Clang!
The piercing clash of steel rang out right next to Kyle's ear, so loud and sharp it felt like someone had driven an iron spike into his skull. The vibration rattled his bones, making his eardrums throb in pain.
A gleaming long saber had been parried with such force that sparks scattered in the air—mere inches from his face. The sudden light made his bloodshot eyes twitch.
Kyle forced his eyelids open. His vision was hazy, blurred by exhaustion, blood loss, and the pounding in his head. Through the haze, the first thing he saw was the back of a young man—broad-shouldered, dressed simply, and wearing a worn, weathered straw hat.
The shape, the color, the way the brim cast a shadow over his profile—Kyle's mind immediately leapt to a single name.
"Ace… Ace?" His voice was a raspy whisper, dry and hoarse from thirst and fatigue. His own words sounded foreign in his ears, as if they belonged to someone else.
No… That made no sense. The timeline didn't match.
The straw-hatted youth didn't even turn around. His right wrist flicked almost lazily, but the movement carried a crushing weight. The blade in his hand transmitted a surge of overwhelming force into the opposing weapon.
The swordsman from the Black Shark Pirates, who had already been steadily losing ground, felt the shock travel up his arms. His grip split open at the webbing between thumb and forefinger, blood seeping out instantly. His saber was ripped from his hands and spun away, clattering against the cobblestones with a sharp metallic clank.
The man himself stumbled backward, horror twisting his face. He looked as if he had just been struck by something far beyond human.
"Hey, you alright?" the straw-hatted man finally turned to face Kyle, flashing a grin so bright it seemed to light up the space between them.
White, even teeth. A face full of vitality and confidence. Yet those eyes—sharp, piercing, like a hunting eagle's—carried a depth that could see straight through flesh and bone, straight into the soul.
That smile… Those eyes…
Kyle's pupils shrank to pinpoints. His mind jolted as if struck by lightning.
It's not Ace… It's Ace's father.
Gol D. Roger. The Pirate King—in his youth.
A pressure, invisible yet tangible, seemed to spill out from Roger's very presence. It wasn't a conscious use of power; rather, it was like standing before a predator older than time itself. The surrounding pirates—men who only moments before had been snarling and laughing—now stiffened, their confidence draining away. Instinctively, they shuffled back, their eyes flickering with primal fear.
"You… who are you?" The Black Shark Pirates' captain bellowed. He was a mountain of a man, bare-chested, gripping a massive ship anchor in one hand. His roar was meant to mask the tightening knot of unease in his gut. Everything about this straw-hatted stranger screamed danger.
Roger didn't even glance his way. His gaze lingered on Kyle instead, taking in his disheveled state, the battered ground around them, and the scattering corpses of pirates.
"Incredible," Roger said, almost amused. "You took down all these pirates alone? Kid, you've got some skills."
Kyle wanted to speak, but the words caught in his throat.
Before he could answer, the pounding rhythm of boots echoed from the edge of the port.
"Marine! The Marines are here!"
"It's the G Branch! Run!"
The shouts shattered what little order remained among the pirates. Already shaken, their formation dissolved into chaos.
From every street and dockside alley, Marines poured in—rows of disciplined soldiers in standard blue uniforms, rifles at the ready, eyes hard. The black steel of their gun barrels all turned toward the bloodstained center of the port.
At their head marched officers with the insignia of lieutenant colonels glinting on their shoulders. Their stern expressions spoke of elite training—the pride of Dogg Town's Marine G Branch.
"All pirates, drop your weapons immediately and surrender!" one lieutenant colonel roared, his voice cutting across the din. "Resist, and you will be cut down without mercy!"
The arrival of the Marines twisted the tension tighter. Kyle saw the Black Shark captain's expression shift—calculating, desperate. Escape wouldn't be easy now.
"Brothers!" the captain barked, rage replacing fear. "Kill these two pests first, then break out!"
With a roar, he swung his ship anchor and charged at Roger and Kyle, the ground trembling beneath each step.
The remaining pirates, caught between fear and desperation, screamed their defiance and followed him.
"Bring it on! Kuhahaha!" Roger's laugh boomed across the port. Not a trace of hesitation touched his stance. He met the incoming giant anchor head-on.
The weapon in his hand was no famed blade—just an ordinary cutlass, worn from travel. Yet when Roger moved, it sang with the power of a storm.
Swish!
A single arc of blinding light carved through the air.
When the anchor met the blade, it parted—cleanly, impossibly—split as though it had been no more than driftwood. The cut's surface was so smooth it gleamed.
Roger flowed forward like water, like wind—there one moment, gone the next—each swing of his cutlass laced with a force that could shatter boulders.
The first pirates and Marines who dared approach barely saw the blur of his movement before they were hurled backward, bodies torn by invisible blades of force. Blood pattered against the ground.
His swordsmanship was deceptively simple—broad, sweeping strokes—but each carried weight and rhythm, a natural harmony of strength and control. Every strike felt inevitable, unstoppable, as if the world itself bent to make way for his blade.
Against the wall, Kyle's adrenaline ebbed, leaving only the heavy ache of his wounds. Pain flared beneath his ribs, a hot spike with every breath. Yet he couldn't look away.
So this… is the Pirate King.
That composure, that effortless dominance… it was a level of mastery Kyle had never imagined possible.
Against Roger's battle, Kyle's own fight earlier felt childish—play-acting at war while a true king strode the battlefield.
Every move burned itself into his mind. Every shift of Roger's feet, every dodge, every swing was a lesson.
"Haki…" The word slipped from Kyle's lips, barely audible. He didn't fully understand it, but he could feel it—something in Roger's attacks beyond mere muscle.
But his body was done. Hunger, blood loss, and relentless fighting dragged him down like chains. The world tilted. The voices—the clash of steel, the shouts, the cries—grew distant, muffled.
"Damn it… I can't… move…" His voice cracked as his eyelids sagged.
Then, a flash of gold tore through the chaos.
A figure burst in like lightning, moving with speed that bent the eye's ability to follow.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Three crisp impacts rang out, each followed by a scream.
The newcomer's cutlass danced in a radiant curtain of golden light, each stroke placed with perfect precision, each movement a clean, efficient kill. Where Roger was raw dominance, this was elegance—deadly, precise, untouchable.
"Rayleigh!" Roger's laughter rose again, this time richer, more delighted.
Silvers Rayleigh—young, golden-haired, glasses perched neatly on his nose, calm even in the midst of slaughter. But in his eyes burned the sharp gleam of a predator.
With Rayleigh at his side, the tide of battle shifted instantly. The two moved as though they had been born fighting together—one on the left, one on the right—cutting into the Marine ranks like twin blades of a giant pair of shears.
"Roger," Rayleigh said, deflecting a lieutenant colonel's sword with casual ease, "you really know how to stir up trouble."
"Kuhahaha! I was just passing through!" Roger replied, spinning his blade in a lazy backhand sweep that sent three pirates sprawling.
Kyle swayed, his vision narrowing. He could barely keep his eyes open. He saw Rayleigh's golden hair catch the sun, saw Roger's grin flash once more.
Fifty… sixty years before the main story… His last coherent thought was equal parts wonder and disbelief.
The Black Shark Pirates were finished. Those who weren't already lying on the ground fled in blind panic, dropping weapons in their scramble to escape.
The Marines fought fiercely, but even the G Branch's best couldn't match two men who would one day become legends feared across the seas.
Roger and Rayleigh fell into position back-to-back, shielding Kyle between them.
The sun sank low, stretching their shadows long across the bloodstained dock. Smoke curled in the air, thick with the tang of salt and iron.
It was chaos—pure, unrestrained chaos—but also the opening notes of a legend.
In the small, unremarkable port of Dogg Town, the curtain began to rise on the age of the Pirate King… witnessed by one soul who had fallen from another world entirely.
Kyle's eyes finally slid shut. The last thing he heard was Roger's booming laughter, mingled with the gleam of steel as Rayleigh's blade cut the fading light.
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