Chapter 47

Or, more likely: "Just as I thought, the signal's been cut off."

There was a kind of Horned Den Den Mushi in this world that could block communications within a certain area.

An intelligence agency like CP3 could hardly be without one.

"It looks like this really isn't something I can get involved in."

He tucked the Den Den Mushi back into his coat and let out a soft breath.

Perhaps it was the yellowed photographs in that album, or perhaps the children standing in front of Jora... their innocence had actually rubbed off on him, making him dream of shaking up a scheme jointly laid by a dozen pirate crews, a great pirate with a bounty exceeding a hundred million, and CP3.

"Huh? It's you-"

A childish cry of surprise came from nearby.

Rossi looked up.

It was the little girl from yesterday's auction who had chattered endlessly to him about Jora's deeds.

She jogged toward him, the ends of her hair lifting slightly in the wind.

He glanced around. "Are you alone?"

"Hmph, Mom and Dad are talking business."

The girl pouted. "But you ran off yesterday before I'd finished! I hadn't even gotten to what really makes Jora amazing-"

"Enough."

Rossi raised a hand to stop her.

His palm settled on the girl's head and pressed down very gently. "Go home.

"Preferably, get your parents to take you out of this city... right away."

Forget it. She's only a child I've met twice.

He turned toward the docks without looking back.

The girl remained where she was, blinking in bewilderment.

Just before he reached the docks, Rossi abruptly stopped.

Someone stood in his way.

A black suit, a patterned cravat, and slightly curly short hair neatly slicked back.

It was Senor Pink.

He had clearly hurried over from the Orphanage.

If he had managed to get here before Rossi, he had probably already eaten that "Swim-Swim Fruit,"

hadn't he?

It sounded like a Logia, but it wasn't.

Waterlike ripples spread across the ground, and the boy's figure sank into it like a swimming fish.

When he blocked his path, Rossi was turning to leave.

"There's no need to say anything,"

Rossi said without stopping. "We're leaving the city immediately."

Whether this person was an agent, the Orphanage's genius, or the queen's guard had nothing to do with him.

But the other boy stepped sideways, blocking the alley entrance.

"You've approached Jora twice. What exactly are you after?"

If you people weren't operating in this city, who would ever set foot in the Orphanage? Rossi sneered inwardly.

"Questioning me?"

His voice sank. "You're not qualified."

Before the words had faded, Rossi stepped forward and drove his right fist straight out.

The plentiful nourishment he had received lately had made his body shoot up, his bones and muscles quietly gathering strength.

His punch tore through the air with a low whistle, powerful enough to shatter a sturdy bull's skull.

Yet the sensation of his fist landing squarely against the other's cheek made Rossi's heart tighten.

Something's wrong-

Almost simultaneously, both of the other's hands clamped around his wrist.

Pica spun with the momentum and hooked an ankle around him. Rossi immediately lost his balance, pitching forward as a tremendous force hauled him toward the concrete railing beside the road.

So that's it.

A professional wrestler's approach: take a blow head-on, then counter the instant the opponent's strength was spent.

The railing's sharp edge rapidly expanded in his vision.

Rossi abruptly engaged his core, twisting his body in midair-

The hand on the railing slowly tightened, all five fingers sinking one after another into the cold concrete.

His elbow bent with the motion, dissipating the downward force layer by layer through the cushioning of his bones and muscles.

-What?

"My turn."

The restrained arm abruptly swelled, then returned to normal in an instant.

Beneath the skin, bundles of muscle writhed like awakening snakes, wrenching free of Pica's fingers.

Using the momentum of his turn, his figure swept through a half-circle, silently slipping into his opponent's blind spot.

He wrapped his arms around him and exerted his strength.

The instant his arms locked around the other's waist, the muscles in his legs tightened like bowstrings.

Rossi lifted him entirely off the ground and arched backward-a throw in which the waist and back bore the weight together, known in ancient gladiatorial traditions as the "Bridge Throw."

A dull thud.

The sound of the back of his head striking the ground was muffled enough to set teeth on edge.

Spiderweb cracks actually spread across the concrete surface, ** sinking into an irregular shallow crater.

"Just as I thought..."

The crater's edges had a strangely neat outline, as though something invisible had shaped them.

Almost half of Pica's head had sunk into it, a scene as absurd as an exaggerated mime performance.

Had Rossi not known his opponent's abilities and eased off most of his strength at the last moment, it might have been his own neck that broke.

That fruit was called the "Proof of Flowing Water"

and was a cursed object born specifically for **.

Before its power, fortresses cast from steel and city walls built from massive stones were rendered meaningless.

When it came to infiltration and penetration, even the "Phantom Fruit," which could conceal one's presence,

fell short.

Seeing Pica's upper body gradually sink into the concrete, Rossi released his arms and rolled sideways.

As he rose, his soles scraped a brief, sharp sound against the rough ground.

"A Devil Fruit user?"

A mocking laugh escaped his throat as he asked what he already knew.

"I thought you'd choose a fight where every punch landed on flesh."

"...Sorry."

Within the ground rippling like liquid, Pica turned his face toward him.

The yellow streetlight cast wavering shadows across his cheek, making his bitter smile indistinct.

"If possible, I would like a contest of pure strength too."

"But my position denies me that luxury."

Before his words had faded, his entire body sank.

The ripples across the concrete gradually settled until it returned to a cold, hard solid.

Pica disappeared like a drop of water merging into the sea.

Rossi stood still, his gaze sweeping every inch of the ground.

On the silent street, only the night wind moaned through a rusty lampshade.

"You think hiding underground means you can rest easy?"

He suddenly sprinted sideways, crossed the cracked pavement in a few strides, and leaped.

His hand caught the streetlight's curved iron pole, and he used it to flip himself onto the top, crouching amid its swaying halo.

The "Proof of Flowing Water"

could indeed let its user pass through solids, but just as a giant whale could not turn over in a shallow puddle, Pica could not use his ability inside material smaller in volume than himself.

-Where did he go?

As Pica swam through the earth, his vision was like being submerged in muddy sludge.

He could make out only vague outlines, and after several running steps, that figure had left no further trace of touching the ground.

The figure atop the streetlight remained motionless in the darkness.

Ripples spread across the concrete, and black curls quietly emerged from beneath the hardened surface.

The boy looked up at his opponent above, a trace of gravity crossing his brow.

His opponent had discerned his movement patterns in their first exchange. That speed of adaptation was unexpected.

Troublesome.

The man crouching on the lamppost was frowning just as deeply.

If he could control threads, he would already have spread an inescapable net.

But against an ability that allowed free movement through solids, the Power of Silence was almost useless.

Their brief exchange had made both sides realize-this was not an opponent they could easily deal with.

"I'll repeat this one last time."

The voice from the lamppost was plainly impatient. "I have no interest in what's happening in this city."

He regulated his breathing while his mind rapidly sifted through possible responses.

The properties of the Swim-Swim Fruit required entirely different tactics.

"I won't investigate any secrets, either, so please stop pestering me."

"...You really do know quite a lot."

His entire body emerged from the ground, his soles once again meeting the texture of concrete.

The boy understood those veiled hints.

Ironically, he had personally taken part in some of the disaster his opponent had detected.

"I understand."

At first, he had thought this stranger was after Jora. Now he finally understood his position.

He was merely a passerby who had happened to glimpse a secret and wanted only to get away from the heart of the storm as quickly as possible.

Besides, the plan had already begun. What difference could one more person knowing make?

"Good."

The figure leaped down from the streetlight, his hem briefly lifting in the night wind.

He landed almost without a sound.

"Then goodbye-or farewell forever would be more appropriate."

He was only halfway through turning around.

Thud.

A dull impact sounded behind him.

*?*

"Although I don't know who you are,"

the sound of both knees touching the ground was especially clear in the silence, "there's something I'd like to ask of you."

He turned back to see a figure kneeling in the darkness.

*??*

"What act is this supposed to be?"

Inside the Captain's Quarters aboard the Donquixote.

"Why the long face?"

The figure entering through the door carried such an obvious air of gloom that the blond man behind the desk raised his eyes.

His feather coat gleamed dark red beneath the light.

"Don't ask."

The person who collapsed onto the sofa raised a hand to rub between his brows.

The picture pieced together from scraps of intelligence gathered at the Orphanage showed that Poliziano Jora had been an utterly kind person during that period.

The noisy, cruel figure she later became was most likely a warped product of the impending disaster.

As for Senor Pink-he still wore CP3's uniform.

But since he would choose to stand beside them in the future, that meant he would ultimately abandon the World **'s flag during this upheaval.

That act of concealment lodged like a tiny thorn in Pica's later life.

It was not that he was disloyal to the organization, only that he could no longer meet Jora's gaze with an easy conscience.

That tiny crack spread silently over the years, ultimately leading to an ending no one wanted to see.

Rossi had not pushed away the man kneeling before him.

He had tacitly agreed to Pica's request to let Jora leave.

"I can more or less guess what's troubling you."

Doflamingo set his book aside and nudged the edge of his sunglasses with a fingertip.

"You want to help this city, don't you?"

"Hey, hey, you're kidding, right?"

A sticky voice came from beside him.

Trebol turned his perpetually astonished face toward him.

"That's more than a dozen ships full of pirates, and White Dragon himself! Rossi, has the hot wind addled your brain?"

Rossi tilted his head aside to dodge the hand reaching toward him.

"I know what we're up against."

Had they been strangers, perhaps he would not have hesitated so much.

But Jora and Pica-in a certain predetermined future, they would become members of the Family.

After discovering that traces of kindness still remained deep within those two, Rossi hesitated even more.

Step in, or stand by?

He looked at the person seated at the head.

"Doffy, what do you think?"

Diamante held his longsword, leaning forward slightly.

Vergo and Pica still stood behind them, silent as two stone statues.

Most children their age were like that, acting only on orders.

Not everyone had shed their childishness as early as Rossi and Doflamingo.

"Fufufu, the answer is, of course-"

"We stay and see for ourselves whether the so-called strongest pirate in the North Blue really deserves that title."

The room fell silent for a moment.

Doflamingo crossed his legs, and something predatory gradually emerged in the curve of his smile.

"If the city holds, we'll have done them a favor. That'll make doing business much easier down the road.

If the pirates win..."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone's faces from behind his sunglasses. "We'll take advantage of the chaos to claim the compensation we're owed. We can't just lose a whole shipload of goods for nothing."

"As for the specific arrangements-"

He lifted his chin. "That's for Rossi to work out."

"Doffy, you spoil him too much..."

Trebol muttered, his voice as sticky as melted syrup.

He truly did not want to face that legend known as "White Dragon"

himself.

Doflamingo merely chuckled.

"Well, he is my little brother.

Besides-"

He looked around. "I don't like the taste of running away with my tail between my legs, either."