The dim corridor lights blurred the boundary between light and shadow.
At its far end stood one of the newly crowned underworld bosses—
Capone "Gang" Bege, bounty: 350,000,000 Berries.
One of the Eleven Supernovas who'd shaken the New World.
He leaned back on the sofa, his dark pinstripe suit immaculately pressed, not a wrinkle in sight. A half-burnt cigar dangled from his fingers, smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling.
Footsteps echoed down the hall—steady, deliberate—then stopped.
Bege lifted his gaze. His eyes narrowed with casual appraisal.
Uchiha Allen.
Smoker's second-in-command—rumored to be a Zoan-type Devil Fruit user.
No notable combat record. Most assumed he'd risen through favoritism, not merit.
Lately, Smoker had been poking his nose into Bege's operations. Unable to confront the White Hunter directly—Logia Devil Fruit users weren't to be trifled with lightly—Bege had greased the right palms in Marineford. Result? Smoker reassigned. And in his place… this greenhorn.
Allen had never even attended officer training at Headquarters. Yet here he was: acting base commander of this sector.
Compared to Smoker? A far easier mark.
Bege flicked ash from his cigar, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
"Allen… I'm glad you came."
He'd done his homework. The kid wasn't as stubborn as Smoker—knew when to look the other way… for the right price.
Coming alone? That was a statement.
You know who put you in that chair.
Allen draped his coat over the chair back and sat. The thin, light-colored shirt clung to his frame, outlining lean muscle. He folded his hands on his knees and met Bege's gaze—calm, unreadable.
At 180 cm, he loomed over Bege's 160 cm frame.
Silence stretched. Bege's smile waned. His brow furrowed.
"Commander Allen," he said, voice edged with impatience, "you came all this way alone… surely you've got something to say?"
Let's talk numbers. 80-20? Fine, make it 70-30 if you're feeling greedy. Just name your cut.
Finally, Allen spoke.
"I'm flattered you refer to me as 'base commander.'"
His voice was quiet—but the air around them grew unnaturally cold.
"But…"
"You don't understand your place."
Between strands of black hair, his narrow eyes glinted—sharp, merciless. Frost crept across the floor.
"A street gangster…"
"…daring to sit while a Marine officer stands?"
"Who gave you permission?"
Sssss—
Ice erupted. Jagged spikes tore through the leather sofa—some glistening red.
Bege's pupils shrank. In one fluid motion, he vaulted backward, pistols already drawn.
Click! Click!
He leveled twin barrels at Allen, voice a snarl:
"I am Capone 'Gang' Bege!! You insolent brat—think you can freeze me?!"
Allen's lips curled downward, and he gave a quiet, humorless laugh.
"I knew it… Smoker was too soft on you lot."
He leveled his gaze at the gangster before him.
"Capone Gang Bege."
His voice dropped, sharp as ice.
"Who do you think you are—to dare declare war on me?"
The words hit Bege like a physical blow. His twin pistols, raised mid-threat, froze in place.
He'd killed many in his time—rival bosses, turncoats, traitors—always from the shadows. Infiltrate, destabilize, eliminate. It was a method that had served him flawlessly for years. But there was one line he'd never crossed: killing a Marine.
He was no fool. He knew who truly ruled the seas.
At the top: the Celestial Dragons.
Beneath them: their hounds—the Marines.
Smoker had ruined half his arms deals in the West Blue, costing him fortunes. Yet Bege had never sought revenge. Instead, he'd greased palms higher up the chain—arranged Smoker's transfer, even. That was how smart men survived.
And now? This upstart lieutenant—Allen—had waltzed in without warning, radiating arrogance from his elevated perch.
If I hurt him here… it's a declaration of war against the World Government.
I haven't even unified the West Blue's underworld yet. I won't be driven into the sea over pride.
Slowly, deliberately, Bege lowered his guns. He swallowed his fury and growled, "State your purpose, Navy—while I still have the patience to hear it!"
Allen rose to his full height, his posture radiating quiet dominance. Snow swirled outside the window, its ghostly light catching in his pupils. As he raised a hand, delicate ice crystals bloomed from his fingertips, elongating into needle-sharp shards that gleamed with deadly frost.
"What brings me here?" he echoed, voice calm.
"Starting tomorrow, Branch 179 is my territory."
"I'm here to inform you."
Click—
The ice shattered—exploding into a blizzard of razor-thin blades that hung suspended in the air like frozen petals.
"Ice Release: Fubuki."
With a soft exhale, Allen unleashed a gale. The ice shards surged forward in a storm of glacial fury, weaving through the room in a crisscrossing net too fast to track—only a whisper of cold light marked their path.
"Damn it!" Bege roared, twisting his stout frame with surprising agility. He dodged, rolled, and snapped his pistol up—aiming square at Allen's head.
He hesitated.
Then fired—deliberately wide. The bullet grazed Allen's coat.
BANG!
The shot echoed through the mansion. Outside, Bege's men burst through the doors.
"Navy bastard! What've you done to the boss?!"
"Call him Godfather!"
"You idiot—you call him that too!"
"Shut up and help the—! I mean, help Godfather crush that smug brat!!"
Under the amber glow of a streetlamp, Smoker stood motionless, twin cigars clamped between his teeth. His eyes remained fixed on Bege's estate in the distance.
When the gunshot cracked through the night, his brow twitched. Instinctively, he started forward—only to stop himself, fists pressing down on his own knees.
Allen…
I can't protect you forever.
But I believe… you can stand on your own.
Silence fell quickly after the commotion—too quickly.
Just as Smoker was about to move, the mansion doors creaked open. Allen emerged, dragging an unconscious Bege behind him like a sack of grain.
Thud.
He tossed the gangster at Smoker's feet and offered a faint smile.
"He's not a Devil Fruit user. Easy enough to handle."
Allen knew Bege's future: after unifying the West Blue underworld, he'd sail the Grand Line and form the Fire Tank Pirates. He'd consume the Shiro Shiro no Mi—the Castle-Castle Fruit—a Paramecia-type that turned his body into a living fortress, capable of shrinking and storing people and objects within its chambers. Like a four-dimensional pocket, in effect.
But from their brief clash, Allen was certain: Bege hadn't eaten it yet. His physical strength was unremarkable—only his spear technique showed promise.
Smoker studied the unconscious crime lord, then exhaled a slow stream of smoke.
"If only it were that simple…"
"I've arrested him seven times. And every time—"
Buru buru buru—!
His Den Den Mushi rang, shrill in the quiet night.