Marine Headquarters – Sengoku's office was a tomb of silence after the last call to Mariejois. The Fleet Admiral sat motionless for a long minute, staring at the shattered Den Den Mushi fragments on the floor like they personally betrayed him. Garp had left to "think" to eat more crackers in peace, and Tsuru was already drafting emergency containment orders.
Sengoku finally moved—reaching into a locked drawer for the encrypted black Den Den Mushi, the one reserved for off-the-books orders. He dialed T-Bone's personal line.
The snail purred once, twice—then connected with a weak, rasping voice.
"…Fleet Admiral…?"
"T-Bone," Sengoku said, voice low and urgent. "You're officially dead. I reported your body was recovered from the massacre—burned beyond recognition. No execution. No trial. You're a ghost now. Flee. Immediately. Casual clothes, civilian ship, no Marine markings. Head for a safe house in the South Blue. Disappear. That's an order."
A long, pained exhale came through the snail.
"…Understood. Thank you… sir."
The call cut.
On Lush Farm Island, Rear Admiral T-Bone—blood-soaked bandages wrapped around his torso and groin—limped through the back alleys of the main town. He'd ditched the Marine coat hours ago, now wearing a plain brown traveler's cloak and wide-brimmed hat pulled low. Every step sent fire through his crushed balls, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.
The island was already in panic—screams echoing from the harbor, families piling into boats, children crying as parents tried to flee. Word of the dead Celestial Dragons had spread like wildfire. No one knew who did it, but everyone knew what came next.
T-Bone slipped onto a small civilian fishing boat he'd "borrowed" from the docks—engine sputtering to life. He cast off just as Marine patrol ships began blockading the harbor.
He didn't look back.
At Headquarters, Sengoku issued the order.
"Buster Call on Lush Farm Island. Effective immediately. Ten warships from G-14. No survivors. No exceptions."
G-14 was far—days away even at full speed—but the order was absolute. Nearby Marine ships were rerouted to form a blockade ring—cannons primed, orders clear: sink anything trying to leave.
T-Bone's little boat slipped through the blockade under cover of dusk—using Rokushiki. A patrol ship spotted him—searchlights sweeping—but he dove overboard, swimming underwater with Tekkai-enhanced lungs until the lights passed.
The patrol boarded his abandoned boat—found it empty—and shrugged.
"Weird. But orders are orders."
They fired a warning cannon—then sank it anyway.
On the far side of the island, local fishing boats tried to flee—families crammed aboard, children crying.
Marine ships opened fire—cannonballs ripping through wood and flesh. Boats exploded in flames; screams rose over the water. Survivors were herded back to shore—pinned, trapped, despair settling like fog.
For three days the island waited—locked down, Marines patrolling every beach, every road, every dock. No one in, no one out. Villagers huddled in homes, whispering prayers, clutching children, waiting for the inevitable.
Then the horizon turned black.
Ten warships—massive, gray, cannons bristling—appeared like ghosts from the mist. G-14's Buster Call fleet. They formed a perfect ring around Lush Farm—cannons swiveling inward, barrels aimed at the heart of the island.
The lead ship's vice admiral stood on the bridge—voice amplified over loudspeakers.
"By order of Fleet Admiral Sengoku and the Five Elders: Lush Farm Island is condemned. All inhabitants are complicit in the murder of Celestial Dragons. No mercy. No survivors. Commence bombardment."
The order was given.
The first full salvo erupted—hundreds of cannonballs screaming through the sky in a black storm of iron. They struck like meteors.
The harbor exploded first—fishing boats turned to splinters and fireballs in seconds. Screams rose as families on the docks were torn apart—mothers shielding infants only to be shredded by shrapnel, children's small bodies flung into the water like broken dolls, fathers running with arms outstretched before a direct hit vaporized them into red mist.
The town center took the next wave—wooden houses collapsing in flames, roofs caving in on screaming families huddled inside. A bakery exploded—ovens rupturing, sending burning loaves and human limbs flying. An elderly couple on their porch was crushed under falling timbers—old bones snapping like dry twigs. A teenage girl tried to drag her younger brother to safety—cannonball landed between them, turning both into wet chunks that painted the street red.
Fields burned next—lush green turning to black ash. Farmers who'd hidden in barns were roasted alive—screams rising as hay and flesh charred together. Livestock stampeded in panic—cows and pigs gored and trampled by their own kind before cannon fire cut them down in bloody sprays.
The schoolhouse took a direct hit—roof collapsing on the children who'd been told to shelter inside. Tiny bodies crushed under beams, blood pooling beneath desks still marked with crayon drawings. A teacher's severed arm landed in the street—still clutching a child's hand.
The island's central plaza—where villagers had once gathered for festivals—became a slaughter pit. People ran in every direction—only to be mowed down by sweeping cannon barrages. Limbs flew; torsos burst open; heads rolled like grotesque balls. A pregnant woman was bisected mid-stride—fetus spilling out in a wet slide before another shell obliterated both.
Smoke rose in choking black pillars—hiding the sun, turning day to hellish twilight. The air stank of burning flesh, gunpowder, and coppery blood. Screams blended into one endless wail—thousands of voices rising, then falling silent one by one as the bombardment continued without pause.
Warships circled tighter—cannons never cooling—firing until the island was a smoldering crater ringed by boiling water. Trees vaporized. Hills flattened. The once-lush soil turned to glass under the heat.
When the smoke finally cleared three days later, nothing remained but a blackened scar on the sea—floating debris, charred bones, and silence.
No survivors.
No witnesses.
No trace.
The Buster Call fleet sailed away—mission complete.
And somewhere far out in the Grand Line, on a red ship with a drumstick figurehead, Luffy laughed at nothing in particular—oblivious to the fact that he had just erased an entire island from existence.
The sea rolled on—calm, indifferent, stained red beneath the surface.
---
Marine Headquarters – Sengoku's office had become a pressure cooker of rage and paperwork. The Fleet Admiral paced behind his desk, hands clasped behind his back, while Garp sat sprawled in a chair—crackers forgotten—face unusually grim.
Sengoku stopped, turned, and jabbed a finger at Garp.
"Your grandson just erased an entire island from existence, Garp. Four Celestial Dragons dead, their bodies stolen like trophies, and the Five Elders are baying for blood. They think it's a joke that a rookie could do this? They're not laughing. They're ordering global hunts. Admirals on standby. CP0 already sniffing around East Blue."
Garp's fist tightened—knuckles cracking.
"Bwahaha… the brat's got guts. But yeah… too many lives gone. That island didn't deserve a Buster Call. He's crossed a line even I can't laugh off."
Sengoku snorted—bitter.
"Crossed? He burned the damn line to ash. Marines will be after him for good now. No more 'playful' bounties. He's a threat to the world order. And you—his grandfather—are going to be the one explaining this to the Elders when they summon us."
Garp's grin vanished completely.
"If they want me to hunt him… they can shove it. He's family. I raised him to be free. Didn't raise him to kiss boots."
Sengoku stared at him—long, hard—then sighed.
"Then pray the Admirals find him first. Because if the Elders decide you're complicit… even you won't survive the fallout."
---
Meanwhile, far out on the sea, the Going Meat sailed toward Reverse Mountain—somehow, impossibly, on course despite Zoro's "navigation."
Nami stood at the rail—log pose spinning uselessly—face red with fury.
"How?! HOW?! We should be a week behind schedule! You spin that wheel like a drunk monkey, we zigzag through storms, and yet—here we are! Reverse Mountain in sight! Explain!"
Zoro—leaning on the mast, arms crossed—shrugged.
"I steered. We got here. Stop complaining."
Nami threw her hands up.
"You're impossible! The map is useless with you! We're lucky we didn't end up in the Calm Belt or a Sea King's stomach!"
Luffy—perched on the figurehead—laughed so hard the drumstick wobbled.
"Shishishi! Zoro's the best navigator! Magic steering!"
Nojiko poked her head out of the galley—apron dusted with flour.
"Food's almost ready. Stop fighting before I feed you both to the sea."
Nearly a week had passed since Lush Farm Island. The Omochā family had settled in—mother and older sister collared and obedient, serving the crew with the same willing devotion their tradition demanded. Banchina—still too young—helped around the kitchen and chores, always in her oversized t-shirt, no undergarments, scurrying between tasks with cheeks perpetually pink.
Luffy—finally remembering manners after a week of using them—turned to the three women as they brought out lunch trays.
"Hey… what're your names again?"
The mother—still bruised but smiling softly—bowed slightly.
"I'm Rina, Captain."
The older sister—hair tied back, collar gleaming—curtsied.
"I'm Lila."
Banchina—carrying a basket of bread—beamed.
"I'm Banchina! Hope you didn't forget."
Luffy nodded sagely.
"Rina, Lila, Banchina. Got it! Good names. Now feed me!"
They laughed—soft, relieved—and served the meal.
A news bird flapped down—cawing for coins.
Nami tossed two bills into its pouch. The bird dropped the paper and flew off.
She unrolled it—scanning headlines.
No mention of Celestial Dragon deaths. No reports of massacred nobles. No outrage. Nothing.
"As if it never happened…" she muttered.
Then the bounty posters slipped out.
WANTED
MONKEY D. LUFFY
Dead or Alive
500,000,000 Berries
WANTED
RORONOA ZORO
Dead or Alive
360,000,000 Berries
Nami's eyes widened.
"Five hundred million… Zoro, three-sixty… Luffy, you're a monster now."
Luffy snatched his poster—jumped on the table—waving it like a flag.
"SHISHISHI! 500 MILLION! Look! My face is huge! Zoro—you're still behind me! Not pirate-ish enough!"
Zoro snorted—grabbing his own poster.
"Three-sixty's plenty. I'll catch up when I cut someone bigger."
Nojiko peeked over Nami's shoulder—whistling.
"That's rookie money. The Grand Line's gonna be hunting us hard now."
Tashigi—collared, kneeling nearby with a tray of tea—looked at the posters with dull eyes.
"Master… you're famous…"
Luffy laughed—high and wild.
"Famous! Rich! Strong! Let's go to the Grand Line! More meat! More fights! More girls!"
The Going Meat turned toward Reverse Mountain—massive red hull cutting the sea.
Bounties high.
Crew collared and growing.
And the world—finally noticing the red ship with the drumstick grin—the world was about to learn what real piracy looked like.
---
Somewhere in new world, a certain red haired pirate with one arm just woke up with a hangover.
Continued...