At that moment, the lieutenant colonel was consumed by rage. Seeing a woman desperately clutching an old wooden box, he sneered, strode forward, and kicked her aside before ripping it from her grasp.
"Old man, hiding something this well… there must be treasure inside!"
The woman scrambled after him, tears streaming down her face."No! Please! Those are my son's belongings—he died on the battlefield! Please… give it back!"
The lieutenant colonel pried open the box roughly. Inside, there was only a rusted nameplate and a few faded photographs. His expression twisted with disappointment—and then fury.
"Damn it! Just some dead nobody's junk!" he spat, throwing the box to the ground. He stomped on the nameplate and photos with his boots, grinding them into the dirt. Each stomp shattered the woman's last fragments of love and dignity.
"Trash! The son you birthed was trash too—he deserved to die! You low-born rats don't even deserve to breathe!"His words dripped with venom, his face warped by cruel pleasure.
The woman's cries turned into hollow, broken sobs.
Tanma stopped walking.
He could overlook theft. He understood the law of the jungle. He even accepted that strength ruled the world.But this—this sick delight in crushing another's last shred of humanity—stirred something cold and sharp within him.
And the man doing it… wore the uniform of the Navy, the very symbol of "justice."
It was filthier than any pirate's greed.
He'd seen plenty of darkness, but this—this petty cruelty—was a thorn that pierced right through his calm exterior.
The lieutenant colonel was still laughing, trampling, basking in the fear of those around him.
Then, without warning, a figure appeared before him—like a ghost.
No one even saw him move.
Tanma's expression was calm, emotionless. Only in his deep eyes flickered a faint disgust—like he was staring at something rotten.
"It's too noisy."
He spoke softly.
A flash of cold light followed.
No flourish. No wasted motion.Just a single, perfect horizontal slash.
The air froze.
The lieutenant colonel's grin stiffened. Confusion flickered in his eyes—then the world spun. He saw his own headless body standing there, blood erupting from its neck like a crimson fountain.
His consciousness vanished before fear could take root.
Thud.
His head hit the ground, rolled twice, and lay still—dust settling over lifeless eyes filled with shock and disbelief.
The entire town fell silent.
Every navy soldier froze mid-action—robbers, bullies, looters—all staring at their fallen commander and the man who'd killed him in an instant.
The civilians were too stunned to cry.
Tanma sheathed his sword, not even glancing at the corpse. It was as casual as brushing off an annoying insect.
He turned to the trembling marines."Get lost."
Only one word.But it cut deeper than any blade.
A chill like death washed over the soldiers. Panic broke through their shock, and they screamed, dropping their loot as they fled toward the warships, tripping over each other in terror.
Tanma didn't chase them. Killing insects wasn't worth his time.
He looked down at the crushed photos, then at the woman, who now sat motionless on the ground—an empty shell of grief.
He said nothing.
Without another glance, he turned and walked deeper into the island to find the supplies he'd come for.
Sunlight spilled across his back, stretching his shadow long across the bloodstained street.
He remained cold, detached—untouched by light.
Yet, in his own ruthless way, he had erased a small fragment of evil from the world.
To the islanders, he was a terrifying mystery—a man who brought both fear and salvation.
In the coming days, the story would reach the desks of high-ranking Navy officers:A lone swordsman, clad in black, had slain a lieutenant colonel on a non-member island in the New World.
Days later, Tanma still hadn't left. The rare supplies he sought required time to locate.But the island's air had grown heavy again—thicker with dread than before.
Rumors spread like wildfire.
The old woman—the one who had lost her son's keepsakes—had been arrested by the king's guards.
The reason was as absurd as it was cruel.
Terrified by the lieutenant colonel's death, the king feared both the black swordsman's return and the wrath of the World Government.To protect himself, to prove his loyalty, he needed a scapegoat.
The old woman became that scapegoat.
They accused her of conspiring with pirates and murdering a naval officer—a crime punishable by torture and death.
When the whispers reached Tanma, he sat alone in a dim tavern corner, polishing Calamity.The murmured gossip around him barely reached his ears. But when he heard the woman's name… his hand stopped.
The air seemed to grow colder.
Without a word, he slid the sword back into its sheath with a sharp click.
Then he stood, calm and silent, and walked out of the tavern.
Each step was steady—each one heavy with quiet, merciless intent—as he headed straight for the palace.