I dodged the sword slash by the width of a breath.
It flew past me, screaming through the air like a thrown cleaver, and shattered the railing behind me into jagged splinters. Bits of wood sprayed across the deck, clattering against the mast and bouncing off the hull.
"Tch."
That one got a reaction out of me. Not because it was dangerous—well, it was—but because I had underestimated him. Even pirates with bounties in the low tens of millions could pull off a flying slash now? Weak as it was, it still cut the air, still broke solid oak. That wasn't something you just shrugged off.
A sword master or someone nearing it.
And this captain wasn't even the worst of them. Not even close. He wasn't the kind of name that'd make papers tremble or barrooms go quiet even in the weakest sea. And still—he could swing a blade hard enough to send a slash flying ten meters.
I thought of Mihawk for a moment. Briefly. The comparison was almost insulting—to Mihawk. That man wouldn't need Haki to kill someone like me. He could probably sneeze and slice me in half. He could probably take a blade, break it into a millimeter-sized sliver, and still say. 'I don't hunt rabbits with weapons meant for Lions.' and swagger off by rowing his boat with his sword. This guy was nothing. Dangerous, sure. But nowhere near that league.
At least he could swing his sword much better than I ever could.
But that didn't change what I had to do.
I moved forward. Not a charge, not a sprint. Just steps. Steady. Measured. He swung again. Another flying slash. I stepped to the side, pivoted low, and squeezed the trigger. My pistol kicked, barked, and another one of his men fell behind him. I reloaded as I walked, only ducking when I had to, timing my shots between his strikes.
Got cut a few times doing it.
Nothing fatal. Slashes on the arm, one across the ribs. Shallow, Deep. Just enough to sting, to remind me that this wasn't a game. But pain's easy to deal with when you expect it. And I'd expected worse.
The next sword slash came faster. Caught a few strands of my hair as I ducked. Felt them fall across my face.
I rose—only to catch a bullet in the shoulder.
I staggered. Not far, not dramatically. Just a hitch in the step. The kind that makes you wince, suck in air through your teeth, and keep moving anyway. The flying slashes had distracted me. Rookie mistake. He had a pistol. And unlike most loudmouth captains, he remembered he had one.
But it wasn't enough.
I was closer now. I could smell his breath. Bitter, full of adrenaline. The kind of sweat you get when you realize the lone man with a wine gourd and a grin might not be the pushover you thought he'd be.
Then our swords met.
The clang of steel on steel rang out like a bell over a church graveyard. And he pushed. Hard.
He was strong. I'll give him that. Arms shaking with effort, face clenched, teeth grinding. He poured everything into that press. His sword ground against mine, and my boots slid back on the bloody deck.
I let him.
Grinned at him.
Then let my sword fall from my hands.
He didn't expect it. Nobody does. Momentum carried him forward just half a step—just enough. His sword bit deep into my side. I felt it tear muscle, strike bone. White hot pain. But I didn't flinch.
Because my fist was already moving.
Straight into his groin.
That sound he made—it wasn't a scream. It was too raw for that. More like a dying animal's gasp, mouth open wider than it should've gone, eyes bulging. Time stopped for half a second. Every man within ten meters felt it, I swear. Legs twitched. Eyes winced. Even mine.
But I didn't give him space to recover.
I grabbed his sword—his sword, now jammed into me—and yanked it forward as he bent over. He didn't even resist. His body was trying to curl in on itself. His brain was shutting down. Pain does that.
And I rammed the blade back into him.
Straight into his groin.
The same spot.
A cruel mirror. A vicious loop.
His hands dropped. His knees followed.
I didn't say anything clever. No taunt. No sneer. I just pulled the sword free from his gut. Blood sprayed like a broken pipe, warm and fast.
Then I slit his throat. Quick. Clean. One stroke.
He dropped like the others. I almost waited for his eyes to close. I didn't.
This was the sea. And he was a pirate. Fair play wasn't a rule here. If anything, playing fair was the fastest way to end up face down in the water with a knife in your back.
"Apologies." I muttered under my breath, stepping over his twitching corpse. "But fair's got no place out here."
I kicked his body away from mine and let the blood drip off the blade. His blood.
Bounty acquired.
That was one problem down. Now for the rest.
I looked around. The chaos was still simmering. The worst had passed—no more fresh waves of pirates boarding—but those still alive weren't going down easy.
Some of them were practically flaying themselves, clawing at their own skin to escape the remnants of the itchy powder grenade. Blood was everywhere. A few looked like they were trying to dig the shrapnel out of their legs and arms with whatever they could find—daggers, nails, broken pieces of railing. Desperate, miserable, half-dead.
But still alive.
I could smell fear. Could feel the shift in energy. They'd lost their captain. They'd seen him die. And not in glory. Not in a blaze of swordsmanship or honor. But humiliated. Bleeding from parts of the body that don't recover.
Then there were the girls.
The Burglar Duo.
They were moving fast—quiet, precise, slipping between shadows and crates, loading what they could into bags. Stealing whatever wasn't nailed down. Typical. Opportunists. They weren't here to fight, just to profit. They were smart enough to stay out of my path, but I caught one of them glancing back—just a flick of the eye.
I didn't stop them.
Not yet.
Because I saw him.
One of the pirates—barely a man, early twenties maybe, face still holding the softness of youth under the blood and grime. But he wasn't cowering. He wasn't scratching his skin off or crying for mercy.
He was walking toward me.
A limp in his step. Sword in hand. Jaw clenched.
And I remembered him.
The one who fought the captain over one of the girls. Fought him openly. Risked his life. Confidence like that doesn't come cheap in these waters. It's earned. You don't challenge a man with an 18 million bounty unless you've got a price on your own head.
Lower tens, maybe. But still enough.
Another payday.
I straightened, raising my stolen sword. Blood dripped from the edge. The wind tugged at my coat, and the sea was quiet for a breath.
------------
Would you look at that?
11,500,000 berries. Just like that. No special effort. No grand betrayal. Just a pirate trying to play knight for the wrong woman at the wrong time.
Add that to the others—18 million for the captain, 5.31 million for the previous captain—and I was sitting on over 34 million in bounties. And I hadn't even gone through all the bodies yet. A few of the others might net me something, maybe a couple hundred thousand, maybe low millions. I'd welcome them all the same. Berries don't care how you earn them—only that you do.
The deck smelled like salt, blood, and money. The kind of mix that either makes you rich or makes you dead. I intended to stay on the former side of that equation.
I dragged the corpses—those worth a price—into the shaded part of the ship, beneath the tattered canopy stretched between the masts. No sense in letting the sun bloat them, rot them. Marines liked their bounties fresh. Faces intact. Identifiable. And I didn't plan to find out that they wouldn't pay because they couldn't recognize the face.
A few, the ones I felt weak, I tied up. Rope around wrists, ankles, mouths gagged. Couldn't afford another mistake. Maybe they'd fetch more alive, maybe not—but at least they wouldn't wake up and stab me while I slept.
This time, I left enough men alive to crew the ship. Just enough. The bare minimum. They wouldn't fight—they knew better now. And if they tried, I'd make sure the last thing they saw was the ocean swallowing them whole.
Once I confirmed the ship was under control, I leapt back across the shattered rail and landed on the next deck with a thud.
The second ship. Smaller, lighter, faster. Less blood-soaked, but more dangerous in its own way.
Because it held the girls.
The real thieves. The real trouble.
The purple-haired one—Carina—dropped the pile of jewelry in her hands the moment she saw me. Her eyes widened, and her face folded into something almost beautiful in its despair. She looked pitiful in a way that could have melted steel. One of those expressions designed for the heart, not the mind.
She walked toward me slowly, hips swaying just enough, every step a performance. If helplessness was a weapon, she was holding it like a dagger.
And I'll admit—I admired it.
She knew exactly how to use what she had. Her beauty. Her voice. Even her vulnerability. She wore it like armor, but made it look like silk. The way her shirt slipped off one shoulder, the way her eyes flicked up and then away—it was deliberate. Calculated.
But I didn't buy it.
Or I didn't let myself.
Falling for that kind of play was the beginning of a very steep descent. First it's a smile, then it's sympathy, then it's a knife in the ribs and your wallet gone. I'd seen it happen more than once. Hell, it had nearly happened to me.
I stared at her. Gave her nothing.
She stopped walking.
I took a few slow steps toward her. Her heels clicked once against the deck, then went silent as she stepped backward.
When I reached her, I didn't touch her. Didn't threaten. I simply reached out and adjusted her clothing. Pulled the shirt up over her shoulder. Straightened the collar.
It wasn't about modesty. It was about control.
Because as much as I appreciated the view—her body was a distraction. One she used too well. I didn't need a distraction. If I got distracted, i would win in the short term not long term.
I gestured toward a nearby barrel.
"Suwatte, Carina." Sit down, Carina.
Her eyes went wide. Shock, maybe a little fear. I knew who she was. She obeyed. No words. Just a quiet nod as she sat. Still calculating. But quieter now.
I leaned down, picked up the jewelry she'd dropped, and handed it to her.
She took it like a child offered candy. Her smile was bright enough to pass for real.
Then came the voice.
"Bōto ga aru. Sore o tsukatte dasshutsu shiyou."
There she was.
Orange hair, wind-tossed, wild. Bright eyes, sharp like flint. That voice was unmistakable, even when she whispered like it was a secret she hadn't meant to share.
Nami.
She landed on the deck like a cat. Light. Silent. Effortless. She could've been here the whole time and I wouldn't have known. That's her gift. She could rob you while you're looking right at her and make you thank her afterward.
If she was here now, that meant she'd already scouted the escape. And judging from her earlier sentence and my little Japanese, She found an escape boat. Probably mine. Probably planning to take it. And now she was here to bring Carina and her loot with her.
But the second she saw me—frozen.
Like someone had unplugged her brain. Her face didn't break, though. Not for long. She was too good for that. Within seconds, she switched from shock to soft tears. Pitiful. Innocent. Vulnerable.
She ran to me like I was the one thing keeping her alive.
I almost bought her act. I could feel myself growing sympathetic.
It wasn't natural. But it was Nami.
She wrapped her arms around me, buried her face in my chest, and made the world think she was scared, sorry, saved.
I sighed.
Long. Deep. From the soul.
Then I rubbed my eyes. Blood had dried on my lashes. My jacket was shredded, riddled with bullet holes, half a sleeve gone. I shrugged it off, heavy with blood and memory, and draped it around her shoulders.
Her clothes left little to imagine.
Then I pulled back just enough to look at her face.
"Nami." I said, voice low. "Bijinesu ni tsuite hanashimashou."
Let's talk business.
Because I knew her game.
She would soon know mine.