Chapter 39

As for Trebol...

The tall, thin young man, perpetually coated in viscous liquid, was leaning against the doorframe, his fingers absently rubbing the hem of his clothes.

Rossi turned his head.

"How about you look after these figures and contracts from now on?"

Trebol froze for a moment.

Managing the livelihoods of thousands upon thousands of people, coordinating industries as vast as a labyrinth-interest did flicker in his eyes, but confusion soon covered it.

"You... you're leaving?"

The sticky quality in his speech grew more pronounced.

"Of course I have to leave."

Rossi pushed open the window. The early autumn wind swept in, lifting a corner of the papers on the desk.

He held that sheet down and looked toward the blurred silhouettes of sails in the distant harbor.

Even with everything beneath his feet in his possession, he would only be trapped in a gilded cage.

Two hundred million Beli? Perhaps that would only buy a dormant Devil Fruit at **, and one of the most mediocre kind at that.

As for the filthy dealings that had once flowed through this mansion's shadows-human trafficking, slavery, and darker business still-they had long since been swallowed by the flames he had kindled himself, their ashes scattered into the sea.

"Trebol,"

he suddenly asked, his voice scattered somewhat by the wind, "what do you think is the most abundant source of wealth on this sea?"

The answer scarcely required thought.

The harbor's whistles were sounding through the streets, long and rough, ceaseless day and night.

The sea was never truly calm.

Merchant sails outnumbered the gulls, pressing over the crests of waves toward the hazy horizon.

The salty wind carried rust, rum, and whispers from distant ports.

This was the framework supporting the age-not those silhouettes flying skull flags, nor those fleets painted white, but those shadows with decks piled high with cargo crates and holds stuffed with ledgers.

Without these shadows, raiders could only chew on the sea breeze; the blades that upheld order also needed silver drawn from these shadows' trade to temper their edges.

Rossi's fingers traced the unfurled sea chart.

The inked shipping routes wound like blood vessels.

"The things we make shouldn't just sit here waiting for someone else to collect them."

His gaze fell on the figure wrapped in a viscous coat in the corner.

This town's breathing depended on furnaces and docks-metal took shape here, then traveled to ports cold or hot in exchange for ore, grain, and textiles.

Previously, the Jedi Family had simply handed finished goods to visiting merchant ships, letting them flow into the intricate trade network.

But now, they held the names of two ships in their hands: Pinta and Money.

"You want those two warships to carry cargo?"

The sticky voice seeped from deep within the coat, hesitant. "Like that Thompson, treating a ** blade as a decoration to show off?"

Holding on to what one had took more effort than seizing it.

Even the formidable figures of old had slumped on couches, sighing over their campaigning years amid music and shifting light, before waving for the music and dancing to continue.

Comfort was rust, silently gnawing at a blade's edge.

In a certain future kingdom concealed beneath flowers and toys, an obsession with dealings in the shadows-drugs, flesh, steel, twisted Devil Fruits-would mire a Family in mud until it could scarcely move forward.

Wealth and power were dazzling, certainly, but letting them dull the blade in one's hand was to mistake the branches for the roots.

"No."

Rossi turned his face, the light outside gilding half his profile pale gold. "But waiting lets moss grow on you."

"We've only just secured this place..."

The sticky voice hesitated.

He did not understand why, before the blood had dried, Rossi was already looking beyond the horizon, even planning to set out across the waves himself.

"Because the strong are all out in the storms."

Rossi's answer drove into the damp air like a wedge.

Curled up in one little corner, one could not see the backbone of the world.

Legends of spending decades training behind closed doors, then emerging above all living beings, were nothing but illusory bubbles on this sea.

-There was a kind of power that needed will as its fuel.

Presence, killing intent, the desire to win... the vibrations of these intangible things could forge thought into a weapon.

People called it "Haki."

It would not grow in stillness.

Only by confronting the sky's fury, the ocean's depths, and the sharpness of one's peers could it be honed to a shine.

Once the fighting spirit went out, that power ebbed away like the tide.

That lean figure who had once crossed blades with a monster later huddled in a tower, swelling into a mage amid fat and schemes, ultimately reduced to someone else's stepping stone, so dull and clumsy that even those in white coats shook their heads at him.

"Look-"

Rossi pushed open the window.

The harbor's clamor flooded in: the ** of mooring ropes rubbing against posts, the creaking of rotating cranes, sailors cursing in different accents.

A three-masted sailing ship was slowly leaving shore, its canvas swollen with wind like an enormous gray wing.

The cargo crates stacked on its deck gleamed with the sheen of tin in the setting sun.

On the newspaper spread across the desktop was a portrait taking up more than half the page.

It showed a very young man, his untended dark hair falling naturally to his shoulders.

The moving figures in the background blurred into a cheering wave.

His face had strong contours, the skin above his brow was strangely unmarked, and on one corner of the white coat draped over his shoulders, an emblem representing a certain order was faintly visible.

The headline was so large it almost leaped off the paper: "Rear Admiral Dragon Crushes 'Silver Axe'

Pirates-Youngest Admiral Position Within Reach?"

The man in the photograph was Monkey D. Dragon.

-Many years later, a boy named Luffy would call him father.

But at this moment, even that boy's mother had yet to appear in this story.

His fingers moved aside, revealing another report underneath.

In its accompanying picture, a boy with two horns on his forehead grinned, raising the long blade in his hand above his head, his laughter utterly unrestrained.

Fierce-looking companions crowded behind him, while countless winged black silhouettes sliced the night sky to pieces.

The headline read: "'Moonlight'

Sweeps the Seas, Captain Moria's Bounty Breaks the Hundred-Million Mark."

An eerie chill seemed to seep through the ink.

"Look,"

someone said quietly, "whether they uphold order or break the rules, new faces always keep appearing, one after another."

Those names that would be celebrated in the future were now at the height of their power.

Garp, Sengoku, Roger, Edward Newgate, Shiki, Redfield... most of them had already lived fifty or sixty years, precisely the age when body and experience meshed most closely.

Faced with such a constellation of stars, how could one not yearn to witness their brilliance firsthand, or even measure it in person?

"If we stand still, the waves raised by those who come after us will swallow us."

For Rossi, what he wanted was not to board some predetermined ship, but to forge an entirely new age with his own hands.

Then even a moment to catch his breath became a luxury.

Though the decision to set sail had been made, leaving was not as simple as stepping outside.

Both the Pinta and the Money had suffered damage in the previous conflict that would take time to repair.

At the moment, they lay quietly in the dry dock at Pier **, undergoing the shipwrights' hammering and stitching.

If they planned to transport and sell goods themselves, opening sales channels and learning the ropes became tough nuts they had to crack in advance.

Earning profits from distribution required more than a little courage.

Rossi himself could not leave his sickbed, either.

The aftermath of his struggle with the Jedi Family remained firmly etched into his body: unhealed burns beneath his skin, cracks in his bones, and four gunshot wounds and a blade scar that constantly reminded him of that vicious battle.

The recovery abilities of this world's people might defy common sense, but serious injuries still took time.

Not everyone was fortunate enough to have a first-rate ship's doctor who could cure every illness.

An opportunity came sooner than expected.

"Please sit, Mr. Wesker."

The man covered in bandages put down his pen and raised an arm in invitation.

As the first merchant he had met in this city, and someone who had provided considerable crucial information during the fight against the Jedi Family, Wesker deserved appropriate courtesy.

Just as Rossi had once said: once the dust settled, they would have ample opportunity to recalibrate their relationship.

"Thank you."

The successful merchant in gold-rimmed glasses sat on the sofa to the side and went straight to the point without much small talk.

"Mr. Rossi, have you heard of the surname... 'Vinsmoke'? Or perhaps 'Germa 66'?"

Rossi's gaze settled on Wesker's face.

The name the other man had just mentioned made his fingertips tighten unconsciously-Vinsmoke, a surname that drove into the depths of his memory like a rusty nail.

Of course he knew it.

In the North Blue, children might consider them nothing more than fictional villains in comic books, but there were always people who knew real shadows lurked behind those stories.

"It seems you're familiar with them."

Wesker caught the fleeting change in his expression and continued evenly, "Today's visitor is not actually me, but a representative employed by the Germa Security Company."

Two figures stood at the door.

The one in front wore a dark suit, sunglasses covering his eyes, his short hair close to his scalp, his stance straight as a javelin-he was the guard Wesker had recently hired. Rossi had seen him several times; the man said little but always exuded a certain taut menace.

But now, the man stepped half a pace back and to the side, revealing the person concealed behind him.

An old man wrapped in a white coat walked in.

He was very short, the sparse hair atop his head barely covering his scalp, his steps quick and short, as though a laboratory were his usual domain.

Before Rossi could speak, the man had already raised a finger toward him, his voice brimming with undisguised urgency:

"Was it you? That device that can make people lose consciousness instantly-you have it?"

The old man's white coat bore several unidentified stains, its cuffs rolled up unevenly.

He was entirely unlike the doctor who had previously treated Rossi: that man had always dressed neatly and moved steadily, while this one looked as though he had just hurried away from some cluttered workbench.

He charged straight ahead, only to have a wall-like body block his path.

Pica stepped sideways, placing himself between them.

Though the boy was only eleven, his frame already supported an exaggerated outline of muscle, and he stood there like a piled stone buttress.

Doflamingo had ordered him to stand guard here day and night; after all, Rossi was still far from being able to throw punches in a fight.

Far from being frightened off, the little old man's eyes lit up.

He reached out and actually pressed his hand against Pica's taut arm, his fingertips pressing back and forth along the lines of muscle as he muttered, "Quite excellent fibrous tissue"

and "Couldn't be better as a baseline sample,"

along with other fragmented phrases.

Pica frowned and turned his head, giving Rossi a questioning glance-his eyes plainly said: Should I throw this old man out?

"No need to stop him."

Rossi raised a hand and braced himself against the sofa's armrest, slowly sitting a little straighter.

He looked at the old man, who had already approached the desk, and softened his tone. "What exactly did you mean by the 'device' you mentioned?"

"That thing!"

The old man gestured with both hands in the air, as though describing an invisible model. "According to the accounts of personnel at the scene, you used a weapon that didn't rely on physical impact, one capable of incapacitating a group of targets within seconds-didn't you?"

Rossi did not know when the other man had noticed the Sonic Bomb's existence.

He adjusted his position, settling his back more firmly against the backrest.

"I do possess equipment of that kind."

There was a faint rasp in his throat as he spoke, like sandpaper scraping wood. "If your company-the Germa 66 security division-is interested, the production process can also be transferred."

Once its principles became public, it would no longer be anything special; the Sonic Bomb's value had always rested on an information gap.

He waited for the other man's reaction.

The half-bald old man, wearing a white coat starched far too stiffly, merely lifted his eyelids casually at those words, his gaze passing over Rossi's body.