The lingering aromas of roasted jungle beast and spiced wine still hung heavy in the grand hall, a pleasant ghost of the recently concluded feast.
Ragnar sat beside Hancock, the mountain of empty plates having been cleared away, a testament to his preternatural consumption.
He looked perfectly at ease, one arm draped casually over the back of Hancock's chair, his fingers occasionally tracing idle patterns on the bare skin of her shoulder.
She leaned into the touch, like a purring cat content in her master's presence, her usual haughtiness softened into more warmth.
It was into this peaceful scene that Gloriosa, who had been muttering to herself in a corner while nursing a cup of what she claimed was medicinal wine, suddenly stiffened.
Her eyes flew wide open, and she slapped a hand to her forehead with a loud 'thwack' that drew everyone's attention.
"The summons!" she croaked, her voice cutting through the calm. "The Warlord summons! From Fleet Admiral Sengoku! To assemble at Marineford to face Whitebeard!"
A deadly silence fell over the hall. Hancock's contented expression vanished, replaced by a mask of icy fury so absolute it seemed to drop the temperature in the room by several degrees.
She slowly turned her head, her eyes narrowing into slits that promised petrification.
"And you are only remembering this 'now', you senile old crone?" she hissed, each word dripping with venom.
Gloriosa had the decency to look slightly abashed, though she defended herself stoutly.
"I forgot! This old lady has had too many things rattling around in her skull these days! A new dimension, panicking villagers, a bottomless brat for an Empress... It's a wonder I remember my own name!"
"Hmph!" Hancock snorted, turning her nose up.
"Naturally, we refuse. Send them a den-den mushi message telling them to go drown themselves in the Calm Belt."
Gloriosa nodded in firm agreement. "Of course. With Ragnar's Heavens Dimension, the Marines' threats are as empty as a Celestial Dragon's skull. We have no need of their 'protection' or their title anymore."
But fate, it seemed, was determined to interrupt their idyll. Before any message could be sent, the heavy doors to the hall burst open and a young Kuja warrior, breathing heavily from her sprint, knelt before the dais.
"Hebi-hime-sama!" she panted. "A Marine vessel! A Vice Admiral is at the edge of our territorial waters! He requests an audience with Hebi-hime-sama!"
Hancock shot to her feet so fast her chair screeched backwards. The air around her crackled with palpable rage. "HOW DARE HE!" she roared, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.
"How dare these filthy, insignificant Marines intrude upon my time with my dear!?" Her fists were clenched, her knuckles white.
She was already envisioning the specific, painful manner in which she would send this Vice Admiral to the bottom of the sea.
Seeing her incandescent fury, Ragnar chuckled, a low, warm sound that cut through her anger. He reached out and patted her smooth, raven-black hair, a gesture of such casual intimacy that it stilled her for a moment.
"Go ahead, my love," he said, his tone one of mild amusement and absolute support. "Go and beat him to a pulp."
That was all the motivation she needed. A terrifying, beautiful smile spread across Hancock's face. The energy that had been boiling within her now focused into a sharp, eager edge.
A wave of invisible pressure, Conqueror's Haki, leaked from her for a fraction of a second, causing the candles in the hall to flicker violently and several of the weaker-willed Kuja warriors to sway on their feet.
But with a will of iron, she reined it in, containing the roaring lion of her spirit within its cage. The display was brief, but potent.
"I shall return shortly, my dear," she purred, before turning and striding from the hall with the lethal grace of a panther on the hunt.
As she swept out, Ragnar stood and followed at a more leisurely pace, a thoughtful expression on his face. 'I'd forgotten she possessed conquerors haki,' he mused, watching the proud set of her shoulders.
'Conqueror's Haki. Raw and untrained, but undeniably there. It seems I should focus on honing that during her training.' The potential was immense. A Conqueror who could also turn people to stone with a glance was a truly terrifying prospect.
They boarded Hancock's personal ship, a sleek, serpent-prowed vessel that cut through the water with silent speed.
It wasn't long before the blocky, utilitarian form of a Marine battleship came into view, anchored just outside the treacherous currents surrounding Amazon Lily.
On the deck of that battleship, Vice Admiral Momonga, a man with a stern face and a reputation for reliability, let out a sigh of relief as he saw the Kuja ship approaching.
Dealing with Boa Hancock was always a volatile affair, but at least she had come. Perhaps he could deliver Sengoku's ultimatum and be on his way without incident.
As the two ships drew alongside each other, Momonga called out, projecting his voice across the gap.
"Boa Hancock! By order of Fleet Admiral Sengoku, all Warlords of the Sea are to report to Marineford immediately to confront the Whitebeard Pirates! Failure to participate will result in the immediate revocation of your title and status!"
He expected a haughty refusal, perhaps a volley of insults. He did not expect what happened next.
There was no verbal reply. Only the blur of motion as Hancock launched herself from her ship's railing, crossing the distance between the vessels in a single, breathtaking leap.
Her target wasn't him, but the line of Marines standing behind him.
SLAM!
Her sandaled foot connected with the chest of the nearest soldier with the force of a cannonball.
The man didn't even have time to cry out before he was hurled backwards into his comrades, a tangled, groaning heap of broken bodies and shattered armor.
Momonga's eyes widened in shock. He barely had time to throw himself to the side, drawing his sword in a fluid motion as he landed in a combat crouch.
"Boa Hancock! What is the meaning of this!?" he bellowed, his voice tight with anger and confusion.
"What am I doing!?" Hancock shrieked, landing lightly on the deck as if she owned it. Her beauty was terrifying, a storm of rage contained in a perfect form.
"How dare you filthy Marines interrupt my precious time with my dear!? You are nothing but vermin, and I will crush you all!"
Before Momonga could formulate a response, she struck a pose, one hand on her hip, the other flung behind her head. "Mero Mero Mellow!"
A wave of pink, heart-shaped energy erupted from her, washing over the remaining Marines on the deck.
Their shouts of alarm turned to cries of shock, then to silence, as one by one, they froze in place, their bodies transforming into solid, gray stone.
In seconds, the entire deck, save for Momonga, was a garden of petrified statues, their faces forever locked in expressions of terror.
"You witch!" Momonga snarled, his grip tightening on his sword. He knew he was in a fight for his life.
Hancock didn't give him a chance to strategize. She launched herself at him again, a whirlwind of devastating kicks.
This time, a faint, black shimmer coated her legs and feet, Busoshoku Haki. Momonga met her assault with his own armored blade, the clang of their impacts ringing out like a discordant bell over the silent sea.
Clang! Clang! CLANG!
He was a Headquarters Vice Admiral, a veteran of countless battles, but he found himself utterly on the defensive. Hancock's speed was blinding, her flexibility unnatural.
She flowed around his parries, her kicks coming from impossible angles, high, low, sweeping at his legs, thrusting at his face. Each blow carried the weight of a giant's fist, amplified by her potent Armament Haki.
The deck beneath their feet splintered with every blocked kick. Momonga's arms began to ache from the strain of absorbing the impacts. He was being worn down, relentlessly and efficiently.
In a brief moment of respite, Hancock's gaze flickered towards her own ship. There, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed, was Ragnar.
He wasn't intervening, he was simply watching. And on his face was a look of clear, approving pride.
That single glance was like a shot of adrenaline to her heart. A thrill of pure excitement coursed through her veins.
'He's watching me! He's proud of me!' Her attacks became even more ferocious, a seamless, beautiful, and deadly dance of destruction.
The intensity of her Haki flared, the black coating on her limbs growing denser, darker, more potent. The air itself seemed to thicken around her.
She feinted high, and as Momonga raised his sword to block, she dropped and spun, her leg sweeping out in a low arc that he couldn't avoid.
The hardened kick connected solidly with his ankle. A sickening 'crack' echoed across the deck, and Momonga cried out in pain, his stance breaking.
It was the opening she needed. In the split-second he was unbalanced, she was upon him. "Perfume Femur!" she cried, leaping into the air and delivering a devastating axe kick directly onto his collarbone.
CRUNCH.
The sound of breaking bone was unmistakable. Momonga was driven to his knees, his sword clattering from his numb fingers. He gasped, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, his vision swimming.
He was severely injured, with cracked ribs, a shattered ankle, and a broken collarbone. He fought to stay conscious, his body screaming in protest.
As his vision dimmed, his unfocused eyes drifted past the triumphant figure of Boa Hancock, towards the serpent-prowed ship. His gaze landed on the man watching calmly from the deck.
Due to his vision being blurry, he didn't recognize him, but the aura of utter power that radiated from him was undeniable. This was no mere bystander. This was the "dear" she had spoken of.
'Who...?' The question formed in his fading mind. As his sight cleared a little, his eyes widened in a final moment of dawning, horrific comprehension.
Then, a bloody coughing wracked his broken body, and the world went dark as he slumped forward, unconscious onto the cold deck of his own ship, defeated and discarded at the feet of the Pirate Empress.