Information did not move quickly across the Grand Line.
It condensed.
Fragments gathered, rumors layered atop physical evidence, and what emerged was never the truth—but something sharper, more dangerous. Whiskey Peak's silence drew attention not because bodies were found, but because no one remained willing to speak.
In a hidden den several islands away, a Baroque Works agent knelt, sweat soaking through his coat.
"Report again," a voice demanded from the shadows.
"T-the plaza was destroyed. Multiple operatives incapacitated. No explosions. No Devil Fruit residue."
A pause.
"One man?"
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
"Describe him."
The agent swallowed. "Young. No insignia. No banner. He didn't kill unless forced."
Another pause—longer this time.
"…Remove Whiskey Peak from rotation," the voice said calmly. "And circulate this description to higher cells."
At sea, Alpha felt the shift before he saw it.
The wind pressed differently. Not physically—but socially. Ships altered course. Conversations cut short when he passed docks. Eyes lingered a fraction longer.
Information propagation confirmed, Alpha noted. Rate accelerating.
He adapted.
Alpha changed ports frequently, never staying longer than necessary. He accepted short-term work, blending into crews, observing Grand Line standards firsthand. He trained nightly—on deck, below hulls, sometimes underwater—pushing endurance against unpredictable currents.
Iron reinforcement evolved subtly, no longer merely reactive but anticipatory—tensing before impact, redistributing force across micro-intervals.
System Update:
Predictive Reinforcement +6%
Threat Anticipation Enhanced
One evening, as rain hammered a nameless port, Alpha sensed it.
Hostility.
Not clumsy. Focused.
Three figures watched him from separate angles, intent hidden but aligned. Not pirates. Not Marines.
Hunters, he concluded.
He moved first.
Alpha slipped into an alley, footsteps soft, presence muted. Observation Haki expanded, mapping routes, vertical access points, blind spots. The hunters followed—confident, coordinated.
The ambush triggered.
Steel flashed.
Alpha met it head-on.
Iron surged as he caught a blade barehanded, fingers tightening until the metal screamed. He pivoted, using the attacker's momentum to hurl him into the second hunter. The third struck from above.
Alpha turned.
A short punch—no wind-up—drove into the attacker's abdomen. The man collapsed, gasping.
Silence returned.
Alpha stood alone in the rain, breathing steady.
This is accelerating faster than projected, he realized. Adjust strategy.
He left the port before dawn.
Elsewhere, a Marine intelligence officer read a report stamped with unfamiliar seals.
"Unidentified combatant," he murmured. "No allegiance. Engaged Baroque Works."
He paused.
"…Forward this to Captain Smoker."
On the open sea, Alpha watched the horizon.
He did not smile.
The shadow had gained weight.
And now—
—it was being named.