Alvida quickly understood the reason for Kalifa's unease.
In the narrow corridor, the two women crossed paths, trading probing strikes.
Kalifa had slipped off her gloves and tried to smear her soap bubbles onto Alvida's body—but failed. The bubbles slid off uselessly, splattering onto the floor.
"So that's it." Alvida felt the strange slipperiness still clinging faintly to her skin, and she smiled. "Your bubbles can make people slick, just like me. Only thing is—against me, it's meaningless."
Kalifa sighed silently, now that her trick had been exposed.
Her Devil Fruit ability did indeed resemble Alvida's Slip-Slip powers—but as an inferior version. The bubbles could weaken blows, could make her target slick and clumsy…
But her ability carried a fatal flaw.
Once she covered herself fully in bubbles for defense, she could hardly move at all. Every motion shook the bubbles loose, stripping away her protection.
Against Alvida, who was already untouchable, the Bubble Fruit was useless. Worse, its limitations were glaring. No wonder Kalifa dreaded facing her most of all.
Had it been anyone else, Kalifa might have downed several members of the Davy Jones crew by now.
But here—she had run into her natural enemy.
Still, she did not falter. If her Devil Fruit failed her, she could rely on something even deadlier—what had always been her true strength since joining CP9: the Rokushiki.
From within her sleek black dress she drew out a long whip, barbed all over like a chain of thorns. One could only wonder where she had hidden it until now.
At this moment, Kalifa still held the advantage.
First, her whip could strike at range—while Alvida's iron club could not.
Second, Kalifa's Soru made her far swifter and more elusive. Alvida had only the rough edge of Observation Haki to track her, and her grasp of it was crude at best.
Which meant—Alvida's movements were boxed in, her reach limited. The initiative of the fight lay firmly in Kalifa's hands.
Whoosh—
Kalifa's high heels tapped rapid rhythms across floor and wall alike, echoes darting through the corridor.
Alvida could only sense her general direction—just enough to narrowly dodge the whip's lashing arcs.
Moments later, two sharp Rankyaku blades sliced out of the shadows. Alvida twisted aside again, and the crescent slashes instead carved gaping wounds into the wall, exposing the room beyond.
Kalifa struck and retreated in a blur, always keeping her distance.
But Alvida seized the instant when Kalifa had drawn closest—lunging forward with a sudden swing of her spiked club.
Kalifa, attuned to the air itself, felt the weapon tearing toward her. She bent like paper caught in the wind, body flowing with Kami-e, and slipped clear of the blow.
Boom!
The iron club smashed into the floor, leaving a crater wider and deeper than the holes Kalifa's Rankyaku had cut.
Kalifa's eyes widened. She had been moments from countering with Tekkai. If she had tried, she realized now, she would have been shattered on the spot. The sheer force was overwhelming.
It settled her decision—never meet Alvida head-on. Not in strength.
Instead, she kept to her strengths: the whip, the Rankyaku, distance. Never close-quarters. Shigan and Tekkai would have to be abandoned in this fight. With Soru, she danced through the narrow space, harrying her foe.
But there was another threat.
That blue-haired girl from earlier.
Intelligence reports had said it clearly: Hina and Tashigi were both struck down when that girl ambushed them—unable to evade Alvida's finishing blow.
And sure enough, Kalifa's sharp peripheral vision caught it—Porche stepping from the room, candle in one hand, baton in the other. The baton, she knew, contained her trick devices.
Take out the helper first.
Kalifa loosed another Rankyaku at Alvida to keep her occupied, then whirled and darted straight toward Porche.
Whoosh!
Porche gasped at the sudden figure looming before her, stumbling backward in fright. She had meant to reenact her earlier ambush—but Kalifa had already seen through her.
The whip lashed out, curling around Porche's arm, thorns sinking into flesh, crimson blooming like black roses in the candlelight.
One tug, and Kalifa could drag her close—finish her instantly with Shigan.
But—
Bang!
A gunshot cracked through the corridor.
Kalifa froze, her body jerking, unable to move. She had just enough time to start turning—before a hole blossomed in the back of her skull.
The bullet had come from behind her.
Alvida stood there, pistol still raised. She had hidden it in her bosom all along. Only now, with Kalifa's back exposed, had she drawn her true trump card.
Predators are most vulnerable when they believe themselves the hunter. Alvida had struck at exactly that moment.
Bang!
A second shot. For certainty.
This time, Kalifa collapsed completely, crumpling to the floor. She did not move again.
Porche looked down at the body, then clutched her chest, breath trembling, and complained through her fright:
"Ugh! Alvida—you had a gun this whole time?! Why didn't you just use it earlier?"
Alvida blew the smoke from the muzzle with a smirk.
"Because if it can't kill in one shot, it only gives her time to guard. Then it becomes trouble."
"Excuses! You just wanted to scare me half to death!"
"Porche, I think you've got a grudge against me. Is it because I'm prettier than you?"
"You're insufferable. That thick skin of yours makes me hate you more."
"Heh. My beauty is simply the truth."
Somewhere deeper in the ship, Fukurou the owl suddenly pricked up his ears. He could have sworn he'd heard gunfire. Once. Then again.
His rotund body stopped in its tracks. He tugged at the zipper sealing his mouth, pulling it open so he could speak.
"Chapapa… chapapa… Was that gunshots just now? Should I… check it out?"
He waddled into a wide, dim chamber. Moonlight filtered faintly through the windows, not enough to see clearly. He reached along the wall with both hands, groping for a light switch.
Then—whoosh. The sound of air rushing.
He never reacted in time. A heavy strike smashed into his face.
"Chapapa!" he yelped, tumbling to the ground and clutching his swollen cheek. "Who's there?"
No answer. Only, after a beat, a low, sinister chuckle.
"Hohohohoho…"
Another blow crashed into the other side of his face.
Now both cheeks were blazing red. Flustered, Fukurou leapt up and scuttled into the corner, clinging to the wall like a spider. His body stiffened as he activated Tekkai.
There were two ways to use it: full-body, which made him immobile, or partial, which allowed limited movement.
But uncertain of his opponent, Fukurou locked himself down with the full version. His whole body hardened like steel—unyielding, but unable to move.
Again the rushing sound. Again the impact—only this time, the strike bounced harmlessly off his hardened body, clattering to the floor.
In the moonlight, its form was revealed.
"Chapapa… a shield?"
"That's right."
The voice emerged from the darkness. Then, slowly, a figure stepped into the moonbeam.
The first thing visible was the bright red nose.
"It's my shield," sneered the figure, arms akimbo. "The shield of Captain Buggy the Clown!"
"Chapapa…!" Fukurou stared at him. "That nose… big and red… you're the clown—"
But before he could finish, Buggy was already roaring, eyes bulging in fury.
"Who are you calling 'nose'? Why is it always the nose? Every damn time someone sees me, that's the first thing they say! You bastards are doing it on purpose!"
He raged, and his shield split open with a hiss.
Fsssshh—
Gas hissed out, billowing upward into Fukurou's face.
"Chapapa—!" He gagged, choking. His hardened body slackened, collapsing to the floor.
Minutes passed. The poison took hold. His head swam, thoughts twisted, vision skewed. The room tilted wildly in his eyes.
And then—Buggy's face loomed above him. Enlarged. Grotesque. That wide red mouth stretching into a cruel grin.
"One day," Buggy growled, knife gleaming in his hand, "I'll make you bastards choke on your words. None of you will dare joke about my nose. Not even whisper it."
The knife plunged down.
Fukurou's scream rang out, cut short as the blade was wrenched free—dragging with it a single eyeball.
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