Captain Beatrix Fern was attending to a fallen Navy soldier when motion caught her eye.
She looked up, her emerald eyes narrowing as she saw a small figure maneuvering through the pens—a small tiger like figure, no older than eight, he was in some kind of hybrid form, white fur and golden horns marking him as a Devil Fruit user, and he was using a bamboo sword to knock out Navy guards and free Natives.
Beatrix's jaw tightened. "A child. In the middle of all this."
She moved.
She caught up to him at the edge of a pen, her wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over her face. She cleared her throat, and the boy spun around, his bamboo sword raised.
Beatrix smirked. "Give it up, and we can—"
The boy charged.
He swung his bamboo sword in a wild arc, his high-crust posh accent cutting through the air. "I am the future Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights! You cannot stop me!"
Beatrix stepped out of the way, her emerald eyes widening with surprise. "The future Supreme—"
"I AM NOT JUST A CHILD!" Sanza spun, his sword swinging again. "I AM A FORCE TO BE RECKONED WITH!"
Beatrix blocked with Trevor, her massive garden hoe, the impact sending a shockwave through her arms. She gritted her teeth, her eyes narrowing.
"You're a child with a death wish," she said, her voice flat. "And I'm going to send you back to your nanny."
Sanza's eyes blazed with fury. "VILE WOMAN!"
He lunged again.
---
Aurélie Nakano Takeko stood with Kaburo Gusaki at the edge of the chaos, her long silver hair catching the wind like a banner. Her minimalist black tactical attire made her seem almost a shadow against the dust-choked air, and Anathema rested against her hip with a weight that pressed against the very fabric of reality.
Her steel-gray eyes swept the battlefield, cataloging every movement, every shift in the Navy's formation. A locust landed on her open palm, its wings folding as it delivered its message.
Aurélie nodded. "The director has been identified."
Kaburo stood beside her, his dry, calm eyes fixed on the chaos ahead. His dark gray, sleeveless kimono top revealed the old scars that crisscrossed his powerful frame, and his long, flowing dark hair was pulled back in a low, economic ponytail. The scar that ran from above his right temple to his left cheek was stark against his tanned skin.
Kalamaru rested at his hip, the cursed blade humming with the weight of the Mythical Zoan it carried.
"Is the way clear?" Kaburo asked, his low, measured baritone holding no obvious emotion.
Aurélie nodded. The locust hopped off her palm, and she turned to Kaburo. "Come."
They streaked across the plains, two figures moving with the fluid grace of predators who had long ago learned to flow through chaos.
---
Artie Grimly was setting up on a rocky outcropping, his camera crew scattered and his dignity in tatters. He was brushing off his velvet tailcoat when he saw the Navy officers charging toward the chaos—Rear Admiral Goma Maddon and Rear Admiral Jethro Cain, their faces set in grim determination.
"Darling! Darlings!" Artie called out, scrambling to his feet. "The lighting! The drama! Don't miss a thing! This is the shot of a lifetime!"
Goma and Jethro ignored him with subtle, annoyed, glares.
They moved through the chaos, their weapons ready, their eyes scanning for the enemy. The Navy soldiers around them were struggling to contain the Natives, their lines breaking as the freed prisoners pushed back.
Jethro's flat voice cut through the noise. "Focus on the ring leaders. Detain them. The rest will fall in line."
Goma nodded, his dark eyes analytical. "We need to find their command structure. Someone is coordinating this."
"THERE!"
The shout came from a young ensign, his face pale with fear. Aurélie and Kaburo were walking through the chaos, their movements fluid and unhurried. Navy soldiers stumbled backward as they approached, their weapons shaking.
Goma's jaw tightened. "Engage!"
He charged, his hands reaching for his paddles and ping-pong balls. "I am Rear Admiral Goma Maddon! You will—"
He sent a barrage of ping-pong balls toward Kaburo. The balls whistled through the air, spinning with impossible velocity.
Kaburo didn't flinch.
He raised Kalamaru, the cursed blade humming with power, and deflected the ping-pong balls with casual ease. The balls volleyed back toward Goma, and he had to dodge, his eyes widening with surprise.
"A swordsman," Goma muttered. "Interesting."
Kaburo's voice was dry, flat. "Your technique lacks conviction. It's just... empty motion."
Goma's eyes narrowed. "Empty motion? I'll show you—"
Kaburo moved.
---
Jethro lunged toward Aurélie with The Bailiff, the man-catcher's prongs reaching for her throat. The weapon was designed for capture, for restraint, for breaking bones without killing.
Aurélie drew Anathema.
The black blade glowed crimson as it sensed Jethro's intent, and she deflected the man-catcher with a fluid motion that sent sparks flying. Her steel-gray eyes were fixed on his, her voice low and steady.
"Interesting weapon," she observed. "I've seen something like it in old texts. Designed for hunting. For control."
Jethro's eyes narrowed. "I don't use it for hunting. I use it for justice."
Aurélie's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "Justice. A flexible concept."
She lunged, and Jethro barely brought his man-catcher up in time to block. The impact sent a shockwave through his arms, and he gritted his teeth.
"You're a perceptive fighter," he admitted. "But perception doesn't win battles.
"Neither does arrogance," Aurélie replied, pressing her attack.
Their blades clashed again.
---
High above the valley's fracturing frontlines, Bō-Zak mapped the carnage through the unblinking gaze of his phantom condor form. His gold-flecked eyes cataloged the shifting geometry of the clash—the disciplined Navy columns, the desperate Native counter-assaults, and the scattered pockets of his own people, noting the distant, lethal flash of Goma Maddon clashing with Kaburo and Jethro Cain engaging Aurélie. Yet, amidst the smoke and slaughter, a jarring absurdity anchored his attention upon a jagged rock outcropping: a figure draped in ostentatious amethyst velvet, yelling into his golden snail megaphone, wildly orchestrating a camera crew with the frenetic zeal of a maestro conducting a symphony of ruin.
Well, well, well. What do we have here?" Folding his spectral pinions, Bō-Zak initiated a steep, silent descent.
"Darlings! Look! The drama! The tension! The—" A sudden, chilling eclipse stifled the director's manic showmanship mid-shout; Artie Grimly glanced upward, his theatrical exclamations dissolving into a gasp as the translucent, predatory silhouette enveloped him. Before the eccentric could orchestrate an escape, massive, cold, talons clamped around his shoulders, wrenching him violently from the earth and sending his gold-plated Den Den Mushi megaphone clattering uselessly against the stone below.
"PUT ME DOWN! THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? I AM ARTIE GRIMLY! I AM. Release me, you uncultured philistine!" Artie shrieked, his legs cycling empty air as the battlefield receded into a dizzying mosaic.
From the crown of the spectral raptor, Bō-Zak's human features materialized, wearing a look of cold amusement. ""Stop struggling, darling, or I'll drop you."
Artie froze. His wide, manic eyes fixed on Bō-Zak's face. "You... you wouldn't dare."
Bō-Zak's smirk widened. "Try me." To emphasize the ultimatum, the talons loosened a mere fraction, letting the director drop a terrifying inch before snapping shut again.
Artie's voice dropped to a theatrical whisper. "You are a brute. A savage. A—"
"Compliment me later. Right now, you're going to tell me where the God's Knights were last seen just before they disappeared."
Artie's expression flickered. "I will tell you nothing! I do not respond to being manhandled! I am an artist, not an informant!"
Artie's bravado shattered into a frantic squeal. "The Red Rampart! The God's Knights vanished near the monolithic crimson cliffs just before the blinding flash! That is the absolute extent of my knowledge, I swear it!"
"Then you won't mind showing me."
Bō-Zak's grip tightened, and Artie squealed as they soared through the air, heading toward the Red Rampart.
Re-securing his prize, Bō-Zak banked sharply toward the distant, towering precipices that loomed like a colossal barrier of oxidized iron. Behind them, the din of war muted into insignificance, though an ominous tremor resonated from the horizon, signaling a deeper shift in the world's tides. Artie, pale and trembling, hissed a bitter critique regarding Bō-Zak's abysmal aesthetic sensibilities, an insult the hybrid warrior dismissed with an indifferent chuckle as they breached the shadow of the bluffs.
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