Chapter Text
The new era started like this, with the monumental collapse of all major influential forces in the New World sea.
With ‘Pirate King’ Gold Roger publicly executed, and both ‘Golden Lion’ Shiki and ‘Demon Heir’ Douglas Bullet indefinitely incarcerated under navy watch. Edward ‘Whitebeard’ Newgate now stood alone at the top of the world, newly recognized as the strongest man and the only remaining original Sea Emperor to survive into this new era, to face down the hordes drawn like vultures by the power vacuum during the most turbulent time on the seas.
One year after the execution of the Pirate King, world council decided to initiate a novel government apparatus to curb the exponential influx of piracy. The Royal Warlord System was thus officially established.
On this day, one man was branded forever and condemned by the lawless society as the first pirate traitor.
Hachinosu Beehive Island is a renowned pirate sanctum located in the middle of the most chaotic sea. Rocky beaches and cliffs, dry sand, sparse palm trees so tall they stretch a kilometer into the sky, and a hollowed mountain carved into the face of a skull. Anarchy masquerades as a declaration for freedom. Davy Back Games conducted on the streets to tear opposing crews apart, wagering comrades as gamble tokens. Laughter and screams blend into the same pitch.
In the largest island tavern sitting by the window is Big Mom Pirate executive Charlotte Angel, 22-year-old. She groans, tilting her chair backward and crosses her legs on the table. “This is the correct location? Zuccotto is still pissed at the asshole that sank his ship, so are we absolutely sure the guy was seeking information concerning this place?”
Charlotte Katakuri adjusts the fleecy scarf covering his face and hums, 25-year-old, bending down slightly from a taller barrel seat more suitable for his height. “It’s the only trail we got.”
Angel makes a face. “We’ve been staking out this godforsaken dumpster of an island for two days, Brother Katakuri,” Angel complains. “There’s no way the guy would show up in the midst of pirate paradise. There are—I don’t know—fifty different crews here salivating at the chance to shank that government bitch.”
Katakuri rubs his brows with a sigh. “Language, Angel.”
“But—”
“Brother Katakuri,” Charlotte Melise interrupts her older siblings with a loud whine. This young 10-year-old Charlotte daughter is sitting on the table, with her legs swinging over the ledge. “I want to go see the games outsiiiiide!”
“You already lost us two million beri betting in those games, Melise,” Angel chuckles, combing fingers through her younger sister’s hair to help tidy the tangles. Charlotte Melise has mix-mink heritage, and she is already beginning to develop tiny reindeer antlers that cause her hair to become easily disheveled.
“Or I just watch,” Melise pouts. “Promise, I won’t bet money this time.”
The two daughters look to their older brother, expecting a response, but Katakuri’s attention is focused elsewhere at the swinging doors. “Looks like our guest of honor has finally arrived,” Katakuri comments, his tone somewhat amused.
Angel and Melise turn too, only to see...
... a relatively small hazel-brown dachshund hound strutting into the overcrowded tavern, less than one meter in length nose-to-tail, scurrying between tables and chairs and people’s long legs, and making a meandering line towards the bar counter. Angel gives her older brother a quizzical glance, but Katakuri only gestures with a hand for her to keep watching.
The hound leans up on tiny front legs, tongue hanging out and pants.
And then.
A swishing rustle of sand.
Three gleaming coins spin to a stop on the countertop, followed by fingertips forming a right hand and an arm. Woollen fur coat draped over slender shoulders, elegant ascot and vest, long dark hair tied in a loose ponytail, sharp reptilian golden eyes and the unmistakable bronze hook. The warlord is an androgynous young man in his early twenties, and in the midst of pirate paradise, that disgraceful pariah branded as pirate-traitor dares to show his face.
“I heard this is the place where I can get a crew and ship by playing in games?” Sir Crocodile says, 23-year-old, tapping at the three coins on the tabletop with a cigar between his fingers.
The entire tavern becomes deathly silent, and then everyone in the spacious beerhouse burst out in derisive laughter. “Are my eyes deceiving me?” A loud mocking sneer hollers from the back, “The navy’s dog comes barking in pirate paradise, what, pretty boy can’t find any friends in that pretentious palace among the clouds?”
“Government man-whore.”
“If you like to kneel and suck dick so much, you should just get on the floor right now.”
Crocodile narrows his eyes, fist clenches, but does not reply.
On the opposite side of the room, Angel removes her legs from the wooden table and nudges her older brother on the hip. “Okay, I take my previous comments back,” Angel says, giving a low quiet whistle and licks her lip. “I was expecting a boring old man, not someone around my age. The government bitch is actually kind of hot.”
Katakuri does not comment on that, instead only preemptively picks up Melise and takes a half-step back, having prophetically sensed trouble.
A brutish four-meters-tall man loitering next to them abruptly kicks over their large table, exactly as Katakuri has foreseen, throwing food and plates across the floor as he stalks forward. The man comes to a stop in front of the warlord and aims a flintlock pistol at the younger man’s face. The dachshund hound growls.
“You murdered my brother just last week,” the man snarls. “I didn’t expect to get my revenge so soon.”
“Shhh, good boy,” Crocodile says absentmindedly to the agitated hound, soothing his pet companion first with a gentle gesture before tilting his head up. A swirl of sand, the three gold coins are now held between his fingers. “You want me so much, play the games.”
The man guffaws. “You think I won’t just blow your head off?”
“You won’t,” Crocodile replies, confident in his own assessment, and he motions with the left hook to point straight up. “There is only one rule in this place, and nobody wants to upset the two big bosses up top.”
The pistol in the man’s hand twitches, but he does not dare to pull the trigger.
Crocodile smirks.
A stocky woman in bear skin and chainmail however sneers, stepping forward. “You and what crew, exactly?” The woman haughtily demands, “You need three crew members at minimum to offer as game prize, and we all know for fact no self-respecting pirate would ever be caught dead standing next to boot-licking shit like you.”
Crocodile bites down on the cigar, his smile now a bit strained. “Myself, my dog, and my flag. I’d say I fulfill the requirements just fine.”
The entire tavern stares. Someone let out a disbelieving scoff. “Is this a fucking joke?”
“I am not joking,” Crocodile glares.
A glass mug clangs loudly from behind the counter, breaking the tension in the room. “The warlord—” spits in disgust, “—wants to participate in the games, let him have it,” the bartender intones, sounding exasperated. “We all need to respect the one rule on this island. No fights, only Davy Back Fights. Break it up and go outside.”
“Fine,” the man growls angrily, throwing a gold coin down on the floor and storms out the tavern with his pistol. “I am issuing a shooting challenge. Whoever puts a bullet into you first fucking wins.”
Crocodile places his three coins back on the counter as game token and follows the man out onto a spacious courtyard, where people are already moving aside to form a wide ring, but he has some objections to the actual game condition. “I have no gun,” Crocodile points out, his pet hound tagging dutifully at the heels. “I cannot shoot you.”
“That is just too bad,” the man says with a condescending smirk. “I am Bison Yovak, captain of the Steamroller Pirates. Accept the challenge.”
Crocodile frowns.
“Hey, wait a minute! I have beef with that government asshole too!”
“Count me in, I want a piece of that!”
“Move over, scumbags, that marine bitch’s head is mine!”
People shouting in delightful glee as gold coins are thrown into the ring, one after another after another, so many crews wanting to seize this chance, to tear down the shameful outcast that betrayed the unwritten piracy code of honor and bend the knee.
“Kill the navy bitch! Kill the navy bitch! Kill the navy bitch! Kill the navy bitch!”
Amidst the zealous commotion, Angel grabs her candy bullet revolver and frisbee, rushing outside, too, but Katakuri places a wary hand over her shoulders. “Are you sure, Angel?”
“I’m not going to lose a shooting match against someone without a gun,” Angel tells her brother, rolling her eyes. “Besides, I am not letting another person kill that pretty asshole before we get our revenge for Zuccotto.”
Katakuri sighs, letting his younger sister go.
There are twenty contestants now, gold coins littering the dusty floor, and all waiting for Crocodile’s decision. Combatants and sharpshooters from multiple crews, with a few captains in the mix, all armed with various guns and pistols and rifles.
Crocodile exhales, unbothered, and then turns to his pet hound. “Lassoo, would you please.”
The hazel-brown dachshund barks twice, gives a little hop wagging its tail, and then scurries into the designated gaming area.
Everyone stares.
“What is the meaning of this?” Yovak shouts from across the field, feeling extremely insulted.
“Exactly what it looks like,” Crocodile replies, blowing a cloud of cigar smoke into the air and sounding bored. “Lassoo is going to play the first game. He is part of my crew, he is allowed to do so.”
Veins pop on that pirate captain’s forehead and Yovak aims his flintlock pistol at Crocodile. “You fucking government whore dare mock—”
—BANG!!
Without warning, a bullet goes straight through that pirate captain’s forehead, right between the eyes, splattering brain matter all over the ground. Onlookers’ mouths gape open, dust settled, and they see that there is now a furry hazel-brown rifle mounted atop gatling-on-wheels where the small harmless dog previously had been. The gun growls, pointing its many barrels at all the other contestants.
“Fucking hell,” Angel curses, dodging to the side when rapid-firing bullets start raining down. Someone screams in pain behind her, dead or not, disqualified either way. Angel dashes around a rock, taking aim, but it is actually difficult to search out a tiny morphing gun-dog when there are so many other people kicking up debris, so she shoots two people scrambling into her way to get them out of the competition. Angel breaths, needing to calm down or her observation won’t work.
From the side, Katakuri watches the game with Melise giggling in his left arm, worried, while clenching a jellybean tight in his hand. You planning to intervene to prevent your gal from losing?
Katakuri tenses his grip, knuckles white, before turning to glare at the shorter blond teen in garish pink feather coat crouching on the parapet next to him. The boy only offers a huge grin and opens his mouth, echoing the question perceived through precognitive haki. “You planning to intervene to prevent your gal from losing?”
Katakuri wants to ignore the inquiry, his attention back on the shooting match, watching people maiming and killing each other while chasing after a dog. “Angel is not going to lose.”
“It’s a fair question,” the teen shrugs, twitching two fingers. “People cheat in these games all the time. Just a matter of not getting caught.”
Katakuri does not reply. The blond teen stands up to stretch his legs, with the added height of the low wall they are almost eye-to-eye. The warlord is interesting though, I don’t mind participating in a round as well.
“You’re going to get caught,” Katakuri warns.
The teen closes his mouth, pouts. “I haven’t said anything.”
Katakuri gives the kid another glance, piercing crimson gaze a reflection on stylized red-tinted sunglasses. “You want to play a round with the warlord, but there won’t be another round if the dog loses,” Katakuri says softly. “I will kill you if you cheated to let the dog win. I do not care that you are the supernova-rookie newspapers keep harping on about.”
Donquixote Doflamingo lowers his hand, the 18-year-old teen’s grin now more subdued, on guard, but also very curious. “Is this why you have that epithet, Charlotte ‘Clairvoyant’ Katakuri, because you can read minds?”
Katakuri isn’t sure how to reply to that. Melise lightly pushes at her brother’s arm to get his attention and blows a loud raspberry, bored with the conversation already, before turning back to watch her older sister kill people on the field.
Five people left in the game, then four, then three.
An extremely round yet agile five-meters-tall bouncy woman with cotton-producing paramecia devil fruit ability has covered half the combat field in melon-sized cotton balls that spring into cotton nets whenever anyone gets too close, making movement difficult, in an attempt to catch the warlord’s gun-dog in a trap. A scheme that misses the intended target, when it is the man that dual-wields hydro-pressure icicle colt pistol that ended up getting trip over, giving Angel the opening to leap over that man’s head in a ballet maneuver to put a candy bullet into his shoulder.
Two people left, with the annoyingly tiny dog.
Angel takes a deep breath and focuses, with most of the distractions gone her observation haki can finally work magic, pinpointing the objective and drawing the perfect trajectory. The world slows to a crawl in her heightened perception. Bouncy woman lands on the stomach in an instant re-bounce with the dog sprinting just behind, blocked from direct line of sight due to that woman’s massive size, and Angel throws the steel frisbee into the air and fires her revolver, knowing her candy bullet is going to ricochet off the metal plating.
The perfect trajectory.
Charlotte Angel is the current best sharpshooter of the Big Mom Pirates, and she will not miss this shot.
A loud bark and the deafening echo of a gunshot. Bouncy woman’s mouth falls open in a silent scream, when red blossoms on her chest in a burst of blood.
Angel widens her eyes but is too late when she feels a sting on the left upper arm, just as the dog howls in pain from candy embedding into its hind-leg, and Angel is livid at her own careless mistake. The fucking warlord’s dog has one armor-piercing round capable of shooting through reinforced objects to hit shielded target, and she fell for the trick.
“Damn you,” Angel growls, holding her wounded arm and glares at the warlord.
Crocodile cradles his whimpering dachshund pet and glares back.
Murmurs among bystanders betting millions of beri into the game call fraud over this Davy Back Fight that ended in draw, emotions are running high with many crews already suffering from injured or dead comrades, people shouting for a rematch. Katakuri puts away the jellybean and breathes, Doflamingo laughs as he hops down from the parapet.
“SI—LENCE!” Kitty shrieks, the shrill voice from the younger of the Feline Sisters effectively putting a stop to the clamorous mayhem. “You want revenge, we all do, but we cannot go against the rule laid down by the big boys. Just let us begin the second game and we can all get our revenge!”
Catty nods in agreement, and the older of the Feline Sisters flexes her beast-claw gloves. “We are issuing a climbing challenge,” Catty declares, pointing to the tallest palm tree within the immediate area. “First one to get a coquito nut from that tree gets the privilege to gut the warlord bastard alive.”
Crocodile tilts his head back, gazing up and up at the tree that grows over a kilometer into the sky, and as thick as a house. It would be like scaling a smooth cliff face made of bark, and this time people are not even waiting for his reply, with the Feline Sisters already taking the lead rapidly clambering up the tree utilizing their sharp weaponized claws.
A short nimble pirate follows suit, morphing into an animal form using a zoan ability—Saru-Saru Monkey Fruit, Model: Gibbon—after inspecting the many indentations left by the twin sisters, and deciding to use those grooves as leverage. A colossal man standing at over seven-meters-tall comes next, walking up to the much smaller warlord and mouths a loud “Your pretty ass is mine!” with a lewd smirk, before reptilian scales cover the man’s face and body and arms, with legs fusing together into a thirty meter long tail in his zoan-hybrid form—Hebi-Hebi Snake Fruit, Model: Python—and then starts slithering up the tree like a demonic slinky.
Crocodile ignores that offensive remark and frowns, digging the tip of his left hook into the solid rind, testing the firmness. There is no rule against flying, but Crocodile knows that in practice it will not work, simply because coquito nuts from this type of palm trees are as large as rowboats, and the downside of being an intangible logia is difficulty in holding onto heavy objects in the elemental state.
Almost thirty people have already climbed up the tree as Crocodile takes his time contemplating different options, using various tools in progressively more creative ways, from pickaxes to suction cups to glue-producing paramecia devil fruit ability. A man from the longarm tribe is tying colorful balloons onto his back, attempting to cut the chase and float right to the top.
This is the perfect game that greatly suited the Ito-Ito String Fruit ability. Doflamingo likes the odds after a few minutes of observing the other contestants struggle and decides to participate after all, but not before he addresses the much taller goth pirate with a taunting two-finger salute. “I am going to win this before you do~” Doflamingo singsongs. Katakuri just lets out a suffering sigh and returns to bandaging his little sister’s arm.
Doflamingo walks up to the tree pausing by the slightly shorter warlord and gives a cursory glance, taking in as much detail. Up close, the warlord is disappointingly not at all imposing, dressed more for aristocracy than piracy in fur coat and buckled leather boots, with his gracile frame and soft almost-feminine facial features. Several people are already halfway up the tree, yet the man still has his feet planted firmly on the ground.
“You seem awfully calm for someone who’s about to lose everything,” Doflamingo says, grinning. “Considering how everybody else here is planning different ways to vivisect you slowly.”
Sharp animalistic golden eyes gaze over at the teen, taking in the atrocious pink attire. “Except you?” Crocodile drawls, bemused, before deliberately adding, “—kid?”
The grin on Doflamingo’s face gets wider. “I am a benevolent captain. Let’s just say you will make a nice addition into my crew, when I win,” Doflamingo says, raising his right hand. Invisible strings shoot into the sky, up and up and up, reaching the treetop and strung tight around several branches.
—CRASH!!
Crocodile and Doflamingo both turn to the crater on the ground. The gibbon-man is twitching in a bloody mess with most bones in his body broken, having crash landed from a half-kilometer height after losing his grip due to being slapped by the python-hybrid. Gunfire echoes overhead, because there is also no rule against shooting down other contenders.
—CRASH!! CRASH!!
Two more bodies. Doflamingo laughs, pulling himself into the air. “Fufufufu. Stay grounded, Croco-man,” Doflamingo calls back in glee. “Sucks for you not having devil fruit powers like mine!”
Crocodile rolls his eyes, equal parts amused and annoyed.
Doflamingo does not stay to see the warlord’s reaction though, making good time covering the distance. One-third of the way up that palm tree, Doflamingo takes aim cocking a finger gun at the longarm guy, sniping the poor bastard down with ‘Bullet String’s by popping a few party balloons. Another dead or heavily-injured body to join the rest.
More than two-thirds of the way up and easily gliding past most other players, Doflamingo is feeling overconfident, when Catty senses the presence of his invisible strings with fine-toned observation haki and slices them clean through in a surprising move. Doflamingo drops a hundred meters before recovering by looping more strings onto tree trunks, only for Kitty to follow her older sister’s cue and slash out V-shaped aerial cuts with her legs.
Doflamingo swings around to dodge the attacks, and then has to twist in a somersault when that python-hybrid’s tail swipes at him from behind. The race would be very close, with that single gigantic coquito nut almost within reach, and the four of them all so close to the finishing objective. Catty and Kitty snarls, the python hisses, and Doflamingo stretches out an arm to shoot a razor line from his palm—I win, Doflamingo thinks—to cut the stem of that fruit...
... when all of their verdure handhold support abruptly vanishes, the entire palm tree gone, turning into a pile of literal dust slipping through all their fingers.
“Are you fucking kidding me!” Doflamingo screeches, brain freezing in paralyzed dismay at finding himself freefalling with fucking everyone else from a height of over one fucking kilometer. Desperately, shooting out strings in all directions, trying in vain to latch onto fucking anything, but there is absolutely nothing within reach except clouds and clouds and endless fucking sky.
Crocodile remains on the ground throughout the entire ordeal and lowers his right hand, listening with satisfaction to the CRASH! CRASH! CRASH! of bodies plummeting to their deaths. A standard ‘Sables’ whirlwind cushions the coquito nut’s descent, and Crocodile vanishes in a swirl of sand before reappearing to sit atop his prize. “I win,” Crocodile announces, golden reptilian eyes gleaming, daring anyone to question his claim.
Nobody does. A hushed silence has befallen upon all spectators, with people staring dumbfounded in varying degrees of awe and dread.
“Damn,” someone whispers. “That story is true?”
“No fucking way.”
“... fought against Demon Heir for three days...”
“Thought that was government propaganda bullshit.”
“Fuck.”
“No. Nope. How are we supposed to win against that.”
“Douglas Bullet could not take him down.”
“I quit. There’s no way.”
“Do the bosses know? Someone go get one of them down here.”
“Shut up. Shut up, people. Listen to me, I have an idea—”
A kilometer up in the air and ignorant of the fervid debate happening down below, Doflamingo slowly opens his eyes, not realizing he has squeezed them shut in a rare instant of unadulterated panic, only to find himself swaying safely in the wind. “Huh,” Doflamingo utters numbly, dazed, gazing up to see what exactly he has latched onto.
It is a piece of fluffy fucking cloud.
Make this make sense.
And then, Doflamingo starts to giggle, long and hard until he is wheezing, heart still pounding from the closest brush with death since consuming his devil fruit as a child. When he finally steps back onto stable sturdy ground, his legs are wobbling on the initial few steps.
“You managed to survive unscathed,” Katakuri offers.
Doflamingo grimaces at the taller man’s nonchalance. “Not another word,” Doflamingo grumbles, his teenage ego nevertheless bruised by the unexpected last-minute loss, before turning around to look at the mostly vacated field. “Where is everybody?”
“At the docks. My sisters went ahead to watch the final game,” Katakuri replies, gesturing with a hand for the younger teen to follow as he walks down a curving path leading towards the rocky beach, boot spurs clinking with every step. “I’ve been waiting for you to get down. Come along, kid.”
Doflamingo trails after Katakuri with small skips for slightly brisker pace, to keep up with the taller man’s much wider stride. “You were waiting for me? How nice.”
“You are a nuisance and a moron, biting off more than you could chew,” Katakuri comments, though without any heat. “Despite so, you still made good on your unspoken promise, and survived the odds when no one else did. I can admire that.”
Doflamingo pouts, and then smirks.
They make it to the docks in good time, where it seems like the entire island’s occupants have gathered. The general atmosphere is even more hostile than before however, with most of the onlookers holding sabers or cutlasses in their hands, and all pointing their weapons at the solitary pier that extends twenty meters into the bay.
Crocodile stands alone at the very end of the rickety wooden wharf, with ocean breeze blowing through his long dark hair and pet hound held in his arms, expression grim as though he is about to walk the plank. A large majority of the pirate crews on the island have already suffered from losses against the warlord, in addition to also owing crew members as prizes, so now people really want him dead.
“What is going on?” Doflamingo demands, grabbing a random midget man standing nearby that only reaches his waist-height. “What is the last Davy Back Fight about?”
“Fuck off, kid,” the man growls.
“Answer me,” Doflamingo asks again, grin a tad more menacing, with fingers curling to activate his parasite strings.
“Okay, okay. C-calm down,” the man gasps, movement suddenly bound by invisible strings and now very properly intimidated. “The Corsair Pirates just issued a... a swimming challenge... against the warlord.”
“What,” Doflamingo states blankly, thoughts grinding to a halt.
“Hmm, that is actually quite smart,” Katakuri observes. “It doesn’t matter how strong the warlord is. We all witnessed him using devil fruit power, meaning he is going to sink like a stone regardless.”
“Challenge like this is allowed?” Doflamingo asks, perplexed.
“Of course,” Katakuri hums.
And the execution disguised as game finale is about to begin.
An average-sized archerfish fishman with pale white skin and inky black spots walks up the wharf, holding a solid gold trinket in his hand. “I am Arch, crew member of the Corsair Pirates, and here’s what we are going to do,” Arch says, puffing up his cheeks and spits a large glob of seawater at the warlord’s face.
Crocodile winces, drenched for no reason other than pointless spite, with his clothes ruined and long dark hair sticking together in wet strands. Lassoo growls.
“Whoever retrieves this piece of gold is the winner,” Arch continues, ignoring the other man’s evident displeasure, and then the fishman throws the trinket into the sea. “That is, by retrieving it from the bottom of the ocean.”
Arch does not wait another moment though, knowing his advantage in this situation is absolute, and immediately dives underwater to chase his ultimate glory. Crocodile narrows his golden eyes, watching how the ripples are swallowed by the waves, and then subtly smiles.
“What are you waiting for?” Corsair demands, over-three-meters-tall and looming over the smaller warlord. He is a mixed race half-ribbonfish fishman-human and captain of the Corsair Pirates. “Get your ass in the water.”
“No,” Crocodile replies.
“You want to throw the match?” Corsair smirks.
“No,” Crocodile says again. “Wait and see.”
Everyone watches the murky surface of the water with bated breath, waiting and waiting, for the moment that will decide the final winner.
Five minutes.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen minutes.
Until once again the water surface ripples, imperceptible movements just out of sight, with inhumanly pale white skin and inky spots refracting just beneath the ocean waves.
Pirates whoop and cheer, all thinking that they finally have the warlord defeated.
But then something is notably wrong.
Because whatever is emerging from under the waves is bigger, much bigger than the average fishman should be, and then a gigantic carriage-sized aquatic creature bursts forth from the ocean with its long protracted fore-claws grabbing onto the pier. It is a goggle-wearing terrapin with pale white flesh and spiky black shell, and chomped in its beak is the lifeless form of the archerfish fishman.
Onlookers are all rendered speechless at this unexpected turn of event. Crocodile meanwhile approaches the terrapin with no fear, and takes the gold trinket from that dead fishman’s hand. “We won the final round,” Crocodile says with a smile, giving the alligator-snapping-turtle a gentle caress. “Thank you, Binchi. You’re my good girl.”
“You... You cheated!” Corsair gasps.
“I did no such thing,” Crocodile glares. “I never declared that I would be the one participating in this round of contest, and you making poor assumptions about my crew are not my problem.”
Corsair draws his blade, turning it black with armament haki hardening. “Fucking bitch, I am going to make you regret your life,” Corsair snarls, rushing forward.
Crocodile summons a small sandstorm within the palm of his right hand and readies his hook, preparing for a fight, when—
“Stop.”
That single word, uttered so quietly.
A hand is then placed gently over the half-ribbonfish pirate captain’s head. Immediately, Corsair’s eyes roll back and he seizures, collapsing onto the wooden floorboards in a spasming useless heap and foaming at the mouth. Within thirty seconds, and there is no more movement at all.
The assailant is an older spindly man, 58-year-old, standing at around five-meters-tall with long wavy pale lavender hair, tattered burgundy overcoat reaching his ankles, and holding a beer bottle in his other hand. One of the bosses that rules over this island has finally arrived.
“Horrible, isn’t it, having a brain tumor growing so suddenly inside your skull,” the boss says, shaking his head in disappointment. “The warlord won the game fair and square. Respect, the one rule, we made.”
Crocodile swallows, expression unavoidably strained, stepping back to the very edge of the pier to maintain a distance. “I didn’t expect you to personally show up, Doctor Pestilence.”
“Don’t be a stranger, ‘Desert King’ Crocodile, you put up an interesting performance. Wang Zhi and I are actually quite entertained,” the boss laughs, wide toothy grin sinister and unapologetic. “Ja-huhuhu~ Please, you can call me John.”
In the back of the large petrified crowd, Katakuri is dragging both his younger sisters and the blond teenager boy away. Doflamingo is giving him an irritated frown, the rookie clearly having little idea of the real danger, but right there is one of the only two men on this island that Katakuri will actively avoid.
Captain ‘Doctor Pestilence’ John, Shiku-Shiku Sick Fruit ability user, and former doctor of the legendary ROCKS Pirates that once ruled over the world.