Chapter 46

"What's frightening isn't her strength,"

Trebol interjected, his uneasy gaze sweeping their surroundings, as though the woman who bore that name might slash out of the shadows at any moment. "It's her methods and cunning."

"They say she was the child of the 'Black Captain,' Baruf, and some tavern maid. She grew up in a pirate-infested port."

"From childhood, she scrubbed blood off tavern floors and dragged out the people who collapsed beside the tables and never woke again..."

"When she got a little older, she taught herself swindling, theft, **, and soon became the leader of the local thugs."

At that, Rossi and Doffy exchanged a glance-that beginning bore some resemblance to Trebol and the others' pasts.

But what followed went far beyond anything they could imagine.

"Later, she learned that her father was the 'Black Captain,' with a fifty-million-Beli bounty, and sneaked aboard his ship.

Her own father threw her into the sea with his own hands."

"She spent an entire day and night in the icy water before they hauled her aboard.

Following pirate custom, she defeated one of the 'Black Captain's' men barehanded and took his place."

Rossi quietly drew a breath.

In their current condition, he and Doffy probably wouldn't even be able to stand steadily after a day in the sea, let alone immediately fight an experienced pirate to the death.

A captain worth fifty million Beli would never have ordinary men under him.

"After that, the young woman rose rapidly aboard that ship.

She built her reputation over the bones of other pirates, marines, and even her supposed comrades. Once she acquired a Devil Fruit, the position of boatswain could no longer contain her ambitions-"

"Two years ago, she personally hacked the 'Black Captain' to pieces and threw him into the sea to feed the fish.

While she was at it, she claimed the surname 'Baruf' for herself."

"'White Dragon' Baruf Tani-these days, in the North Blue, just mentioning that name is enough to make plenty of people hold their breath."

That's vicious.

So Rossi thought.

The door to the captain's quarters closed behind them, shutting out the briny sea breeze drifting over the deck.

Doflamingo remained standing, his back to the dim yellow light streaming through the porthole, which edged his silhouette in a hazy gold.

"You're holding something back."

His voice wasn't loud, but it made the air in the room grow heavier.

Rossi leaned against the edge of the table, his fingertips unconsciously tapping its wooden surface. "That obvious?"

The others in the room-Pica, Diamante, Trebol, and Vergo-nodded almost simultaneously.

Their movements were so synchronized that they seemed almost deliberate.

"All right."

Rossi raised his right hand and snapped his fingers sharply.

An invisible membrane seemed to envelop the cabin in an instant. Even the splash of waves against the hull outside became distant and indistinct.

People in intelligence always built walls around themselves first. "While I was watching that lord, I ran into someone else.

CP3's claws have already reached into this city."

The air abruptly chilled.

Those two letters, CP, were like a piece of ice slipping down their collars.

Offending nobles might mean **, and provoking the marines meant, at worst, becoming fugitives roaming the seas. Cannon fire and blades were, after all, endings they could see.

But once those eyes hidden in the shadows fixed on someone, even their bed at night could become a torture rack. Who knew whether they would see tomorrow's sun after closing their eyes? Bribery, infiltration, **, silencing witnesses-they had plenty of ways to make someone disappear without a sound.

"Worse still,"

Rossi continued, his tone as level as if he were reading a cargo manifest, "CP3 is bringing together over a dozen pirate crews to swallow this city whole.

The one leading them... is 'White Dragon,' Baruf Tani."

Doflamingo's brow lowered slightly.

Just a short while ago, Trebol had been holding a greasy meat skewer, spittle flying as he recounted the rumors about that woman. Someone who had been worth fifty million Beli two years ago-what would her price be now? Over a hundred million? Perhaps higher.

Monsters of that caliber had usually already turned their eyes toward that far more dangerous sea. They were absolutely not someone a force like theirs, only just established in the North Blue, could afford to touch.

"I say, I say-"

Trebol's voice grew shrill, his cane jabbing rapidly against the floor. "Then what are we waiting for? Weigh anchor! Turn the helm! Let's get out of this damned place before those walking disasters catch our scent!"

Doflamingo raised a hand.

The movement was slow, yet it silenced Trebol instantly.

"Why panic?"

He turned to Rossi. "You haven't finished."

Rossi nodded. "The difference in strength is too great.

Over a dozen ships, more than a thousand desperate outlaws, and a 'White Dragon' on top of that... we can't withstand them."

He paused, his gaze passing over every face in the room. "Besides, we're only merchants passing through on business.

What does this city's survival have to do with us?"

He recalled the fragments of conversation he had heard at the docks that evening, the workers wiping sweat with oil-stained sleeves as they complained about the endless crates to unload.

He also recalled the figure he had glimpsed earlier in the shadows of the alley behind the lord's residence-swift and silent, like a cold wind sliding along the foot of the wall.

"When we get back, pay the dockworkers double."

Rossi spoke abruptly, changing the subject rather suddenly. "Have them work through the night.

Something about the warehouse in Spandamruze keeps bothering me."

As for Jora and Pica, who were still in the city... he swallowed the rest.

Everyone had their own fate.

Daylight had barely crept over the docks before Trebol thrust his face in front of the harbor supervisor, the tip of his nose almost poking the man's forehead.

With every word, flecks of spit splattered onto the man's rumpled collar.

"Today-today-you have to finish loading."

The supervisor's Adam's apple bobbed. He tried to shrink back, but his back met a cold cargo crate. "Sir, that really is..."

"You're not getting double pay for nothing."

Trebol interrupted him, jabbing a finger hard at the air as though driving in a nail.

A jumble of noise came from the hold as workers jogged along carrying wooden crates, their footsteps beating a rapid rhythm against the deck.

They were certainly working much faster than usual, though no one could say whether it was the money or the pressure of that looming face.

At the same time, Rossi stood outside a white building.

Its paint was peeling in places, and clothes washed pale hung in the courtyard, swaying gently in the wind.

Children's laughter floated out from inside, clear and without a trace of gloom.

He went around to the back and rested his fingers on the windowsill.

The office lock clicked softly as its bolt sprang open. All was quiet inside.

The safe was hidden behind an oil painting, and the sound of its lock turning was particularly distinct in the empty room.

There were no documents or secret letters inside, only a thick photo album.

He opened its hard cover.

In the first photograph, a young woman stood among a group of children, her posture a little stiff but her smile bright.

As he turned the pages, traces of age gradually marked the woman's face, and her simple clothes became refined. Only the boys and girls gathered around her remained the same, every face turned toward the camera in an unreserved smile.

A stack of letters lay beneath the album.

The handwriting varied, some neat, some scrawled.

Their contents were nothing more than greetings and thanks, with the locations beneath the signatures scattered across towns throughout the Five Allied Nations.

The ink varied in darkness, and the postmarks spanned several years.

Rossi closed the album.

Outside the window, the shouts of children chasing one another rose louder and louder.

He left without alerting anyone.

Wind stirred up dust at the alley entrance, stinging his face slightly.

In the distance, toward the docks, the cargo ship's outline looked heavy and immense in the sunlight.

Trebol was still shouting something, his voice torn into fragments by the sea breeze.

Workers bustled like a colony of ants, pushing the last batch of wooden crates up the gangplank.

Rossi looked away and turned to merge into the stream of people on the street.

The door at the end of the corridor had barely closed behind him when Rossi sensed something amiss.

A faint sweetness drifted through the air, like overripe berries.

He stopped, his fingers sliding silently toward his waist.

A few steps away stood the well-dressed lady he had met yesterday, a gentle smile on her face.

"You."

Rossi's voice was taut, his muscles swelling slightly beneath his clothes.

When did she get this close? He hadn't noticed a thing.

The air stirred.

The cloying scent suddenly intensified, and a shadow flickered at the edge of his vision.

Two arms closed around him from either side, with gentle intent.

Rossi's pupils contracted-Don't let her touch me! The instant that thought exploded in his mind, the metal at his waist was already out of its sheath, flashing coldly as it thrust straight at her throat.

The sensation was wrong.

The resistance or counterattack he had expected never came.

Those arms merely wrapped lightly around him, their pressure so gentle it was almost hesitant.

At the last instant, Rossi sharply twisted his wrist. The blade's point swept through the air beside her neck, lifting a few slightly curled strands of hair.

"I'm very happy you came."

The woman's voice sounded beside his ear, so steady that he could hear no emotion in it.

Rossi froze.

His mind went blank for a second before a sense of absurdity flooded it.

He abruptly stepped back, breaking free of the embrace, his soles scraping briefly against the stone paving.

"Poliziano Jora,"

he said, enunciating every word as he watched her crouch down, "you can stop acting."

The woman tilted her face up, ignoring his weapon, and merely held out her hand, palm upward. "I told you, you can find help here with any difficulty."

Rossi didn't answer.

He scrutinized her face, trying to find a crack in the disguise in every inch of her expression.

Was it acting? Or the effect of some unknown ability?

Just then, a jumble of footsteps came rushing from the other end of the corridor.

"Protect the director!"

"Stay away from Miss Jora!"

A group of half-grown children rushed over, clutching assorted objects of different lengths-broken broom handles, wooden rulers, paintbrushes with sharpened shafts.

They crowded in front of the woman, forming an uneven barrier, clear hostility written across every face.

Their gazes stabbed into Rossi, stirring an inexplicable irritation in him.

As though he were the intruder.

He clicked his tongue and sheathed his weapon with a faint clink. "My oversight."

Before the words had fully left his mouth, he pushed off with his toes, his body drifting backward, his hem trailing a blurred afterimage through the air.

Turning, planting his foot, leaping-his movements flowed together like a hurled shadow.

By the time the children blinked, he was already crouching on the brick edge of the surrounding wall.

"That's enough."

He glanced back for one last look at the figure surrounded in the **.

The evening light gilded her outline with a soft, fuzzy gold. "If you really care about this place,"

he paused, but tossed out the words anyway, "pay more attention to what's happening at sea."

Below the wall, his figure flashed and vanished into the shadows of the alley leading toward the harbor.

The wind swept dust off the ground and across the empty street.

Rossi quickened his steps, leaving the building behind.

Even he found that unnecessary warning just now a little inexplicable.

In the end, Rossi was only an ordinary person.

Against pirates, thugs, and those intent on hurting him, he could naturally strike without hesitation.

But when it came to ordinary people, knowing they were about to face utter catastrophe, he too would hesitate-should he reach out and give them a hand?

"The nearest base's number should be..."

After running for a while, he stopped in an empty park.

His fingertips rubbed against the shell of the Den Den Mushi in his pocket. After pausing for a few seconds, he took it out anyway.

Dial, wait.

"Buru-buru-"

A steady ringing came through the receiver, then abruptly stopped.

The Den Den Mushi closed its eyes and fell asleep.

No one answered.