"Hey, when did fishmen—once sold as slaves in the Grand Line—become so arrogant?" Kairos Flint said casually.
But his words struck like a dagger. Not just at Arlong, but at every fishman in Arlong Park.
Slaves.
That word. For fishmen and merfolk alike, it was like a splinter in the soul—sharp, painful, unforgettable. Especially for those who had lived through it.
The moment Kairos spoke, every fishman eye lit up with rage.
"You human... you're asking to die." Arlong's voice was cold, his glare sharp.
"Maybe I am," Kairos replied, stepping forward. "But you, a bunch of fishmen thugs, really think you can take me? Eight years of bullying helpless people and building your little empire of fear. Don't forget, Arlong—the rulers of this world are still human."
He didn't stop there.
"Fishmen like you should've stayed on Fishman Island instead of crawling out here to play tyrant."
Kairos' tone was laced with scorn. He didn't hate fishmen or merfolk as a whole. But there were always bad apples. The Dragon Pirates were the worst kind.
He wasn't giving them any respect. On the contrary—he was provoking them.
Why?
Because if they ran into the sea, he'd have no way to finish this fight. So he needed to enrage them—hold them in place.
That's why he said it.
"Slaves."
The word did its job. They wanted him dead now.
"You're dead meat!" Kuroobi roared and charged.
But—
Ittōryū: Ghost Energy – Jingzhe!
Kairos drew his blade. In a blink, he was behind Kuroobi.
Kuroobi froze.
A second later—
PSSHHH!!
A deep wound tore open across his body, and blood sprayed everywhere as he collapsed in a pool of it.
Kairos glanced at the fallen fishman, expression unreadable.
"Impressive durability. I expected that to cut you clean in half. Disappointing."
"You bastard!"
"We'll avenge Kuroobi!"
"Kill this filthy human!"
The other members of the Dragon Pirates were enraged. Weapons raised, they charged.
Kairos didn't flinch.
Ittōryū: Ghost Energy – Xiaoman!
With a slight smile, he spun with his blade—The Third Generation Ghost—unleashing a storm of horizontal slashes.
A ring of small, ghost-infused sword auras exploded outward like falling leaves. Each blade of energy, no bigger than a willow leaf, carried deadly precision.
This was swordsmanship at a true swordsman's level. He had refined it himself—using the flying slash technique known only to elite warriors.
Each wave of his blade scattered dozens—no, hundreds—of slashes.
They fell like rain.
Don't be fooled by their size. Every blade of sword aura could cut flesh like steel.
"AAAHH!!"
Screams filled the air. Too close. They had no room to dodge.
They took the attack head-on.
—
In Loguetown,
Smoker watched through a Den Den Mushi's transmission, eyes wide.
A flying slash.
Not just any technique—the technique that signified mastery in swordsmanship.
"He's a swordsman…"
Smoker stood slowly.
To be called a true swordsman, one had to sense the breath of all things. To cut steel. That was the entrance.
Not everyone who could perform a flying slash was a swordsman. But no swordsman lacked it.
Swordsmen varied—there were beginners, veterans, even the rare Supreme Swordsman.
But anyone who could fly-slash had crossed that threshold.
Such warriors, even among the Marines, would be granted at least the rank of Major.
And Kairos… he was still young.
Smoker regretted not pressing harder to recruit him. Given time, Kairos might become a great swordsman.
But the young man had refused the Marines.
Smoker could only sigh.
A waste of talent.
Meanwhile, Kairos had no idea Smoker was feeling anything at all.
—
Back on the battlefield—
BOOM!
Arlong himself stepped forward, wielding his weapon—the massive saw-blade sword Zhanfeng.
This was no ordinary foe.
Arlong was powerful. Dangerous.
Kairos tightened his grip.
He couldn't underestimate this fight.
"Despicable human… DIE!"
Arlong roared as he swung Zhanfeng. The blade gleamed, slicing the air as it came down with terrifying speed.
The very wind howled around it.
He was aiming to end Kairos with one swing.