The island rose from the sea like a smile carved into stone.
Whiskey Peak.
From a distance, it looked welcoming—tiered cliffs dotted with lights, music drifting faintly across the water, silhouettes of people gathered along the shore as if celebrating something eternal. Alpha stood near the bow as the merchant vessel slowed, eyes narrowing slightly.
Too clean, he assessed. Too rehearsed.
His Haki brushed the island.
The response was immediate.
Intent—layered, coordinated, disciplined beneath the veneer of cheer. Fighters masquerading as civilians. Weapons concealed behind laughter. Welcome prepared not for guests, but for prey.
Alpha stepped onto the dock alone.
The music swelled.
"Welcome!" someone shouted, raising a mug. "Drink! Eat! You've arrived safely!"
Alpha did not smile.
He walked.
People parted instinctively. Not consciously—but something in his presence disrupted the rhythm. His steps were calm, iron-reinforced yet unassuming. Observation Haki mapped the island in expanding arcs: elevated firing points, ambush alleys, fallback routes.
Baroque Works, he concluded. Low-tier operatives. Many.
He took a seat near the edge of the festivities, back to stone, vision open. A woman approached with a tray of drinks, her smile practiced.
"First time on the Grand Line?" she asked brightly.
"Yes," Alpha replied.
Her fingers twitched.
Poison.
He declined the drink.
Her smile faltered for a fraction of a second.
That was enough.
The attack came at midnight.
Music cut abruptly. Torches flared. The laughter died.
"Kill him!" someone shouted.
Dozens moved at once.
Alpha rose.
Iron reinforcement surged—not outward, not explosive—but total. Density flowed through muscle, tendon, bone. His Haki sharpened into a blade, reading intent faster than motion.
The first attacker lunged.
Alpha stepped inside the strike and broke the man's wrist with a twist and a short, brutal elbow. He pivoted, using the falling body as cover as blades flashed where his head had been a moment before.
Stone cracked under his feet.
He struck joints. Throats. Solar plexuses.
Every movement was efficient. No wasted force. No flourish.
Attackers fell in silence, shock overtaking screams.
One operative leapt from above.
Alpha looked up.
His palm struck the man's chest midair.
The body folded, launched backward into the cliff face with a thunderous impact that silenced the island.
Baroque Works agents froze.
"This isn't a civilian—!"
Alpha moved again.
He became motion—short bursts, controlled devastation. Iron and Haki layered perfectly, blows landing with surgical precision. Weapons shattered against reinforced limbs. Bones cracked. Fear spread.
Within minutes, the plaza was littered with groaning bodies.
Alpha stood at its center, breathing steady.
System Update:
Multi-Opponent Combat Efficiency +12%
Armament Integration +9%
Psychological Suppression: Confirmed
From a high balcony, an officer watched, sweat dripping down his spine.
"This… wasn't in the report," he whispered.
Alpha turned his gaze upward.
The man fled.
By dawn, Whiskey Peak was silent.
Alpha departed before ships arrived—no banner raised, no name given. Only broken stone and terrified whispers remained.
Far at sea, a brightly painted ship approached the island.
A skull-and-straw-hat flag fluttered in the wind.
Alpha did not look back.
But fate had begun to narrow.