The air in the tavern, once thick with raucous laughter and the clatter of mugs, grew still and heavy. Nami's triumphant grin as she slammed her empty tankard onto the table faltered, her eyes glazing over. She swayed once, a hand reaching for the table's edge, and missed.
"Luffy… the treasure…" she slurred, before her knees buckled and she crumpled to the sawdust-covered floor beside a snoring Usopp.
"Nami!" Luffy shouted, lurching to his feet. But the world tilted violently. He blinked, the faces of the cheering villagers swimming before him. "The room's… spinning…" he mumbled, before collapsing face-first into a plate of meat.
One by one, the Straw Hats succumbed. Sanji managed a final, lovesick sigh toward the nun who had out-drunk Nami before his cigarette fell from his lips and he slid under the table. The last sound was Chopper's gentle snore, the little reindeer curled in a booth.
Silence, deep and ominous, settled over the tavern.
The front door creaked open. Mr. 8, the mayor with the gentle eyes, stepped into the cool night, followed by Mr. 9 and Miss Wednesday. Their jovial masks were gone, replaced by cold, professional detachment.
"Report," Miss Wednesday demanded, her voice sharp.
Mr. 8 didn't look back at the unconscious forms inside. "The Straw Hat Pirates have fallen into the abyss of their own revelry. The trap is sprung."
Behind them, the tavern door opened again. The nun stepped out, but her pious demeanor was gone. She shrugged off her heavy robes, revealing the muscular form of Miss Monday beneath.
"Was all this theater truly necessary?" Miss Monday grunted, cracking her knuckles. "We have a hundred agents. We could have crushed them at the harbor and been done with it."
Mr. 8's smile was thin and cruel. He reached into his coat and produced a crumpled poster, unfurling it under the pale moonlight. The grinning, carefree face of Monkey D. Luffy stared back, beneath a staggering number: 30,000,000 Berries.
A collective, sharp intake of breath came from the agents.
"This is why," Mr. 8 hissed, his voice low with avarice. "We don't crush a golden goose. We milk it. Tie them up. Strip their ship of every last coin and artifact. We deliver them alive to claim the entire bounty. Our superiors will be most… appreciative."
The agents moved with practiced efficiency, fanning out toward the tavern and the docks. The night was theirs.
"A hundred of you, huh? Must make you feel real brave."
The voice, laced with lazy contempt, sliced through the night from above. Every head snapped up.
Perched on the tavern's slanted roof, silhouetted against the moon, was Roronoa Zoro. He leaned against the chimney, one sword already drawn and resting on his shoulder. His eyes were clear, sharp, and utterly sober.
"Impossible!" Mr. 9 gasped. "The whiskey was laced enough to drop a giant!"
Zoro's smirk was a flash of white in the darkness. "A true swordsman never lets the spirit control his spirit. I've been waiting for the party to get interesting."
Panic erupted. An agent from inside burst out, face pale. "Sir! He was tied up with sea-stone fibers! He's gone!"
"You…" Mr. 8's composure shattered. "You were pretending?!"
"You talk too much for assassins," Zoro said, pushing off from the chimney. He landed in the dusty street with a soft thud, a dozen paces away, directly between the main group and the tavern door where his crew slept. "Baroque Works. Cute name for a pack of back-alley thugs."
The name, spoken aloud, sent a visible shockwave through the gathered agents.
"How do you know that name?!" Miss Wednesday shrieked.
Zoro's gaze turned distant for a heartbeat. "A lifetime ago, when I hunted men for money, your people came to me with an offer. I told them to get lost. Seems they hold a grudge."
Mr. 8's face twisted into a mask of fury. "Then you understand the consequence! No one learns our secrets and lives! We'll bury you here, your tombstone just another forgotten rock on Cactus Island!"
He gestured wildly. "Kill him! Now!"
A hundred weapons were raised. But in that split-second of collective aggression, they hesitated, looking for the perfect shot.
Zoro vanished.
"Where did he go?!"
"Find him!"
He didn't go far. He was simply among them. A whirlwind of polished steel and controlled violence erupted in the heart of the crowd. Cries of alarm turned to shouts of pain as the flat of Zoro's blade sent agents flying like scattered leaves. Then, he was gone again, a green phantom melting into the shadows between buildings.
"Coward! Face us!" Mr. 8 roared, spinning, his saxophone held tight.
"Who's the coward?" The voice was a whisper right behind Mr. 8's ear.
Before the agent could turn, Zoro's sword thunked home—not into flesh, but deep into the elaborate cannon-shaped hairdo atop Mr. 8's head, pinning him in place.
"Don't shoot! You'll hit me!" Mr. 8 screamed, frozen.
Seizing the moment, he brought the saxophone to his lips. It wasn't music that emerged, but the deafening roar of a shotgun blast. Zoro was already a blur, leaping backward as the concussive wave tore through the space he'd occupied, catching a dozen of his own agents in the devastating spray.
When the smoke cleared, Zoro stood on the roof of a nearby shed, untouched. Below, Mr. 8, Miss Monday, Mr. 9, and Miss Wednesday stood amidst their fallen comrades, their expressions grim.
"It seems the officers must handle the trash themselves," Miss Monday spat, hefting a massive iron ball chained to her wrist.
Zoro raised his sword, pointing it directly at the four leaders. "Your secret's out. 'Baroque Works'." He raised his voice, a challenge meant to wake the dead. "You picked the wrong crew to swindle."
Inside the tavern, Luffy mumbled in his sleep, rolling over. Outside, a hundred enemies closed in, their leaders stepping forward for a final, deadly confrontation.
Zoro took a deep breath, a feral grin spreading across his face. This was more like it.
And high above, perched on the church steeple unseen, a figure with a long rifle watched it all through a telescopic sight, the crosshairs settling steadily on Zoro's back. A finger curled around the trigger.
"Target acquired," a calm, female voice whispered to the night. "Eliminating the variable."
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