Before long, Aeridar, Arlan, and Dimitri had returned to the dock and boarded the Chris.
Beneath the main mast, Oliver was lying back in a large armchair, shirtless and with his eyes closed. To his left rested two finely crafted katana, while on his right sat a small round table bearing three bottles of premium rum—two already opened, one completely emptied.
Tap, tap, tap... tap, tap...
The approaching footsteps stirred Oliver from his drowsy state. He cracked one eye open, glanced lazily in their direction, and, recognizing familiar figures, slowly sat up. His posture was relaxed, but there was a flicker of something unusual in his expression as he asked, "Huh? You guys are back already?"
"We've got a problem," Aeridar replied sharply, shooting him an irritated look before turning to Dimitri. "Dimitri, send the emergency assembly signal."
"On it," Dimitri nodded and headed up toward the quarterdeck.
Oliver's eyes widened, and he leapt to his feet. "Emergency signal?! Don't tell me... the Marines on the island are coming after us?"
"No," Arlan said grimly, face darkening. "It's worse."
"…Worse?" A trace of alarm flashed across Oliver's face. The island was crawling with thousands of Marines and dozens of warships, including a Vice Admiral, Rear Admirals, Captains—each a formidable force. If they were being hunted, it would be a full-blown crisis. One that could annihilate everyone except the captain and the highest-ranking officers. But something worse than that? That meant everyone was in danger. Even the captain. Even the core officers.
Aeridar's voice turned cold. "This whole country—and the East Blue's regional Marine headquarters—could be going down."
Oliver's expression shifted to pure shock. "You're serious?!" he gasped.
If something happened to the Kingdom of Sasardo, one of the largest nations in the East Blue, and to Marine Base 17, the command center for all East Blue operations—that would shake the entire world.
Sure, the East Blue was considered the weakest of the four seas, but Sasardo was a major member nation of the World Government. And the 17th Division base was no minor outpost either—it was the strategic hub for the entire region's Navy presence. Even if not as elite as a Grand Line fortress, it wasn't weak by any stretch.
If both a World Government member nation and a Vice Admiral-grade Marine base were to fall at once... it'd be a headline-making catastrophe. Not just for the Navy—the World Government itself would be forced into massive retaliation.
"Luckily, Gorbo's crew already stocked up on supplies," Arlan said with a slightly eased tone, nodding toward several crates and cannons on the deck. "And the six black market cannons and their ammo arrived this morning. If we have to set sail now, we're covered."
Fweeeeeee!
Fweeeeeee!
Fweeeeeee!
Three bursts of light shot into the sky—pop! pop! pop!—each exploding into the shimmering image of a skull-and-crossed-swords wrapped in golden rings. The skull insignia was unmistakable: the Jolly Roger of the Chris Pirates.
Meanwhile, on the east end of the Coastal City, a broad-shouldered man with a scar running down his face was leading two stunning twin women and seven or eight crew members down a market street, arms loaded with goods.
Suddenly, one of the men paused, eyes scanning the sky. Spotting the glowing symbol overhead, he nearly dropped what he was carrying. "Captain! Look up!"
"What? Stop overreacting already," the scar-faced man grumbled, clearly annoyed—until he looked up himself. "Shit. Emergency signal!"
"Move! Back to the docks! Round up everyone nearby!"
He bolted.
The twin women and the rest of the crew immediately followed suit, breaking into a sprint without a second word.
"You two—check the nearby alley bars. They're probably still drinking!" one twin shouted over her shoulder to a pair of crewmen carrying lighter loads.
"Got it, boss lady!" The two buzz-cut men scampered off in the opposite direction.
Similar scenes played out all across the Coastal City.
Wherever the glowing Jolly Roger appeared overhead, crewmembers dropped what they were doing and rushed to the docks—or went to alert others.
By 3:40 in the afternoon, the once-empty Chris was bustling with life. The deck was crowded with crewmembers and piled high with gear and supplies. Arlan, Oliver, and Gorbo stood at the bow, tallying headcounts.
"First Division, assembled!" Arlan shouted.
"Second Division, all here!" Oliver called.
"Third Division, ready!" Gorbo announced.
"Navigation and finance teams accounted for!" Dimitri added.
At the prow, Aeridar looked down at the gathered crew and bellowed, "Raise the sails! Prepare for departure!"
"Aye, Captain!!" came the booming reply from the whole crew.
Whump!
The mooring lines were loosed, the anchor lifted, and the massive sails unfurled. The Chris—a triple-mast warship with a wolf's head prow—began to glide away from the docks.
Far above, atop the highest rooftop overlooking the port, three mysterious men in long cloaks stood watching.
The one in black spoke first: "Boss, how do you know they won't interfere?"
"Yeah," the man in gray added. "Newcomers like that—especially strong ones—usually don't fear anything."
The leader, wearing a deep green coat, stepped forward and replied in a calm, indifferent tone, "Heh... A true warrior isn't just defined by strength, but by wisdom—and an instinctive awareness of danger. Some may seem eccentric... but that's often a mark of those most dangerous."
"…"
The men in black and gray gave each other a strange look but said nothing more. They just stood there, eyes fixed on the giant ship as it slowly disappeared over the horizon.
Truth be told, they didn't understand a word of what their boss had just said. It sounded deep. Maybe too deep. So they played it safe and kept their mouths shut.
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