Crocodile left Alvida, Law, Hachi, and Buggy behind and walked alone down the corridor.
Passing one particular door, he suddenly stopped.
Someone was inside.
He pushed it open.
Two men, both with cigars between their lips, met face to face in the spacious conference hall aboard the Terror Ghost.
Silver-haired Smoker was leafing through a brittle, yellowed book. At the creak of the door, he turned—and found himself staring at someone he never expected.
"Crocodile? Why are you on this ship?"
"Ho ho ho…"
Crocodile gave a complicated smile. He set an ashtray down on the table, plucked the cigar from his mouth, and ground it out.
"Prisoner, captive, crew member… it depends on how you look at it." He sat down in a chair.
Smoker shook his head.
"Whatever the reason, whatever your status, taking you in is an unavoidable duty."
Mist rose from his whole body, shrouding him like a snowstorm.
He tensed—then launched his "White Blow" in a flurry, fists of smoke hammering Crocodile like a machine gun.
But Crocodile didn't even stand. Sand swirled into fists of its own, colliding head-on with Smoker's assault.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
The violent clash of wind and fists shredded the round conference table like a meat grinder, the whole room quaking under their blows.
Yet Crocodile was clearly the calmer of the two.
"We're both Logias. No real elemental advantage between us." He sneered. "So how exactly do we decide a winner?"
Smoker knew he was being mocked. Seizing a gap in the sand and smoke, he drew the jitte from his back and thrust it toward Crocodile's arm.
"Ha."
Crocodile's hook pinned the jitte down before it could pierce him.
"The name 'Smoker' is known across the Grand Line. Not just because you're a rare Logia user—but because of that weapon." His eyes gleamed. "A jitte tipped with seastone. Many a Devil Fruit user has fallen to it."
"Clicking his tongue, Smoker grimaced.
The truth stung. A former Warlord was never someone he should have been able to handle. Even if Crocodile was considered one of the weaker Seven, that still placed him beyond Smoker's reach. And now, even his one surprise—the seastone jitte—was anticipated.
Smoker realized he was in for a brutal fight.
"Given up already?" Crocodile rose lazily from his chair. "Or would you rather try the more common style of battle used in the New World?"
Thud!
Before Smoker could react, Crocodile's right fist, wrapped in Armament Haki, slammed into his jaw.
Staggering, Smoker nearly collapsed. He spat out a bloodied tooth, then set his stance, coating his own fists in Armament Haki, and swung back.
If their Logias canceled each other out, then the fight would be decided by Haki.
But even here, Crocodile had the edge. His hook carved bloody gashes across Smoker's body. His Armament pressed so heavily that Smoker could barely breathe.
At last, catching Smoker's opening, Crocodile drove a savage kick that hurled him out of the conference hall.
Crash!
Smoker smashed against the bulkhead, his body rattling apart, but sheer stubbornness forced him back onto his feet.
To his surprise, Crocodile did not pursue.
"What…?"
Lifting his head, Smoker saw a tall figure standing before him.
Aokiji—Kuzan—hands buried in his pockets, gave him a brief glance before turning his attention to Crocodile.
"Didn't expect this…" Kuzan muttered, surprise on his usually calm face. "Crocodile—the 'missing Warlord,' the 'mastermind behind Alabasta's civil war,' the 'schemer feared across the seas.' And here you are, aboard Davy Jones' ship."
Crocodile's smile vanished.
Kuzan was no Smoker. As one of the three Admirals, a long-famed master of the Ice-Ice Fruit, he was a threat of an entirely different level.
Kuzan gave no time to breathe. His right arm swept forward, unleashing a massive pillar of ice that punched through the wall like a battering ram.
Wooooosh!
The storm outside crashed in, wind and rain flooding the chamber.
Caught unprepared, Crocodile was soaked head to toe. His expression darkened.
The "Pluton" had been his reason for stirring Alabasta's war. But his choice of that kingdom in the first place had been no accident—it was far from the New World.
In the New World, too many already knew how to deal with him. There he was at a disadvantage; only in Paradise could he wield the true prestige of a Warlord.
"Come quietly to Impel Down…"
Kuzan stepped through the storm, ice shielding him from every raindrop.
"…or I end your pirate life here. Make the wise choice, Crocodile."
In truth, Kuzan preferred capture. Delivering Crocodile alive to Impel Down would restore some of the Navy's lost dignity after the Alabasta fiasco.
But Crocodile had no intention of rotting forever in the deep-sea prison.
He fell silent, bracing himself—Armament and Observation ready to clash.
Kuzan sighed and stepped forward again.
At that moment, a lightning bolt split the sky.
When the thunder rolled, a new figure stood in the hole blasted open by Kuzan's ice pillar.
Kuzan's eyes narrowed. That face, infamous across wanted posters and newspapers, was unmistakable—Davy Jones.
Soaked to the bone, the man stood framed in the storm, gray-blue eyes cold and dangerous.
This wasn't rescue.
He was here for Kuzan.
The Admiral understood instantly from the look in his eyes.
Davy Jones stepped back, retreating into the curtain of rain and the roaring gale, until he stood tall upon the deck. His gaze was equal parts threat and invitation.
Smoker stared in shock as Kuzan's usual laziness vanished. His whole bearing changed, his presence burning like fire.
Kuzan followed, striding onto the rain-lashed deck.
From above, his eyes took in the scene beyond: yet another titanic wave from the "Aqua Gods" had already swallowed the outer districts of Water 7. The city was boiling over.
On the high platforms of the inner city, he could see people watching—watching both the legendary tsunami and the black ship tossed in its heart, yet never capsizing.
The wave bore the Terror Ghost toward shore, as though to drag it into the deep.
But before it reached land, another wave surged—larger, hungrier.
Polka's prediction had been right. This year's "Aqua Gods" dwarfed all before it—perhaps the most massive in history.
The sea itself roared like a beast, hurling the black ship forward like a blade of night, driving it straight toward Water 7's inner city—and toward the helpless onlookers.
Kuzan's brow furrowed. No more hesitation.
He leapt high into the storm. Frost spilled from him in torrents.
Creeeeeak—!
In the next instant, the colossal wave froze solid. It hung there mid-crash, a mountain of ice about to crush the city.
On the observation platforms, people fell to their knees in terror, staring wide-eyed.
The Terror Ghost froze too, bristling with jagged ice thorns in every direction, locked at the crest of the wave.
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