Caleb and Wyatt barreled onto the pirate ship amid the aftermath of a vicious clash. The deck was a slaughterhouse—corpses sprawled in twisted heaps, blood slicking the planks like spilled oil under the relentless sun. Only one pirate survived, kneeling and quivering, his eyes locked on Russell in abject horror.
"Moore planted you here to guard the secret realm's entrance, right?" Russell's tone sliced through the air, a statement wrapped in steel. After the carnage he'd ignited on Skull Island, it was no shock the Black Flag's head honcho would station a watchdog.
The pirate smashed his forehead against the gore-streaked wood in frantic bows, raw survival instinct barely leashing the demonic fury that clawed at him whenever he glimpsed these intruders. "I've told you everything! All of it! Please—let me go!"
But Russell's eyes were glaciers, crushing any spark of mercy. The pirate broke, words tumbling out in a desperate flood.
Russell took it in, then shifted toward the silent shadow nearby. "Kaneki," he commanded, voice devoid of warmth. "Finish it."
The kagune lashed out like living whips, coiling with merciless precision. The pirate's screams erupted—hoarse, wet gargles that peaked in a symphony of snapping bones before fading to eerie quiet. Only then did Russell face Wyatt, his expression etched with unyielding purpose.
"Mr. Wyatt, you caught that. The demons? They've fused completely." The pirate's confession painted a grim picture: Russell's earlier rampage had forced the Black Flag's hand. They'd fast-tracked merging the pirate crews, uniting every faction. Now, all four lords hunkered on Skull Island, plotting their breakout—ready to butcher the Association's elite and hoist Moore as emperor on a throne of bones.
Wyatt reassessed Russell in that moment, his prejudices fracturing. Kid's got ice in his veins, he mused, impressed by the unflinching resolve. "We infiltrate Skull Island quietly," Wyatt said, voice low and tactical. "I spot an opening and drop their leaders." What began as a babysitting chore had escalated into a righteous extermination. As an Association cardmaker, he couldn't ignore the storm brewing.
Russell nodded, appreciating the raw simplicity. Overwhelm the bastards—lop off the heads, watch the rest scatter like rats.
Scanning their small crew, Russell frowned. "Hold up... where's the fourth?"
Caleb's face twisted in realization. "Dammit—Leo! I ditched him!" He scrambled onto his flying beast, wings thundering as he raced back.
Russell let him go, turning to Wyatt with a rare edge of vulnerability. "Mr. Wyatt... I want Moore's blood on my hands. Personally."
Wyatt paused, surprised. He'd figured the kid for a glory-seeker, wanting the easy finish after the real work. But why not? It could buy some goodwill. "Deal. He's yours."
Soon, Caleb returned with Leo, and the quartet cut through the waves toward Skull Island, the ship knifing the sea like a predator closing in.
Yet as the island loomed, a gnawing dread twisted in Russell's chest—dark, insistent, like storm clouds gathering.
Then horror unveiled itself.
"Captain! Yara!" Caleb's roar tore from his throat, a guttural explosion of grief that vibrated the air. His eyes burned crimson, as if rage itself might spill from them like tears of blood.
Leo gripped his fists until skin split, warm blood trickling down his palms in silent fury.
Russell froze, a void yawning inside him, cold and consuming.
Framing the port's entrance stood two jagged flagpoles, grim sentinels. Suspended from them, twisting in the briny wind, hung two ravaged bodies—charred to brittle husks by the merciless sun, a haze of flies droning around the decay.
Russell drew a shaky breath, pivoting to Wyatt with words forged in frost. "Mr. Wyatt, scrap the stealth." Each syllable landed like a verdict. "No hiding. Now, I deliver justice—bold, unbreakable!"
Wyatt's protest died unspoken as an ethereal force propelled their ship like a missile, hurtling toward the dock in a frothing surge.
"ENEMY ATTACK! ENEMY ATTACK!" Guards on the pier howled, scrambling in vain as doom barreled down.
BOOM!
The collision thundered like a war drum—wood shattering in a violent spray, the dock buckling into the frothing depths. Pirates plunged into the abyss, their cries swallowed by the chaos, as debris rained like shrapnel.
Russell had Luffy ready, the rubber form cushioning their leap into the fray. They hit the ground running amid the wreckage, while flocks of birds exploded from the treeline in panicked shrieks. The island pulsed with alarm now—every demon alert to the invasion.
Just as Russell intended.
Moore charged in moments later, his lieutenants flanking him like wolves, the air electric with bloodlust and the tang of salt-swept fear.
Wyatt bit back frustration, steadying his stance. "Next time, warn a man before you unleash Armageddon." Luffy's presence had revealed the truth: Russell was bronze-level, a rare talent worth every safeguard the Association threw his way. But threats first—Wyatt's senses probed the demons. Moore was a monster, sure, but his crew? Chum. Cards materialized in his grip, energy crackling, poised for slaughter.
Russell's grip halted him. "Mr. Wyatt," he murmured, calm as a blade's edge. "Back off. This fight's mine."
Wyatt eyed him skeptically. Potential was great, but Moore could pulverize titans. "You got this?" Reluctant agreement followed. If it went south, he'd intervene.
From the splintered ruins, Moore snarled, fury igniting at their audacity. But eyeing Wyatt's arsenal, he opted for venom. "Ah, the cowards return—the mice who fled with tails tucked."
He thumbed toward the flagpoles, his grin a slash of cruelty. "Admire my handiwork? Strung 'em up fresh for guests like you." Zeroing on Russell, he savored the plan: dismantle the boy piece by piece, force the rest to choke on despair. Death? He'd bathed in it, risen from it. It held no terror.
Russell's stare was an abyss, unflinching. "You have already chosen your manner of death."
"Luffy. End him." "Full power. No mercy."