Rainbase, Alabasta Kingdom. Thunder rolled across the darkened sky as torrential rain hammered the city. Inside the opulent Rain Dinners casino, within its most lavish chamber, a figure stood motionless before floor-to-ceiling windows.
The man's black fur coat draped over broad shoulders, his left hand replaced by a gleaming golden hook. A cigar smoldered between his teeth, its smoke curling around the horizontal scar that bisected his face. Sir Crocodile—the Desert King, one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea—watched the rain cascade down the glass with hooded eyes, his mind racing through decades of memories.
To the people of Alabasta, he was a hero. The irony wasn't lost on him. A pirate wearing the mantle of savior—what better disguise for his true ambitions? The title served its purpose, nothing more.
Years before Roger's rise to infamy, a younger Crocodile had set sail with fire in his veins and conquest in his heart. The Sand-Sand Fruit's power made him untouchable as he carved through the Grand Line straight into the New World, seeking worthy opponents at every port.
During his prime, he'd clashed with nineteen-year-old Douglas Bullet, the so-called Demon Heir. Their battle ended without victor, yet the stalemate alone cemented Crocodile's reputation. Back then, bounties reflected crimes against the World Government, not combat prowess. His 81 million berry bounty remained unchanged despite matching blows with Bullet—a fact that still rankled.
Had strength been factored in, his bounty would've multiplied tenfold. Everyone knew Bullet's legend: boarding Roger's ship at fifteen as a challenger, fighting the Dark King Rayleigh to a standstill at seventeen. How much the veteran had held back during that encounter remained anyone's guess.
Two years later, when illness claimed Roger's vitality, Bullet abandoned the crew after one final failed challenge. He roamed the New World as a rookie, honing his skills until crossing paths with twenty-year-old Crocodile. Their legendary draw became another footnote in pirate history.
Then came Roger's crowning achievement—reaching Laugh Tale, the 5.5 billion berry bounty, and ultimately his surrender. Crocodile, twenty-two at the time, stood in Loguetown's crowd as the Pirate King's final words ignited an era. Watching the executioner's blade fall, ambition took root in his heart.
His reasoning was brutally simple: to surpass Roger, he needed only prove himself stronger. With Golden Lion imprisoned and Roger dead, only Whitebeard remained among the legends. The solution presented itself with crystalline clarity—he would challenge Edward Newgate himself.
What was youth for, if not to test one's limits? In Crocodile's mind, the equation balanced perfectly: his twenty-two-year-old self already surpassed his twenty-year-old version that had fought Bullet. And if Roger had been roughly equal to Bullet at seventeen, who in turn matched Rayleigh at fifty...
The math spoke for itself. He stubbed out his cigar against the window, watching the embers die in the rain-streaked glass. Some questions demanded answers written in blood and sand.
Twenty-year-old self ≈ Nineteen-year-old Bullet
Rounding it up.
Twenty-two-year-old self ≥ Pirate King Roger ≈ Whitebeard Newgate. What Pirate King Roger, what Dark King Rayleigh, what Whitebeard Newgate, they are all just remnants of the old era! It is time for the world of Pirates to welcome a new king, and the name of this king is Sir Crocodile!
Thus, after watching Roger's execution, Crocodile, holding this thought, re-entered the New World and challenged Whitebeard Newgate. Because Crocodile had previously drawn with Bullet, and the latter's strength had been soaring in the past two years, becoming increasingly terrifying, in the eyes of outsiders, this made Crocodile appear even stronger.
Therefore, Whitebeard Newgate also took Crocodile's challenge very seriously and immediately used his full strength. And then... Crocodile was directly knocked down by Whitebeard Newgate with a Haoshoku Haki... knocked down... Finally, Whitebeard Newgate laughed heartily, extended his right hand to Crocodile, and said:
"Be my son!" "..."
At that moment, besides feeling the gap in strength between himself and Whitebeard, Crocodile felt deep despair and humiliation. Yes! Despair and humiliation... He, Crocodile, for the first time in his life, experienced such complex emotions.
After that battle, Crocodile retreated from the New World in disarray, returned to Paradise, silently licked his wounds, attempting to eliminate the psychological shadow Whitebeard Newgate had cast upon him. However... He completely failed to understand why the gap in strength between himself and Whitebeard was so vast! Later...
After a detailed investigation, Crocodile finally learned... that Haoshoku could also be coated? This was a power that absolutely crushed the two colors of Haki and Devil Fruits, and only a very small number of top powerhouses could master it! Crocodile couldn't help but feel powerless about this.
Conqueror's Haki was a special power that was innate; you either had it or you didn't, completely depending on talent. Anyone who awakened it possessed the potential to become a king. With his strength and ambition, if he had the potential for Conqueror's Haki, he should have awakened it long ago. But... The fact is... he didn't!
This meant that he would never be able to reach the peak based on his own strength. Therefore, Crocodile gave up, he became decadent! To hell with Conqueror's Haki! Even if I develop the two colors of Haki and Devil Fruits to the extreme, I'll still be inferior, so why should I bother cultivating! And so, Crocodile set his sights on the three ancient weapons. What if they have Conqueror's Haki?
In front of the ancient weapons with the name of a god, can they still jump around? Through investigating various clues, Crocodile finally learned that the whereabouts of the ancient weapon "Pluton" existed in the Alabasta Kingdom... Therefore, he accepted the title of Shichibukai and has been stationed in the Alabasta Kingdom for a long time.
In order to seize Pluton and build an ideal land with great power, he began to feign good deeds and act throughout this country, hunting Pirates, deeply embedding the image of a hero in people's hearts. Thus, Crocodile acted for over ten years, becoming the great hero of the Alabasta Kingdom, accumulating extremely high prestige among the populace.
Although the ancient weapon "Pluton" had still not been found, the framework for implementing his ideal land plan was basically set up.
Therefore, a year ago, he began to use his Logia-type sand-sand fruit ability to absorb moisture throughout the Alabasta Kingdom, causing the land to dry up, and secretly used dancing powder, constantly depleting the water vapor in the sky, causing the entire Alabasta Kingdom to fall into drought.
Crocodile had been relentless. His sand-sand fruit ability whipped up artificial sandstorms across the kingdom with disturbing regularity, burying crops under shifting dunes and turning the drought into a full-blown catastrophe.
Not content with natural devastation, he'd orchestrated the Alubarna dancing powder scandal through Baroque Works—a calculated move to undermine King Cobra's rule. Yet...
Against all odds, Cobra had weathered the storm. Years of goodwill and steady leadership let him quell public unrest, implementing drought relief measures that temporarily soothed the people's anger.
Crocodile adjusted his strategy accordingly. His spies embedded in the royal bureaucracy sabotaged relief efforts, ensuring funds vanished without results. Meanwhile, agents within the Kingdom Army stoked tensions between soldiers and civilians, chipping away at trust in the monarchy. The result? A hundred thousand rebels now simmered with discontent.
A few more years of this, Crocodile mused, and even Cobra's wisdom wouldn't save him. The people would rise. And when they did—
As Alabasta's revered hero, he'd maneuver himself onto the throne. Pluton's location would inevitably surface with an entire nation at his disposal. Or so he'd believed.
Then the rains came.
Three days ago, the unthinkable happened. Torrential downpours drenched the kingdom—not once, but three times in as many days. His carefully cultivated drought? His narrative of royal incompetence? Washed away in an instant.
Now the streets ran with water, and with it, the truth: Cobra hadn't hoarded dancing powder. The lie collapsed under the weight of actual rain. Crocodile's jaw clenched as he stared out the window, his reflection warped by rivulets on the glass.
"Miss All Sunday," he growled, not turning. "Explain this. Three days. Three deluges. And your people still have nothing?"
Behind him, the woman in purple leather leaned against a pillar, her half-mask catching the dim light. A smirk played at the edge of her lips. "The Millions finally reported. Those storms weren't natural. The Umbrella Corporation's machines created them."
"Machines?" Crocodile whirled, eyes narrowing. "Dancing powder variants?"
She shook her head, black hair swaying. "Seawater conversion. They generate rainclouds artificially."
A muscle twitched in Crocodile's temple. "The Umbrella Corporation," he spat. "They dare interfere now?" His fist slammed against the windowsill, sending cracks spiderwebbing through the glass. "What's your move?"
"Recall Mr. 5 from his mission. Have him dismantle those machines—quietly." His voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "They've ruined years of planning. This won't stand."
Miss All Sunday tilted her head. "A word of caution, Mr. 0. The Umbrella Corporation isn't some petty syndicate. Carl D. Sephiroth sits at its helm..."
"Tell Mr. 5, who is out on a mission, to immediately return..." Crocodile's snarl cut through the downpour's drumbeat. The rest hung unspoken in the air, heavy with threat.
Here's the polished version with improved flow and natural English while preserving all content:
---
Given the scale of Baroque Works, provoking the Umbrella Corporation seems unwise. We should lay low for now..." Miss All Sunday's voice carried something indefinable when she spoke the name "Carl D. Sephiroth"—longing, perhaps, or something deeper. Crocodile caught the subtle shift in her demeanor.
His eyes darkened with a flicker of menace. "Nico Robin," he growled, "do you no longer care about your precious poneglyphs? We had an agreement. You work for me, and I help you find them."
Faced with his sudden anger—and the rare use of her true name—Miss All Sunday laughed softly.
She shook her head. "Never. The poneglyphs are my life's work."
"Then follow orders," Crocodile snapped. "Understood?"
"Perfectly." Nico Robin turned on her heel. "I'll relay your instructions now." Without another word, she stepped through the ornate doors, leaving the opulent chamber behind.
The corridor stretched before her, its silence broken only by the click of her heels. As she walked, her thoughts churned:
Crocodile still clings to his delusions of ruling Alabasta. But where are this kingdom's poneglyphs hidden? If I can find them soon, I might finally escape his grasp.
He'd always seen her as a tool, just as she'd never trusted him. Their alliance was exhausting—a web of schemes and mutual exploitation. All I ever wanted was to study history. Yet again, the image of that silver-haired man surfaced in her mind.
Her fingers drifted to the faded white half-mask covering her face. Those days with him had been the brightest since Ohara's destruction. No fear. No hunger. Just safety, and the freedom to learn.
Even after parting ways, his influence lingered. The resources he'd secured allowed her to survive—no, to live—without returning to the streets. And this mask, his gift, had never left her side.
If I were to meet him again one day, I wonder if he would still remember the little stray cat he took care of for a while? A faint, wistful smile curved her lips at the thought.
---