The wind and the currents were in their favor.
Cracker removed his thick gloves, spreading open his calloused palms to let the midnight sea breeze wash over them.
Ever since Mama had given the order for the fleet to accelerate, it was as if the entire sea itself was pushing them forward.
The wind wasn't just favorable—it was fierce, like a roaring furnace driving the ships ahead.
They hadn't even stopped to resupply; the fleet's own logistics were enough to sustain their rapid advance.
The Big Mom Pirates' formation had subtly shifted as well.
Katakuri's ship led at the front, cutting through the waves and standing ready to face any surprise attack.
Smoothie and Cracker's ships flanked the Tart Ship on either side, guarding the fleet's core.
As for Perospero…
Mama didn't want to see him—or listen to his endless chatter—so she'd sent him to the rear, ordering him to make sure the ships behind kept pace.
If they failed to keep up, Perospero himself would be punished. The stretched-out formation was giving him a major headache.
But without Perospero's doomsaying, things were just as Mama had foreseen—smooth sailing.
In a single day and night, the Big Mom Pirates had covered a distance that normally took two full days.
By tomorrow afternoon, Katakuri's ship was expected to reach the waters of Davy Jones' territory—and perhaps even clash with one of his small raiding parties.
Even so, Mama had decided the fleet would rest for a day on a nearby island before engaging Davy Jones in a full-scale battle.
She'd instructed Katakuri not to fight to the death if he encountered the enemy—just regroup with the main force.
The waves rolled endlessly under a dim, clouded moon. The night was far from over.
Cracker pulled on his gloves again, hefted his longsword and biscuit shield, and with his rugged, broad face—the same one on his 860-million-Berry wanted poster—he began his final round of inspection for the night.
But anyone who knew him well understood that this "face" was just a disguise.
The burly, rough exterior suited his public image, but his real appearance was much younger and more refined.
Cracker's true body was that of a tall, well-built man.
Still, he preferred to hide behind the "Biscuit Warrior" persona—he felt safer that way.
Even as one of the Sweet Commanders, Cracker was often plagued by insecurity.
Just then, he noticed a lookout standing at the rail, yawning and dozing on his feet. His expression hardened.
"Stand up straight!" Cracker barked. "What kind of sight are you making yourself?"
The lookout, jolted awake, dropped to his knees in terror. "M–Master Cracker! I—I—"
"If I catch you slacking again, I'll cut off your head and hang it from the mast. Got it?"
The terrified guard looked up, his face full of relief. "Understood! Thank you, Cracker-sama! I'll never do it again!"
Cracker kicked him to the deck in mild punishment, then turned and strode back toward his cabin.
Once inside, still clad in biscuit armor and with sword and shield in hand, he couldn't stifle a yawn.
He was exhausted.
Cracker knew full well that the fleet's acceleration came with a price: none of them—Commanders, Ministers, fighters, or soldiers—had gotten proper rest.
Everything had been sacrificed for speed.
Still, as one of the Three Sweet Commanders, Cracker enjoyed certain privileges.
At least he didn't have to stand watch from dawn till midnight like the common sailors.
Their forced march had paid off—Davy Jones' domain was near, and with Katakuri leading the vanguard, Cracker could finally afford a few hours of rest.
He laid down his sword and shield, removed his biscuit armor, and revealed his true self.
His real face was slimmer, marked by a conspicuous scar over his right eye, with long violet hair tied behind him.
The bed creaked as he sank into it, hands behind his head, eyes closed, finally allowing himself to relax.
Soon, exhaustion dragged him into sleep.
But Cracker felt as though no time had passed before someone began shaking him awake.
Blinking sleep from his eyes, he sat up, scowling from the irritation of being disturbed. He was about to lash out when he heard faint explosions outside the cabin—one after another.
He snapped fully awake, jumped to his feet, and grabbed the man by the collar.
"Bobbin! What's going on?"
"Cracker-sama, we're under attack!" stammered the short, round man, his voice trembling. "One of our ships has already been sunk!"
Bobbin the "Debt Collector" was a battle officer of the Big Mom Pirates—responsible for collections and clean-up work—now assigned under Cracker's command.
He wasn't related to "Mama" by blood, but his name still carried weight within the crew.
Cracker threw Bobbin to the floor, seized his sword and shield, and charged out of the room.
By the time he reached the deck, his Biscuit-Biscuit Fruit powers had already formed a solid armor around him.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
On the right flank, the ships under Cracker's command were firing wildly, lighting up the night.
But when he peered into the darkness, he saw no enemy ships at all.
"Where's Davy Jones' fleet?" Cracker demanded, scanning the horizon. "Bobbin! Where are they? What are we even shooting at?"
Bobbin hurried up beside him, clutching his sword. A strip of cloth flapped against his chubby face.
"They're below us," Bobbin said, pointing down with trembling fingers. "The enemy's under the sea."
Cracker froze, staring at him in shock.
Then came a deafening crash—he turned just in time to see the black sea split apart.
From the depths, massive orange tentacles erupted, wrapping around one of their ships. Seawater cascaded down the suckers in shining sheets.
"Sea monsters?!"
No—"Sea Kings!"
The groaning of crushed wood filled the air. The captured ship shattered into pieces amid screams and wails.
The wreckage was dragged beneath the surface, leaving only foaming white waves behind.
Half the crew had leapt overboard, frantically swimming toward nearby ships—only to be pulled under one by one, vanishing beneath the water without a trace.
"Those filthy sea beasts and drowned ghosts!" Cracker snarled, teeth bared. "Fire! Aim at the surface and fire!"
Bobbin hesitated. "But, Cracker-sama—there are still many of our men in the water. If we fire blindly, won't we—"
"I'm the commander here!" Cracker roared, shoving Bobbin to the deck. "You don't get to question me! Fire!"
The gunners obeyed without hesitation. They swung their cannons toward the churning black sea and unleashed a storm of cannonfire.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
The night lit up in blazing flashes—proof not of control, but of panic.
After what felt like an eternity, when no more movement stirred beneath the waves, Cracker finally ordered the bombardment to cease.
Then began the rescue efforts—the grim tally of the dead and missing.
"They got away…" Cracker muttered bitterly through clenched teeth.
Bobbin counted the losses, his face pale, and handed the written report to Cracker with trembling hands.
Cracker's expression darkened as he read.
Two ships lost, dozens of men dead or missing—that was bad enough. But the worst part was the names that appeared among the casualties.
His siblings.
The inseparable twins, Mascarpone and Joscarpone.
Antlered Bassanze.
Bearded Nuge.
Four children of the Charlotte Family—gone in a single night raid.
Cracker's eyes burned red.
There was no excuse—he was responsible.
"Cracker-sama, please… accept my condolences," Bobbin said timidly.
"Condolences?" Cracker exploded, seizing on the nearest outlet for his rage. He kicked Bobbin to the floor again. "How the hell am I supposed to 'accept' that?! Those were my brothers and sisters! Why couldn't it have been you, you useless fool?!"
Bobbin trembled on his knees, unable to utter a word.
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