"We have nothing left! Truly, nothing!" a ragged old man cried, kneeling on the hard-packed earth.
He clutched an empty coin pouch in his trembling hands, his voice a ragged whisper of despair.
His eyes were hollow and lifeless, as if all hope had been extinguished.
"You've taken everything!" another villager roared, his voice thick with impotent rage.
"All the food, all the money in the land!"
Everything they had painstakingly built had been plundered, leaving them with nothing but gnawing hunger and absolute poverty.
"Please, I beg you, spare my daughter," a mother pleaded, sinking to her knees.
Tears blurred her vision as she clung to her child, terrified she would be ripped away.
Her voice trembled, each word a testament to a mother's desperate love.
"Please, I beg you..."
Her plea was cut short by a gunshot.
The sound cracked through the air like thunder on a clear day, deafening and absolute.
It was followed by a sharp, mocking voice dripping with disdain.
"What a bunch of insolent peasants, daring to defy a Celestial Dragon! You all deserve to die!"
A grotesquely obese man in a glass helmet sneered, drawing a golden pistol from his waist.
The weapon was gaudy, adorned with glittering gemstones that gleamed ostentatiously—a testament to his obscene wealth.
His eyes held a boundless arrogance as he regarded the kneeling villagers as nothing more than insects to be crushed.
Raw terror was etched on every villagers face.
Some clutched their children, instinctively trying to shield them with their own bodies.
Others clasped their hands, whispering frantic prayers for a miracle they knew would not come.
To the Celestial Dragon, their fear was a twisted form of entertainment.
He raised his pistol with a cold chuckle, aiming it lazily at the crowd.
The air grew thick with tension.
Everyone held their breath, awaiting their fate.
Time seemed to freeze, the entire world narrowed to the cold barrel of the gun.
"Saint Charlos, shall I dispose of them for you?" a subordinate in a crisp white suit asked respectfully, his voice devoid of emotion.
"Not yet," Saint Charlos replied slowly, his tone laced with a chilling calm.
"I want to savor their fear a little longer. Such exquisite emotions—it would be a shame to end it so soon."
His gaze swept across the crowd, finally settling on the weeping mother.
Her helpless stare should have pierced his heart, but instead, it sent a perverse thrill through him.
Saint Charlos toyed with the golden pistol, the dark muzzle swinging between terrified women and innocent children.
Each time it pointed at a new target, shrill screams filled the air—music to his ears.
He reveled in this sense of absolute control, a wicked smile playing on his lips.
"Hahaha..." His maniacal laughter finally subsided.
"How dull," He said coldly, his amusement fading.
"Kill all these peasants." He spoke as if ordering the disposal of trash.
"Yes, Saint Charlos," his attendant replied instantly before turning to relay the order.
The man in the white suit stepped forward, his steps measured and each one seeming to crush the hope in the villagers' hearts.
His attendants followed, their faces twisted into cruel grins, eyes alight with bloodlust.
A suffocating tension descended, everyone knew merciless death was upon them.
"Ignorant insects," the white-suited man sneered. "Dying by the hands of a Celestial Dragon is the greatest honor of your wretched lives."
He raised his weapon to end them all.
At that critical moment—
"Fire Gun!"
A voice roared from behind them.
Suddenly, countless streaks of flame rained down from above like meteors, striking the weapons from the executioners' hands with pinpoint accuracy.
Amidst a chorus of metallic clangs, every firearm clattered uselessly to the ground.
"Who?!" the white-suited man bellowed, turning around.
His gaze landed on the enormous pirate ship that had appeared behind them.
On its flag was a familiar Jolly Roger: a skull with crossed bones and Whitebeard's distinctive crescent moon mustache.
"The Whitebeard Pirates?!"
Disbelief filled his eyes as he recognized the figures standing on the deck: Marco the Phoenix, Fire Fist Ace, Diamond Jozu, the Ice Witch Whitey Bay, and other commanders of the crew.
Strangely, Whitebeard himself was absent.
At their center stood a young man he didn't recognize, yet whose position clearly marked him as someone important.
"CP0, what are you dawdling for?" Saint Charlos snapped impatiently.
"Kill these vermin already—they disgust me!"
He made a mental note to discipline these agents later, their obedience was slipping.
"S-saint Charlos," the agent stammered, "they... they're the Whitebeard Pirates. We should leave now. Your safety is the priority."
The man in white had no desire to clash with them.
Their mission had brought them to the first half of the Grand Line, and underestimating the combat strength in this part of the world, they hadn't brought an Admiral for protection.
If a fight broke out, the unarmed Celestial Dragon would almost certainly be killed or injured—an outcome they could not afford.