tightened.

The pipe clenched between his teeth gave a faint crack, then broke in two and fell beside his feet.

He closed his eyes, drew a deep breath of air tinged with the briny smell of the sea, then slowly exhaled.

Their defeat was sealed.

Not because they lacked strength, but because they had such a useless man behind them.

A short while later, aboard the warship Gear,

inside the Captain's Quarters.

The air in the Captain's Quarters remained still for several seconds.

Lopez's knuckles whitened slightly around the receiver.

He continued reading from the paper, striving to keep his voice steady. "There... there are three of them.

Their combat abilities exceeded our estimates.

We have the situation under control for now, but we need reinforcements."

Muffled curses came from the other end of the Den Den Mushi, followed by a voice rapidly issuing orders.

As Lopez answered, he glanced toward the other side of the room out of the corner of his eye.

Sanji leaned beside the door, both hands in his pockets, little expression on his face.

A somewhat taller figure stood beside him, his pink feather coat particularly conspicuous in the dim light filtering through the porthole.

The third person held a slender sword, its tip barely touching the floor.

The taut lines of the lieutenant colonel's shoulders and back relaxed just a fraction.

The wording on the paper gave both sides a way to save face-it neither admitted total defeat nor revealed that they were prisoners.

He let out a barely audible snort, his gaze settling on the surging sea beyond the porthole.

Dusk was settling, and the sea was shifting from indigo to inky black.

Scattered lights rose and fell among the distant waves, belonging to the other search vessels.

Fishing boats and warships throughout these waters were on the move, all for a bounty large enough to drive anyone mad.

One hundred million.

The number hammered repeatedly through Lopez's mind, bringing a thin sheen of sweat to the palm holding the receiver.

"Understood."

He finally said, "We'll keep tracking them and wait for support."

The moment the Den Den Mushi closed its eyes, the tense balance in the Captain's Quarters seemed to ease for an instant as well.

Lopez set down the receiver and looked at the boys. "Will that... do?"

The blond-haired boy did not answer immediately.

He walked to the porthole, where the last light of dusk outlined his profile.

Sea wind slipped through the gap in the imperfectly closed window, carrying salt, brine, and the damp scent of an approaching downpour somewhere far away.

"They believed it."

The person holding the slender sword spoke with a hint of amusement. "Or rather, they're willing to believe it."

The lieutenant colonel suddenly stirred.

He rose, his muscles forming clear lines beneath his uniform.

The movement made the other two instantly adjust their stances. The slender sword rose a few inches, and the hem of the feather coat stirred without a breeze.

But the lieutenant colonel merely walked to the table, picked up the pitcher, and poured himself a cup of water.

He drank slowly, the sound of his throat working especially distinct in the silence.

When he finished, he set the cup heavily back on the table.

"The Jedi Family won't send just one fleet."

The lieutenant colonel spoke, staring at the water remaining in the bottom of the cup. "Every ship in these waters is their eyes now.

You won't be able to hide for long."

"Then let them look."

The man in the feather coat laughed, the sound sharp and cold. "Only when they've had a good look will they know what to fear."

Night fell completely.

The lamp in the Captain's Quarters was lit, its dim yellow glow wavering over the wooden walls.

Lopez sat back in his chair, his fingers unconsciously tapping the armrest.

He thought of the sitting room at home, the fire in the hearth, his wife's lowered profile as she knitted.

Five million Beli.

He had to make it back alive.

Footsteps came from the deck outside as the sailors changed shifts, along with faint conversation.

No one tried to rush in-the lieutenant colonel was still here, and the captain was still alive. That was enough.

A strange sense of normality shrouded the ship, as though it were merely conducting an ordinary night patrol.

The blond-haired boy finally turned away from the window.

His gaze passed between the lieutenant colonel and Lopez, finally settling on the paper covered in writing on the table.

"Before dawn,"

he said, "we need to reach the next island."

"Impossible."

Lopez blurted out, "Navigating these waters at night is too dangerous, and-"

"And all the other ships are looking for us."

The boy finished for him. "All the more reason to leave."

The lieutenant colonel looked up. "What do you intend to do with this ship? And these people?"

The question hung in the air.

The lampwick gave a faint crackle.

The person holding the slender sword traced an invisible circle on the floor with its tip. "The ship keeps sailing, and the people keep living.

As long as you cooperate."

He paused, then added, "After all, we don't want to draw every warship in these waters into a fight to the death either."

He said it very softly, but Lopez heard the meaning behind it.

Fighting a wolf with a flimsy stalk.

Both sides were afraid.

For now, that stalk was still in their hands, but who knew how long they could hold on to it?

The sea wind suddenly strengthened, rattling the porthole.

Thunder rolled across the distant horizon, low and muffled, like the breath of a giant beast deep beneath the sea.

A downpour was coming.

The blond-haired boy walked to the table, took the paper, folded it in half, folded it again, then tore it into pieces.

As the scraps fell into the wastebasket, he raised his eyes.

"Set sail."

He said.

After the mustached captain finished reading the paper, a long, deathly silence fell at the other end of the round receiver.

Only after a long while did the hoarse voice speak again:

"I see."

"Very good, Lopez."

"The next time we meet, I'll deal with you personally."

Click.

Before the man tied up on the deck could speak, the call ended.

The mustached man stared at the silent receiver in his hand, bewilderment written all over his face.

"Rossi."

"Mm."

Meeting Doffy's gaze, Rossi nodded lightly.

It was simple-during the call just now, he had used his ability to erase a few words.

Thus, the sentences reaching the other end had become:

"We found the Pinta."

"During the pursuit, they boarded our ship."

"After... fighting, we suffered... heavy casualties."

"So, we... will bow to them.

The next time we meet, we will be... enemies...

That is everything I have to convey."

This mustached captain had just personally announced his own "betrayal" to his colleagues.

Cannon fire tore across the sea with a deafening roar.

"Why?!"

The mustached captain clung to the violently shaking railing, his fingernails nearly digging into the wood.

"They know I'm on their side-why are they still firing?"

Who knew?

"Maybe they want all the credit for themselves?"

Rossi leaned against the ship's rail, looking toward the warship pursuing them relentlessly from behind.

His voice was not loud, but it was enough for every panicked person on deck to hear clearly.

"Captain Lopez, Lieutenant Colonel Anderson."

"If you don't do something soon, everyone aboard this ship will sink into the sea and become fish food."

If they had been facing a true "navy"

, such a crude attempt to sow discord would naturally have been useless.

But what was pursuing them now was merely a motley fleet under a certain Kingdom.

On this sea, the term "navy"

usually referred specifically to the vast military force under the World **.

Under the banner of "Absolute Justice,"

they patrolled the Four Blues and maintained order.

Beyond that, however, most kingdoms and port cities of any appreciable size also had armed vessels of their own.

They could hardly wait for the navy to deal with every petty theft.

The sea was so vast, its islands scattered like stars.

Often, by the time the navy arrived, the raiders were long gone.

Many countries even secretly maintained "pirates" flying their own flags.

These fleets operating in gray areas could attack enemy nations, enrich the treasury, and handle dirty work that could not be openly discussed-several gains in a single stroke.

The Gear beneath Rossi's feet

was one of the warships belonging to Spider Miles.

Gun smoke burst behind them, and the sea was torn into broken foam.

The pursuing ship flying Spandamruze's flag-the Lever-continued to spit fire from its cannons.

There was no warning, no exchange of flag signals, only the shriek of steel tearing through the air.

** driven by money never cared for camaraderie between colleagues.

"Those bastards!"

The mustached captain spat, his spittle striking the deck amid the salty sea wind.

His fingers tightened around his sword hilt, the metal guard pressing painfully into his palm.

I can't die here, he told himself over and over. The mansion ashore, his status as a relative of the mayor, and all those unfulfilled promises were pushing against his spine.

The sound of his blade leaving its sheath was soft, yet it overpowered the lingering echoes of cannon fire.

"Open fire! Sink them!"

The order was squeezed out through gritted teeth.

The other side had cut off every possibility of communication; cannonballs were the only language left.

Did he value his life? Of course he did.

That was why he had to silence the other side first.

The deck came alive.

The sailors who had just put down their tools ran again, their footsteps pounding the planks in a ragged clatter.

Gunports creaked open, and long cannon barrels emerged from the shadows, like an awakening pack of beasts baring their fangs.

The ship began a slow, ponderous turn, its port-side battery gradually lining up with the dark shape relentlessly pursuing them from behind.

"We're here too."

Another voice cut in.

The Pinta, which had been protected up ahead all this time, began turning to starboard.

As an order was given, fire and thunder erupted from the flank of the somewhat battered-looking merchant ship as well.

Its aim might have been lacking, but the explosive reports and rising columns of smoke at least wove a net of deterrence.

The sea was no longer calm.

Black clouds of smoke and white columns of water rose in turn, the thunderous reports wrenching at their eardrums.

The wakes of the three ships began to cross, no longer forming a simple straight line of pursuit and flight.

Had it faced the enemy alone, the Pinta probably would not have lasted long.

The disparity between the ships and the range of their guns were like invisible nooses.

But things were different now.

The Gear and the Pinta spread to either side like the slowly opening jaws of a pincer.

Even the Lever, holding the windward position, had to begin adjusting course to avoid having both flanks caught at once.

It chose to head toward the waters on the Gear's side.

Its intent was obvious.

Compared with that scarred merchant ship, the well-equipped Gear, with its full complement, was the threat that needed to be eliminated first.

Boom!

Another cannonball struck the sea nearby, sending icy, salty spray splashing onto Rossi's cheeks.

He narrowed his eyes, watching the interlacing light and shadow on the sea.

"Doffy,"