The sea stretched before the Navy fleet like a sheet of hammered pewter, grey and unyielding under the overcast sky. Kushi Island rose from the water in a cascade of emerald and gold, its famous rice terraces climbing the steep slopes in steps that caught what little light filtered through the clouds. The air carried a strange sweetness even from this distance—fermented grapes and steamed jasmine rice, the island's breath reaching out across the waves like an invitation that tasted of yeast and honey.
Vice Admiral Casimir stood at the prow of his flagship, his ivory-white "Justice" coat hanging motionless in the still air. The gold epaulets on his shoulders caught the weak sunlight, throwing small sparks of light across the deck. His black leather eyepatch, lined with its Seastone weave, sat pressed tight against the ruined socket where his left eye used to be. His remaining eye, that cold pale blue, tracked the island's contour with the patience of a predator who had learned to wait.
Behind him, six figures stood in a loose semicircle, their faces hidden behind featureless white masks. The masks reflected the grey sky in smooth curves, giving each agent an inhuman quality, as if Casimir commanded a squadron of porcelain ghosts. Their cloaks shifted in the breeze, dark fabric whispering against dark fabric. None of them spoke. None of them moved. They simply watched the island grow larger as the fleet advanced.
The Navy surrounded Kushi like a ring of iron teeth. Battleships stretched across the horizon in a crescent formation, their cannons angled toward the shore. Smaller patrol vessels darted between the larger ships like hunting dogs circling prey. The Fermentation Current lapped against the hulls, thick with that strange yeast-rich plankton that could eat through untreated wood in days. But the Navy hulls had been treated with the Kushi-Varnish—the secret formula held in the World Government's grip. The island could not hide behind its natural defenses today.
A sailor's footsteps pounded against the wooden deck, fast and uneven, the rhythm of a man who knew he was interrupting something dangerous.
"Vice Admiral, sir!"
The sailor skidded to a halt, his boots leaving scuff marks on the polished wood. He bowed so low his forehead nearly touched his knees, both arms extended upward, holding a transponder snail in his trembling hands. The snail's eyestalks swiveled lazily, its shell painted with the Marine insignia.
Casimir turned his head. Just his head. His body remained facing the island, that rigid posture that made him look less like a man and more like a monument to something cold and unforgiving.
The sailor's voice cracked. "We have the Rear Admirals on the line awaiting your orders."
Casimir's pale blue eye fixed on the sailor for a long moment. The man's hands shook harder. The snail blinked.
Then Casimir reached out and snatched the transponder from the sailor's grasp, his fingers closing around the shell with a grip that made the snail's eyestalks retract in protest. The sailor scrambled backward, bowing again, and disappeared below deck without being dismissed.
Casimir lifted the snail to his mouth. His voice came out flat, emotionless, the same monotone he used for everything.
"Status report. Sound off."
The snail's face shifted, its features morphing to mirror the speakers on the other end of the line. The first voice that crackled through was sharp, confident, laced with the energy of someone who viewed every battle as a soccer match and every enemy as an obstacle between her and the goal.
"Rear Admiral Kick, present and accounted for. The pitch is ready, Vice Admiral. Just tell me where you want the ball."
Marina Kick stood on the deck of her own ship, the green trim of her Justice coat catching the sea spray. Her custom black leather cleats tapped against the wood in a restless rhythm, that nervous habit she disguised as keeping time. Her duffel bag sat at her feet, unzipped, twelve soccer balls visible inside. She spun one on her finger as she spoke, the Haki-conductive plating on her instep shimmering.
The next voice came softer, almost a whisper, forcing those listening to lean closer to hear.
"Rear Admiral Ven. Present."
Petra Ven stood in the shadows of her ship's mast, her oversized olive-green sweater hanging loose over her frame. The rough, pebbled texture of her skin was barely visible, but the 13 small dorsal bones along her spine pressed against the fabric of her sweater, a subtle ridge that promised pain to anyone who got too close. Her mismatched earrings swung as she turned her head, scanning the horizon with those heavy-lidded dark eyes. Her locket hung against her chest, her mother's photograph hidden inside.
The third voice was theatrical, almost musical, every word dripping with the refined accent of someone who had never touched anything dirty in his life.
"Rear Admiral Tidaltuff, present and accounted for. Though I must say, the humidity out here is wreaking havoc on my pompadour. A true tragedy."
Topiaris Tidaltuff stood at the railing of his ship, one hand running through his voluminous silver-white hair, checking for imperfections. His starched white Justice coat remained immaculate, draped over his shoulders without a single wrinkle. His polished black riding boots reflected the grey sky. His fine-toothed comb sat in his breast pocket, waiting. The silver chain around his neck held its diamond-encrusted poodle charm, which he touched now as if seeking reassurance from a higher power that his hair would survive this mission.
The fourth voice was warm, melodic, filled with the kind of theatrical energy that made every word sound like a line from a play.
"Rear Admiral Radias, here and ready! Mayla, darling, say hello to the Vice Admiral."
A pause. Then a softer sound, the click of a rifle bolt being worked.
"Mayla says hello. She's excited. We're both excited."
Zento Radias stood at the prow of his ship, his pearl-white rifle cradled in his arms like a lover. His sky-blue silk lining fluttered beneath his Justice coat, and his ruffled silk blouse caught the breeze in dramatic billows. His feather boa—magenta today, matching his mood—draped across his shoulders. His shaved head gleamed, and his vibrant green eyes sparkled with the kind of genuine enthusiasm that made his subordinates nervous. He spoke to Mayla constantly, murmuring encouragement to the rifle as if it could hear him.
Casimir's jaw flexed. His teeth ground together once, twice.
"You know your orders." His voice carried no inflection, no emotion, just the flat delivery of a man reciting a grocery list. "Seize the island. Collect heavenly tribute. No survivors among the traitors. No exceptions."
A pause. The snail's face shifted, and Marina's voice cut through again, sharper now, with an edge of something that might have been concern or might have been anticipation.
"Sir. Did you notice?" A beat. "They are still flying Kaido's flag."
Casimir's eye snapped toward the island. There it was, fluttering from the highest peak of Mount Merlot, visible even from this distance. The Jolly Roger of the Beast Pirates. The skull with its horns, the crossbones beneath. Still flying. Still defying.
His jaw flexed again, the muscles working beneath his scarred cheek. His hand tightened around the transponder snail until the shell creaked.
"Burn that flag." His voice dropped lower, rougher, the first crack in that emotionless facade. "Burn it to ash. And make them pay for their treachery."
The response came through the snail in perfect unison, four voices blending into one.
"Yes, sir."
Marina's fingers tightened around her soccer ball. Petra's spines pressed harder against her sweater. Topiaris pulled out his comb and ran it through his hair once, twice, three times. Zento kissed Mayla's barrel and whispered, "Showtime, darling."
Casimir lifted the snail higher, his cold eye fixed on Kushi Island.
"Advance."
The Navy ships began to move.
Engines churned. Sails unfurled. The crescent formation tightened around the island like a fist closing around a throat. The Fermentation Current lapped against the hulls, thick and golden, carrying the scent of yeast and decay. The rice terraces climbed the slopes in silent witness, their waters reflecting the grey sky in fractured mirrors.
---
Alejandro Fuego moved to stand beside Casimir, his flowing robe whispering against the deck. The dark red accents and gold trim gleaming, and his thermal aura shimmered the air around him, making his figure appear to waver at the edges like a heat haze over desert sand. His amber-yellow eyes, with their slitted pupils, tracked the island with the focus of a man who saw everything and dismissed most of it as irrelevant.
"Remember," he said, his voice low, measured, the voice of a man accustomed to being obeyed. "The girl is to be taken alive."
Casimir cut his eyes toward Alejandro, his head turning just enough to fix that pale blue stare on the CP-0 agent's face. His jaw flexed. His hand tightened around the transponder snail.
Memories passed behind his eye. Bootleg Island. The kogatana that took his eye. Angkor'thal. The retreat. Ohara. Teivel's broken body on burning ground.
"If she is even here." Casimir's voice came out flat, but something underneath it vibrated, something that sounded almost like hope or fear or both.
Alejandro's slit pupils narrowed. His amber eyes held Casimir's gaze without flinching.
"There is no question that she is here."
The certainty in his voice carried the weight of intelligence networks, of informants, of a World Government that saw everything and forgot nothing.
Casimir turned away. His boots clicked against the deck as he walked past Alejandro, his ivory coat trailing behind him like a funeral shroud. His good eye fixed on Kushi Island, on the rice terraces, on the fluttering Beast Pirate flag, on the white stone villas and the bamboo pilings and the mist that swirled through the valleys.
"Then this will be the last island she will see."
He did not look back at Alejandro. He did not need to. His hand closed around the silver quarter in his pocket, the Mariejois-minted coin he rolled across his knuckles when he was agitated. The coin spun. The metal clicked against his calloused fingers.
Click. Click. Click.
The fleet advanced. The island waited. Somewhere in the maze of rice paddies and wine cellars and stilt-house villages, the people watched with baited breath as the Navy Fleet advanced.
The storm had not yet arrived. But the thunder was already rolling across the water.
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