The Alabasta sun beat down like a hammer on anvil, turning the South Block into a furnace. Sanji spat blood onto the scorching stone, the metallic taste mixing with the dust in his mouth. Above him, wearing Nami's face like a stolen mask, Mr. 2 Bon Clay pressed a sandaled foot harder into his spine.
"Not so strong now, are you, mon chéri?" Mr. 2's voice was a grotesque melody—Nami's sweet tone twisted by a stranger's malice.
Sanji gritted his teeth, the stone biting into his cheek. Even with her face… the aura is all wrong. The eyes are empty. It's still just an okama in a stolen skin. But logic was a weak flame against the hurricane of his chivalry. Every time he gathered his strength, he'd look up—and there she was. Nami. Smiling. His resolve would shatter.
"Don't… get cocky," Sanji grunted, pushing against the weight.
Mr. 2 laughed, a sound that didn't belong to Nami at all. "This country is a sauna!" With a flourish, he began to disrobe, shedding his coat.
Instinct overrode pain. Sanji's head lifted. "M-Miss Nami! Do you need help with—?"
The question was cut short by a devastating heel to his ribs. Okama Kenpo: Mascara Dash! Sanji flew backward, crashing through a wooden stall in an explosion of splinters and dried fruit.
"So predictable!" Mr. 2 sang, advancing. He held up a hand, and his fingers elongated into sharp, bladed boomerangs dripping with black paint. "A knight's devotion is his greatest weakness!"
Sanji rolled to his knees, coughing. He wiped his mouth, his eyes narrowing. Every time I wind up for a kick, he changes. He uses her face as a shield.
"Au revoir, cook-san!" Mr. 2 hurled the bladed boomerangs. "Mascara Boomerang!"
Sanji dove, the weapons whirring past his head and embedding themselves in a wall with a sickening thunk. He landed in a crouch, his body screaming in protest. Mr. 2 was already upon him, leg raised for a crushing axe kick. This was it. The finishing blow.
But in that moment, poised for the kill, Mr. 2's face flickered. The delicate features of Nami melted away, if only for a split second, revealing the stark, sharp lines of Bon Clay's true face.
There.
Sanji's leg shot up in a blur of motion. "You dropped the mask!" His heel connected with Mr. 2's jaw in a crack of bone and surprise. The agent was launched across the square, tumbling like a broken doll.
Sanji stood, smoke curling from his cigarette despite the chaos. He pointed a trembling, but steady, finger. "I see it now. Your Devil Fruit's weakness. You can't use your Okama Kenpo while you're wearing another face, can you? The stance is wrong. The muscle memory is your own. And you change back…" He took a dragging pull from his cigarette. "…by touching your left cheek with your left hand."
From the rubble, Mr. 2 rose, his true face now a snarling mask of fury. "Clever boy! But knowledge won't save you! PRIMA DONNA!"
He became a whirlwind. His spins were so fast he vanished, becoming a localized tornado that tore through the plaza, shredding stone. Sanji barely leaped aside, the after-image of the attack leaving a perfectly cylindrical, clean-cut hole through a three-foot-thick wall.
Not a scratch around the edges… Sanji's mind raced, even as he ran for his life. The power is concentrated on a single, devastating point. But to aim it… he has to commit to the spin.
"You can't dodge forever!" Mr. 2 shrieked, his form blurring again.
"I don't need to." Sanji skidded to a halt, turning to face the incoming vortex. At the last possible second, he feinted left, then dropped flat. The Prima Donna shot past him, missing by inches. Before Mr. 2 could correct, Sanji was up, a fiery vengeance in his eyes.
Panicked, Mr. 2's face shimmered. Nami's visage returned, wide-eyed and fearful. "Sanji! Please!"
Sanji's charging kick faltered. His heart clenched.
"Got you," Mr. 2 whispered behind the stolen face, his own leg coiling for a strike.
But Sanji's expression softened into something dangerously calm. "Hey… Bon-chan," he said, his voice oddly gentle.
Mr. 2 blinked. "What?"
"You've got something… right there on your left cheek. A smudge of soot."
Instinctively, Mr. 2's left hand flew to his left cheek to wipe it.
The moment his fingers touched skin, the transformation dissolved. Nami's face melted away, revealing the stunned, painted features of the real Bon Clay.
"Veau Shot!" Sanji's foot, burning with the friction of his resolve, slammed into Mr. 2's torso. The air exploded out of the agent in a whoosh.
What followed was not a fight, but a brutal symphony of mutual destruction. No more tricks. No more stolen faces. Just two warriors in a sun-blistered square, kicking, striking, breaking. Bones cracked. Blood painted the dust. Sanji's Collier Shot met Mr. 2's Swan kick in a mid-air detonation of force.
They fell from the blast in opposite directions.
Sanji landed on his knees, one arm hanging uselessly, blood streaming from a dozen cuts. He gasped, struggling to draw breath into his bruised lungs.
Across the way, Mr. 2 was embedded in the wall of a collapsed building, a crater of cracked stone around him. He tried to move, but only a pained groan escaped his lips. The fight was gone from his eyes.
"I… couldn't do it," Sanji rasped, voice raw. "If you'd stayed as her… I could never have landed the final blow."
Mr. 2 managed a weak, bloody smile. "Foolish… knight. It doesn't matter now. Baroque Works… they terminate failures. My dance… is over." He closed his eyes, awaiting the final darkness.
Sanji stared at the defeated agent. This flamboyant, treacherous, honorable enemy. With a monumental effort, using his good arm, Sanji pushed himself to his feet. He stumbled across the ravaged square, each step an agony. He stopped before the crater and did the unthinkable.
He extended a bloody, shaking hand.
"It was… a good dance," Sanji said.
Mr. 2's eyes flew open, filled with shock, then a welling of incomprehensible emotion.
But before his fingers could meet Sanji's, a new, slow clap echoed through the ruined square.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
From the shadow of a shattered archway, a tall, lean figure emerged. Sand swirled around his feet, though there was no wind. His face was hidden by a high collar, but the cruel amusement in his voice was clear.
"How touching. The cook showing mercy to the failed clown."
Sanji whirled, his body protesting violently. "Who are you?!"
The man ignored him, his gaze fixed on Mr. 2. "Agent Bon Clay. You have indeed failed. And you know the price for failure."
Mr. 2's face drained of color. "No… you're not supposed to be here…"
The stranger raised a hand. The sand at his feet rose in a sinuous coil, sharpening into a glistening, razor-edged spike aimed directly at Mr. 2's heart. "The Master of Sand does not forgive. He only buries."
Sanji moved, throwing himself between the spike and Mr. 2. "Like hell!"
The man's hidden smile was audible. "Two birds with one stone, then."
He flicked his wrist.
The sand spike shot forward—not at Sanji, but at the ground beneath him. The stone erupted, not with force, but with a terrifying, silent consumption. The very ground turned into a sinkhole of liquid sand, pulling Sanji and the helpless Mr. 2 down into a drowning, suffocating grave.
As the quicksand swallowed him, Sanji's last sight was the mysterious agent turning away, his final words drifting down into the dark.
"Give my regards to the desert depths."
The sand closed over their heads, leaving the square silent, still, and utterly, terrifyingly empty.
(⭐ If you love the journey, please support us by collecting this story, adding it to your library, and leaving a rating! Your support keeps the adventure alive!)