Chapter 49

Doflamingo turned his gaze, his sunglasses reflecting the masts beginning to tilt on the distant sea.

The sound of concrete cracking broke the silence.

A figure sprang from the shadows at the edge of the dock and landed on the Donquixote's deck in a few strides.

Black curls clung to the boy's forehead, and dust stained his suit cuffs.

His back stayed rigidly straight as he bowed, his sixteen-year-old bearing carrying a certain mature urgency.

"Forgive the intrusion."

The boy's voice was steady, but he spoke rather quickly. "The ruler of this city, Queen Jora, hopes to obtain your assistance."

Several glances crossed on the deck.

Trebol's sticky chuckle came from the direction of the cabins, while Pica asked something in his shrill voice.

Doflamingo did not turn around. He pressed his index and middle fingers together and gently pushed up his glasses.

"A helping hand in a time of crisis deserves the highest expression of gratitude."

In the Palace hall, Jora's curtsy was as graceful as a pose held during a dance lesson.

The folds of her velvet gown spread across the floor in deep crimson ripples.

The captains standing around her all bowed their heads in return, while those figures called "eccentric talents"

expressed their humility in their own ways-some rubbed their noses, some cleared their throats, and some merely shifted their weapons to their other hands.

In fact, the fighting at the docks had only just begun when the summons went out.

The intelligence that Pica had switched sides had reached the Palace by coded carrier pigeon, its feathers still damp with night dew.

Jora had not waited for a meeting to discuss it. She had headed straight for the port with everyone she could mobilize immediately.

The sound of the convoy rolling over the flagstones had been drowned out by cannon fire at sea. They had arrived just in time to see the third warship's mast slowly snap.

Doflamingo sat in the foremost guest seat, his crossed leg swaying gently.

His gaze swept over the tapestries on the hall's walls. The woolen fabrics depicting the achievements of successive lords gleamed with aged gold in the candlelight.

"The situation is more urgent than expected."

Jora straightened, folding her hands over her abdomen. "White Dragon's pirate fleet will not be satisfied with three warships.

"There are gaps in Odensai Port's defenses, and our regular forces..."

She paused, her lashes lowering and rising again. "Need time to redeploy."

Rossi leaned in the shadows beside the hall's entrance.

He counted the seams between the stone floor tiles. From the doorway to the throne, there were twenty-three and a half tiles.

The black-haired woman's movements at the docks replayed in his mind: the arc of each leap, the bend of her knees when she landed on deck, the path her shirt hem traced as she turned.

Twenty-four heartbeats, and three warships had lost their ability to fight.

He rubbed his chin, his fingertips brushing a slightly raised old scar.

"What exactly would this assistance entail?"

Doflamingo's voice carried his usual drawn-out inflection.

Jora took a roll of parchment from a silver tray held by a maid.

The wax seal had already been broken, revealing densely packed ink marks inside. "The coordinates of weak points in the defenses, a tide timetable, and..."

She unrolled the parchment, pressing a fingertip against a spot circled in red ink. "The latest intelligence on the White Dragon Pirate Crew's supply routes."

Stifled gasps sounded through the hall.

Several captains exchanged glances, and one man's beard twitched a few times.

"This intelligence,"

Jora continued, her gaze resting on Doflamingo's face, "cost two lives three days ago.

"It will remain useful for no more than forty-eight hours."

The candle flames suddenly flickered.

It was not the wind. Someone had hurried in through a side door.

Pica took off his coat, stained with sea salt, nodded to Jora, then stood behind Doflamingo's chair.

He said nothing, but his breathing was a third faster than usual.

Doflamingo smiled.

The widening curve of his mouth sent a white gleam of candlelight across his teeth.

"Interesting."

He tapped a broken rhythm on the armrest. "Then what is the price?"

Jora curtsied again, this time bringing her knees several inches closer to the floor.

"Half of Odensai Port's trade privileges for the next three years."

When she lifted her head, points of candlelight danced in her eyes. "And ownership of any two ships from the White Dragon Pirate Crew's fleet after their destruction."

The hall fell silent.

There was only the faint crackling of burning candlewicks and the distant tolling of bells from the port-the watchtower was reporting conditions at sea. The short, closely spaced peals meant unidentified vessels were approaching.

Rossi stepped out of the shadows.

His steps were light, his boot soles making almost no sound against the stone tiles.

As he passed Doflamingo, he paused for half a second, briefly meeting the gaze behind those sunglasses.

Then he walked to the hall's **, stood before the parchment Jora had unrolled, and bent to examine the coordinates circled in red ink.

"Here."

He pointed to a spot, his nail making a faint scraping sound against the parchment. "The tidal range can reach seven meters.

"If we launch a surprise attack at this time..."

He did not finish.

But everyone in the hall understood what he left unsaid.

The bells outside rang again.

This time they were even more urgent, as though the bell ringer had lost control of the rhythm.

Jora straightened, her velvet gown rustling.

She looked at Doflamingo, waiting for his answer.

Doflamingo rose from his chair.

The shadow cast by his height covered half the parchment.

He reached out, not to take the intelligence, but to press his finger against the coordinate Rossi had just indicated.

The pad of his index finger slowly rubbed the parchment's rough surface.

"Agreed."

He spoke.

Then he added something, his voice so soft the bells nearly drowned it out:

"But I want three."

The sea breeze, laden with a salty, briny smell, battered the dock's wooden pilings.

The figure standing on the raised platform narrowed their eyes. The black dots on the distant horizon were multiplying and spreading at an astonishing speed, like ink dropped into clear water.

In this era, those who dared sail far from land had all experienced life-or-death struggles to some extent-faced with the predators lurking deep amid the waves, they naturally chose to stand alongside the city-state.

"After the war, Acanlia will compensate you for twice your losses."

Jora's voice carried through the damp air, reaching every ear clearly. "Compensation for all casualties will be paid at the highest rate."

A short scoff came from a corner.

Doflamingo leaned against a weathered brick wall, his mouth curling in mockery. "Look at those eyes. Like starving wolves catching sight of flesh."

He lowered his voice so only his companions beside him could hear.

Rossi merely shook his head slightly.

Between sailors and captains, the relationship was often no more than a contract.

Many had severed their ties to land the moment they stepped onto a deck.

Tonight's drink, tomorrow's waves-who cared about a distant homeland? What some of them were calculating now was probably how to make the casualty figures "just right"

-enough to earn generous compensation, while reducing the number of mouths sharing the money.

"Pairs. Keep your distance."

Rossi turned to the other four figures.

The Family did not care about that paltry compensation, and they could afford losses among their ranks even less.

Trebol tapped his cane with sticky fingertips, still muttering that the enemy had come too abruptly, leaving them no time even to catch their breath. "Changes always outpace plans."

Rossi looked out to sea. "Let's see how their first wave unfolds."

The lookout platform at the edge of the dock offered an expansive view.

The three disabled warships had already been towed toward the enemy formation, where dark figures bustled across their decks, replacing their crews.

Farther out, the main ships began spreading to either side, lowering countless small boats onto the water-some still carried ragged sails, while others were so crude they could hold only three to five people.

The densely packed hulls cut through the waves, racing toward the coastline like a migrating school of fish.

Viewed from above, their slender white wakes resembled arrows shot toward land.

The pirates naturally had their reasons for anchoring their large ships offshore and switching to small boats for the assault.

"Activate the 'Bishop' system."

As the Kingdom's capital, Odensai Port had never let down its guard.

The moment Jora gave the order, the decorative windmill structures throughout the city suddenly transformed-the covers of their pointed roofs slid apart, exposing dark cannon muzzles.

Those metal barrels were far longer than ordinary naval guns, their bores wide enough to fit an adult's torso.

The booms did not sound one after another, but merged into a heavy roll of thunder.

The shriek of cannonballs tearing through the air overwhelmed the roar of the waves.

When the black projectiles struck the sea, what erupted was not spray, but towering columns of white water.

Occasionally, a wooden boat took a direct hit, instantly becoming a scattering of splinters and screams.

Congratulations to them. They could finally rest.

A towering white wave exploded from the sea, hurling wood chips and severed limbs into the air.

Several small boats disintegrated amid the thunderous blasts, their occupants torn apart by the shock waves before they could even scream.

Blood mist mingled with seawater and sprayed outward, its traces soon erased by the waves.

Cannonballs kept firing from the windmill batteries along the shore, blasting the approaching boats to pieces.

But Jora, standing high above, knitted her brows-not a single shot could reach the large ships anchored in the distance.

The enemy had calculated it precisely.

Those pirate ships sat just at the edge of the guns' range, like sharks that had scented blood, sending out only small boats to probe the defenses.

An ordinary pirate crew charging in recklessly would already have been swallowed by cannon fire.

"CP3 certainly went to a lot of trouble."

The positions of the city's batteries, their range, their reload times-this intelligence must have leaked from within.

Rossi folded his arms across his chest, watching the flashes of fire bloom and die across the sea.

Every ** meant several lives disappearing, but for the Pirate Alliance, exchanging expendable men for the defenders' cannonballs could not have been a better bargain.

"It's our turn."

Doffy had already turned and started toward the docks.

Since the enemy had chosen to break up their forces and attack like ants gnawing at an elephant-

"I'm entrusting the port to all of you."

Jora's voice rang out across the platform, carrying earnestness and a promise.

The captains thumped their chests in response, swearing to shed their last drop of blood for this land.

Soon, the ships moored in the port began turning, their broadside gunports opening one after another to expose dark cannon muzzles.

For those who made their living at sea, their ships were weapons.

Sailors lined up on deck with flintlock pistols and cutlasses, while gunners loaded ** into the cannons.

The densely packed boats at sea had now become moving targets.

"Behehe... Just the thing to loosen up."

Unlike the other ships braced for a formidable enemy, there were only six people on the deck of the ship.

Trebol spread his arms toward the sea, thick, glue-like matter shooting continuously from his abdomen.

He brought the flame at the tip of his cane close to the stream, and every glob of mucus instantly became a burning fireball hurtling toward the sea.

The fireballs landed on small boats and immediately burst into seas of flame.

Sails, planks, human bodies-everything twisted and warped in the blaze.

Within moments, the entire stretch of sea was stained orange-red, and screams were swallowed by the crackling flames.

One man alone had created an inferno.

The flame jets along the giant merchant ship's side had only just died out when a speedboat skimmed across the sea toward it.

The figures aboard rose and fell with the waves. Ropes tipped with iron hooks flew through the air, clanging as they caught the ship's rail.

The ropes snapped taut, and more than a dozen bare-chested figures scrambled up them.

Seawater ran through the grooves between their bulging muscles. Weapons clenched between their teeth gleamed with the cold sheen of iron in the morning light.

Rossi stepped back half a pace, watching them vault the railing and land on deck.

Thick black greasepaint covered their eye sockets. As they charged with grinning mouths full of uneven yellow teeth, they looked like living skeletons crawling from a tomb.

"White Dragon's Black Skull."

With a push of his toes, he slid into the enemy ranks.