Only the doorman was tidying the coat rack, his movements sluggish, as though he were sleepwalking.
He turned back and rejoined the noisy conversation and laughter.
The clinking of glasses, the scrape of cutlery against plates, the rising and falling chatter-all the sounds wove into a dense net, keeping those questions about death and justice firmly outside.
When the rain finally fell, Rossi was recounting an amusing story about some ** in the West Blue.
Raindrops struck the stained-glass windows with a sharp patter, as though someone were knocking urgently.
No one got up to look.
After all, whoever knocked would never be a winner.
As Rossi passed the middle-aged man, he did not pause, leaving only a whispered remark.
"Just listen to the voice in your heart."
He remembered someone once saying: as long as your actions stood up to the mirror that reflected your soul, they were justice.
In the narrowest sense, justice was simply doing what you believed was right.
Nothing more.
By the time his words faded, he had entered the brightly lit hall and was walking toward Doffy.
At the very instant he turned, a figure brushed past him, heading straight toward the throne.
The man walked without the slightest hesitation, his dark green cloak lifting slightly in the air.
"Halt!"
Almost simultaneously, more than a dozen dark figures flashed out from across the hall, forming an orderly barrier before the cloaked figure.
They were the Vinsmoke Family's most elite guards, carrying not ordinary firearms but specially made guns gleaming coldly.
"Remove your hood."
"State your business."
Under the cold commands and the aim of countless gun barrels, the cloaked figure slowly raised a hand and pulled back the fabric concealing his face.
A face without eyebrows emerged, its expression solemn, long black hair falling