The thick, heavy silence that had fallen over the Baratie didn't just break; it shattered.
"YOU BASTARDS!"
The roar came from the kitchen doorway. Zeff stood there, trembling—not with fear, but with a volcanic, personal rage. His peg leg was raised high, his chef's hat quivering.
"WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY KITCHEN?!"
Caribou's men, who had been tearing the place apart looking for treasure, froze. They were caught red-handed, holding stolen food and shattered, priceless china. In that moment, they weren't looking at an old man; they were looking at a captain.
Before Ace or his companions could even flinch, Zeff exploded into motion.
CRACK!
His peg leg smashed down, not on the floor, but on the skull of the first pirate. The man went flying, crashing into a table and not getting up.
"You DARE..." Zeff spun, his leg a blur, connecting with the ribs of two more men. "SPILL MY SAFFRON?!" They were sent tumbling into the bar, scattering bottles. "You will PAY for this!"
It wasn't chaos. It was a brutally efficient, one-man demolition. The legendary "Red Leg" Zeff was single-handedly dismantling an entire pirate crew, fueled by pure culinary fury.
Caribou, seeing his crew taken apart by an angry cook, panicked. This wasn't worth it. He had the real treasure—the secret. He just had to escape.
"Hehehe! You suckers can have this floating tub! I'm out of here!" he gurgled. His body dissolved, turning into a brackish, muddy puddle, and began to seep between the floorboards. The world-ending secret was about to melt away with him.
But while Zeff's rage was a wildfire, the other men in the room were a quiet frost.
Kuzan, who had been leaning against the bar, didn't even stand up straight. He simply bent slightly, pressing two long fingers to the wooden floor. A beautiful, intricate lacework of ice spread from his fingertips, racing across the planks faster than the eye could follow.
The floor around Caribou instantly flash-froze, becoming as hard as steel. He was trapped, his escape cut off, caught in a bizarre, undignified prison of half-mud and half-solid ice. His gurgling laugh turned into a shocked gasp.
"Ararara..." Kuzan murmured, pulling his hand back and slipping it into his pocket. "It got a little drafty in here."
At the exact same moment, Douglas Bullet moved. He'd been watching the pirates' sloppy ransacking with utter disgust. Now, he was just cleaning up the mess. He appeared behind the last two conscious pirates, who were still staring at their frozen captain. There was no fanfare, just two dull, heavy thuds—the sound of his massive hands connecting with the backs of their necks. They dropped like puppets with their strings cut.
The entire "battle" was over in less than twenty seconds.
The restaurant was suddenly, deafeningly quiet, broken only by Zeff's heavy, ragged breathing and the groans of the unconscious. Every eye in the room—Zeff's, Ace's, the terrified bartenders'—landed on the trapped, shivering form of Caribou.
Realizing his situation was hopeless, Caribou played his last card.
"The Red-Hair's... child!" he gurgled, his voice thick with mud and fear. "I know the secret! You can't kill me! You can't hurt me, or the secret will get out!"
Ace walked calmly toward him, his boots tapping on the floor. His face was cold, devoid of its earlier charisma. "You're right," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "The secret dies with you."
This wasn't a fight. It was an extermination. Ace didn't even ball his fist. He simply extended two fingers, like a child's pretend gun.
"Higan."
A thin, white-hot beam of compressed fire shot from his fingertips. It passed through Caribou's muddy head with a sharp, violent hiss. There was no scream. Just a wet, sizzling sound as the mud bubbled, boiled, and instantly evaporated, leaving behind nothing but a patch of dry, scorched dirt on the floor.
He was completely gone. The secret was safe.
Zeff stood panting, his peg leg still poised. He stared at the spot where the pirate had just... ceased to exist. He looked at the three men: the one who froze the sea with a touch, the one who moved like a monster, and the one who killed with a single finger. He finally, truly understood. This wasn't some rookie crew playing at treasure. This was the real deal. This was the world stage.
Ace, seemingly unfazed by the execution, turned back to him. "Sorry about the mess," he said, as if he'd just spilled a drink. "Like I was saying, we need a chef. A Yonko is waiting for us."
Zeff slowly, very slowly, lowered his leg. He glanced at his trashed, sacred kitchen, then back at the incredible, terrifying power standing in front of him. A spark he hadn't felt in twenty years—that old Grand Line thrill—ignited in his pirate heart. He let out a long, tired grunt.
"A cooking contest... against Charlotte Linlin. Hmph. You brats have zero respect for your elders." He kicked at a stray, unconscious pirate at his feet. "Fine. I'll do it. On two conditions."
Ace raised an eyebrow. "What conditions?"
Zeff pointed his peg leg at the unconscious crew. "First, you're paying for every... single... plate. And every last pinch of spilled spice. And second..." A mean, almost gleeful smile spread across his weathered face. "...I'm keeping this trash. My restaurant suddenly finds itself in need of new dishwashers. They'll be working off their debt for the next twenty years."
Ace looked at the pile of bodies, then at Kuzan, who was already inspecting a nearby wine bottle, and Bullet, who was crossing his arms again, bored now that the action was over. He let out a long, tired sigh.
He had come here to recruit a chef. He was leaving with a legend, a massive repair bill, and an indentured crew of twenty-year dishwashers.
He was really beginning to understand just how strange his life as a captain was going to be.
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