South Blue, Chichicris Island.
This island was a lawless land in the South Blue, beyond the jurisdiction of the World Government. Not because the World Government lacked the strength to control it—far from it. Outside of the New World, the World Government held an iron grip over the seas, especially the four great seas: East, West, North, and South.
If it wished, the World Government could easily bring every island in those seas under control.
But places like this, it chose to leave untouched. The World Government also needed areas shrouded in shadow, havens where filth, wickedness, and treachery gathered.
This was the underworld of the South Blue. Countless illicit trades were carried out here, and at times, even the World Government required the services of this dark world. For that reason, it granted them a measure of freedom.
Chichicris Island was only one of many such places in the South Blue. Similar islands could be found all over the world: Minion Island in the North Blue, Mock Town on the first half of the Grand Line, the lawless districts of the Sabaody Archipelago, and Hachinosu in the New World—each a den of the same breed.
...
In the bustling port market street of Chichicris, Ortoren sat at a small stall. He wore a black vest, the same work pants common among dock laborers, and heavy leather boots.
His exposed arms showed firm muscle, decorated with menacing tattoo designs—though in truth, they were just stickers. A pair of dark sunglasses hid most of his face, and a fake mustache rested above his lips. The image was complete: a dockside thug, the kind of man no one would trust.
Thanks to his childhood spent on Terian Island with his father, Ortoren didn't even need to pretend. He knew exactly how to carry himself like a dockyard bully.
He sat there with a cigarette clamped between his teeth, legs propped up on the table, a cheap boxed meal in hand. To anyone watching, he looked like just another underworld native. No one would have guessed he was a famous Rear Admiral of the Marines.
This was already the third lawless zone Ortoren had visited in the South Blue. Ever since leaving the Sorbet Kingdom more than two months ago, he had been moving from one to the next.
His path followed the traces mapped out by Marine Intelligence and the new reports passed down from the CP Agency.
Why the underworld? Because Ortoren reasoned that even scholars were still human. They needed food, drink, and supplies. No one could survive at sea with nothing but knowledge.
And if they tried to resupply at legitimate ports, they risked being discovered and hunted down by the World Government. Which meant they were far more likely to seek provisions in the dark world.
So Ortoren staked out the commercial districts of lawless islands, hoping to catch a glimpse of their trail.
Of course, CP and Intelligence weren't fools. They used the same methods, but so far, had found nothing of value.
Ortoren approached it with a "hit or miss" mindset. If he gained something, great. If not, it was still an experience. Besides, in a little while he'd be heading to Baterilla Island to meet Roger and join the party, so he wasn't too concerned.
...
And what was life in the underworld like? After spending this much time immersed in it, Ortoren knew it well. Survival here was brutally cruel. People died every single day.
Anyone who managed to live in such an environment—whether seven- or eight-year-old brats, or even those in their sixties and seventies—without exception, they were hardened survivors.
This was a place where people devoured each other. If you couldn't, you starved.
In Ortoren's eyes, launching a Buster Call on a place like this wouldn't even count as a misjudgment. Not here.
Holding a boxed meal in his hands, Ortoren sat back in his chair, enjoying the simple act of eating while soaking in the atmosphere of the place. But just as he was savoring the moment, a dispute suddenly broke out at the neighboring stall across from him.
Without a word, the stall owner pulled out a shotgun and fired. His customer was instantly torn into a bloody mess.
The victim's two companions erupted in fury. One of them drew a pistol to retaliate, but the stall owner was already prepared for such a scene. Another blast rang out, sending the man flying several meters before he crashed to the ground.
Ortoren silently stared at the bits of flesh that had landed in his food. The corner of his mouth twitched. Just like that, his good mood was ruined by this pack of scum.
A third shot followed, finishing off the group completely. The stall owner rested his shotgun against the stall counter, baring his teeth in a vicious grin.
"Damn it, you lot didn't even bother asking around? On this street of Chichicris Island, who the hell do you think I'm afraid of? A bunch of nobodies, thinking you can come here and eat for free? This is the underworld! Not some playground for trash like you!"
He was still basking in his arrogance when a shadow fell over him. Turning around, his smug expression froze. Ortoren's massive frame was already standing behind him.
"You…"
The man tried to raise his shotgun, but Ortoren didn't give him the chance. One heavy boot pinned both his feet to the ground, nailing him in place. At the same moment, Ortoren's palm swung out in a merciless slap.
What kind of power did Ortoren wield? Even Kaidou would be left speechless, and the Red Count would have nothing but praise.
That single blow could have sent a man flying. But with his feet pinned, the full force struck directly against his skull. The head, along with part of the spine, was smashed clean off. Blood erupted like a fountain, and the once-arrogant stall owner collapsed as a headless corpse.
Ortoren kicked the twitching body aside and swept his gaze around. The surrounding underworld thugs, wolves in human skin, all flinched under his eyes.
Hardened men weren't rare here. Everyone had blood on their hands—without it, no one would dare open shop in a place like this. But seeing someone's head taken clean off with a single slap? That was new. Brutal. Far too brutal.
Ortoren hurled the blood-splattered meal box to the ground, his voice a savage growl.
"I'll say this once. If any bastard dares pull shit like this while I'm eating again, I'll rip your head off and kick it like a ball!!! Got it?!"
The jackals stood frozen, trembling under his glare.
"Answer me! Did you hear me or not?!" Ortoren roared.
"Yes, we heard! We heard!"
"Calm down, boss!"
Only then did Ortoren nod, though his tone remained rough as he spat curses.
"You hear me and still sit there like corpses? Get off your asses and clean this mess up! Dammit, keeping this market clean takes all of us. See trash on the ground, you clean it up! Have some damn decency!"
At once, stall owners rushed out with brooms and mops. They cleared away the corpses and scraps in no time, then scrubbed the bloodstains from the floor with buckets of water. Each one glanced nervously at Ortoren, afraid he'd still be dissatisfied. When he finally gave a small nod, they all exhaled at once and scurried back to their stalls, sitting like frightened quails.
Ortoren leaned back in his seat, still simmering, when one quick-witted vendor hurried over with a fresh boxed meal. He placed it carefully on Ortoren's table with a servile smile.
"Boss, please try this."
"Not bad, kid." Ortoren gave a satisfied nod, waving him off without reward.
But that single phrase—"not bad"—was enough to make the man walk away with his chest puffed out like he'd just earned the highest honor.
As Ortoren ate again, his mood gradually improved. The market soon returned to normal, though now the stall owners seemed far more polite, their voices hushed as if afraid to disturb him.
Hours passed. When the sky began to darken, Ortoren stretched with a hint of boredom. Another day gone, with nothing gained.
Just as he prepared to pack up and leave, someone caught his eye—a silver-haired woman had appeared in the marketplace.
Nico Olvia.
Thanks to Robin, Ortoren recognized her instantly. Yet here, she looked nothing like a scholar. She carried herself like a hardened veteran of the underworld.
A hunter's leather coat hung from her shoulders, stained with old blood gone dark. A half-eaten chicken leg was clutched in one hand, which she gnawed on without a shred of concern for appearances. In her other hand dangled a heavy revolver, its oversized barrel nearly dragging against her thigh.
Her gaze swept across the street without restraint, glaring coldly at anyone who dared meet her eyes.
With that, Ortoren immediately understood why the CP Agency and Marine Intelligence had failed to track her down. Her disguise was flawless. To anyone else, she looked like a bounty hunter—or worse. Who would ever think her a scholar?
Only someone like Ortoren, with foresight and awareness, could recognize who she really was.