At the same time—beneath the Red Line.
Deep sea.
A pure-white World Government official vessel, coated for high pressure, slid through a darkness so complete no sunlight could ever reach. Thousands of meters down, the currents gnawed at the hull while the ship held its line by the narrow cones of its bow and hull-mounted searchlights.
In that blackness, Phantom Tiger—CP0 unit chief—burned with a feverish light in his eyes, as if the abyss itself promised him ascent.
He was elated.
His rank within CP0 had stalled for years. This operation—seizing Fish-Man Island—would be his springboard. In the World Government's "hour of crisis," he would put the Gorosei at ease, take the undersea treasure by force, and bend fate to his will.
"How much longer?" he pressed, impatience roughening his voice.
"Approximately ten minutes, Excellency," a masked agent answered. "Given the depth and the risk of ambushes by Fisher Tiger, we've capped speed for safety."
Phantom Tiger snorted. "Increase speed. Enough coddling."
"Fisher Tiger, the 'Blood Dragon,' is hardly a threat. His Shichibukai seat was a gesture of goodwill to Fish-Man Island, nothing more. The act is over. He masterminded the Holy Land blaze and took a mortal hit from the Knights of God. If he's alive, he's licking his wounds in a hole."
He tipped his head toward the companionway.
Wheels squeaked in the dark.
A man in a wheelchair rolled from the shadows, hands steady on the rims. His legs were gone, but that wasn't what arrested attention. When he lifted his lids, there were no pupils—only unmarred white. He was blind.
"Begin," Phantom Tiger said, smiling.
The man bowed his head. "To serve you is an honor, Lord Phantom Tiger."
He stilled, listening to a world beyond sound. "Within five kilometers… no hostile intent."
"Good," Phantom Tiger murmured, pleased.
The ship surged, propellers clawing the depths and leaving a roiling wake. In less than two minutes an impossible vista took shape: a colossal bubble city bathed in soft light.
"Fish-Man Island," Phantom Tiger breathed, fingers clenching, heat rising under his mask. The thought of grinding that paradise beneath his heel, of setting this beautiful kingdom ablaze in the World Government's name, sent a delicious shiver through him.
"Full speed. Punch through the membrane." He licked his lips. "Ram it."
"Wait."
The man in the wheelchair stiffened, sweat beading along his brow.
"I sense…" His voice thinned. "Inside Fish-Man Island…"
He swallowed. "Several terrifying presences are concealed there."
"Excellency, I advise against a direct landing. With our current strength, we could—"
A furred claw closed around his throat and lifted him off the seat.
The figure towering over him was striped in yellow and black, muscles straining beneath a long coat. Black flames ringed the beast's neck. Phantom Tiger—half-transformed, vertical pupils bright with barely bridled savagery—glared down.
"Retreat?" His voice rumbled. "Do you know who you're speaking to?"
He slammed the man to the deck, then turned, grinning viciously at the looming bubble city. "Bring her in."
The prow struck. The massive membrane flexed, then burst with a brittle pop, and the ship began to drop.
Phantom Tiger leapt in his hybrid form, black fire corkscrewing around him.
Three seconds.
Two.
One.
He hit first, braced, and caught the falling bow on his shoulders. Flesh and bone became a buffer. Steel screamed. The warship slammed home in a thunder that shook the seabed, smoke and grit billowing outward.
"Now then," he growled, staggering from the crater. "Let's begin."
The smile died on his lips.
Sand—grains too fine to have existed here—rose out of nowhere, whirling into a towering storm. A man with slicked-back hair stepped from the yellow squall, a cigar ember flaring.
"Ah-ah-ah-ah. Didn't think anyone would be dumb enough to come to Fish-Man Island to die."
"The Shichibukai… 'Sand Crocodile' Crocodile?" Phantom Tiger's eyes narrowed. The man had the air of a mafia don. Phantom Tiger's mouth hooked coldly. "I didn't expect you to play Rogers Darren's lapdog. How quaint."
Strong, yes—but hardly an obstacle. It would make this conquest more… entertaining.
"You think you alone can take me?"
The reply came from his blind side, low and amused.
"Kishishishi… looks like we've got a tough one."
Phantom Tiger whipped around.
A pallid figure in gothic finery drifted into view, black bats wheeling around him, a jagged greatsword on his shoulder humming with purple lightning.
"…'Moonlight' Moria." Phantom Tiger's gaze sharpened.
Another Shichibukai?!
To be continued...