Volume7 : The Ghost of the Grand Line
The air in the Baratie's dining hall thickened with the scent of spilled wine and fear. Don Krieg's metallic armor clanked as he took a step forward, his eyes fixed on the old man leaning against the kitchen doorway.
"Red-Leg Zeff," Krieg breathed, the name tasting of both reverence and venom. "I thought the sea had claimed you."
Zeff's wooden peg leg tapped once against the polished floor. A dozen chefs stood frozen behind him, their knives hanging useless at their sides. Sanji's cigarette trembled ever so slightly between his lips, ash dusting his pristine jacket.
"Whether I'm dead or alive," Zeff said, his voice a gravelly rumble, "is no business of a broken pirate who crawled back from the Grand Line with his tail between his legs."
A muscle twitched in Krieg's jaw. Behind him, his remaining crew shifted, their weapons glinting in the lantern light.
"Broken?" Krieg chuckled, but it held no warmth. "You're one to talk. Look at you—the great Red-Leg, reduced to flipping pancakes."
Zeff's single eye narrowed. "I cook because I choose to."
"Do you?" Krieg spread his arms, taking in the restaurant. "Or is this the only thing left for a cripple who sacrificed his leg to survive?"
Sanji's hand clenched into a fist. "Old man—"
"Quiet, eggplant," Zeff cut him off, never taking his eyes off Krieg.
"Let me tell your boys a story," Krieg said, his voice rising to fill the silent hall. "About a pirate so vicious he refused to dirty his hands. A master of kicks so powerful they could shatter stone and leave permanent dents in steel. They called him Red-Leg—not for the color of his trousers, but because after every battle, his legs would be stained crimson with his enemies' blood."
One of the younger chefs gasped. Zeff stood perfectly still, a statue of weathered flesh and regret.
"He was captain and chef of his own ship," Krieg continued, pacing now. "A dual master of combat and cuisine. Until the Grand Line swallowed him whole. The rumors said he drowned. But here you stand." He stopped, pointing at Zeff's peg leg. "You only survived by eating your own leg, didn't you? A chef, consuming his own tool. How poetic."
The revelation hit Sanji like a physical blow. His eyes widened, the cigarette falling from his lips. "Old man… is that true?"
Zeff ignored him. "I still have my hands," he said quietly, holding them up—scarred, capable hands that could season a sauce or crush a skull with equal precision. "They let me cook. That's enough."
"For you, perhaps." Krieg's smile turned predatory. "But you see, you possess something I need. You sailed the Grand Line and returned. You have a log. Charts. Notes on currents, weather, dangers. The accumulated knowledge of a survivor."
The air grew colder. Zeff's expression hardened into something unreadable.
"I have it," Zeff admitted. "A record of my folly. My memento mori."
"Then hand it over."
"No."
The single word hung between them, final as a tombstone.
Krieg sighed, as if disappointed by a stubborn child. "Then I'll take it." He raised a hand, and his crew leveled an array of weapons—flintlocks, crossbows, jagged blades. "Along with this floating restaurant. And every soul aboard it."
Zeff finally moved. He stepped fully into the dining hall, his peg leg thumping a slow, deliberate rhythm. "You think because I lost a leg, I forgot how to fight?"
"I think," Krieg said softly, "that legends are just ghosts. And ghosts can't throw kicks."
He nodded.
A crossbow bolt shot through the air—not at Zeff, but at the youngest chef, a boy of seventeen who'd been trembling near the dessert cart.
Time slowed.
Zeff moved.
The old chef's remaining leg blurred. A kick—not the earth-shattering blow of legend, but a precise, whip-fast motion. The bolt shattered in midair, wooden splinters raining down.
For a heartbeat, no one breathed.
Then Zeff settled back on his peg leg, his breathing slightly elevated. A thin trickle of blood seeped through his pant leg where the stump met the prosthetic.
Krieg's eyes lit up with triumph. "You see?" he announced to the room. "Even that cost him. The ghost has one spark left in him—maybe two. How many kicks can you throw, old man, before you bleed out on your own floor?"
Sanji stepped forward, his face pale but determined. "You won't touch him."
"Stay out of this, Sanji," Zeff growled.
But Krieg was already smiling, a wide, terrible smile. He reached behind his back and produced not a pistol, but a massive, multi-barreled firearm—a weapon too large for any normal man to wield. It gleamed with oily menace.
"I didn't come back from the Grand Line empty-handed," Krieg said. "I came back with new toys. This one fires shells filled with a paralyzing agent. One scratch, and your nervous system shuts down for hours." He aimed it not at Zeff, but at Sanji. "Let's see how fast the ghost moves when his protégé is the target."
Zeff's composure finally cracked. "Krieg—"
"The log," Krieg demanded. "Or the boy becomes a permanent fixture on your floor."
Sanji braced himself, but Zeff's shoulders slumped in defeat. The old chef closed his eye, a lifetime of pride dissolving in that single gesture. "It's in my quarters. Under the floorboards."
"Patty," Krieg said without looking away. "Fetch it."
One of his men scurried toward the stairs. The standoff held, the weapon unwavering. Sanji's mind raced, searching for an opening that didn't exist.
Minutes stretched like hours until Patty returned, clutching a weathered, leather-bound journal. He handed it to Krieg, who flipped through the pages, his eyes scanning the dense notes and hand-drawn maps.
"Excellent," Krieg murmured. Then he looked up, his gaze settling once more on Zeff. "But there's still the matter of this restaurant. And the principle of the thing."
He shifted the massive firearm's aim—from Sanji, directly to Zeff's chest.
"A lesson," Krieg said, "for anyone who thinks they can say no to me."
Sanji screamed, "NO!" and lunged.
Krieg pulled the trigger.
The world erupted in a deafening blast and a cloud of sickly green gas. Zeff vanished behind the expanding cloud. Sanji crashed into Krieg's side, but the armored pirate barely budged, backhanding him into a table that shattered under the impact.
As the gas began to clear, Sanji pushed himself up, blood trickling from his temple. His vision swam, then focused.
Zeff stood exactly where he'd been, perfectly upright.
But his eyes were wide and unseeing. A single, needle-like projectile protruded from his shoulder. His fingers twitched once, then went still. He teetered for a heartbeat—a mighty oak about to fall.
Then the great Red-Leg Zeff collapsed to the floor with a sound that echoed through Sanji's soul.
Krieg smiled, tucking the log into his armor. "Tie them all up. We're taking this place apart plank by plank. And someone bring me the restaurant's strongbox."
As Krieg's men moved in, Sanji crawled toward Zeff's motionless form, his hands shaking. The old man's chest rose and fell shallowly, but his eyes remained open and vacant.
"Old man," Sanji whispered, his voice breaking. "Hey… old man!"
But Zeff couldn't hear him.
From the corner of his eye, Sanji saw Krieg's first mate approach the unconscious form of Monkey D. Luffy, still lying where he'd fallen earlier. The man drew a long, cruel knife.
"And dispose of the trash," Krieg ordered casually.
The knife rose, aimed at Luffy's heart.
Sanji was ten feet away, pinned by two of Krieg's men. Zeff was paralyzed at his feet. The other chefs were being subdued.
The blade began its descent.
And Luffy's eyes snapped open.