Back in the dim, smoky confines of the tavern, the atmosphere was a study in deceptive calm. Ragnar sat at the bar, slowly swirling the amber whiskey in his glass, his golden eyes half-lidded but seeing everything.
Bartolomeo stood rigidly behind him, a statue of zealous vigilance, while Wyper leaned against the wall near the door, his posture deceptively relaxed, his senses attuned to the subtle currents of the city outside.
Ragnar's consciousness, however, was not confined to the four walls of the Cafe de la Mer. Through the divine link he shared with his Archangels, a connection woven into the very fabric of their ascension, he was a silent, unseen observer to the events unfolding across Water Seven.
He watched, with a creator's pride, as Kuro's Calculus Dominion mapped the Franky Family's predictable aggression, as Zoro's Heaven-Cleaving Edge dismantled their bravado without even drawing blood, and as Nami's storm-tempered will effortlessly subdued the rest.
But it was a specific moment that truly captured his attention and sparked a new, profound line of thought. When Franky unleashed his Coup de Vent, Ragnar felt the minute shift in the metaphysical energy around Kuro.
He saw, through Kuro's own eyes, the strategist's mind accessing the power of the Heavens Mark. But instead of retrieving an object, Kuro had done something far more ingenious.
He had reached through the dimension, not to pull something out, but to project something in. A conduit was formed, a temporary bridge, and through it flowed the unwavering faith of Bartolomeo.
The result was the sudden, flawless manifestation of the Divine Barrier, a golden wing of devotion materializing half a city away to intercept the attack.
A slow, intrigued smile spread across Ragnar's lips. He took a deliberate sip of his whiskey. 'Fascinating' he mused inwardly.
'I gifted them these powers, shaped their souls into these specific archetypes, but I viewed their abilities as separate instruments in my orchestra. I am the conductor, but I had not considered… picking up the violin myself.'
The idea was audacious, revolutionary. The Angelic powers were extensions of his own divine will, awakened by him and fueled by the celestial energy he commanded.
If Kuro could use the Heaven Dimension as a conduit to project Bartolomeo's power across a distance, what was stopping Ragnar, the source of it all, from doing the same?
What if he could not just command his angels, but wield their unique abilities directly? He could become a one-man pantheon, layering Zoro's cutting will over his own strikes, seeing the world through Kuro's probability-altering equations, or commanding the skies with Nami's innate authority.
The tactical implications were staggering. It was a synergy he had not anticipated, a hidden depth to his own divinity. He filed the thought away, a mental note etched in lightning and ambition: Experiment with Angelic Symbiosis. Later.
Across the room, Blueno felt a cold sweat break out on his brow. He had been watching Ragnar's subtle, knowing smile, and a spike of primal fear had lanced through him.
Had he been discovered? His training screamed that it was a coincidence, a predator amusing itself with private thoughts, but the instinct was undeniable. Then, he had felt it, a faint, almost imperceptible drain on his own energy, a flicker of something being used.
He didn't understand it, but he associated it with the green-haired fanatic, Bartolomeo, who had momentarily glowed with an intense, focused light before returning to his vigilant stance.
Blueno was certain some power had been activated, aimed at him. He braced for an attack, his muscles coiling to activate his Door-Door Fruit and escape into the safety of his air-door dimension.
But nothing happened. The moment passed. Bartolomeo stood as still as before. The shield, or whatever it was, never appeared.
The tension dissipated, leaving only bewildered confusion. Why would they activate a power and not use it? It made no tactical sense.
The inconsistency gnawed at him, a variable his CP9-trained mind couldn't reconcile. This deviation from expected hostile action was, in its own way, more alarming than a direct assault.
Feeling exposed and unsettled, Blueno decided he could wait no longer. He had to report this anomaly to Lucci. The Sea Scourge was not behaving predictably, and that made him exponentially more dangerous.
With a practiced show of wiping down a clean glass, he nodded to his part-time barkeep and retreated once more through the door to the back room, his heart a controlled but frantic drum in his chest.
The moment the door clicked shut, Ragnar's smile returned, colder this time. He gave a barely perceptible nod to Wyper.
In the back room, Blueno moved with urgency. He grabbed the Den Den Mushi, his finger poised to dial the secure frequency.
Though, he never made contact. There was no sound, no warning, only a blinding, actinic flash of white-hot light that erupted from the device itself.
A perfectly contained bolt of lightning, summoned from the very air in the room, surged through the shell of the snail.
There was a sizzling pop, a wisp of smoke, and the distinct, sickening smell of burnt flesh and ozone. The Den Den Mushi was dead, fried instantly from the inside out.
Blueno stared, his mind reeling. 'Lighting? Here?!' He had no time to process it. His body moved on pure instinct, his finger aiming to push against the air to create a door…
But, he never completed the motion.
Wyper did not run or leap at him, he simply became lightning. His form dissolved into a crackling stream of pure, blue-white energy that crossed the small room in a nanosecond.
The energy reconstituted not into a man, but into the roaring, serpentine form of a dragon woven from storm clouds and electricity, his Lightning Dragon technique. It didn't roar, it hissed like a thousand angry snakes, its maw gaping wide.
It didn't aim to kill, but to incapacitate. The dragon's fangs, made of concentrated voltage, slammed into Blueno's chest and shoulder, not piercing flesh but delivering a catastrophic, system-overloading shock.
"GYAAAGH!" Blueno screamed, a raw, involuntary sound as every nerve in his body lit on fire. His muscles seized, his vision whited out. The pain was absolute, a tidal wave of agony designed to shatter concentration. Yet, the man was a CP9 elite.
Through sheer, brutal willpower, through years of hellish training, his spasming finger twitched, trying once more to make contact with the air, to find purchase in the dimension of doors.
It was his last conscious act.
Wyper, now fully materialized, was upon him. He didn't use a weapon. His leg, sheathed in crackling lightning, became a blur.
The Lightning Kick connected with the side of Blueno's head with a sickening 'CRACK-THOOM' that was part breaking bone and part thunderclap. The force of the blow, combined with another surge of electrocution, was terminal to consciousness.
Blueno's eyes rolled back, his body went limp, and he collapsed to the floor in a smoldering, twitching heap.
The door to the main room opened and Ragnar stepped through, Bartolomeo following close behind. Ragnar closed the door softly, his gaze sweeping over the scene, the dead Den Den Mushi, the unconscious and brutally defeated CP9 agent.
"Amazing, Wyper," Ragnar said, his voice filled with genuine approval.
"You have mastered the fruit well. The Rumble-Rumble Fruit really does suit you. You move not like a man who wields lightning, but as the storm itself." It was high praise, acknowledging that Wyper was on the cusp of the mastery required for his own angelic ascension.
"Thanks, Captain," Wyper said, a rare, fierce smile gracing his features as he stood over his vanquished foe.
Ragnar nodded, then turned to Bartolomeo. Without a word being spoken, the fanatical angel reached into a small pouch at his belt and produced a perfect, red apple.
He knew. He always knew what his captain desired. Ragnar took the apple, his fingers closing around its smooth skin.
He knelt beside Blueno's unconscious form. He placed the apple gently on the man's chest. Then, he pressed his palm over both the apple and the man's heart.
A soft, ethereal light began to emanate from his hand, quickly intensifying into a brilliant, complex magic circle that bloomed across the floor, enveloping them both.
The air hummed with the sound of tearing fate, of fundamental laws being rewritten. This was his Ability Deprivation, the terrifying power to steal the very essence of a Devil Fruit user.
The circle pulsed with blinding light, the energies focusing on the point of contact. The apple began to change. Its vibrant red skin swirled, the color shifting and morphing until it settled into a pattern of swirling whites and greys, with a stem that looked like a tiny, stylized doorknob.
The power of the Door-Door Fruit, the ability to open portals in space, air, and even flesh, had been extracted from Blueno's soul and imprinted onto the humble fruit.
The light faded. Ragnar picked up the newly transformed Devil Fruit, examining it for a moment before willing it away into his Heaven Dimension. A useful tool, a versatile power added to his arsenal.
He stood, looking down at the lifeless body of Blueno. The man was still breathing, but he was hollowed out, a shell stripped of his defining power. He was no longer a threat, no longer of any value.
Ragnar turned and led the way back into the main tavern. The few patrons who had witnessed Wyper's lightning-fast entry and the subsequent commotion were staring, their faces pale with terror.
They had seen too much. They knew who he was, and now they had seen his crew's brutal efficiency.
They opened their mouths to scream, to beg, to flee.
They never got the chance.
Ragnar didn't even look at them. He simply… exhaled. An invisible wave of pure, undilated will exploded from him. It was not a blast, but a pressure, a suffocating weight of supreme authority that shook the very air. Conqueror's Haki.
The patrons' eyes rolled back into their heads in perfect unison. They slumped over their tables, slid from their stools, and collapsed to the floor, knocked into a deep, dreamless unconsciousness.
The tavern fell into an utter, profound silence, broken only by the soft drip of a tap and the faint crackle of energy still lingering around Wyper.
Leaving the scene of stunned bodies and one spiritually murdered agent behind, Ragnar, Bartolomeo, and Wyper stepped out into the Water Seven afternoon as if they had just enjoyed a quiet drink.
The city bustled on, blissfully unaware of the ancient weapons drawings now secured, the CP9 cell neutralized, and the god in its midst who had just conceived a new way to wield the divine.