Chapter 38

The person in the wheelchair listened to those sounds and tapped his fingertips lightly against the armrest.

"A Devil Fruit..."

He seemed to be talking to himself. "Even the most useless ability can become a noose in the hands of someone who knows how to use it."

He thought of the silent seed inside his own body.

Then he shook his head, bringing his thoughts back to reality.

The cutting sounds inside the door had stopped too.

The night wind swept through the deserted dump, stirring a sobbing echo.

With a creak, the iron door was pushed open from inside.

Strings? What could anyone expect something like that to accomplish?

Trebol's spit nearly splashed onto his face, but Rossi merely waved his hand again.

"What are you panicking for? Would I hurt Doffy?"

"Just wait and see."

"That brat's slippery as an eel!"

"Argh... I've been shot! Give me a hand-"

"Damn it, how the hell does he know where we are?!"

Inside the warehouse, the small figure darted from side to side along trajectories that defied reason.

One moment he was charging forward; the next, he slid sideways without warning, as though countless invisible hands were pulling him aside to dodge.

Meanwhile, the Flintlock Pistol in his hand never stopped firing, each report accompanied by a wail from some corner.

Bullets tore through the air as gunshots erupted in a chaotic barrage.

Doflamingo naturally did not care-he was surrounded by enemies, so friendly fire did not exist as a concept for him.

The thugs in the warehouse, however, fought with their hands tied, having to guard against those elusive shots while constantly watching for stray bullets from their companions.

What truly made their scalps prickle was that even when they huddled behind crates, beside pillars, or around corners, the boy seemed able to see their positions through cover.

He did not even need to aim. He raised his hand, pulled the trigger, and a bullet would find whoever was hiding with unerring accuracy.

"Mark!!"

Watching a child slaughter his men without so much as scuffing his clothes, the burly man nicknamed "Battle Tank"

finally roared.

A gunman beside him immediately raised his Flintlock Pistol and began to aim.

Strangely, however, his muzzle pointed not at Doflamingo, but at an empty stretch of brick wall to the side.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

The three shots rang out almost as one. Dust and gunsmoke burst from the wall, leaving three shallow pits.

Doflamingo, who had been moving at high speed, suddenly faltered.

"Taken care of."

The gunman lowered his weapon, his expression cold.

On these seas, anyone with a little skill could dodge bullets fired straight at them-not because they were faster than the projectiles, but because they could instinctively predict the trajectory and evade in advance.

And the "Refracted Shooting" this gunman had painstakingly developed

was designed precisely to deal with such opponents.

By calculating the angles, he could bounce bullets off walls. Though he seemed to be firing at empty space, the trajectories had already bent toward his target in the middle of the battlefield.

"Fufufu... Interesting."

Yet Doflamingo, struck by three bullets, merely chuckled, the Flintlock Pistol in his hand still firing single shots.

The sight of him completely unscathed made the gunman's pupils contract just as he put his weapon away.

You've got to be kidding-

Bang!

The next second, Doflamingo's bullet came whistling toward him.

This gunman clearly lacked that bizarre invulnerability. He toppled backward, blood spraying from his chest.

"Useless!"

Watching his men fall one after another, the burly "Battle Tank"

could no longer sit still.

He abruptly rose and charged toward the small figure with heavy strides.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The dull pounding of his boots echoed through the empty warehouse like war drums.

The warehouse trembled.

Every time his foot struck the ground, accumulated dust shook loose in showers.

The explosive strength contained in that body was enough to render ordinary attacks no more than a breeze against his face.

The moment that figure lunged at him, Doffy floated backward.

The wall exploded a second later.

Bricks and broken rebar erupted amid smoke and dust, as though an invisible giant hammer had smashed through them.

The body that had crashed into it turned with a roar, eyes sweeping the empty space in search of the vanished target.

"Heh... Not bad strength."

Doffy landed almost soundlessly and casually flicked a hand behind him. A shadow trying to approach crumpled.

Two pistols slid into place at his waist, standing upright as though stuck there by something.

He spread his arms toward that mass of knotted muscle.

"Just the chance to try something new-"

"You're asking to die!!"

Bloodshot eyes flew wide, and the burly man lowered his head and charged.

Doffy flicked all ten fingers and pulled them apart through empty air-

"Web."

At first, the footsteps were heavy as drumbeats, each step gouging a pit and sending gravel flying.

But from the third step onward, the sound of his landings suddenly grew softer.

On the fourth step, his foot could no longer touch solid ground.

His enormous body abruptly hung in the air, as though suspended by something invisible, his limbs flailing uselessly.

"What's going on?!"

"Put me down!!"

His roars echoed through the empty space.

His strength could tear through iron plates, yet now he had nowhere to apply it-countless fine threads wound around his body, stretching and contracting with his struggles, drawing ever tighter.

Suspended in midair, he could exert no force. Like a fish lifted out of water, he could thrash as fiercely as he liked, but it was all futile.

Doffy tilted his head.

That idea of Rossi's really did work.

In a direct clash, his own still-immature body would have stood no chance.

But with strings pulling, victory was decided another way.

"Goodbye, big guy."

He hooked a finger, and fine threads covered the man's mouth and nose, layer upon layer.

Severing a neck required more strength, but stopping someone from breathing was simple.

"Mmph-!!"

The suspended body writhed violently, like an insect trapped in glue.

Threads kept winding and reinforcing, gradually wrapping him in a pale cocoon that hung in the center of the warehouse, swaying gently.

Footsteps came from farther inside.

The three outside the door turned and saw Doffy walk out, brushing at the hem of his jacket, his suit spotless.

His fingertips curled and relaxed as he felt that strange power moving through his flesh.

Doflamingo looked down at his palm. Beneath his skin, countless fine threads seemed to weave silently.

"Well? That sense of control is very clear, isn't it?"

The voice came from the wheelchair.

Rossi leaned against its backrest, the afternoon sunlight gilding his pale profile a faint gold.

He was not watching his older brother experiment with his ability. His gaze rested on the dust dancing in the courtyard.

"It's certainly much more tangible than relying on that uncertain intimidation."

Doflamingo's lips curved upward with the pleasure of someone who had discovered a new toy.

He raised his hand. Transparent threads, almost imperceptible to the naked eye, spread outward between his fingers like a spider weaving a web in the air. "Using these strings as extensions of my senses, I can hear the servants' footsteps far away and sense the position of every fallen leaf in the courtyard.

"When I use them to pull myself along, my body feels as light as though the wind is carrying it.

"And-"

He tugged at his white suit jacket. Tiny bulges were faintly visible beneath the fabric. "Weaving the threads into countless tiny air pockets and stacking them in three layers should block most sharp cuts."

At this, he turned toward his younger brother, his gaze behind the crimson lenses settling on him, a trace of genuine regret entering his voice. "If only you'd eaten this Devil Fruit."

All these intricate applications had come from casual pointers offered by the person in the wheelchair.

In just a few days, his way of fighting had been completely overturned, no longer limited to crude intimidation and brute-force charges.

Rossi shrugged. The movement tugged at the wounds across his chest and abdomen, making him frown almost imperceptibly. "What's the rush?

"Even with an ability like 'silence,' I can find a way to make it dangerous.

"Just wait and see."

The residence known as Rose Manor had changed hands.

The hall still retained the lavish decor left by its previous occupant, its crystal chandelier casting a cold glow.

A broad oak desk stood in the center, the documents piled atop it forming paper mountains of uneven heights.

Outside the residence, a line of men in dark formal suits and brimmed hats stood uneasily.

They exchanged glances, but none dared speak, like subjects awaiting an audience with their king.

As these "important men," who stood far above ordinary people in their eyes,

entered the manor one after another, the full outline of the rewards won in this struggle gradually emerged.

"You'll remain responsible for managing the blast furnace factory."

"Yes, yes! Rest assured, Mr. Rossi, I'll spare no effort!"

The boy seated behind the oak desk waved a hand.

The manager immediately bowed deeply and backed toward the doorway. Only after his back struck the carved door did he dare turn and hurry away.

The moment he stepped outside, he took out a handkerchief and vigorously wiped the cold sweat that had instantly covered his forehead.

"You should be harsher with them."

Once the man's footsteps faded at the end of the corridor, a sticky-sounding complaint came from beside him.

Trebol shifted his rotund body, his tone dissatisfied. "Only fear will make those people do their jobs properly."

Harsher? Did he mean shouting a few more threats like "I'll kill you"

or "I'll feed you to the sea beasts"

and the like?

Rossi shook his head, the movement making him draw a small breath despite himself. "We're not collecting protection money on the streets now. We need to keep production lines employing over ten thousand people running normally.

"That's neither my specialty nor yours.

"What matters most right now is a smooth transition. We can't let things fall into chaos."

Neither the factories' daily operations nor the accounts of dealings with other trading firms could be straightened out through threats of violence.

For now, they still needed to rely on these managers who had once served the Jedi Family.

"But if we don't look tough enough, they'll play tricks, falsify accounts, and secretly pocket money that should belong to us-"

Trebol's voice rose, full of indignation. "These are businesses everyone risked their lives to win. How can we let those parasites get their hands on them?"

"Don't value money above everything else, Trebol."

Because he had suffered the worst injuries, Rossi had been forbidden from any strenuous activity during this period.

He leaned back in his wheelchair and looked out the window.

The roses in the courtyard were in full bloom, their rich fragrance drifting in on the breeze, mingling with the raw smell of freshly turned soil.

The low rumble of steam boilers came from afar, the factory district's ceaseless background noise.

As his wrist turned, the pen scratched across the paper.

Rossi closed the hardbound ledger taken from deep inside the safe, pressing his fingertips against the aching web of his hand.

Intermittent metallic scraping came from outside the window-Doffy was repeatedly manipulating those invisible threads in the courtyard.

"Three manors, six factories producing metal parts, two vineyards outside town, plus the income from assorted shops..."

He recited quietly, his gaze sweeping the spread-out documents. "Converted into cash, about two hundred million Beli a year."

But numbers were only numbers.

What actually reached their hands would have to exclude the portions that had quietly evaporated amid the chaos and quietly returned.

A few days earlier, Doffy had used his strings to hang several gang members from the clock tower in the town square after they tried to move warehouse goods under cover of night.

Since then, the missing accounts and property deeds had appeared one after another on the stone steps outside the residence, damp with morning dew.

Money could pry open most locks, but it could not stop a blade chopping straight for the neck.

In the room where Thompson had fallen, the smell of blood still seemed to cling to the corners.

The metallic scraping stopped.

Rossi rose and walked to the window, where he saw Doffy tilting his head back and draining an entire bottle of water, his Adam's apple bobbing rapidly.

Sweat plastered the blond hair over his forehead into a few strands.

The power that Devil Fruit had brought was growing between his fingers, day and night without cease.

Vergo and Pica sparred in the open space downstairs, the dull thuds of clashing wooden sticks carrying through the glass.

The two half-grown children already swung their weapons with enough force to whip up wind that stung the face, but if asked to make sense of the winding numbers in a ledger, their brows would furrow into deep trenches.

Diamante was better suited to speaking with the tip of a sword than the tip of a pen.