Kuzan, seated deep within the shadows, let his gaze flicker ever so faintly as he watched Blackbeard's confident display. The movement was subtle—so subtle it might have been missed entirely—but it carried a quiet weight.
At that moment, a voice rang out from the heavy doors of the hall.
Low. Flat. Completely devoid of emotion.
"Captain. He's here."
The speaker was Van Augur.
Leaning against the doorway, he held his long sniper rifle upright, his expression as lifeless as ever—those perpetually dull, fish-like eyes betraying nothing.
Yet the simple words—"He's here"—
made every officer in the hall freeze.
"—!"
In an instant, Shiryu's cold menace, Devon's amused curiosity, Samuel's shadowed depth, Burgess's confusion, even Pizarro—barely managing to lift his head—turned as one.
All eyes shifted from Van Augur's impassive face…
to the throne at the center of the hall.
Blackbeard's smug grin slowly faded. He rose from his massive chair, spreading his arms wide in an exaggerated gesture of welcome. His voice boomed, thick with forced enthusiasm.
"Oh? My distinguished guest has finally arrived!"
His lips curled into a wide, gap-toothed grin as his eyes locked onto the shadowed doorway.
"Then don't just stand there—get in here already!"
"I've been waiting… a long time for this!"
He deliberately dragged out the last words. And then—
under the breathless attention of everyone present—
he spoke the name, slowly, clearly, each syllable striking like a hammer against their hearts.
"Red-Hair…"
"!!"
"Red-Hair?!"
"Shanks?!"
"Wasn't he captured by Heavenquake?!"
"How could he be here?!"
Shock detonated across the minds of every officer.
And then—
with Blackbeard's laughter still echoing—
a figure stepped forward from the shadows beside Van Augur.
Calm. Measured. Unhurried.
The flickering torchlight traced his outline—
a tall, straight-backed figure.
Striking crimson hair.
A handsome face.
And a dark, impeccably tailored suit that carried the refined air of an aristocrat from a bygone era.
When his features were fully revealed under the firelight—
"—!"
A collective gasp rippled through the hall.
Even Shiryu—ever composed—tightened his grip on the hilt of Raiu without realizing it.
Devon covered her mouth, eyes wide with shock.
Samuel's gaze narrowed behind his mask.
Burgess's jaw dropped wide enough to fit a fist.
Red-Hair Shanks?!
No…
No, that wasn't right.
Look closer—
Though the resemblance was uncanny, almost as if carved from the same mold…
their presence was completely different.
Shanks carried a free-spirited ease tempered by the quiet authority of a king.
But this man…
His gaze was colder.
Sharper.
Filled with an innate arrogance—a detached superiority, as if he were looking down on insects beneath his feet.
His movements were rigid, each step measured to unnatural precision, exuding a sense of order so strict it felt suffocating.
A presence that inspired not admiration—
but discomfort.
Saint Figarland Shamrock.
"Surprised?"
Blackbeard's grin twisted with satisfaction at the stunned expressions of his crew.
"When I first saw him, I looked just like you lot!"
He bared his teeth, laughing loudly.
"For a second, I thought that bastard Red-Hair had broken out—or picked up some kind of clone ability! Zehahaha!"
But Shamrock did not respond to the theatrics.
He didn't even acknowledge the infamous pirates surrounding him.
Instead—
he stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
His pace was steady, yet each movement carried an undeniable pressure—like an invisible weight pressing down on the room.
He crossed the hall without hesitation…
and stopped just a few paces before Blackbeard's throne.
Lifting his chin slightly, he looked down at Blackbeard with calm, icy indifference.
And spoke.
"Truly… a despicable creature."
"Blackbeard. Marshall D. Teach."
No embellishment.
No restraint.
Just a blunt, cutting statement that landed like a slap across the face.
In an instant, the illusion of control Blackbeard had built shattered completely.
The atmosphere in the hall plunged to freezing.
Shiryu's hand tightened fully around his sword.
Devon's eyes turned cold.
The other officers bristled with anger.
Who did this man think he was—
daring to speak to their captain like that?!
Blackbeard's expression darkened as well, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes.
Yet he didn't explode.
Instead, he forced a crooked smile, leaning forward slightly, his massive shadow looming over Shamrock as his tone sharpened with provocation.
"Oh? Despicable? Heh…"
He clicked his tongue.
"When you stood in front of Heavenquake Gern…"
"…did you talk with that same high-and-mighty tone?"
He emphasized the name deliberately.
Gern.
The man who had just dragged Shamrock's brother away like a dead dog.
The comparison was deliberate.
Cruel.
A calculated jab meant to pierce straight into the heart.
And yet—
Shamrock's expression did not change.
Not in the slightest.
Faced with the sharp provocation, he merely let out a faint, dismissive sound through his nose.
"…Hmph."
And that was all.
No denial.
No admission.
No anger.
He didn't even spare Blackbeard an extra glance.
That absolute indifference—
more than any insult—
laid bare the depth of his arrogance.
As if Blackbeard himself…
along with his question…
were nothing more than insignificant dust.
"…Tch."
Blackbeard clicked his tongue, hitting an invisible wall.
He was used to dealing in power, fear, and profit—tools that bent others to his will.
But this—
this was something different.
A higher form of disdain.
A contempt rooted not in strength alone, but in bloodline and status.
It left him with nothing to grasp onto.
And it only deepened his irritation.
Still, he refused to lose control of the situation—especially here, in his own territory.
So Blackbeard studied Shamrock's face—
that face so eerily similar to Shanks—
his gaze lingering deliberately on the man's perfectly intact left eye.
Then, suddenly, he grinned.
A malicious glint flashing in his eyes.
"You really do look alike…"
"…what, twins or something?"
He chuckled darkly, before lifting a hand and pointing lazily toward Shamrock's left eye.
"But it's a shame…"
"You're missing…"
"…the scar."
He was referring, of course, to the three claw marks across Shanks' left eye.
For the first time—
Shamrock's expression shifted.
Not anger.
But something colder.
A sharp, instinctive revulsion—like something filthy had dared to brush against something sacred.
He turned his gaze fully toward Blackbeard, eyes cutting like blades.
"Filthy creature."
His voice dropped even lower.
"You…"
"…are no Heavenquake."
The implication was unmistakable.
You do not possess Gern's strength… nor his right to judge me.
Blackbeard's grin widened at that.
Instead of anger, he fired back instantly, his eyes sweeping over Shamrock with deliberate mockery.
"And you…"
"…are no Heavenquake, either."
The meaning was just as clear.
You're not Gern. You don't get to posture in front of me.
And compared to the 'brother' who got dragged away… you're not even worth mentioning.