A member of the Donquixote Family was dead.
The news spread through the lawless zones like wildfire, carried on whispered conversations and urgent phone calls that crackled through Den Den Mushi networks across Sabaody Archipelago. The mysterious man who had brazenly stolen the Devil Fruit had vanished, apparently fleeing by merchant vessel before anyone could mount an effective pursuit.
The discovery of Delinger's corpse near the port painted a clear picture for investigators from multiple factions. Blood spatters, scattered bodies of bounty hunters, and the distinctive signs of a running battle all pointed toward the same conclusion: the thief had been making his escape when he encountered the young Donquixote executive. The confrontation had ended badly for the Family.
From any rational perspective, immediate escape represented the only logical strategy. Every moment spent on Sabaody Archipelago increased the danger exponentially, especially with reports circulating that Doflamingo himself was en route to the island. The Heavenly Demon's personal involvement transformed this from a criminal investigation into something approaching a declaration of war.
Yet despite the intensive search efforts mounted by every criminal organization on the island, the mysterious thief seemed to have vanished into thin air.
After separating from Dom at the port, Oboro had deliberately avoided returning to their hotel. Instead, he'd acquired a fresh set of clothes, an expensive black suit that screamed mafia connections, and now sat casually at a sidewalk café on one of the lawless zone's busiest streets. His position allowed him to observe the constant flow of pirates, bounty hunters, and criminal operatives as they scurried past with obvious urgency.
The chaos was exactly what he'd counted on. Even the Donquixote Family's extensive network couldn't monitor every corner of such a sprawling, lawless district. Their search efforts would necessarily be broad rather than deep, creating gaps that someone with proper tradecraft could exploit.
Fragments of conversation drifted past his table as various groups discussed the night's dramatic events. According to the whispered reports, Trebol and Lao G had located Delinger's body using his Vivre Card, confirming the worst fears of their organization. The grim discovery had undoubtedly been reported to Doflamingo with all possible speed.
"The question is timing," Oboro murmured to himself, taking a leisurely sip of fruit juice through a plastic straw. The drink was an amusing contrast to his formal attire, most mafia types preferred stronger refreshments.
Tomorrow would bring the slave auction, which meant Doflamingo would definitely arrive before the bidding commenced. But would the Heavenly Demon prioritize serving his Celestial Dragon customers, or would grief and rage over Delinger's death drive him to abandon business for revenge?
Based on everything Oboro knew about Doflamingo's psychology, the answer was obvious. The man's carefully constructed image of invincibility had been shattered in the most public way possible. Hundreds of witnesses had seen his organization humiliated by a single intruder, and that kind of reputational damage could prove more costly than any stolen treasure.
Doflamingo might be a businessman at heart, but he was also a man whose power depended entirely on others believing he was untouchable.
After finishing his drink and leaving a few berries on the table, Oboro stood and began walking toward his next destination. The sidewalk café sat on a street lined with taverns and gambling dens, prime hunting grounds for pirates seeking entertainment between voyages. Only this one establishment catered to a more refined clientele by offering non-alcoholic beverages.
"Next, it's your turn," he said quietly, his hand moving to adjust his suit jacket with practiced elegance.
The image of Saint Charlos materialized in his mind with crystal clarity. The bloated, arrogant face of the Celestial Dragon who had shot him during that first encounter on Sabaody's streets. The man who bore the collective responsibility for every scar marking Oboro's flesh, every moment of suffering endured during his years of slavery.
Tomorrow's auction would definitely draw Charlos's attendance, the World Knovle's appetite for exotic slaves was well-documented throughout the criminal underworld. But actually reaching him would prove considerably more challenging than simply identifying his location.
The variable that concerned Oboro most was the world's will itself, which seemed determined to place obstacles in his path at every crucial moment. During his initial crossing to this reality, Admiral Kizaru had been personally escorting Charlos through the streets, an arrangement that deviated significantly from the original timeline, where Marine protection remained more distant and reactive.
If the governing consciousness of this world continued manipulating events to maximize difficulty, tomorrow's auction might feature Admiral-level security that would make any assassination attempt effectively suicidal.
"But nothing is absolute," Oboro mused with dark satisfaction. "If Kizaru is there, I'll simply withdraw and wait for a better opportunity. Patience is a virtue when hunting gods."
The escape route remained equally problematic. Even with Dom securing passage on merchant vessels in advance, the World Government's response to a Celestial Dragon's assassination would be swift and comprehensive. Every port, every ship, every possible exit from Sabaody Archipelago would be sealed within minutes. The Donquixote Family's influence might leave gaps in their surveillance network, but the combined might of the Marine and CP agencies would create an impenetrable web.
Unless the shock itself creates enough chaos to exploit, Oboro thought with predatory anticipation.
The forces of every major faction had spent the day combing through the lawless zones with increasing desperation, but their efforts had yielded nothing more than empty buildings and frustrated informants. By evening, the consensus had solidified: the mysterious thief had successfully escaped Sabaody Archipelago under cover of darkness.
The following morning brought a dramatically different atmosphere to the auction house district.
Where yesterday's crowd had consisted primarily of rough pirates and criminal entrepreneurs, today's gathering reflected the event's more exclusive nature. Elegantly dressed nobles mingled with wealthy merchants whose expensive clothing marked them as serious bidders rather than casual observers. These individuals had traveled from across the Grand Line specifically for this auction, representing kingdoms, criminal syndicates, and private collectors with very particular tastes.
The shift in clientele was immediately obvious. Instead of cutlasses and pistols, the crowd displayed jewelry and silk. Conversations were conducted in hushed, cultured tones rather than the boisterous shouting that had characterized the previous day. This was high society conducting its most shameful business behind a veneer of respectability.
Despite the previous night's dramatic theft and the death of a Donquixote Family executive, security remained surprisingly relaxed. The inspection process was cursory at best, with guards more concerned about offending wealthy patrons than actually screening for threats. The message was clear: Doflamingo remained confident in his organization's ability to control the situation.
Oboro had invested considerable effort in altering his appearance for this infiltration. His distinctive scarred features were now concealed beneath expertly applied makeup and temporary tattoos that suggested criminal affiliations rather than slave origins. His hair had been slicked back in a style that emphasized sharp cheekbones, while colored contacts transformed his eyes from brown to steel gray.
The transformation was comprehensive enough that he walked through the auction house entrance without drawing so much as a second glance from security personnel. His expensive suit and confident bearing marked him as exactly the kind of wealthy criminal they expected to see at such events.
Once inside, Oboro selected a seat in the middle rows, close enough to observe the proceedings clearly, but not so prominent as to draw unwanted attention. His enhanced senses immediately began cataloguing the power signatures scattered throughout the venue.
Interesting, he noted with analytical detachment. Several formidable auras lurked in the shadows, but nothing that suggested Admiral-level intervention. More importantly, Doflamingo himself was conspicuously absent from the gathering.
Two familiar figures did catch his attention: Diamante, whose distinctive red-spotted cape made him easily recognizable, and Gladius, whose tower-like hairdo defied both gravity and common sense. The Donquixote Family executives had positioned themselves at strategic points throughout the venue, their casual poses failing to disguise their vigilant attention to potential threats.
Trebol and Lao G were also present, completing the Family's senior leadership roster. Four top executives for what should have been a routine slave auction seemed like significant overkill, unless they were specifically hunting for someone.
"Joker and the others are still sweeping the ports," Oboro realized with satisfaction. "Looking for yesterday's departure manifests and passenger lists."
The strategy was logical but ultimately futile. Even if he and Dom had actually fled Sabaody Archipelago the previous evening, Doflamingo's speed and connections would have allowed him to intercept their vessel within hours. The fact that no such interception had occurred would eventually force the Heavenly Demon to confront an uncomfortable truth.
"He'll figure it out soon enough," Oboro smiled coldly. "The question is whether he can react in time."
The slave auction began with Disco's characteristic theatrical flair, his star-shaped sunglasses catching the stage lights as he delivered his opening remarks with manic enthusiasm.
The format differed significantly from the previous day's single-session event. Today's proceedings were divided into multiple rounds, each featuring slaves with specific characteristics or capabilities. Beautiful women and handsome men commanded premium prices, while exotic races and individuals with unusual abilities drew interest from pirates seeking to strengthen their crews.
The audience turnover was constant and purposeful. Merchants arrived for specific rounds, made their purchases, and departed with their newly acquired property. Others entered as different categories became available, creating a steady flow of traffic that made surveillance considerably more challenging.
Oboro remained seated throughout the constant shuffle, his patient observation gradually revealing the event's underlying structure. The early rounds featured relatively mundane offerings, attractive slaves for personal service, strong laborers for manual work, skilled craftspeople whose knowledge could prove valuable.
But as the hours passed and the crowd began to thin, the atmosphere in the venue grew noticeably more tense.
The main event approaches, Oboro thought with predatory satisfaction.
The handful of remaining spectators represented either the extremely wealthy or the genuinely desperate. These were individuals who could afford the astronomical prices commanded by the most exotic slaves, or criminals whose existing bounties made additional World Government attention irrelevant.
For pirates and underground figures already operating beyond the law, contact with Celestial Dragons represented manageable risk as long as they avoided direct confrontation. Their lives were already forfeit in the eyes of the World Government, what difference could additional charges make?
The calculations were different for legitimate nobles and government-connected merchants. Those individuals had fled hours ago, unwilling to risk their comfortable positions for mere commercial opportunity.
In the suddenly cavernous auction hall, perhaps three dozen individuals remained scattered across hundreds of empty seats. The contrast was stark and unsettling, as if the venue itself was holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come.
That's when Oboro heard it: the measured cadence of military boots echoing through the corridors outside.
The sound was unmistakable, Marine soldiers moving in formation, their synchronized steps creating a rhythm that spoke to discipline and authority. But these weren't arrest teams coming to clear the venue. The modest number of footsteps suggested an escort detail rather than an occupation force.
They're here, Oboro realized, his pulse quickening despite his outward calm.
The real power behind the World Government. The descendants of the twenty kings who had established the current order eight centuries ago. The self-proclaimed gods who ruled over millions of lives with casual indifference to suffering they couldn't even comprehend.
The Celestial Dragons had arrived for their entertainment.
Through the venue's main entrance, a small procession of Marine officers entered with weapons at the ready but not drawn. Their alert postures suggested readiness rather than aggression, prepared to respond to threats but not actively seeking them.
Behind this military shield, the true monsters made their appearance.
Saint Charlos waddled into the auction house like an overfed pig, his distinctive bubble helmet reflecting the stage lights as his tiny eyes surveyed the remaining audience with obvious disappointment. The reduction in crowd size had clearly diminished his anticipated entertainment value.
Following close behind was Saint Rosward, his even more corpulent frame requiring assistance from slaves who struggled beneath his weight. The elder Celestial Dragon's expression carried the bored indifference of someone attending a tedious social obligation.
The final member of their party was Saint Shalria, whose beauty was marred by the same casual cruelty that characterized all World Nobles. Her calculating gaze swept across the auction house as if evaluating which slaves might prove worthy of her personal collection.
The three World Nobles settled into the auction house's most luxurious seating area, an elevated box that allowed them to look down on both the stage and the remaining audience with literal and figurative superiority. Marine guards positioned themselves at strategic points around their masters, creating overlapping fields of protection.
No Admiral, Oboro noted with relief and growing anticipation. Just conventional security.
The world's will had apparently decided not to intervene directly this time, perhaps confident that the Marine escort would prove sufficient. Or maybe it was conserving its influence for some future manipulation that Oboro hadn't yet anticipated.
Either way, the absence of Admiral-level protection meant his plans could proceed.
As the final round of the slave auction prepared to begin, featuring the most exotic and valuable specimens in Doflamingo's collection, Oboro felt the familiar calm settling over his consciousness. This was the state he entered before every hunt, analytical thought crystallizing into lethal focus, every sense sharpened to supernatural acuity.
Saint Charlos sat less than fifty meters away, protected by nothing more than conventional soldiers and his own arrogant belief in his untouchable status.
Soon, very soon, that arrogance would prove fatal.
The real show was about to begin, and the audience had no idea they were about to witness the first act of a revolution that would shake the very foundations of the world.