Mr. 11 and Miss Thursday exchanged a glance—without speaking, they instinctively fell into formation. The shield-wielding woman stood in front, defending with her triangular kite shield, while the swordsman positioned himself behind to strike.
"Haaah—!"
They charged in unison. The shield soldier pushed forward, attempting to ram Buggy backward, while the swordsman swung at his body.
Slash—
It was a tried-and-true strategy that had won them countless fights.
But not against Buggy the Clown.
With a simple separation of his limbs, he neutralized the assault entirely.
The swordsman's face twisted in despair.
For a man who had trained in swordsmanship for over a decade, there was no greater nightmare than realizing your blade cannot cut through your opponent's flesh.
His prized sword, Hanashū, couldn't even scratch Buggy. The shield soldier's charge? Rendered useless the moment Buggy's disjointed body floated mid-air, scattering upon impact.
Their formation meant nothing now.
Buggy retaliated with a volley of whistling throwing knives, slicing through the air.
Each time Buggy raised his hand, the shield soldier raised her shield, blocking the blades with a series of heavy thunks.
Realizing they had no chance of winning, the duo slowly retreated—shield up, steps cautious.
That is, until Buggy switched tactics.
He threw small bombs instead.
One bounced off the shield, rolled to the ground at her feet, and—
BOOM!
A deafening explosion rocked the street. The shield soldier screamed in pain and collapsed, unable to hold her shield any longer.
"It's over…"
The swordsman, bleeding from the earlier abdominal wound, was now completely exposed. He staggered backward, but a fresh round of throwing knives caught him in the chest.
His body dropped to the ground—lifeless.
"Heh heh."
Buggy drifted down, smirking.
The bald shopkeeper was still frozen in shock. He hadn't imagined that Mr. 11 and Miss Thursday would lose—let alone this quickly.
Buggy turned and glared at him.
"You want to fight me too?"
"N-no, not at all!" the shopkeeper stammered, snapping back to his senses. He waved his hands frantically, abandoned all hope of reclaiming the permanent log pose, and bolted into his shop.
The moment he was inside, he slammed the door and locked it tight.
The street emptied fast. At Buggy's glare, passersby fled into alleyways and buildings like mice from a predator.
It had been a long time since Buggy had felt this powerful.
He let out a loud, triumphant laugh, then turned his attention to the sword lying beside the fallen swordsman.
Buggy picked it up and examined the blade.
"Nice... This one looks pretty good. I'll take it back for Hachi."
He grabbed the scabbard too, sheathed Hanashū, and strolled away like nothing had happened.
No one dared stop him this time.
Meanwhile..
Kuro and Hachi had also heard the explosions that Alvida and Buggy had noticed earlier—but they were weighed down with shopping bags and had no time to investigate.
Kuro carried a few bags full of ingredients—he seemed relatively relaxed.
Hachi, however, was juggling his six arms, struggling to hold up a towering mountain of fruit, vegetables, and meat bags as he walked down the street.
His upper body was completely buried behind the "mountain." Fearing he might trip, he decided to walk sideways like a crab so he could still peek around the side to see where he was going.
He felt quite clever for figuring this out.
Kuro, on the other hand, walked several meters ahead, pretending not to know him.
"Pick up the pace," Kuro eventually called back, sensing something off. "There's something strange about this place. Let's get back to the ship."
"Oh, okay!" Hachi replied without question. Kuro's word was law.
They hadn't even left Whiskey Peak when a second explosion rang out—smaller this time, but still alarming.
Kuro's brow furrowed. He picked up the pace.
Hachi panted behind him, crabbing along as fast as he could.
"Kuro, wait up!" he called, but Kuro ignored him.
That's when they heard the last sound they wanted to hear—shouting from a nearby alley.
A group of men armed with blades surged out into the street, seemingly chasing someone. But upon spotting Kuro and Hachi, one man—dressed like a cowboy—pointed and shouted:
"That's them! They're part of Davy Jones' crew! They took Princess Vivi and killed our agents!"
Davy Jones' crew's wanted posters had just been distributed.
Hachi blinked in confusion, still crab-walking. The accusation wasn't wrong—they were part of the crew—but he didn't understand a word about "Princess Vivi" or "agents."
Kuro reacted instantly.
He dropped his grocery bags on the ground, adjusted his new glasses—his last pair shattered during the Reverse Mountain battle—and stared coldly at the crowd.
His new specs made him look more refined—but his eyes held the same ruthless malice as before.
The Baroque Works agents hesitated at the sheer killing intent in his gaze.
"We can't let them escape!" someone yelled. "If they get away, Mr. 5, even Mr. 0 won't spare us!"
"There's two of them and dozens of us! We can take them!"
While they shouted to psych themselves up, Kuro vanished—gone without a sound.
SWOOSH—
A moment ago he was empty-handed.
Now, two swords were in his hands.
Their original owners lay behind him—bleeding out on the ground.
Baroque Works agents and bounty hunters gasped in horror.
The well-dressed man stood among them, like a ghost, and panic exploded.
Blades slashed toward him from all directions.
Kuro didn't flinch.
He sank low, then unleashed a flurry of slashes—his twin blades moving like guillotines.
Blood sprayed.
In mere seconds, a ring of bodies collapsed around him.
BANG! BANG!
Gunshots rang out from above.
Kuro deflected both bullets with his blades and looked up.
On a rooftop stood a man and woman.
The man, dressed like a pope, held a smoking pistol in one hand and a cross in the other.
The woman was a one-armed swordswoman, well-built and sharp-eyed.
"Missed…" the gunman muttered.
But before he could aim again, Kuro was already there.
In a blink, he sliced off half his head—along with the pistol.
The man's skull split like a watermelon, red and white matter spraying.
The female swordswoman was stunned. She hadn't even seen him move.
She barely managed to raise her rapier to block Kuro's incoming double strike.
CLANG—!
Kuro pressed down hard, but while she was focused on blocking, he swept her legs with one swift hook of his foot.
Off balance, she tumbled backward.
Kuro pulled back, then struck again, slicing her down onto the rooftop tiles.
"Mr. 10! Miss Tuesday!"
Baroque Works agents cried out in terror.
He had first killed two men instantly, then slaughtered a ring of hunters, and now effortlessly defeated two mid-level agents with code names.
This man... is he really from the East Blue?
Isn't the East Blue supposed to be the weakest of all seas?
But none of them had time to think about that now.
They exchanged frightened looks—and as if on cue—turned and bolted into the alleyways.
Kuro didn't plan to let them go.
He chased them like a phantom, vanishing into the darkness.
Moments later, screams echoed from the shadows.
When he reemerged, his blades were gone, but his suit was soaked in blood.
He calmly pulled out a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his face.
The rest he left untouched.
"Let's go."
He picked up his bags like nothing had happened.
He didn't bother explaining to Hachi—he knew there was no point. Hachi wouldn't understand, and certainly couldn't help sort out the situation.
The two of them hurried back toward the ship.
Just then, they ran into Buggy on another street.
"Hey! You guys ran into them too—"
"Same here," Kuro interrupted coolly. "We'll talk back on the ship."
But Whiskey Peak wasn't finished with them yet.
From a distance, another mob appeared—this one even larger.
Bounty hunters and agents swarmed together—fifty to sixty strong.
They were the last remaining combat force in the town.
Kuro sighed.
"Hachi, put those bags down. Let's finish off these pests first."
"Okay!"
Hachi came to a stop and gently lowered the bags piled high like a mountain.
"Catch!"
Buggy tossed the sword Hanashū to him.
Hachi barely managed to catch it—then grinned like a kid at Christmas as he drew the blade.
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