The days at sea melted into one another, a serene interlude of celestial travel. Under Nami's divine guidance as the Angel of Tempests, the voyage was unnaturally smooth.
The Heavenly Map in her mind's eye charted not just the physical waters but the currents of fate and naval patrols.
She effortlessly navigated around swirling maelstroms, through treacherous fog banks that parted like theater curtains before the Tidereaver's bow, and, most crucially, on a course that perpetually skirted a specific, chillingly cold signature she identified in her fate-mapping as Admiral Aokiji.
The Navy's lazy justice never even caught a glimpse of their sails, thwarted by a navigator who could literally see misfortune on the horizon and steer clear of it.
The first sight of Water Seven's iconic fountain and rising aqua-blue rooftops was met with palpable relief and excitement.
Even for a crew of burgeoning gods, the endless blue of the sea could grow monotonous. The city of shipwrights bustled with life, the air filled with the sounds of hammers, saws, and the cheerful shouts of the Galley-La Company workers.
As the Tidereaver glided smoothly into a vacant dock, Ragnar stood at the rail, his golden eyes surveying the city with a conqueror's calm. With a casual gesture, he extended a hand towards the magnificent vessel.
The air around the ship wavered, like heat haze off desert sand, and with a soft, sucking sound, the entire Tidereaver vanished from the port, stored safely within the infinite expanse of his Heaven Dimension.
The sudden empty space in the harbor caused a momentary stir among nearby dockworkers, who rubbed their eyes in confusion.
"Alright," Ragnar's voice cut through the chatter, his tone leaving no room for debate. "We have business. Nami." The orange-haired angel straightened, her invisible storm-wings subtly rustling.
"Take Zoro and Kuro. Find a reputable, or disreputable, I don't care, buyer and exchange our Sky Island gold. Zoro, you are her sword. Kuro, you are her foresight. Ensure the transaction is... efficient."
Nami grinned, the expression predatory and thrilled. "Leave it to me!" she chirped, already mentally calculating the best exchange rates her Celestial Cartography could discern from the city's economic 'currents'.
Zoro grunted in acknowledgment, his new invisible blade-like wings humming faintly, while Kuro simply adjusted his glasses, his invisible Calculus Dominion halo already passively analyzing the crowd for threats and optimal paths.
"Bartolomeo, Wyper, you're with me," Ragnar continued. The fanatical barrier-user puffed his chest out with pride, while Wyper, his dial-based weapons checked and ready, gave a firm, stoic nod.
Robin, Isabella, and Nojiko stood together, an ethereal trio of breathtaking beauty and power.
"The rest of you," Ragnar said, his gaze softening imperceptibly as it fell upon them, "see to supplies. Enjoy the city. But if there is any trouble, any at all, you tell me." It was not a suggestion, it was a law of nature.
Robin smiled, a slow, knowing curve of her lips. The memory of his kiss and the immense power he had vested in her as the Angel of Truth warmed her.
"We will, my love," she said, her voice layered with the quiet confidence of one who could unravel any lie. With that, the three women turned and melted into the flowing crowds, a vision of grace and latent, unimaginable power.
Ragnar, with Bartolomeo and Wyper flanking him, began to walk. His Observation Haki, now refined to a god-like acuity, flowed out from him like an invisible tide, washing over the city.
He felt the pulse of thousands of lives, the simple joys, the hidden sorrows, the petty crimes, and the sharp, disciplined, and utterly malicious intent concentrated in one particular building, a small, unassuming tavern tucked away on a side street.
'A nest of vipers.' A small, cruel smile touched his lips. Perfect.
He led his two companions directly to it. The sign above the door was faded, reading 'Cafe de la Mer'. Pushing the door open, the bell jingled, and the cozy, dimly lit interior fell into a dead silence.
Every patron, from the burly shipwrights to the sly information brokers, froze, their drinks halfway to their lips. They all recognized him.
The stark light blue hair, the golden eyes, the aura of absolute authority, this was Ragnar, the Sea Scourge, the man who had defied the World Government and rained divine judgment upon the warlord Crocodile.
Behind the bar, a large, stoic man with a strangely squared-off beard was polishing a glass. This was Blueno, and for a fraction of a second, his meticulously controlled composure shattered.
The glass in his hand nearly slipped, his eyes widening in sheer, undiluted shock before his CP9 training slammed a mask of bland neutrality back into place. This was not in the calculations. The target had walked into the trap of its own volition.
"Welcome," Blueno said, his voice a practiced, emotionless monotone. "What can I get for you?"
Ragnar took a seat at the bar, Bartolomeo standing protectively just behind his right shoulder, his gaze sweeping the room with open hostility. Wyper stood on his left, a grounded, earthy presence compared to Bartolomeo's radiant fervor.
"Three glasses of your best whiskey. Leave the bottle," Ragnar commanded, his voice casual yet carrying the weight of an emperor.
Blueno gave a curt nod. "Of course." He moved with deliberate slowness, fetching the bottle and three glasses, placing them before Ragnar.
As he set them down, his movements were flawless, but Ragnar's smile only widened. To his enhanced perception, Blueno's every muscle was screaming with tension, his heart rate a controlled but frantic drumbeat.
The bartender's eyes flickered towards a door behind the bar, a clear, calculated tell.
"Enjoy," Blueno said, before turning and, with an air of forced nonchalance, disappearing through the door into the back room.
The moment the door swung shut, Ragnar closed his eyes, focusing his Haki. The world outside the tavern faded. He could hear the distant cries of gulls, the rumble of aqua currents, but he filtered it all out, focusing on the small room behind the bar.
He saw Blueno, not with his eyes, but with his mind, a clear, sharp image of the man grabbing a Den Den Mushi, his finger dialing with urgent precision.
The connection clicked. A voice, cold, arrogant, and laced with bored superiority, came through the snail's receiver. It was a voice Ragnar knew from the anime he had watched, Rob Lucci.
"Blueno. Is there anything to report?"
"The situation has changed, Lucci," Blueno's hushed, tense voice replied. "Vortex D. Ragnar is here. He just walked into the tavern."
There was a pause on the other end, then a low, intrigued hum. "Is that so? The Sea Scourge himself, delivering his head on a platter. And the woman? Nico Robin?"
"She must be with him, along with his crew. They've split up in the city."
"Good. This simplifies things. Do not engage Ragnar directly. That is my privilege. Your orders remain: observe. Keep watch on the Sea Scourge. Let him enjoy his last drink."
"Our primary objective is unchanged. We isolate and acquire Nico Robin. Her knowledge is the key. Once we have her, we will deal with her captain and his upstart crew. Understood?"
Blueno nodded, a grim expression on his face that Ragnar could clearly 'see'. "Understood. I will maintain surveillance."
The Den Den Mushi clattered as the connection was severed. Ragnar listened to the sound of Blueno taking a steadying breath, his heartbeat slowly returning to its trained, sluggish rhythm. He heard the soft creak of the door as Blueno prepared to re-enter the main room.
Ragnar opened his eyes, the small, knowing smile still playing on his lips. He was confused about where Rob Lucci got his confidence to speak of him like this.
He chuckled as he picked up his glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the dim light. He took a slow, deliberate sip, the warmth spreading through his chest. Bartolomeo and Wyper watched him, sensing the shift in his demeanor but saying nothing.
The door behind the bar opened and Blueno stepped out, his face once again a blank slate. He resumed his position, mechanically polishing another glass, his eyes occasionally flicking towards Ragnar with the detached interest of a bartender watching a regular.
Everything was proceeding exactly as he had foreseen. The puppets were dancing on their strings, believing themselves to be the puppet masters. They thought they were hunters observing their prey.
They had no idea that the prey had fangs that could shatter the world, and that their carefully laid trap was nothing more than a stage that Ragnar had willingly stepped onto, eager for the performance to begin.
He took another sip of his drink, the taste of fine whiskey mingling with the sweet anticipation of the violence to come.