Chapter 32: The Cruelty of a God!
Bidding farewell to the guardian of the Twin Capes, the Vermillion Wing cut through the currents, its crimson sails billowing as it officially crossed the threshold into the most dangerous sea in the world: the Grand Line.
Crocus stood atop Laboon's rugged, island-like back, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his shorts. The wind whipped his petal-shaped hair as he watched the pirate ship shrink toward the horizon.
Behind his dark sunglasses, his gaze was heavy with contemplation.
"What an interesting crew..." Crocus muttered to himself, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips. His mind replayed the brief encounter—the suffocating pressure of the Captain's Haki, the icy politeness of the blue-haired maid, and the terrifying, abyssal aura of the woman with the black wings.
"That woman... Albedo..." Crocus whispered, a chill running down his spine despite the warm sun. "She isn't a Devil Fruit user. That aura... it was something primal. Something demonic."
He looked back at the unconscious Laboon, then at the disappearing ship.
"Not only does the Captain possess the disposition of a King, but his crew members are monsters in their own right. This era... it seems the gears are beginning to turn again. Roger... is this the storm you were waiting for?"
Meanwhile, on the deck of the Vermillion Wing, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to the old doctor's heavy thoughts. It was filled with the vibrant energy of discovery.
"This is incredible!"
Nami stood at the helm; her eyes glued to the glass sphere strapped to her wrist. She looked like a child who had just been gifted a mountain of gold. She rotated her wrist, watching the needle float and bob inside the liquid suspension.
"This is the only tool that makes sense of this chaos! Look, Suzaku! The pointer doesn't fixate on the North like an ordinary magnetic compass. It's actually turning!"
Suzaku leaned against the railing, enjoying the Navigator's enthusiasm. He peered at the Log Pose. "It's drifting? What does that indicate?"
"It means the magnetic fields are alive," Nami explained, her voice breathless with professional excitement. She tapped the glass lightly. "Every island in the Grand Line emits a unique magnetic signature due to the high mineral content in the soil. This needle isn't pointing to a direction; it's pointing to a destination."
She looked up, her eyes sparkling. "Mr. Crocus said that the magnetic fields here are like a chain. Once we stay on an island long enough, the Log Pose 'records' that magnetic signature and then locks onto the next island in the chain. It's like connecting the dots across the ocean!"
Rem, who had been tidying up the tea set on the deck table, walked over with curiosity. Her blue hair swayed in the erratic wind.
"How amazing..." Rem murmured, looking at the mysterious device. "To think the world works in such a way. So, Nami-san, where is the needle pointing now? What is our first destination?"
Nami steadied her arm, frowning in concentration as she read the subtle movements of the needle.
"According to the angle and the standard charts Mr. Crocus showed me... we should be heading toward a place called 'Whiskey Peak'. It's a common first stop for pirates entering from the Twin Capes."
However, as she spoke, Nami's expression shifted. The excitement faded, replaced by the sharp, instinctive wariness of a cat sensing a predator. She looked up from the compass, scanning the horizon and the water around the ship.
"Wait..." Nami whispered. "Don't you feel that?"
"Feel what?" Albedo asked, stepping out from the cabin. She held a tray of fresh drinks, her golden eyes scanning the perimeter.
"The air," Nami said, her voice tightening. "The humidity just dropped by thirty percent in three seconds. And the current... the drag on the rudder changed."
As if responding to her words, the Grand Line decided to introduce itself.
The sky, which had been a brilliant, cloudless azure mere moments ago, turned a bruised shade of purple. The wind didn't just pick up; it screamed.
BOOOOM!
The Vermillion Wing lurched violently to the starboard side. The previously calm sea erupted, throwing up a wall of water twenty meters high seemingly out of nowhere.
"Watch out!" Suzaku moved instantly, his hand shooting out to grab Nami's arm, steadying her before she could be thrown into the railing.
"Is this the Grand Line's welcome ceremony?" Suzaku laughed, his feet rooted to the deck as if they were bolted down.
Nami, surprisingly, didn't scream in fear. Instead, a fierce grin split her face. She grabbed the helm with both hands, fighting the sudden torque of the ocean.
"It's amazing! It defies all meteorological logic!" She shouted over the roar of the wind. "Clear skies one second, a typhoon the next! Mr. Crocus wasn't lying. This ocean is a beast!"
The clouds swirled into a vortex directly above them. Snow began to fall—heavy, thick flakes—while the seawater remained tropical warm, creating a thick, blinding fog instantly.
"Rem!" Suzaku commanded, seeing a massive wave cresting toward their broadside. "Stabilize the ship! Don't let it capsize!"
"Yes, Lord Suzaku!"
Rem dropped the tea tray—which Albedo casually caught with one hand—and rushed to the center of the deck. Her demon blood flared.
"Float-Float Fruit: Gravity Anchor!"
Rem slammed her palms onto the deck. An invisible wave of anti-gravity pulsed through the Vermillion Wing. The ship, which was tilting dangerously at a forty-five-degree angle, suddenly righted itself with a supernatural snap, defying the physics of the wave hitting them.
But just as Albedo prepared to summon her armor to slice through the incoming hail, the sky cleared.
The purple clouds vanished. The wind died instantly. The twenty-meter waves flattened into a mirror-calm surface. The sun shone brightly as if nothing had happened. The entire violent event had lasted less than three minutes.
"This... this is over?" Nami blinked, staring at the now-placid water. A single snowflake melted on her nose.
"It seems the rumors were understated," Suzaku mused, straightening his coat. "The Grand Line is bipolar. We need to be ready for anything."
"As expected of the Captain's chosen path," Albedo said smoothly, placing a drink in Suzaku's hand. "A boring sea would hardly be fitting for your conquest."
Suzaku took a sip, looking at the endless horizon. "Set course for Whiskey Peak, Nami. Full speed ahead."
Somewhere else in the Grand Line.
The sea was plowed with white streaks by a massive fleet, tearing through the waves like a knife through silk.
In the center of the formation sailed a gargantuan vessel. It was the Saint Noros. The ship was a floating palace of grotesque opulence, painted pure white from hull to mast. Intricate gold ornaments lined every railing and porthole, dazzling blindingly under the scorching sun. It moved with the arrogance of a god, demanding the sea to part for its passage.
Surrounding this white behemoth were three Marine warships. These iron-grey beasts, armed with heavy cannons, sailed in a protective triangle. Their guns were pointed outward, threatening the world, but the Marines on board kept their eyes strictly forward, deliberately turning a blind eye to the tragedy unfolding on the deck of the ship they were sworn to protect.
The atmosphere on the deck of the Saint Noros was incompatible with the bright, beautiful seascape. The air was heavy, thick with the stench of fear and the metallic tang of blood.
Several young girls were forced to stand in a row near the main mast.
Their crude, patched clothing formed a sharp, heartbreaking contrast with the velvet carpets and golden fixtures of the ship. They were commoners—villagers, fisherwomen, daughters of bakers.
The oldest among them was no more than sixteen or seventeen. The youngest looked so petite she could barely be ten years old.
They trembled uncontrollably, their knees knocking together. Their eyes were red and swollen, tears streaming down dirt-streaked cheeks, but they bit their lower lips so hard they bled, not daring to let out a single sob. They knew that noise would bring pain.
Sitting on a gilded throne a few meters away was the source of their nightmare.
Saint Jalmack.
He wore a thick, white bio-suit and a spherical glass bubble helmet over his head, isolating him from the "filthy" air of the common world. He held a golden cane in one hand and a remote control in the other. He didn't even look at the girls. To him, they were less than furniture; they were temporary distractions.
He had been strolling in a port town earlier that morning, surrounded by his terrified subjects who were dutifully kneeling with their foreheads to the pavement.
He hadn't even seen their faces. He had simply pointed his cane at a group of civilians.
"These few," he had said, his voice muffled by the helmet. "They look pleasing enough. Take them back. I need something to vent my boredom on."
A light sentence. A whim. And lives were shattered instantly.
"Serve my daily needs." No one present misunderstood the meaning behind those words. It was a sentence to a hell longer and more painful than death.
There had not been a complete lack of resistance. Even rabbits bite when cornered.
When the black-suited bodyguards had grabbed a young girl named Kiyo, her father—a weathered fisherman with calloused hands—had burst forth with a strength not his own.
The memory of what happened next was etched into Kiyo's mind, playing on a loop even as she stood paralyzed on the deck.
Flashback.
Her father had rushed out of the kneeling crowd, ignoring the guns pointed at him. He had thrown himself onto the gangplank, kneeling so hard his knees cracked against the wood. He slammed his forehead into the planks, again and again, blood streaming into his eyes.
"My Lord! Please! Have mercy!"
His voice was hoarse, cracking with sheer desperation.
"Kiyo is still young! She is ignorant! She doesn't know how to serve a God! Please, take me instead! I am strong! I can work! I am willing to use my old bones to take her place as a slave! Please, let her go!"
Saint Jalmack hadn't even lifted an eyelid. He didn't look at the weeping father. He didn't acknowledge the humanity of the plea. He merely gave a slight, bored twitch of his chin toward his head bodyguard.
The bodyguard, a man in a dark suit and sunglasses, didn't hesitate. He raised a flintlock pistol.
BANG!
The gunshot was short and abrupt, cutting off the cicada's cry of the summer afternoon.
The fisherman's plea ceased instantly. A hole appeared in the center of his forehead, fresh red blood gushing out to stain the pristine white gangplank.
His eyes were wide open, filled with shock, confusion, and an endless unwillingness to leave his daughter behind. He fell backward, hitting the ground with a heavy, wet thud.
"Papa!"
Kiyo's mother had let out an inhuman shriek, a sound that tore the throat. She lunged toward her husband's body.
But before she could reach him, another bodyguard stepped forward and delivered a brutal, bone-breaking kick to her chest.
CRACK.
The sound of ribs snapping was audible. Kiyo's mother collapsed limply, coughing up blood, and fell silent, her hand outstretched toward her husband but unable to reach him.
End Flashback.
At this moment, Kiyo stood on the deck of the Saint Noros.
She was staring at a dark red stain on the white wood near her feet. It was still wet.
She wore a faded blue dress that had seen too many washes. As the sea wind blew, her slender figure swayed as if she were made of paper. She looked as if she could dissipate into sea foam at any moment.
She had no tears left. Her face was devoid of expression. Her beautiful, dark eyes stared blankly at the azure horizon, seeing nothing.
It was as if her soul had departed with the gunshot that killed her father, leaving only an exquisite, cold shell behind. This deathly numbness was more suffocating to witness than any wailing.
The other young girls wept silently, witnessing Kiyo's dissociation with terrified eyes.
They couldn't run. They couldn't fight.
Cowering in a corner of the deck, under the watchful eyes of Marine soldiers wielding swords and guns, were their families.
Mothers, fathers, younger brothers.
Around each of their necks was a thick, gray metal collar. A small red light blinked on each one.
[Slave Collar – Explosive Type]
The same fear that paralyzed the girls was mirrored in their families' eyes. The parents looked at their daughters standing in the lineup, wanting to scream, wanting to rush forward and save them. But they didn't dare utter a single word. They could only convey heartbreaking sorrow and apologies through their gazes.
The bloody precedent of Kiyo's father lay before them.
Resistance meant death. Not just their own death, but the death of everyone they loved.
Saint Jalmack tapped his cane on the deck, creating a rhythmic clack, clack, clack sound that made every captive flinch.
"Boring," Jalmack sighed, his voice amplified by his suit speakers. "This sea is so boring. Why aren't they dancing? Why aren't they smiling?"
He pointed his cane at the ten-year-old girl at the end of the line.
"You. Cry louder. It annoys me when you hold it in."
The girl froze, her face draining of color. She looked at her mother in the corner. Her mother shook her head frantically, tears streaming down her face, begging her daughter to obey the monster.
This threat, with the lives of their dearest as collateral, completely crushed the girls' courage. They were like insects caught in a spiderweb, forced to endure the terrifying silence of absolute power.
Just then, a lookout from the Marine escort ship shouted across the water, his voice amplified by a loud-hailer.
"Report! Unidentified pirate ship sighted at 2 o'clock! It's... it's a fast vessel!"
Saint Jalmack didn't even turn his head.
"Pirates?" He scoffed. "Filthy rats. Marines, sink them. Don't let the noise disturb my tea time."
On the horizon, red sails appeared. The Vermillion Wing was approaching, sailing straight into the path of the gods.
[Akarin Note:
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