The calm after the Twin Capes was a brief, deceptive lull. The Log Pose, now firmly set on their next destination, seemed to pull the Going Merry into a world gone mad. The sky, once a brilliant blue, curdled into a bruised palette of grey and green. The sea, once calm, became a churning maelstrom of conflicting currents, and the air grew bitingly cold.
***
Then came the snow.
It was a bizarre, almost surreal sight—fat, white flakes swirling down from the oppressive sky to land on the sun-bleached deck of the Merry. Nami, ever the master navigator, wrestled with the helm, her brow furrowed in concentration.
"This is insane! The weather patterns here are completely chaotic!"
Luffy, of course, was thrilled. "SNOW!" he yelled, bouncing around the deck with his tongue out, trying to catch flakes. Usopp and Chopper huddled together for warmth, their teeth chattering. Zoro remained stoic, though he kept a wary eye on the rigging. Sanji was already below, presumably preparing something hot to ward off the chill.
***
Mario stood near the railing, his bandaged arms crossed. The cold seeped into his bones, a stark contrast to the fiery pain of his training. He watched the two stowaways, Ms. Wednesday and Mr. 9, who were looking increasingly desperate and conspiratorial. He knew what was coming.
As the storm began to abate, leaving a strange, icy slush on the deck, the two Baroque Works agents made their move. They unveiled a small, rickety paddleboat, a ridiculous-looking vessel that seemed woefully inadequate for the Grand Line.
"It was a pleasure being your prisoners!" Mr. 9 announced with forced bravado.
"But we must be going now! Our kingdom awaits!" Ms. Wednesday added, her voice tight with a nervousness the others mistook for royal concern.
Before anyone could properly question the logic of two "royals" from a snowy kingdom using such a pathetic craft to cross the most dangerous sea in the world, they had launched their boat and were paddling furiously into the distance, quickly disappearing into the lingering mist.
Nami stared after them, her navigator's intuition screaming. "Something's not right about them..."
But the mystery was soon pushed aside as the Log Pose finally stabilized, pointing unwavering towards a jagged coastline. As the Merry sailed closer, a peculiar settlement came into view. It was a town of strange, conical rock formations, like giant stone hats, with buildings built directly into and on top of them. A sign, crudely painted, welcomed them: WHISKY PEAK.
A cheer erupted from the shore. Dozens, then hundreds of people poured out of the buildings, waving flags, playing instruments, and shouting with jubilant faces.
"WELCOME, PIRATES!"
"WE LOVE PIRATES!"
"You've made it! Come! Feast! Celebrate!"
The crew stared, utterly bewildered. Luffy's eyes turned into giant meat symbols. "A FEAST?! SHISHISHI! LAND OF FOOD!"
Usopp puffed out his chest. "Of course! It's only natural they would welcome the great Captain Usopp!"
Nami looked skeptical but tempted by the prospect of a safe port. Zorro simply grunted, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword, his single eye narrowed in suspicion.
Mario felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach, far colder than the recent snow had been. The cheerful music and welcoming smiles were a facade, a beautiful, deadly trap. He looked at the ecstatic faces of his crew, at Luffy already salivating at the thought of a banquet.
This is it, Mario thought, his own hands curling into fists, the bandages stark white against his skin. The first test.
The Going Merry docked, and the crew was swept ashore by the roaring, adoring crowd. The celebration was beginning. And Mario knew that before the night was over, the streets of Whisky Peak would run not with whisky, but with the silent, unconscious forms of bounty hunters.
The celebration at Whisky Peak was a riot of noise and feigned camaraderie that stretched deep into the night. Mario, playing his part, even managed to buy a new set of practical, dark-toned clothes from a jovial vendor—a simple tunic and trousers that allowed for easier movement than his previous worn-out gear.
Of course, the transaction was funded by a "loan" from Nami, acquired with a shark-like smile and an interest rate of "only" 100%.
That thieving little bird, he thought with a mixture of annoyance and fondness.
They were even introduced to the town's "mayor," a flamboyant man with a giant perm who introduced himself as Igarubpoi. Mario could only offer a knowing, internal smile at the poorly disguised Igaram.
So the play begins.
And what a play it was.
The party exploded into full swing. Nami, to the astonishment of all, dominated a drinking contest, her cheeks barely flushed as seasoned drinkers slumped around her.
Luffy had constructed a mountain of empty plates around himself, his stomach distended to comical proportions.
Usopp was holding court, his tales growing more grandiose with every tankard of ale.
Sanji was in a state of bliss, surrounded by a flock of beautiful, adoring women, while Zorro was single-mindedly chugging an entire barrel of ale, his competitive spirit focused on the wrong opponent.
Mario nursed a bitter beer, laughing along, clinking mugs, and playing the part of a merry pirate. But beneath the act, his senses were on high alert, his Observation Haki, though fledgling, stretching out like a faint web, feeling the predatory intent hidden beneath the festive masks.
He knew it was all a facade. Well, he knew. Luffy, however, was blissfully, genuinely happy, and the sight of his captain's unadulterated joy made the impending betrayal feel all the more vile.
Deep into the night, the feigned exhaustion became real for the bounty hunters, who had overplayed their parts. One by one, the crew "passed out." Mario let himself slump against a wall, mimicking the deep, even breaths of sleep.
He didn't have to wait long. Through slitted eyes, he saw Zorro, who had been suspiciously quiet during his "binge," rise with silent, predatory grace and slip out the door.
The chaos was about to begin.
As Mario pushed himself up, brushing straw from his new clothes, a voice cut through the quiet.
"I knew something was up. No one is this nice without a price," Nami whispered, already awake and alert, her eyes gleaming with sharp intelligence.
"And I knew our navigator wasn't easily cheated," Mario replied, a grin tugging at his lips.
"Please," she scoffed softly, a beautiful, cunning smile on her face. "I've run this kind of fraud a hundred times against pirates back in the East Blue."
"So, what to do, what to do?" she asked, the mischief in her eyes now mixed with a hunter's gleam.
"Well, I'm heading to the docks to check on our ship. I'll handle some of the bounty hunters along the way to help Zorro. You?"
A spark of pure, unadulterated avarice lit up her face. "I'm going to rob this place blind."
"Of course you will," Mario chuckled. "Well, I'm off. I'm going to prepare for our departure. Don't have too much fun." He gave her a wink before slipping out the back door.
The cool night air was a shock after the stuffy hall. He found three bounty hunters waiting in the alley, their faces a picture of comical shock at seeing a target up and mobile.
"Hey, you're supposed to be—" one began, but Mario was already moving.
His body, now fully healed, responded with fluid ease. The deep ache in his arms was gone, replaced by a thrumming readiness. He sidestepped a clumsy sword swing, weaved under a lunging punch, and delivered three precise, concussive chops to the backs of their necks. They crumpled to the ground in a synchronized heap, unconscious before they hit the cobblestones. It was effortless. He looked at his hands, no longer bandaged, no longer pained, and felt a surge of confidence. The warm-up was over.
The sleepy town of Whisky Peak was waking up to the wrong kind of surprise. As Mario moved with purpose through the winding streets, more bounty hunters emerged from the shadows and doorways, their faces shifting from predatory glee to confusion and then alarm as their target walked towards them, not away.
But Mario fought through them as if he were taking a leisurely stroll. The frantic brawling of his early days was gone, replaced by an economical, almost detached efficiency. He didn't waste a single motion. A bounty hunter lunged with a cutlass; Mario sidestepped, grabbed the man's wrist, and used his own momentum to slam him into a wall. Two others charged simultaneously; a low sweep dropped the first, and a sharp, open-palm strike to the solar plexus folded the second. It was effortless.
Crack! Crack!
Gunshots echoed in the narrow street. Mario didn't even flinch. His heightened senses, sharpened by both Haki meditation and the clarity of the night air, perceived the trajectory before the bullets even left the barrel. He simply tilted his head, and the lead whizzed harmlessly past his ear. He took two swift steps forward and delivered a precise jab to the shooter's jaw, putting him to sleep before he could process his miss. Mario himself was a little astonished. These weren't East Blue thugs; these were Grand Line bounty hunters. Yet he was dealing with them as if they were standing still.
This is the difference, he realized, between brawling and using a system. The Rokushiki principles, even the flawed ones he'd developed, were providing a foundation that made his movements sharper, faster, and infinitely more effective.
His destination wasn't just the docks.
He had a Quartermaster's duty to perform. He ducked into a large, unguarded building that his intuition—and the scent of dried grains and salt—identified as the main storehouse. Barrels of fresh water, crates of citrus fruits, salted meats, and even some rare spices lined the shelves.
It was a pirate's dream.
He was loading a heavy sack of rice onto a nearby cart when the door creaked open. Six more hunters stood silhouetted against the moonlight, weapons drawn.
"Thought you'd help yourself to our supplies, pirate scum?" their leader snarled.
Mario sighed, not out of fear, but out of impatience. "You have no idea."
The fight was even shorter than the one in the street. Confined by the shelves, they couldn't surround him effectively. He used the environment, kicking a barrel of flour that burst in a white cloud, blinding two of them before they were knocked out. He used the cart as a shield against a crossbow bolt, then pushed it forward to pin another against the wall. The last two he disarmed with sharp kicks to their wrists before delivering concussive blows to their temples. In under ten seconds, all six were down.
There were close calls, however. As he was wheeling the heavily-laden cart out of the storehouse, a thunderous BOOM shattered the night. One of the hunters on a rooftop had managed to load and fire a small, swivel-mounted cannon. Mario's eyes widened as the cannonball tore through the air where he'd been a second before, obliterating the storehouse door and part of the wall in an explosion of splinters and stone. The shockwave rattled the cart. His heart hammered for a single beat—not from fear, but from the sheer, visceral reality of the destruction.
The bounty hunter on the roof, cursing vehemently, fumbled with a fresh cannonball, his hands shaking from both panic and the recoil of his first shot. He was completely exposed, a perfect silhouette against the moonlit sky.
Mario didn't give him a second chance. He stopped, planted his feet, and raised his hand. Focusing his will, he channeled the familiar rigidity of Tekkai into his index finger.
He ignored the residual ache, compressing the motion of a full-arm strike into the flick of his wrist and the extension of that single, hardened digit.
Shigan!
A visible ripple of compressed air, like heat haze, shot from his fingertip. It wasn't the sharp crack of a perfected Tobu Shigan, but a duller, heavier thump of force. The air bullet crossed the distance in an instant, striking the bounty hunter square in the temple. There was no puncture, no blood. Instead, the man's head snapped to the side as if hit by a solid, invisible cudgel.
His eyes rolled back, and he crumpled over the cannon, unconscious before he hit the roof tiles.
Mario let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding, a wave of relief washing over him. He was glad it hadn't pierced the man's skull. His control was still rudimentary, a blunt instrument rather than a surgical tool, but it was progress. The act of taking a life, even in self-defense against a would-be killer, was a line he wasn't yet willing to cross. He was a traveler in this world, not a born killer, and he intended to hold onto that piece of his old self for as long as he possibly could.
Satisfied with the small victory, Mario continued his mission, the squeaking wheels of the supply cart echoing in the suddenly quieter streets. The sounds of intense combat—the ringing of steel and furious shouts—were concentrated further inland, a clear auditory beacon marking Zorro's location. It seemed the vast majority of the bounty hunters had chosen to swarm the swordsman, a fatal miscalculation that made Mario's task infinitely easier. They had focused on the known, monstrous threat, completely overlooking the logistical nightmare quietly making off with their entire winter stock and securing their escape route.
He finally reached the docks, the familiar shape of the Going Merry a welcome sight. The area was nearly deserted.The path was clear. With practiced efficiency, Mario began the work of transferring the stolen supplies from the cart to the Merry's hold, securing them for the swift departure he knew was coming. While the monster fought, the quartermaster prepared, each playing their part to perfection.