Rogers set foot on Chronus Island again, this time with a map in hand. He studied it carefully. The place turned out to be a man-made island—not all that large—shaped like a ring with an inner lake at its center.
The island was split into five zones: the civilian district (where his ship had docked), and four other territories divided among bounty hunters, the government, pirates, and the mafia. The civilian area was the largest, followed by the government's.
Yesterday, he had accidentally wandered through the bounty hunter zone into the government's, which explained why he'd ended up in a bounty hunter stronghold.
Determined not to repeat that mistake, Rogers headed in the opposite direction. This path would take him through mafia territory before reaching the pirates' zone.
The mafia district was swarming with groups of men in identical black suits. They carried guns, loitered in clusters, or stood guard like sentries. Rogers kept his head down and passed without causing trouble.
The pirate sector, in contrast, was lively and noisy. The streets bustled with men and women in mismatched clothing, their voices carrying over taverns and alleys. Curious, Rogers drifted toward a crowd gathered in the street. His sharp hearing caught snippets before he even reached them.
…They were recruiting.
At the center stood a scarred brute with a crew of weapon-toting toughs at his back. On the ground lay a plank scrawled with crooked letters:
"Blood Axe Pirates Recruiting! High pay. Special skills prioritized. Strong young men prioritized."
Straightforward enough. Rogers immediately thought—maybe he could try something similar to find his own crew.
Just then, a young man stepped out of the crowd.
"I want to join your crew," he said calmly. "But I have one condition."
"Oh? You dare to name conditions?" The brute scowled, but after eyeing the man's sword, his interest piqued. "A swordsman, huh? Fine, let's hear it."
"I want to go to the Grand Line. Will your crew head there?"
"Of course!" the brute barked. "What kind of pirate crew wouldn't?"
"Good." The swordsman nodded decisively. "Then I'll join you."
But the brute hesitated. "Why do you want to go to the Grand Line? We don't carry men without purpose."
The swordsman's grip tightened on his blade, wind stirring faintly around him. His voice was charged with resolve.
"My goal is singular—to challenge the world's greatest swordsman! I've heard that man called Hawkeye has joined the Seven Warlords. On the Grand Line, I will face him!"
The brute paled, sweat beading his brow.
"Forget it! Our crew can't handle someone suicidal. You want to pick a fight with Hawkeye? You're out of your damn mind. We're not dying with you!"
The crowd erupted.
"Is this guy insane?"
"Doesn't know how high the sky is, thinking he can take on Hawkeye!"
"That's a Warlord of the Sea, recognized even by the World Government!"
"Looking for death and trying to drag others with him? Ridiculous!"
Rogers, standing at the edge, froze. The man's outfit—the dark-blue tunic, yellow sash, slim blade at his hip, the flute tucked in his belt, and that spiky upward hair—looked exactly like someone from his past life.
Yasuo. The most hated champion from the game League of Legends.
In front of him now stood a younger version of that nightmare.
The swordsman sighed and turned away, muttering, "So be it…" He seemed ready to search for another crew.
But Rogers's eyes blazed with a mix of fascination and resentment. Memories of countless humiliating defeats in the Rift surged up. He clenched his fists.
Mmpf, of all the people… it had to be him.
He trailed after the swordsman openly, not bothering to hide. The man, sensing it, stopped at the end of a quiet street.
"Why are you following me?" His tone was unreadable, neither hostile nor friendly. "Shadowing me this blatantly—you'd better have a reason."
"What's your name?" Rogers demanded, glaring at him like an old nemesis.
"Yaro. Why?"
"Yaro? You sure it isn't Yasuo?" Rogers stepped closer, voice full of venom.
Yaro frowned. "I think I'd know my own name. Who are you supposed to be?"
"I'm Rogers. A pirate." His eyes narrowed. The man didn't seem like he was lying… but his appearance was infuriating.
"You're a pirate?" Yaro's eyes lit up. He completely ignored Rogers's hostility and asked eagerly, "Then can I join you? I'm a strong swordsman!"
He flashed the blade at his hip, posture proud, as though declaring his worth. Rogers glanced at the weapon—it did look sharp. But the man himself… seemed a bit thickheaded. Hot-blooded, naive. Almost too familiar.
"So… earlier I heard you say you're heading to challenge Hawkeye. That true?" Rogers asked cautiously.
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