"You're hopelessly stubborn."
Tatsuki said irritably, stood up, and brushed the dust off his trousers.
"Fine. Since you won't give it, I'll find it myself. But when I empty out that treasure of yours, or sell off that so-called truth for money, don't get so angry in hell that you flip your coffin lid."
"WAHAHAHA! Suit yourself!" Roger laughed with extreme arrogance.
"If you can even get there. It's a destination only the freest can reach. You, a watchdog leashed by the World Government? I doubt you'll make it."
"Reverse psychology doesn't work on me." Tatsuki kicked the other bottle of liquor over to Roger's feet.
"Drink up. Last one. Next time we meet will be on the Execution Platform."
He turned, waved a hand behind him without looking back, and strode out.
"Hey... Tatsuki."
Roger's voice suddenly came from behind. This time, there was no teasing or wild laughter, only a low tone like that of an old father.
Tatsuki stopped but didn't turn around.
"Thanks."
Tatsuki's lips twitched and he let out a disdainful snort from his nose.
"Don't get the wrong idea. It's just a transaction. If that kid grows up wrong, I'll still beat him up."
Having said that, he walked into the dark corridor without looking back.
Only after Tatsuki's figure had completely vanished did Roger lean back against the cold wall. He looked at the empty bottle in his hand, listened to the faint sound of rain outside, and the smile on his lips gradually softened.
"Whether Marine or pirate, this sea ultimately belongs to the young."
"Rayleigh... you all better watch closely. This brat is even more of a troublemaker than I was."
—
The rain outside was falling harder.
Tatsuki stood under the eaves and lit a cigar.
The cold, damp air mixed with the taste of tobacco filled his lungs, calming his mind, which had grown somewhat restless from the rejection.
He blew out a smoke ring, looking at the blurred Execution Platform through the rain curtain, his gaze gradually deepening.
If he couldn't find that island, then he'd just flip the world's table over even more thoroughly.
As long as chaos reigned, as long as he stirred up this stagnant pond, whether it was the ancient weapons or that damned Laugh Tale, they'd eventually surface.
"Admiral Saigai!"
A messenger ran over through the rain and saluted.
"Fleet Admiral Kong is on the line, inquiring if you have arrived and confirming the execution procedures."
"Tell him, all is ready."
Tatsuki looked up, revealing a ferocious grin that would give the messenger nightmares.
"Also, pass the order. Push the security perimeter around the Execution Platform out another fifty meters."
"Since we're throwing the world's biggest funeral, we need to let everyone see clearly."
"This good show is just getting started."
—
The rain fell with an unreasonable intensity.
The cobblestone roads of Loguetown were washed slick, the air thick with the mingled scents of cheap tobacco and sweat.
This was not good weather. At least not for a 'grand ceremony' that was to be broadcast live to the entire world. It was downright terrible. But no one complained at this moment.
Tens of thousands of eyes were nailed to the tall execution platform standing in the center of the square.
Raindrops hammered against countless raincoats and umbrellas, merging into a disquieting, pervasive rustle.
Thirty minutes until the execution.
Click.
A crisp sound of a footstep splashing through water pierced through the curtain of rain, drilling precisely into everyone's eardrums.
The noisy crowd's clamor instantly cut off. Everyone held their breath, their gazes following the source of the footsteps.
The ranks of Marines parted to either side like Moses dividing the sea.
That man had arrived.
Tatsuki wore that absurdly oversized 'Justice' coat, without an umbrella. Bizarrely, the raindrops falling from the sky were gently pushed aside by an invisible current of air three inches above his head, sliding off to either side.
"So that's Admiral Saigai?"
Someone in the crowd gulped, their voice dry.
"The monster who beat the Pirate King into the ground."
Tatsuki paid no heed to the surrounding gazes of awe, hatred, or morbid curiosity. He stepped slowly, one deliberate pace at a time, onto the wooden stairs of the execution platform.
His leisurely, unhurried gait made it seem less like he was here to oversee the execution of the Pirate King, and more like he was attending a dull afternoon tea party.
Finally, he stood at the highest point. There, a wide chair upholstered in red velvet overlooked the entire square.
Tatsuki didn't even bother to adjust his coat before plopping down into it.
Then, under the scrutiny of tens of thousands of eyes and the close-up lenses of dozens of image den den mushis, he pulled a cigar from his breast pocket.
Snap.
He lit it, took a deep drag, and blew out a perfect smoke ring.
He crossed his legs, propping his chin on one hand. That lazy posture made the Marine officers standing ramrod straight below, letting the rain drench them, look like a bunch of schoolchildren waiting for a lecture.
—
Below the platform, in the most densely packed area of the crowd.
Several figures stood out, scattered in different spots. They were still young, but the scent named 'ambition' could no longer be concealed.
"Fufufu..."
A blond youth wrapped in a pink feather coat and wearing flashy sunglasses, huddled in a lane entrance, let out his signature strange laugh as he watched the overbearing figure on the platform.
Doflamingo's gaze seemed to be appraising a piece of prime meat, or perhaps scrutinizing a ferocious beast.
"The bearing of an Admiral, huh? To sit in that position and still be so relaxed. It seems Roger was truly beaten to a pulp by this monster."
He was extremely displeased. This feeling of being utterly looked down upon made the destructive urges in his veins surge wildly.
But at the same time, an even stronger desire made him tremble all over.
That position, that perspective of being able to tread the world underfoot, was far too alluring.
Not far away.
A sullen youth with slicked-back hair, his left hand not yet replaced by a golden hook, stared intently at the rainwater being repelled by an invisible force around Tatsuki.
Crocodile exhaled a puff of smoke, his eyes gloomy and fierce. "The Storm-Storm Fruit... So this is the power that even Whitebeard is wary of."
He detested water, and rainy days like this even more.
But the man on that platform made him feel a suppression from a higher level of existence.
And in another corner.
Moria, not yet grown fat, grinned widely, his eyes filled with greed as they darted between Tatsuki and the passage from which Roger would soon be escorted.
"Kishishishi! If I could cut that guy's shadow. No, if I could get Roger's corpse..."
These future great pirates, schemers, and ambitious men were like a pack of immature wolf cubs, hiding in the shadows, watching the new lion king of the plains.
Amidst all these calculating and fearful gazes, there was one line of sight that was so pure it felt piercing. It belonged to a young man carrying an iron cross as tall as a person on his back.
Even in the crowded sea of people, there was a three-meter vacuum around him. Anyone who tried to get close would feel a stinging pain on their skin, as if scraped by a blade, and would instinctively retreat.
Dracule Mihawk.
At this time, he hadn't yet grown his signature thin mustache, and his golden, hawk-like pupils lacked the later world-weary loneliness. All they held was a blazing fighting spirit.
He wasn't looking at the execution platform, nor at the so-called 'great pirate seedlings' around him. His eyes were fixed solely on the cigar-smoking Marine Admiral lounging with crossed legs. More precisely, he was looking at the sword at Tatsuki's waist.
Although Tensa Zangetsu remained sheathed, it didn't stop Mihawk's mind from repeatedly replaying the scene of it tearing through the sea and severing a King's Haki.
A jet-black blade.
A weapon tempered and saturated by Haki countless times until it underwent a qualitative change.
In this era, those who could forge a black blade were few and far between. And that Marine on the platform had achieved it at such a young age.
For a swordsman determined to stand at the pinnacle of the sword path, this was more tempting than any treasure in the world.
"A black blade..."
Mihawk murmured to himself, his hand unconsciously moving to the hilt of Yoru on his back.
The cold touch cooled his boiling blood slightly, but the next second, it ignited again with even more ferocity.
"I want to try it." Mihawk said quietly, as if to himself, or perhaps to the sword on his back.
The surrounding noise, the Marines' authority, the impending execution...
Everything faded into a meaningless background in his eyes.
A swordsman's train of thought is frustratingly straightforward.
See a strong opponent, must challenge.
See a high mountain, must climb.
As for the occasion? What's that?