"Fuck…!"
The burly pirate threw his head back and bellowed with cruel, unrestrained laughter, his voice carrying across the moonlit sea as their fleet tightened the noose around the crippled galleon.
"We really hit the jackpot this time! Who the hell would've thought we'd stumble onto this many Minks all at once?!"
Eight pirate ships moved in a widening circle, their hulls cutting through the water like sharks scenting blood. Lanterns burned along their rails, casting jagged shadows that danced across torn sails and smoke-stained decks. Grappling hooks lay ready. Cannons were still warm from repeated volleys. The hunt was already decided in their minds.
To most of the world, the animalistic features aboard the battered galleon would have gone unrecognized—ears flattened against skulls, tails bristling with tension, fur matted with sweat and salt. Minks were rare, spoken of more like rumors than reality.
But slavers knew better. The moment the lookout's spyglass had caught those silhouettes—fanged profiles, twitching ears, fur glinting beneath the sun—they had mobilized without hesitation. Every ship in their flotilla had changed course. Eight vessels, abandoning whatever prior hunt they were on, chasing down a single galleon like starving wolves.
Half a day of pursuit. Half a day of cannon fire, evasive maneuvers, and desperate repairs. And now—finally—the prey was limping.
"When was the last time a Mink showed up on the black market?" another pirate muttered, biting down on a cigar as he rammed powder into his musket. His grin was wide, hungry, eyes never leaving the damaged galleon struggling ahead of them. "Five years? Maybe more?"
A shot rang out. Another cannonball screamed through the night. On the galleon's deck, a Mink leapt forward, furred arms coated in hardened black as they batted the projectile aside, the impact sending sparks and shockwaves rippling across the air. The ball splashed harmlessly into the sea.
In the first half of the Grand Line, such a sight would've shattered morale—pirates scrambling in terror at the idea of someone swatting cannon fire with their bare hands. But these weren't rookies.
"These bastards are using haki," one pirate scoffed, rolling his shoulders as dark armament crept along his forearms in response. "So what? So are we."
Laughter rippled across the decks.
"This is the New World," another called out. "If we ran every time someone knew haki, we'd be dead already."
More cannons roared. The main mast of the galleon, already cracked and burning, finally gave way with a tortured groan of splintering wood. It collapsed across the deck in a storm of debris, sails tangling uselessly as the ship lost what little mobility it had left. Cheers erupted from the pirate fleet.
"Ha! There it is!"
"Nowhere left to run, beasts!"
"Try not to damage the merchandise too much!"
They surged forward, oars digging into the sea, grappling hooks raised and ready. In their eyes, the battle was already over—another profitable haul, another shipment of living treasure bound for chains and cages. None of them spared so much as a glance at the sky.
Above them, the full moon burned brighter, its light washing over the sea and the wounded galleon alike—silver and merciless. On the Mink ship, ears twitched upward.
"Pedro…!" The voice cut through the thunder of cannon fire and the splintering groan of wounded timber.
Zepo vaulted across the deck, landing heavily beside the fallen mast, his boots skidding on planks slick with seawater and soot. He was tall for a Mink, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, his striped fur matted with salt and sweat. A thick tail lashed behind him with barely restrained agitation, and his long ears twitched constantly—tracking every sound, every approaching threat. Though still young, Zepo carried himself like a seasoned warrior, his body already bearing the scars of close calls and hard lessons learned far too early.
"The ship's done for," he growled, baring his fangs as another cannonball screamed past overhead. "If we keep holding back, we'll be buried in the sea along with it."
The Nox Expedition Party had been out of Zou for only a few months. Only a few months… and already the ocean had shown them its cruelty. What had begun as an adventure—young Minks leaving the safety of the Elephant Island with dreams of uncovering the secrets of the Poneglyphs—had quickly turned into a brutal awakening.
Pirates, slavers, storms that split the sky in half, and monsters lurking beneath the waves. Time and again, their natural strength, heightened senses, and resilient bodies had pulled them through. But strength alone did not make them invincible. There were monsters on the seas—true monsters—that even Minks had learned to fear.
"Tch…"
Pedro clicked his tongue softly, his gaze never leaving the encroaching pirate fleet. He stood at the prow, the moonlight catching on his sleek jaguar-like fur, pale spots glowing faintly silver beneath the full moon. His eyes—sharp, calculating, far older than his years—tracked the movements of the enemy ships with cold precision.
He was barely past his teens, yet there was something undeniably resolute about him. Pedro carried himself with the weight of responsibility, the burden of leadership pressed firmly on his shoulders. Where others saw chaos, he saw patterns. Where others panicked, he assessed.
"I thought we could outrun them," he admitted quietly. "But that option's gone."
His gaze shifted across the deck. Young Minks—wolves, rabbits, cats, dogs—fought desperately to keep the ship afloat. Some swatted incoming cannonballs away with hardened limbs. Others dragged the wounded below deck or patched holes with shaking hands. Most of them were children, really—teenagers with unbound dreams of adventure, eyes once bright with wonder, now clouded with fear and adrenaline.
Pedro and Zepo were the eldest among them. And even they were still young.
"I didn't want to get tangled with humans," Pedro continued, his voice steady despite the chaos.
"But it seems they've made the choice for us." A low snarl escaped him as he looked at the eight pirate ships closing in. "We need a new ship," he said. "And they've brought us eight to choose from."
The words sent a ripple through the crew. The pirates' greatest mistake wasn't their numbers.
It was when they chose to attack. The full moon hung high above, bathing the sea in silver light. It reflected off fur and steel alike, its glow tugging at something deep within every Mink aboard the galleon—a primal pull, dangerous and intoxicating.
Pedro felt it too. The call of Sulong. That power was a double-edged sword. Within the current crew, only Pedro and Zepo could withstand the transformation without completely losing themselves—and even then, only barely. The others lacked the training, the mental fortitude. If they transformed now, they wouldn't just tear through the pirates…
They'd tear through each other. They'd tear themselves apart. Pedro turned sharply, his presence hardening, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade.
"No one is to transform unless absolutely necessary." The command was calm—but absolute. Every Mink froze, ears snapping toward him. "We will handle these pirates with our normal abilities," Pedro said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "If there is truly no other choice, only Zepo and I will transform."
He locked eyes with each member of the crew in turn.
"The rest of you will take every measure necessary to ensure you do not transform. Tie yourselves down if you must. Blindfold yourselves. Look away from the moon." His tail flicked once, sharply.
"Is that understood?" A beat of silence passed. Then, one by one, the Minks straightened.
"Yes, Captain!" The response came unified—raw, resolute, filled with trust. Pedro inhaled slowly, feeling the weight of their faith settle into his chest. This was his responsibility. Their lives. Their dreams.
And if blood had to be spilled tonight—he would make sure it wasn't theirs. The moment Pedro gave the order, the sea itself seemed to hold its breath.
For several heartbeats, nothing changed. Cannon fire still roared. Smoke still curled across the moonlit waves. The pirate ships continued to tighten their encirclement, crews laughing and shouting as they prepared grappling hooks and boarding lines.
Then the tide shifted. It began subtly. A cannonball screamed toward the crippled Mink galleon—only to be caught midair. A rabbit Mink leapt impossibly high, arm coated in hardened Busoshoku, fingers closing around the iron sphere with a thunderous crack. She twisted mid-spin and hurled it back.
The cannonball punched clean through the hull of a pirate galleon. The laughter died. Another volley came. This time, the cannonballs never reached their target.
Wolves and cats blurred across the deck, fur rippling as muscles coiled and released. Cannon fire was slapped aside, kicked downward, or outright deflected with Haki-hardened limbs. One wolf Mink sprinted along the railing, planted a foot, and launched himself across open water—landing on a pirate ship with such force that the deck caved inward. The pirates finally understood.
"THEY'RE COMING—!"
Too late. The first pirate ship was boarded not with ropes, but with bodies. Minks poured onto the deck like a living storm. Claws flashed silver under moonlight. Fangs tore into flesh. Haki-crackling fists shattered bone and armor alike. A bear Mink seized a pirate by the throat and slammed him into the mast hard enough to snap it in half—then used the broken timber to crush two more men in a single swing.
The pirates tried to fight back. They were veterans of the New World. Many of them wielded Haki. Muskets roared. Blades gleamed. Orders were barked. None of it mattered.
A cat Mink vanished in a blur and reappeared behind a pirate officer, claws already buried in his spine. A goat Mink charged through musket fire, horns coated in Armament, skewering three men in a line before flinging their bodies overboard like refuse.
Blood sprayed the deck. Screams followed. On another galleon, pirates managed to fire grappling hooks toward the Mink ship—only for Zepo to grab the chain mid-flight. Muscles bulged beneath striped fur as he yanked. The pirate ship lurched violently.
Men were thrown from their feet as Zepo hauled the galleon closer, step by step, ignoring the way the chain tore into his palms. With a roar, he slammed the ship's hull into the Mink vessel, then leapt. He landed like a meteor.
The deck exploded beneath him. Zepo rose amid shattered planks and broken bodies, eyes burning as he tore into the pirates with raw, overwhelming strength. His fists were brutal—direct—each strike caving in chests, crushing skulls, sending bodies flying into the sea.
"MONSTERS—!"
"No—! FALL BACK—!"
They couldn't. Pedro moved last. When he finally stepped onto the battlefield, it was with terrifying calm. He landed silently on the deck of the central pirate galleon, moonlight washing over his fur. His eyes flicked once across the carnage—calculating angles, numbers, threats. Then he moved.
Pedro vanished. The pirates never saw him coming. He reappeared amidst them in a storm of motion—claws flashing, kicks snapping, Haki-infused blows precise and lethal. He didn't waste movement. Every strike was meant to incapacitate or kill. A slash across the throat. A claw through the heart. A spinning kick that shattered a captain's jaw and sent him tumbling overboard.
Pedro flowed through the chaos like a predator born for it. A pirate lunged at him with a Haki-coated blade. Pedro caught it barehanded. The steel shrieked as it bent inward. Pedro leaned close, eyes cold. "You chose the wrong prey."
He twisted. The blade snapped. Pedro drove his knee upward, crushing the pirate's ribcage, then hurled the body across the deck hard enough to take another man with it. Across the sea, the remaining pirate ships tried to disengage. Panic spread.
"CUT THE ROPES—!"
"TURN THE HELM—!"
They never got the chance. Mink swimmers plunged into the water, moving faster than sharks. They slammed into hulls from below, claws tearing through reinforced wood, punches rupturing keels. One ship began to list violently as seawater flooded in.
Another exploded as its powder stores ignited—set off by a Mink who had hurled a cannonball straight down the barrel mid-reload. Fire lit the night. Smoke billowed skyward. The moon watched silently as the slaughter unfolded.
On the decks, the younger Minks fought with restraint—but even restrained, they were terrifying. They fought back-to-back, protecting one another, disarming pirates, and breaking limbs rather than killing when they could. Still, mercy was a luxury the battlefield rarely allowed.
The pirates had started the hunt. Now they were being culled. Within minutes, the encirclement collapsed. Three ships were sinking. Two more burned uncontrollably. The remaining vessels tried desperately to flee—but Pedro would not allow it. He stood at the prow of a captured galleon, fur bristling, moonlight gleaming in his eyes.
"Fire," he said simply.
Mink cannons roared. The last pirate ship was torn apart in a storm of iron and flame. When the noise finally faded, the sea was littered with debris—and bodies. Silence reclaimed the battlefield. The Minks stood amidst the wreckage, chests heaving, fur matted with blood and smoke. The full moon still loomed above—but none of them transformed.
They had held the line. Pedro exhaled slowly, eyes scanning his crew. They were alive. Battered. Shaken. But alive. The tides had shifted the moment they chose to fight back.
Just as Pedro opened his mouth to give the order—just as the exhausted Minks began shifting supplies, dumping corpses into the sea, and preparing to abandon their sinking vessel—a sound cut through the night.
"Squelch." It was soft. Wet. Obscenely casual. Every Mink froze.
I sat atop the ship's yardarm, legs dangling lazily over the open air, moonlight draping over me like a cloak. One elbow rested against the mast as I bit into a glossy red apple, juice running down my fingers. Below me lay wreckage, blood, smoke, and broken ships—yet I looked as though I were watching a street performance rather than the aftermath of a massacre.
Crunch. Another bite. I had been there the entire time. From the first cannon shot. From the first scream. From the moment the tide shifted and the hunters became prey. And despite their heightened senses—despite their instincts, their Haki, their animal awareness—not a single one of them had noticed me.
Pedro turned. The instant his eyes met mine, everything stopped. His pupils shrank to pinpoints. His body locked mid-motion. Every strand of fur on his body stood on end as though struck by lightning. A primal, inescapable terror screamed through his bones—an instinct older than thought, older than reason.
Run. Hide. Bow. His blood ran cold.
"You—" Pedro blurted out, his voice catching in his throat.
Then he recognized me. The face from the papers. The name whispered in taverns and war rooms alike. The bounty that had eclipsed legends. For a fleeting, absurd moment, I wondered if I'd be offended had he not recognized me. After all, it would've been awkward being the man with the highest bounty in history and still needing introductions. I lifted my hand slightly, apple still in it, and gave a lazy wave.
"Don't mind me," I said mildly. "Carry on. You were saying something important, I think."
Crunch. Pedro's eyes widened further—not in confusion, but in horror. Because someone else had already moved.
"No—WAIT—!"
Too late. A young lion Mink launched himself through the air, muscles coiling, claws gleaming under the moon. Pekoms. I recognized him instantly—reckless, fiery, drowning in courage and ignorance in equal measure.
"DIE, YOU SCUM—!!"
His roar split the air as he aimed straight for my exposed back. I didn't turn. I didn't flinch. I didn't even stop chewing. The world broke. It wasn't a shout. It wasn't a sound. It was will—raw, crushing, and absolute. My Haoshoku erupted outward like a collapsing sky. The air imploded.
BOOM.
The deck shattered beneath Pekoms before he even reached me. His body slammed down as though struck by an invisible mountain, claws skidding uselessly across the planks as his limbs spasmed. The force pinned him flat, face-first, bones screaming in protest. The mast groaned.
The sea recoiled. Every Mink felt it—not as pain, but as something far worse. Dominance. An overwhelming pressure pressed down on their chests, stealing breath, forcing knees to buckle. Some dropped outright. Others trembled, teeth chattering as sweat poured from their fur. Their instincts screamed submission, screamed that this was a predator they had no right to challenge.
Pedro fell to one knee without realizing it. Zepo's fists clenched—but he refused to rise. The younger Minks collapsed entirely, eyes rolled back, unconscious before they even hit the deck. The moonlight flickered. The waves went still. I finally glanced over my shoulder.
Pekoms was embedded in the deck like a discarded toy, eyes wide, breath coming in shallow, panicked gasps. He couldn't move. Couldn't scream. Couldn't even pass out. I leaned over slightly, peering down at him.
"Tsk," I clicked my tongue. "That was rude."
I straightened, took another bite of the apple, and swallowed calmly as the pressure receded—just enough for them to breathe again.
"I was enjoying the show," I continued casually. "You Minks did well. Very well, actually." My gaze drifted back to Pedro, who was staring at me as though death itself had taken human form.
"But next time," I added softly, eyes glinting beneath the moon, "teach your cubs how to read the room." The night swallowed my words. And not a single soul on that deck dared to move.
The pressure lifted. Not all at once—but like a receding tide, heavy and reluctant, peeling itself away from flesh and bone. Pekoms sucked in a ragged breath. Pain still screamed through his body, his limbs trembling where they had been pinned to the deck, but what rose faster than pain was something far uglier.
Humiliation. The pride of a lion did not forgive. Did not forget. Did not bow. His claws scraped against the broken planks as he forced himself upright, shoulders shaking, chest heaving. Every instinct in him screamed that he had been crushed, dominated, dismissed like an insect—but instead of fear, it ignited fury.
Pure, blinding fury. A low growl rolled from his throat, deep and animalistic, vibrating through the ruined deck. The moon hung directly overhead—full, radiant, merciless. Silver light washed over his fur. Pedro's eyes widened in horror.
"No—!" he roared, forcing himself to his feet despite the lingering pressure. "Pekoms, you idiot—STOP IT!"
Pekoms didn't hear him. Or perhaps… he no longer could. His head tilted back slowly, deliberately, and his gaze locked onto the moon. The moment his pupils dilated, I felt it. A switch flipping. A dam breaking.
"Oh," I murmured, a faint smile tugging at my lips as I watched the change unfold. "Interesting… so that's what a Sulong transformation looks like up close."
To them, it happened in a heartbeat. To me, it was agonizingly slow. His fur began to glow first, each strand reacting to the moonlight as though soaked in liquid silver. The golden mane that framed his head rippled violently, color draining away until it burned a brilliant white, flowing like storm clouds caught in a gale.
Muscles swelled beneath his skin, thickening, knotting, reshaping with wet, grinding sounds. His spine cracked and lengthened, vertebrae snapping into place as his body surged upward—twice his size… then more. Three times.
Bones restructured themselves violently, shoulders widening, chest expanding until the very air seemed too small to contain him. His claws elongated, curving into monstrous talons that bit deep into the deck, tearing through wood and iron alike.
His face twisted. The muzzle stretched, fangs lengthening into sabers, lips peeled back in a snarl that had no trace of reason left in it. Lightning-like arcs of pale energy danced along his fur, snapping and hissing with every breath he took. But it was his eyes that truly changed.
The warmth was gone. The youth was gone. The person was gone. What stared back at the world now were two glowing, silver-white orbs—empty of thought, drowned in madness, locked onto a single target. Me. Pedro's voice cracked as he screamed again, desperation and authority bleeding together.
"PEKOMS! STOP—HE IS NOT SOMEONE WE CAN FACE! EVEN WITH SULONG—!"
The words died in his throat. The Sulong lion straightened to his full height, towering over the shattered deck like a myth made flesh. Every breath he took came out as a rumbling snarl, raw power rolling off him in waves. The remaining Minks recoiled instinctively, some scrambling back, others frozen in terror—not at me, but at their own comrade.
The madness in Pekoms' gaze narrowed. Focused. Directed. All of it—his rage, his pride, his humiliation—funneled into a single, suicidal intent. I chuckled softly, pushing myself to my feet atop the yardarm, apple still in hand.
"Young," I said lightly. "And reckless." The moonlight gleamed off my eyes as I met his gaze without a shred of tension. Before the transformed lion mink could even tense his muscles—
I was gone. There was no sound. No wind displacement. No warning.
One moment I stood beneath the moonlight, apple in hand— the next, even the heightened senses of the Minks registered nothing but absence. Not sight. Not smell. Not intent.
Soru. Lightning-fast, absolute, perfected beyond what most even imagined the technique could reach. To the Minks watching, it was as if reality itself had skipped a frame.
And then— BOOM.
The deck exploded. Pekoms never saw me descend. One instant he stood towering, a silver-furred calamity bathed in moonlight— the next, his world inverted violently as something immeasurably heavy landed on his shoulder.
Not a blow. Not an attack. Just—weight. My foot touched down lightly. Casually. And the effect was catastrophic. The Sulong lion mink was driven straight into the deck as though the heavens themselves had slammed him down. Wood shattered. Iron buckled. The entire galleon screamed as the force rippled outward, planks splintering, beams snapping like kindling.
Pekoms' massive body was pinned flat—his face smashed into the deck with a deafening crack, claws gouging trenches as instinctively he tried to resist. Failed. It felt to him as if a mountain had descended upon his spine. No— worse.
A mountain that decided to sit. I settled comfortably atop his back, one leg bent, the other dangling lazily as I finished the last bite of my apple. The pressure I exuded wasn't explosive—it was absolute, refined, deliberate. A conqueror's will compressed into something dense enough to crush gods. The lightning dancing across Pekoms' fur flickered… then sputtered.
The madness in his eyes trembled. And then— It shattered. Clarity rushed back in like cold water. His pupils shrank. His breath hitched. His heart stalled for half a second as understanding finally, mercilessly, took hold. This wasn't an enemy. This wasn't a wall. This was an abyss.
Even in Sulong form, even under the full moon, even drowned in primal rage— he had never stood a chance. I leaned forward slightly, resting my chin on my knuckles as though we were simply having a conversation.
"You should have known, little kitty…," I said calmly, almost kindly. "Looking at the moon was a bad idea."
The deck groaned beneath us, crushed into a shallow crater by nothing more than my presence. Around us, the other Minks who still remained conscious stood frozen, fur bristling, instincts screaming louder than their thoughts.
Pedro stared in open horror. Because now he understood too. This wasn't a clash of strength. This was a scale. A difference so vast it rendered effort meaningless; even their superior race was meaningless.
I tapped Pekoms' mane lightly with my knuckle—tap, tap—and the massive Sulong body failed to move an inch. Pinned. Dominated. Reduced.
"I admire the courage," I continued, voice steady beneath the moonlit sky. "But pride without perspective?" I smiled faintly. "That just gets you flattened."