Sea Circle Calendar, Year 1472, Dead-Man's Reef.
The night didn't merely end; it shattered into a million jagged shards of orange light and the copper tang of blood.
The first volley of mortar fire turned the South Blue sky into a sickening kaleidoscope of sulfur and ash. The shells whistled—a high, mournful shriek that tore through the air—before slamming into the jagged shipwrecks of Dead-Man's Reef. The resulting explosions weren't just sounds; they were physical blows that rattled the teeth in Sinbad's skull.
On the tilting deck of the Tempest's Fury, the "Singularity" in Sinbad's chest wasn't just vibrating; it was screaming. It felt like a trapped bird beating its wings against his ribs, a frantic response to the collective Will of three Marine Warships. Hundreds of men, unified by the cold, iron-clad dogma of "Absolute Justice," were projecting a psychic weight so heavy it felt like a cage of white-hot light closing in on his soul.
"Oars! Stern-side! Don't let them box us in!" Sinbad's roar cut through the cacophony.
The giant didn't retreat. He moved into the fire. A massive mortar shell, intended to splinter the Fury'shull, struck Oars squarely in the shoulder. The explosion bloomed against his bruised, sunset-red skin in a spray of fire and soot. Oars didn't flinch. He didn't scream. He simply grunted, his muscles bunching like tectonic plates as he braced his massive frame against the brigantine's stern.
"Captain said... stay," Oars rumbled. His voice was a subterranean tectonic shift, vibrating the very deck planks. His golden eyes, usually filled with a gentle curiosity, were now fixed on the lead warship, glowing with a dull, primeval rage. "Oars... is the wall."
Blood, thick and steaming like molten lead, began to trail down the giant's arm, dripping into the churning sea. He ignored it. He was a mountain of meat, bone, and ancient stubbornness, and tonight, the Marines were learning that mountains don't move for men.
The galley door flew open, hitting the bulkhead with a crack. Zeff didn't emerge with a sword or a gun; he was wielding a heavy cast-iron pot like a buckler. His blonde hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and his eyes were manic, dancing with the adrenaline of a cornered predator.
"Eat this, you shitty eggplant! Now!"
Zeff reached into a pouch at his waist and shoved a handful of dried, crimson-stained meat into Sinbad's hand. It was Magma-Pepper Jerky—strips of Sea King heart cured in a reduction of volcanic salt and habanero, a recipe Zeff had "overclocked" under Sinbad's tutelage.
Sinbad tore into the meat. The heat was a physical assault. It wasn't just spice; it was a chemical fire that ignited his blood, burning away the "Distress" of the Singularity. The ringing in his ears faded, replaced by a singular, hyper-focused intent. The world slowed. He could see the individual grains of powder igniting in the Marine cannons across the harbor.
"Don't get cocky, Captain," Zeff spat, swallowing his own piece of the jerky, his face flushing a deep, angry red. He turned toward the approaching Marine boarding skiffs, his right leg beginning to steam as he built friction against the salt-slicked deck. "If we die here, I'm never forgiving you for making me cook on this floating crate. I have a restaurant to open, you hear me?"
"We're not dying," Sinbad said, Maelstrom clearing its sheath with a chime that resonated across the water like a funeral bell. "We're ascending."
As the first Marine skiffs reached the Fury, Sinbad didn't wait for the boarding hooks. He launched himself into the air, a purple streak against the backdrop of a burning harbor.
His Observation Haki mapped the trajectories of the musket fire in real-time—tiny, leaden deaths humming through the air. He moved between them with a dancer's grace, his body a blur of motion. He landed on the prow of the lead skiff with enough force to nearly capsize it.
"Halt! In the name of—"
The Marine never finished his sentence. Maelstrom was a black streak of concentrated Will. Sinbad didn't use the flat of the blade to spare them; he cut with the lethal precision of a man who had already accepted the cost of his kingdom. His Armament Haki flared in a violent, ink-black burst, shattering the Marine's cutlass and the man behind it.
Sinbad's face was a mask of cold, terrifying efficiency. The "Moral Code" of his past life as Yami Hirotoshi was a ghost, a remnant of a world where life was cheap because it was boring. Here, life was the only currency that mattered, and he was the one setting the exchange rate.
Behind him, Zeff was a whirlwind of yellow and red. He used the "Fire-Starter" jerky's heat to fuel his kicks, his boots leaving charred, smoking imprints on the chests of the Marines he sent spiraling into the dark water.
"Is this all the 'Justice' you brought?" Zeff laughed, a wild, arrogant sound. "I've seen kitchen fires with more heat than this!"
But the "Singularity" tugged at Sinbad again. A premonition of iron and salt.
He looked up toward the lead Warship. Standing on the bridge was the man in the white suit—the masked agent from Saffron. He wasn't watching the carnage on the skiffs. He was looking at a specific point on the reef.
Isolde.
She stood on the docks, her dark hair whipped into a frenzy by the wind of the explosions. She looked at Sinbad, her obsidian eyes filled with a conflict that bordered on agony. In her hand, she held a flare gun, the metal glinting in the firelight.
In that moment, the Singularity clicked. This wasn't an ambush meant to kill him—not yet. It was a stress test. The World Government was measuring the "Weight" of his soul. They had used Isolde as the bait, banking on his lingering human desire for connection to tether him to the reef.
"You're not a Queen," Sinbad hissed, his voice carrying over the din of battle, amplified by the sheer pressure of his Haki. "You're a leash."
He didn't waste a second on her. He turned his attention to the heavy harbor chains that Oars was currently grappling with. The giant was literally dragging the Tempest's Fury through the harbor mouth by the sheer strength of his arms, ignoring the grapeshot that tore at his legs.
"Oars! The main mast! Catch!"
Sinbad threw Maelstrom—not at an enemy, but into the air. He projected his Will, his Haki, into the spinning blade, guiding its arc. It sliced through the harbor's heavy defensive chain, the massive links snapping with a sound like a thunderclap.
The Fury was free. But the Government wasn't finished.
The Shadow from the Deep
As the ship broke through the harbor mouth, the masked agent on the warship raised a single, gloved hand.
"Phase Two," he whispered into a golden Den-Den Mushi.
The water around the ship didn't just churn; it began to boil with a sickly, mechanical hum. A massive, charcoal-gray shadow rose from the depths—a precursor to the sea-prism-stone-lined warships, a "Hunter-Submersible" designed to drag the world's most dangerous prey into the abyss.
A harpoon, thick as a redwood trunk and glowing with an eerie, sea-foam green light, erupted from the submersible's prow. It slammed into Oars's chest.
The giant let out a sound that would haunt Sinbad's dreams—not a roar of defiance, but a sharp, wet gasp of pure, unadulterated pain. The harpoon wasn't just steel; it was tipped with raw Sea-Prism Stone. Even for an Ancient Giant, the substance acted like a spiritual anchor, dragging his natural vitality into a black hole.
"Captain..." Oars groaned, his golden eyes going wide and glassy. His knees, which had withstood mortar fire, finally buckled.
Sinbad watched in slow-motion horror as his "Shield," his friend, began to slide off the deck and into the dark, grasping water of the South Blue.
"OARS!" Sinbad's voice cracked, a raw sound of desperation.
"He's dead weight, Sinbad!" Zeff yelled, grabbing a railing as the ship lurched violently under Oars' shifting mass. "The sub is pulling him down—if we don't cut the line, he takes the ship with him!"
Zeff's eyes were cold, pragmatic. He didn't hate the giant, but to him, a sinking ship meant the end of the dream. He raised a foot, his leg glowing with a desperate heat, ready to sever the harpoon's cable to save the rest of them.
"Don't you dare, Zeff!" Sinbad's presence suddenly doubled. The air around the Fury grew heavy, the oxygen seemingly sucked out of the atmosphere.
Sinbad's Conqueror's Haki didn't just flare—it erupted. It wasn't the refined, targeted strike of a master; it was a volcanic explosion of grief and protective rage. The wood of the main mast groaned and cracked under the invisible pressure. Several Marines on the nearby skiffs didn't just pass out; they bled from their ears as their minds shattered.
"Nobody dies on my watch!" Sinbad screamed.
He didn't look at the warships. He looked at the water. The Singularity was pulsing in sync with his heartbeat now, a drumbeat of war. He could feel the Director's gaze from miles away, watching through a telescope, recording his every move like a lab rat.
Sinbad plunged into the water after Oars, the black shroud of his Haki clinging to him even beneath the waves.
He saw the harpoon cable, vibrating with the tension of the submersible's engines. He saw Oars, his massive hand reaching out feebly as he sank into the lightless deep, the Sea-Prism tip glowing like a demon's eye in his chest.
Sinbad grabbed the cable with his bare hands. The friction tore the skin from his palms instantly, but he didn't feel it.
I am the one who changes the timeline, he thought, his vision narrowing to the green glow of the harpoon. I don't lose anyone.
High above on the lead Marine Warship, the man in the white suit lowered his binoculars. "Interesting," he murmured to the Den-Den Mushi. "He's choosing the giant over the escape. Increase the submersible's torque. Let's see how much weight a God can truly carry."
Sinbad felt the pull increase, the mechanical strength of the World Government trying to drag him into the dark. He planted his feet against the submerged hull of the Fury and pulled back, his muscles screaming, his Haki beginning to bleed into the water in a terrifying, dark-purple nebula.
"Zeff! Get the winch!" Sinbad's voice gurgled through the water, a psychic command that bypassed the ears. "If we lose him, I'm coming for your other leg!"
Zeff stood on the deck, looking down into the churning, bloody water. He looked at the three warships closing in, their cannons reloaded and aiming for the stationary target. He looked at the chain he should be cutting.
"You're a madman, Sinbad," Zeff hissed, but he threw his weight onto the mechanical winch anyway. "A total, suicidal madman!"
As the Marine warships opened fire again, Sinbad braced himself between the ship and the sea, a bridge of flesh and Haki, waiting for the impact.