For three days, Shirakawa sat motionless before Roger's grave.
Wind. Sun. Rain. None of it could pull him from his vigil.
And for three days, the meteorologists of Weatheria were scared out of their wits. When had a grave appeared on their island? And when they read the name on the headstone, the fear turned to outright panic.
Good God. Not only had a grave appeared—it was the grave of Gol D. Roger, the Pirate King.
They knew who Roger was, of course. They knew he'd been executed. What they *didn't* know was that someone had managed to steal his body right out from under the Marines' noses.
They'd wanted to ask Shirakawa what in the world had happened—how he'd pulled Roger's corpse away from an execution site—but More stopped them. Now was not the time to press the captain with questions.
The meteorologists seemed to read the room, too. They could see Shirakawa's mood was foul, and they let the matter drop. Deep down, they were still afraid of him. If they truly angered the man, they'd be in for a world of hurt they couldn't walk away from.
At last, the three days passed.
Shirakawa rose to his feet, slow and deliberate. The moment More saw him move, he sprinted over.
"Captain, are you alright?" More asked, genuine worry threading his voice. He was terrified Shirakawa might do something reckless.
"Don't worry. I'm fine." Shirakawa smiled, but to More's eyes, the smile looked paper-thin.
"Tell them this. No one is to set foot near this place. Ever. If they do, I won't be merciful."
When he spoke those words, a thread of killing intent laced his tone. More felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"Understood. I'll pass it along."
More's voice was grave. He didn't doubt it for a second—if anyone desecrated Roger's grave, Shirakawa would kill them. Dead, without hesitation.
And More wasn't the only one worried. Every member of the Silver Pirates was anxious about their captain. They all desperately wanted to know how he was holding up. Whether he was truly okay.
The problem was, none of them had any idea where Shirakawa was. Their only line of communication was the Transponder Snail More carried.
"Captain, the rest of the crew is worried sick about you."
"Then tell them I'm fine. And more importantly—tell them to train. Hard. If we meet again in five years and they're no stronger than they are now, there's no reason for them to stay in this crew."
"Yes, Captain. I'll relay your words to everyone."
"Mm." Shirakawa's reply was flat. Barely a sound.
"Captain, do you have a plan now?"
"I'm going to Water 7. I'll commission the best shipwright there to build us a ship—our own ship. After that, I'll come back and resume training."
"Then let me come with you," More said quickly.
"No. Stay here and study. I'll be back soon enough. Besides, right now you'd only get in my way."
"…Understood."
The word came out quiet. Deflated. More couldn't help but feel it—the captain had changed. He'd grown colder. Distant. Like a door had closed somewhere behind those eyes.
With his instructions given, Shirakawa stepped off the edge of Weatheria and dropped into the sky.
"Is he gone?" The meteorologists emerged from Haredas's house, peering toward More.
"Yeah. He's gone."
"Thank heavens." At those two words, the meteorologists collectively exhaled, hands pressed to their chests. For the past two days, every time they'd come within a certain distance of Shirakawa, they'd felt a suffocating pressure bearing down on them.
One by one, they walked over to Roger's grave and paid their respects. They didn't know much about the man personally, but anyone who'd earned the title of Pirate King had to be someone extraordinary. Someone worthy of respect.
"By the way—where did your captain go? When will he be back?"
After the offerings were made, Haredas turned to More.
"I don't know. But I get the feeling it'll be a while."
Shirakawa had said Water 7, but More suspected his captain's true purpose wasn't so simple.
---
The moment Shirakawa broke through the cloud layer and entered the Blue Sea, he noticed the difference immediately.
Before, he was lucky to spot a single pirate crew in an hour of flight. Now, he was crossing paths with one every ten minutes.
He even spotted a pirate fleet—several crews sailing in formation. Shirakawa let out a cold laugh at the sight. Were they that eager to die?
A fleet like that would paint a target on their backs for the Marines. If they wanted to make a name for themselves that badly, they shouldn't complain when the world obliged.
Shirakawa dropped casually into a small port town and purchased a Log Pose set to Water 7. Getting lost on the open sea would be an annoying waste of time.
But just as he was about to leave, the very pirate fleet he'd flown over earlier dropped anchor in the same town.
Every face on those ships was alight with excitement, anticipation—and just a flicker of fear. They were about to do something big. Something that would shake the world and make their names legendary.
The fleet was a coalition—one veteran crew at the helm, surrounded by a handful of rookie crews.
The veteran captain was clever, at least. He'd used the chaos of the new era to swell his ranks quickly, building a fleet with genuine muscle.
And with that muscle came ambition. He wanted fame. And the fastest road to fame was an act so audacious the whole world would have no choice but to remember his name.
"Pirates! Pirates are here!"
A townsman's scream shattered the afternoon calm, and panic rippled through the streets like a wave.
These pirates radiated malice. The townsfolk knew they stood no chance—they could only run, flooding toward the far end of town in a desperate scramble for survival.
"Boys! Kill them all! Everything in this town belongs to us now!"
Hundreds of men poured off the dozen-odd ships, weapons drawn. They watched the fleeing residents the way a butcher watches lambs—patient, hungry, amused.
"If the captain knew what his Great Pirate Era would produce… he'd be disappointed."
Shirakawa wasn't the type to meddle in other people's business. But this mess had landed squarely in his path. And that made it his business.
He drew his blade.
A single slash of sword aura carved a crimson road through the pirate ranks. Every man caught in its path dropped dead before his brain could register what had happened.
"Who—what the hell?!" The veteran captain's composure shattered. What was that? How had half his men just *vanished?*
"If the Pirate King could see the kind of scum his era spawned… I imagine he'd regret lighting the fuse."
Shirakawa didn't answer the captain. He spoke to no one. To the wind. To Roger.
"Who the hell do you think you are? Piss off before you get yourself killed! Nobody asked you to run your mouth!" A rookie pirate stepped forward, brave and stupid in equal measure.
He finished the sentence.
Then his body exploded.
"W-What just happened?!" The pirates standing beside him recoiled, faces white with horror. He'd just been *there*, and then he wasn't. No warning. No movement. Just red mist where a man used to be.
"N-No… impossible. How are you here? The Marines killed you! You're *dead!*"
The veteran captain had recognized him. His face twisted in terror, his voice cracking.
"I came specifically to send you down to keep the captain company. Men like you…" Shirakawa's eyes were empty. "I'm sure he'd enjoy teaching you a lesson or two."
And then the slaughter began.
It didn't take long. Not long at all. Within moments, not a single man stood before him. Not one.
When it was over, Shirakawa sheathed his blade and rose into the sky. The Marines would send someone to clean up the mess. And he couldn't afford to be seen. Not yet.
/-\
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