The faint thrum of chatter beyond the walls was nothing new. Law had grown used to the muffled noise of pompous rich bastards clinking champagne glasses and bidding on people like cattle.
But tonight, that thrum had a voice—loud, nasal, and grating through the tinny echo of a microphone.
"—And yes, yes, yes! I know, ladies and gentlemen! Everyone's dying to see the prized surgeon from the North Blue, the miracle man himself!" said the voice of Disco, manager of the Human Auctioning House and the sleaziest man Law had ever almost amputated.
"But as always, we gotta save the best for last! You know how it is—build anticipation, drive up the price, classic marketing, hehe!"
Law rolled his eyes, resting the back of his head against the cold stone wall. 'They're treating it like theater,' he thought, lips pressing into a thin line.
He tugged slightly at the seastone cuffs on his wrists. No good. Still tight. Still draining.
"Until then," Disco continued, "please feast your eyes on a fine selection of exceptional products, personally handpicked from across the seas! Strong bodies, exotic races, one-of-a-kind talents! We're talking real collector's items here!"
Law sighed. 'Just kill me already.'
Then he heard something behind him—something light, something quiet, like the exhale of a shadow.
His head turned.
Out of what had moments ago looked like a section of the ceiling, a figure dropped noiselessly into the room. Clad entirely in matte black, He wore a smooth, ceramic oni mask, with one twisted horn and an angular sneer.
The only sound was the gentle rustle of cloth and the soft click of boots on the floor.
Law raised an eyebrow. "I'm guessing you're with the dragon mask guy?"
The figure didn't reply.
Instead, he knelt down, withdrew a long, slim hairpin, and with the casual flair of someone who'd done this a hundred times, began fiddling with the inner mechanism of the cuffs.
Law watched in silence. The guy moved like smoke—deliberate and unbothered, like someone picking a lock wasn't breaking in, but rather just... borrowing.
A moment later, the cuffs gave a soft, satisfying click. Law instinctively moved to take them off.
"No," the masked man said, voice flat but youthful—definitely not the dragon mask guy.
He leaned in and began tinkering with the cuffs again. It wasn't until Law looked down that he realized the man was applying some kind of transparent paste or glue to the locks, re-sealing them just enough to make them look secure.
Law blinked. "What's the plan?"
The man, Ren, still didn't reply. Instead, he pulled a small piece of paper from his pocket and let it drift down onto Law's lap.
On it was a hand-drawn sketch—amateur, yes, but unmistakable. A bloated, sniveling man in a pristine white suit, a haughty sneer on his lips, and a single missing finger. Shepherd Vlancio.
The celestial dragon who once destroyed an entire estate because someone said no to him. The sheer audacity.
"When you're on stage," Ren said, voice low and unhurried, "the lights will go out. That's when you remove the cuffs and go for the mark."
Law looked down at the drawing in his hand again—crude lines, smug face, a finger conspicuously missing. Shepherd Vlancio.
He looked back up at the masked intruder. "And you expect me to punch him to death?"
The oni mask tilted slightly, just a hint of amusement beneath its stoic expression.
"Your sword will be beside you once the lights come back," Ren replied evenly, as if this were all perfectly normal. Like he was describing the steps to brewing tea, not assassinating a celestial dragon in the middle of the most well-guarded underground auction in the archipelago.
Law let out a long exhale. "Even then…" he muttered. "The auction hall will be swarming with security… not to mention Doflamingo's minion, Diamante."
Ren's response came quick, confident. "We'll keep Diamante busy—and anyone else who might pose a threat. As for the rest? Small fries."
He glanced over his shoulder, as if imagining the chaos to come.
"We've got small fries of our own to handle them."
Law blinked. "...You're coordinating an attack?"
Ren gave a single nod. "All you have to worry about is Vlancio. You land the hit—nothing else matters."
Law's fingers tightened ever so slightly, the fake cuffs creaking as they flexed. "If I succeed," he said slowly, "I'll have killed a celestial dragon."
His eyes narrowed.
"That's a death sentence. They'll send an Admiral after me."
Ren didn't hesitate. "There's a coated ship waiting just off the shore. Crew's been paid off, ready to dive. As soon as it's done, I'll get you out. We go straight to Fishman Island. I'll need to vanish too… figured we might as well share the ride."
Law raised an eyebrow, suspicion blooming again. "And what about your boss? Dragon mask guy?"
Ren paused just a breath. "He'll be the one holding back Diamante. Says he has a plan to get out… somehow."
That somehow didn't exactly inspire confidence, but the calm in Ren's voice suggested it wasn't up for debate.
Before Law could answer, the auction hall's muffled noise surged again. Disco's obnoxious voice echoed through the walls:
"And now, feast your eyes on this! A rare catch straight from the Grand Line! Flexible, obedient, and good with a sword! Not to mention a killer singing voice—maybe literally, hehe!"
Law grimaced. "I'm going to kill that man one day."
He turned to the door, then back to where Ren had been.
Gone.
Not a sound. Not a shadow.
Just the cold, dim silence of the stone room.
Law sighed, muttering under his breath, "This probably won't end well."
He leaned his head back against the wall, eyes narrowing toward the ceiling.
"…But not like I have much of a choice, do I?"
...
Gale sat crouched atop a weathered crate, one leg hanging lazily over the edge as he stared down at the gaudy, neon-lit building that served as the front for the underground theater.
From his perch, the entire scene unfolded like a stage play—mercenaries lined the rooftop, the alleyways, even the damn awnings. Some smoked. Some paced.
Some just looked bored out of their minds, which, to be fair, probably meant they weren't being paid enough.
Behind him, the soft shuffle of boots and the occasional clack of a rifle sling echoed in the night air. Fifty uniformed marines stood at the ready, weapons polished, expressions serious.
Pistols, rifles, swords, even one guy with an absolutely massive axe that Gale was sure was compensating for something.
These men were here on official business. Or at least, they thought they were.
The truth was... a bit more complicated.
See, as far as they knew, they were here to keep the peace. Watch the surrounding areas. Make sure that, in case some criminal scuffle went down, it didn't spill into the rest of the archipelago and cause a big headache once the Celestial Dragons claimed their prize and left.
That's what HQ had approved. That's what their orders said, because the higher-ups didn't think anyone would be stupid enough to try robbing the place while the celestials were still there.
Gale, however, had other ideas.
He had gone through the proper channels, filed the paperwork, saluted at all the right moments—and still managed to weaponize the system just enough to bring them here for his plan.
Was it manipulative?
Yes.
Was it brilliant?
Also yes.
Because the World Government—and the Marines, by extension—knew about Doflamingo's little operation. Knew he was auctioning off human beings like livestock.
Unfortunately, he also had dirt on the Celestial Dragons so deep they needed a diving suit just to look at it. And so, they let him be and called it Warlord perks.
But if some unsupervised, poorly coordinated criminal factions decided to start an all-out brawl on auction night? Well. That changed things.
That gave Gale permission, an excuse to intervene.
A few of the gangs that used to control Sabaody's underworld were now licking their wounds or working for Gale and Ren, unaware they were now part of a bigger chess game.
Gale had passed just enough rumors to the right ears. Whispers of riches. A surgeon worth a king's ransom. Vulnerable security. He, of course, altered the schedule a little in a way that anyone interested in raiding the underground theatre would unkowingly do so when the Celestial Dragons were still present, but that's neither here nor there.
It didn't take much. The moment was ripe. The powder keg was already sweating. He just had to light the match.
No talking raccoon, because he couldn't find one. No one dressed as a mermaid to make a distraction since Shakky and Ren insisted it wasn't necessary.
But still… a good plan.
And right on cue—
BOOM.
An explosion rang out from down below. Somewhere near the theater's side entrance. Screams. Shouts. A gunshot. Then several.
Gale didn't even flinch. He just grinned as the crackle of chaos grew louder.
He turned to the fifty marines behind him, all now alert, fingers tightening on triggers, heads snapping toward the source of the noise.
"Well, fellas," Gale said, rising smoothly to his feet and brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. "Looks like we're about to earn our pay tonight."
He tapped the hilt of his sword as he dropped down from the crate with the casual ease of someone stepping off a bus.
"Move out."
And just like that, he marched toward the underground theater, his coat billowing behind him, marines trailing in formation, none the wiser.
He almost wished he had found that talking raccoon. Would've made for great company.
...
Diamante lounged like a man who didn't have a single responsibility in the world—which, frankly, wasn't far from the truth. He sat reclined in one of the VIP boxes that overlooked the underground auction hall, legs crossed, fingers lazily swirling the contents of a wine glass.
The crushed velvet cushions, the gold trim, the gentle waft of perfume and money in the air—it was all very on-brand for a Warlord's right-hand man.
Seated next to him, dressed like an overdressed jellyfish draped in rings and perfume, was none other than Magnon Frévall. Broker. Slimeball. Human garbage fondue.
"Your presence alone is enough to make the scum of this archipelago tremble," Magnon cooed, dabbing sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief. "I daresay, Lord Diamante, you elevate this sordid affair to something almost... dignified."
Diamante didn't even glance at him. "You suck up any harder and I'll slip off my chair, blob."
Magnon chuckled like a weasel choking on syrup. "But of course! I'm nothing, if not a humble admirer of greatness, that's all!"
They had no idea.
Not about the gunshots.
Not about the smoke.
Not about the fact that, just outside the thick, soundproof walls of the auction hall, chaos was tearing the building a new one. Literally.
Because inside this plush, muffled little box of denial, everything was still calm. Still polished. Still disgusting.
Down on the stage, Disco adjusted his glittery jacket and grinned at the crowd, a microphone in hand and the flair of a man who definitely practiced finger guns in the mirror.
"Ladies and gentlemen, esteemed guests of the underworld," he purred, "up next, our grand finale—our crown jewel—our miracle worker! A surgeon unlike any other, a man whose hands are worth more than gold and whose skills could resurrect the dying!"
A hush fell.
But before he could keep milking the spotlight, a voice rang out.
"Enough. Get on with it."
The words, snide and petulant, came from a squat, puffed-up figure seated near the front: Shepherd Vlancio, Celestial Dragon and walking war crime in a bubble suit.
Disco's grin froze mid-sentence, like a CD skipping in real time. "Ah! Yes, of course! As Saint Vlancio commands!"
He gave an awkward bow, sweat visibly flying off his slick forehead. "We can begin the bidding at—"
BOOM.
One of the auction hall's side doors exploded open, and for the first time all night, the carefully curated illusion of peace shattered.
Gunshots cracked. Shouts echoed. Screams pierced the air.
A mercenary stumbled into the room, wide-eyed and bleeding, screaming, "WE'RE UNDER ATT—!"
He didn't get to finish. A shadow surged in behind him, and the next moment, his body dropped, cleanly sliced, as gangsters began pouring through the breach—armed, roaring, furious.
The Sabaody underworld had come to collect.
Just as people began shouting and scrambling, another door burst open on the far end of the room—this time, marines flooded in. Dozens of them.
Gasps erupted. People trampled over seats. Screams of "SET UP!" and "IT'S A RAID!" bounced off the walls.
Up in the VIP box, Magnon let out a noise that could only be described as a high-pitched puddle shriek. Diamante slowly stood, frowning, his wine glass still in hand.
"Huh," he muttered. "Just what in the hell do these yokels think they're doing?"
And then—
The lights went out.
...
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