Chapter 48

"What about you?"

"I agree to stay."

Pica's voice was shrill and thin, but it was the first to ring out.

"I agree too."

Vergo's reply was brief and firm.

"To be honest, I enjoy the ** of crushing the weak more than challenging the strong."

Diamante shrugged, making no effort to conceal his preferences before his family.

But since everyone else had taken a stand-

"Since you all think I'm a genius, let me test what that 'White Dragon' is made of!"

No, nobody had said anything of the sort.

Rossi rubbed his brow.

"You lot..."

He sighed, the rest of his words dissolving into the sea breeze rising outside the window.

Behind his sunglasses, Trebol rolled his eyes upward.

Since everyone else had decided to face the seaborne thugs about to land head-on, he had no choice but to follow.

"All right,"

He grinned, exposing tobacco-yellowed teeth. "Let those bastards' bones become the steps that carry our Family's name across the world."

There were no objections.

Every member of the group named Donquixote stayed, determined to witness the fate of this port city firsthand.

And their reason came down to just one person.

Rossi slowly swept his gaze across every face.

Wanting to save this city-or rather, wanting to change the course already laid out for Jora and Pica-was ultimately his own obsession.

Yet Doffy asked no questions, Pica silently wiped his blade, Vergo leaned against the wall with his arms folded, and even Trebol, with his perpetually drawn-out speech, and Diamante, with his habitual mockery, stood their ground.

-Not one of them even demanded an explanation.

"What are you thanking us for?"

Diamante tapped the floor lightly with his scabbard. "Get on with laying out the actual plan."

Pica had barely stepped into the Orphanage's front hall when Ms. Jora, who was waiting there, caught his wrist.

"Our little Pica, what have you..."

The woman sighed, brushing her fingertips over the barely noticeable creases and dust on his suit jacket. "Have you been getting into fights again? Listen, child, your fists should never be your first choice for solving a problem."

Her movements were gentle and practiced as she straightened his collar, smoothed his shoulders, and brushed fine sand off his trouser legs.

Pica closed his eyes.

-Remember, Pica.

The word Senor represents a certain grace.

-Even in the shadows, you should hold to certain principles in your heart.

His childhood had no color.

His earliest memories were of a Training Camp somewhere in the world: iron-gray walls, perpetually damp air, and children who had no surnames, just like him.

Combat, firearms, concealment, acting... those were their daily lessons.

Nobody cared what the orphans thought. Lives lost to the intensive training were merely ordinary numbers; after all, this world never lacked children left behind in shattered nations.

The inhabitants of territories unrecognized by the World Alliance were not even regarded as fully human.

If there had been a glimmer of light in those gray years, it had been meeting an excessively meticulous instructor.

He was just as strict, but between training sessions, he would share "useless"

knowledge: fragments of history, snippets of poetry, even the finer points of etiquette.

-Listen, Pica.

Only through thought can people establish why they exist.

His first assignment away from the camp had been to infiltrate this city's Orphanage and remain undercover.

The gentle Director, the stern Deputy Director, the children's unreserved sharing and laughter-this place and the Training Camp seemed like opposite ends of the world. For a time, Pica had let himself sink into that illusion of warmth.

Sadly, illusions would shatter in the end.

"Ms. Jora,"

He opened his eyes, his voice firmer than usual.

The boy's words surfaced in his mind again-if he truly wanted to protect something, why not fight for it himself? He finally made his decision.

"This city is facing a threat."

Inside the Donquixote's cabin, the plans spread across the table divided several faces into alternating patches of light and shadow.

The outline of the port city of Odense wound across the parchment like a wound waiting to be stitched shut.

"The balance of victory comes down to three things."

The voice came from above the plans, as calm as if it were describing the laws of the tides. "Timing, position, and... people."

A finger settled on the edge of the plans, its nail pressing over the harbor marker. "First, timing.

"Odense's weather is as docile as penned livestock. Storms are rare.

"The problem is the one on the other side-"

The words paused subtly there, as though weighing a dangerous designation on the tongue.

The woman called "White Dragon"

herself.

Her code name alone evoked scales, sharp claws, and creatures lurking in legend.

If she was a Mythical Zoan Devil Fruit user, stirring up wind and clouds might be no more than a diversion between breaths for her.

"Next, position."

The finger slid along the coastline, passed the tiny triangles marking gun batteries, and entered the dense grid representing streets and alleys. "The harbor's layout, the coastal defenses, every fork and corner-these are this city's armor, and its weaknesses.

"Provided the person wearing that armor knows someone has their eye on it."

Rossi lifted his gaze from the plans and swept it over the figures gathered around.

Tall, short, fat, and thin, their outlines froze into silent silhouettes in the dim yellow light. "The people running the city are still in the dark.

"We need to sound the alarm for them."

"Let me go."

The chair back creaked under the weight. Trebol sat sunken into it, slowly twirling a long metal staff in his hand.

Occasionally, the staff brushed the lamp flame, sending up a brief spray of sparks.

It was a specially made piece, exceptionally sturdy, with heat concealed inside that could ignite at a touch.

Combined with his sticky power, fire would become paint flowing from his fingertips.

So certain Devil Fruits named after fire did seem rather dull.

"If that lord really is as wise as the rumors say,"

He gave an indistinct nasal chuckle. "He won't turn away intelligence delivered to his doorstep."

Of course, they were no wandering knights from ballads who asked for nothing in return.

If disaster could be averted, the trade advantages that followed were what the Family truly meant to secure.

"Finally, people."

Rossi tapped the center of the plans hard with his fingertips.

His gaze took in Doffy-invisible threads wound around his fingertips; Trebol-a faint, sweet, bloody scent lingered around him; Diamante-whose blade had yet to cut through steel; Pica-whose silent body held terrifying strength; and Vergo-every line of him taut as a blade about to leave its sheath.

Their recent trials and clashes were enough to earn them eight-figure numbers on bounty posters.

They were more than capable of handling small fry.

But if they encountered the pirate crew's core members, a bloody struggle would be inevitable.

Fortunately, they also had Jora.

The power flowing through her palms could instantly twist living things into patterns of deranged color.

Unless her opponents coated themselves in that pitch-black Haki, almost none could escape being frozen into absurd works of art by her.

The resilience and resourcefulness Pica had shown during their brief earlier encounter were also worthy of trust.

Those two would be reliable allies.

"The real unknown is still her."

The one code-named "White Dragon"

herself.

If she relied solely on the miracles granted by her Devil Fruit, they might still snatch victory from danger with an unexpected move.

But if she herself was like a weapon tempered a thousand times over, flawless in both attack and defense... then their only remaining option would probably be to let their retreating figures vanish into the sea breeze.

"Remember,"

His voice sank, drowning out the faint ** of the cabin's timbers. "If things turn against us, the lives of every Family member always come first."

The door shook violently.

Under the blows, the wood gave an overburdened **.

Rossi raised his right hand and lightly rubbed his index finger against his thumb-snap.

A jumble of sounds instantly flooded the room: running soles striking the deck, distorted shouts in the distance, and the dull thuds of a palm beating against the door.

"Gentlemen? Can you hear me?"

Rossi frowned.

When discussing important matters, he habitually spread that invisible barrier to isolate the inside from the outside.

Only now, with the barrier removed, did the chaos outside rush so clearly over them.

There was no need for the person outside to explain.

The instant he pushed open the door, the sea breeze swept the smell of gunpowder into his nostrils.

Several dark shapes were chasing one another across the water beyond the harbor.

Three sleek warships escorted a smoking merchant vessel, orange-red flashes erupting from their sides from time to time.

The pursuing ships came in all shapes, their sails painted with crooked skulls.

Like sharks scenting blood, they clung relentlessly to the wake of the prey ahead.

"They're... too early."

Someone muttered under his breath, then immediately fell silent.

Fortunately, everyone's eyes were fixed on the sea.

Cannonballs tore through the air.

Wood splinters rose amid black smoke, and figures could just be made out falling from the decks.

Bells rang from high in the city-clang, clang, clang-each peal more urgent than the last.

Two warships inside the harbor were weighing anchor, their sails slowly rising as sailors hauled on the rigging.

Just then, the pursuing fleet split to either side.

A massive black ship glided through the gap.

"It's the Vixen."

Trebol kept his voice very low, pointing toward that dark shape.

The ram at its bow was long and sharp, like the fang of some ancient creature.

And at that moment, someone stood at the tip of that fang.

It was a woman.

The wind pulled her short white shirt taut, and a red sash cinched crisp folds around her waist.

Black hair whipped in the air, concealing most of her face.

She simply stood there, a hand resting casually on her knee, as though before her lay not a battlefield but a viewing terrace somewhere.

Yet Rossi felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

Something cold crawled up his spine.

It was not fear, but more like the shudder that rose from deep within an animal's marrow when it encountered its natural predator.

He stared at that figure, and the words that rolled from his throat held not the slightest hint of a question:

"Baruf Tani."

By the twenty-fourth pulse beneath his wrist, the clamor over the sea had already fallen silent.

Several kilometers away, the scene seemed to have been seized by the throat by an invisible hand.

Surrounded by eight pirate ships, the three warships had been struggling toward the harbor, the shriek of steel grinding against wood still lingering in the air.

Then that figure appeared-the woman standing on the ram of the leading pirate ship, her black hair stretched into a flag by the sea breeze.

She bent her knees slightly.

The dull boom of the exploding air reached the docks half a second later.

The white-shirted figure tore across the boundary between sea and sky, crashing toward the nearest warship like a boulder hurled from a catapult.

The hull plunged downward, its waterline instantly disappearing beneath the waves.

Gun smoke erupted across the deck, the volley of flintlock pistols as dense as a downpour hammering a tin roof.

Roars and orders mingled into an indistinct noise, but it lasted only a short time.

Very short.

Diamante's knuckles whitened around his sword.

He recognized that figure, and the code name known throughout the North Blue rolled in his throat: "White Dragon"

Baruf Tani.

Legends needed no adjectives; seeing them firsthand said it all.

Resistance on the deck was wiped away like writing on a beach by the tide, and a layer of dark red rapidly spread across the wooden deck.

The white figure did not pause. As they leaped again, the rush of air they stirred up tore away the remaining half of the flag on the mast.

The second warship fell into deathly silence in even less time.

The third did not even have time to adjust its guns.

The crowd on the docks seemed frozen.

The ships that had been preparing to leave port to provide support stood motionless at their moorings, their sailors looking up, hands still resting on the sail ropes.

The clamor of Odensai Port was drained away, leaving only the monotonous rhythm of waves striking the stone shore.