"Winterhan Kingdom… King Jin."
In the royal capital of Alabasta, King Cobra sat in his sunlit chamber, a newspaper unfolded across his lap. His tired eyes scanned the second page headline with neither shock nor surprise.
Just yesterday, the World Government had already sent formal notification. A change of monarch in an allied kingdom was procedure, as predictable as sunrise.
"So… Wapol is dead. The kingdom even bears a new name now. Perhaps the people of Drum will finally know a gentler life."
Cobra sighed, the weight of the world etched upon his features. He had met Wapol during the last Reverie. The man's absurd "Doctor Hunt Decree" had left him aghast, disgusted. But though Alabasta was a great and powerful nation, while Drum had been a mere speck among allies, Cobra had no right to interfere in another country's affairs.
And besides, his own kingdom groaned under strain. Pirate incursions, climate change, dwindling rains—the stability of Alabasta itself was crumbling. He had little strength to spare for others.
——
In Rainbase, the golden desert casino city, Crocodile swept into his den with the weight of authority. His long coat fluttered as he entered. On the sofa, a woman in a soft lavender hat sat cross-legged, a newspaper in hand.
"Drum Island… a new king? A kingdom with fewer than a hundred thousand souls, worth your attention? Nico Robin."
Her gaze never wavered as she turned a page. "Its location is not far from Alabasta. That alone makes it interesting."
Crocodile's eyes narrowed. Not long ago, he had encountered Robin—"the Devil's Child"—after crushing the pirate crew that sheltered her. Rather than destroy her, he struck a deal.
Their pact was simple: he would provide access to hidden ruins where Poneglyphs lay, and she would interpret the truths within, especially about ancient weapons.
The Sand Crocodile, beaten once by Whitebeard, knew he could never topple the Yonko with brute force. He had waited sixteen years, biding his time, weaving plots in the desert sands. The ultimate weapons of the Ancient Kingdom—those were his only path to ascendancy.
"You should spend less time on trifles," he snapped. "Focus on our plan. Find me the clues."
"I will."
Robin's voice was calm, her expression unreadable. Years of running had sharpened her tongue to a blade. She spoke as each listener required—gentle truth for men, veiled lies for monsters.
——
Far across the seas, in the smoky bar of Sabaody, Shakky hardly spared the Drum Kingdom news a glance before flipping past it. A king's death, a new crown—what of it? Such changes mattered little in the grand scheme.
Her eyes fell on the next column. "Iceburg of the Galley-La Company elected mayor of Water Seven," she murmured.
Rayleigh lifted his glass. "Tom's disciple, eh? At least the shipwright's legacy endures."
"What's the front page today?" he asked, brow arched. "There was quite a commotion on my way here. People buzzing everywhere."
Shakky turned the paper back, spread it wide.
"Sorube Kingdom in Flames! The Tyrant Kuma Launches a One-Man Revolution!"
The photograph burned with chaos: a towering bear-like figure striding through fire, his bulk black against the inferno, like a demon incarnate.
"The Sorube Kingdom… that's in the South Blue, isn't it?" Rayleigh mused. "A revolution, waged by a single man? Hah. The Revolutionary Army grows louder each year."
He leaned back, the lines of age etched deep into his face. "Roger's age of piracy opened the seas. Now, the whole world trembles with unrest. The currents grow darker."
Shakky exhaled a long trail of smoke, her silence saying more than words.
——
Meanwhile, at Hannabal—
The port was alive with frenzy. Citizens lined the streets with gongs and firecrackers. Banners unfurled above their heads, painted boldly:
"We Welcome Our Majesty to His Loyal City of Hannabal!"
Since Wilson had returned, seizing the corrupt front boss, rumors had swirled like storm clouds. Some pirates had already fled, sensing disaster. Others, bound by family or fortune, had nowhere to go. Some lingered in wait, gauging the winds.
But then scouts returned from Aska Island, breathless with truth: only one ship had reached the finish. The token had been claimed.
Not by Gasparde.
By the madman who had wagered one hundred million Berries upon himself.
All others—including Gasparde himself—had been swept aside.
And worse, word of the bet had spread. If the "madman" truly won, the boss owed him three hundred and fifty billion Berries. Unable to pay, all that remained was for the victor to seize Hannabal itself.
So when the headlines declared that same victor a king, Hannabal boiled over. Some pirates fled at once. Others froze in fear.
And then—he came.
The Devil Carrier, the monstrous warship, glided into harbor. Its low, resonant roar—like a whale's call twisted into a demon's—rolled across the sea, silencing drums and chatter alike.
"Th-that ship…"
Hearts clenched. Spines bent. None could explain the fear that clawed at them—it was simply there, primal and undeniable.
Then—
Boom. Boom.
Two massive shadows vaulted from the deck, shaking the earth as they landed.
"Giants! The brothers, Bobby and Boch!"
Gasps rose. Had they been defeated? No—their posture, the lowered heads, said only one thing: they had been claimed.
And between them, a lone figure descended the gangplank. The young king. Sunlight framed his body, haloed his crownless head.
The light was blinding. Men tried to gaze upon him, but their eyes burned, and so they bowed.
It was not will. It was instinct. It was submission.
From a distance, sipping coffee on a balcony, Hina's lips curved faintly. Of course. Every step, every angle of light—designed. He had orchestrated his own arrival, made himself a figure of awe. And it worked. Admirably.
Closer to the docks, Wilson raised a hand, and a stage was erected. The banner unfurled:
"We Warmly Welcome Our King to the Hannabal Special Zone!"
A special zone.
Jin announced the decree: Hannabal would remain as it was for five years. Pirates, merchants, Marines—any could dock here. A free island, where all vices were permitted. Drinking, gambling, fighting, business—unchecked.
But outside the walls, the rules changed. The seas around Hannabal would be free of private skirmishes. Those who broke the peace would be hunted down by the Winterhan fleet itself.
And he declared this arrangement sanctioned—agreed with the Navy and World Government.
The crowd rippled in shock.
"You mean… hide here, and even the Marines can't touch us?"
"He's making Hannabal into a pirate's sanctuary?"
The thought caught fire.
Then—applause. Deafening, frenzied applause.
For three days Jin remained. He built a council with Wilson at its head, repurposed the old gang boss into a deputy, promoted new blood like the giant brothers and other pirates who bent the knee.
He knew Hannabal's rot ran deep. To rule it, one could not simply import Drum Island's governance. This land was different—this was a nest of vipers.
"For now, manpower is too scarce," Jin murmured. "We leave the poison for later."
Hina passed him the day's World Economy News, an arched brow. "You could advertise. There's a hiring section. Place a call for capable men."
"Oh?" Jin smirked as he flipped to the classifieds. "That bird Morgans… he's got talent."
But when he closed the paper, his eyes froze upon the front page.
The Tyrant Kuma.