East Blue, Loguetown.
Called the Town of Beginnings and Ends, today it existed for the end alone.
The sky hung low and heavy. Clouds pressed down like a mourning shroud, as if even the heavens were silent for the king about to fall.
The air was still. No wind, only the breath of a gathered multitude, a hot mix of sweat, cheap liquor, and nerves.
The scaffold rose over the square.
Below it, a sea of bodies heaved and squeezed. A careless step meant getting your toes crushed three times over, yet no one cared. Every gaze was locked on the empty platform.
They had come from every corner of the seas to witness the curtain fall on a legend.
Whispers hummed like a hive.
"So that's where they'll execute the Pirate King?" A young man who had just elbowed his way in craned his neck, eyes shining with curiosity.
A thick-set merchant spat. "Pirate King my ass. Just a head thug. I lost three cargo ships on the Grand Line, probably his lackeys' work."
"Now, now, that's not the whole story." A straw-hatted old fisherman drawled, "Sailors who crossed his path say the Pirate King paid his tab and didn't harm civilians. A straightforward man."
"Straightforward? Easy to be, when you spend stolen coin." The merchant's neck stiffened as he readied a retort.
"Keep it down." A squat drunk barked, "You're blocking my bets. I'm putting money on him dying with a smile. Anyone matching?"
Sneers flew, but a few troublemakers perked up.
"I bet he bawls for mercy. One gold."
"I bet he curses the Navy."
"Hey, where d'you think he stashed the treasure he never spent?"
Bickering, jeers, and sighs braided into a dirge for an era.
Atop a clocktower facing the scaffold, a figure stood in the seam of shadow.
Kael wore a plain black coat with the hood drawn low, hiding most of his face.
He did not mask his presence. He simply became part of the shadowed stone, as if he had always belonged to the dark.
From above, golden eyes, hawk-sharp, swept the shifting crowd with cool detachment.
He had not spread his Observation Haki, yet certain auras burned so bright they were bonfires in a black forest, impossible to ignore.
On the edge of the square, a white-haired boy glared at nearby pirates with monumental annoyance, like his stare alone might smoke them to death.
Kael knew that face. The Navy's future pillar, Smoker.
Can't win a fight, never misses a promotion.
A relic of the meta, benched by the patch notes.
Kid, take it from your big brother Kael. Smoke is not your path.
If you absolutely must puff, at least pick your battles.
Not far off, a tall, thin youth with a chin sharp as a spike cackled in a grating "kee-hee-hee." In the sun his shadow stretched long and ominous.
Future Warlord of the Sea, Gecko Moria.
Hasn't been broken into a shut-in by Kaido yet. Still a spark of edge in him.
I should knock on that door someday.
Kael's gaze slid to the most unremarkable corner.
A lone man in a deep green cloak stood there, calm as the air before a storm.
Well, well. Monkey D. Dragon.
The revolution is far from won. Comrades, keep pushing.
His eyes kept roaming.
A young swordsman in a fine shirt, hawk-keen gaze, shouldered a massive black blade and calmly polished the tiny supreme-grade dagger hanging from his neck.
In the crowd, a splash of flamboyant pink feathers stood out like a flare.
The blond youth in sunglasses wore a crooked, manic smile, enjoying the "festival" with avid interest.
Tsk. Something about that face begs for a fist.
Another man with slicked-back hair and a predatory stare watched the scaffold like a crocodile waiting for a last breath.
Crocodile. Some ambitions refuse to stay hidden.
Kael recalled a rumor about Ivankov and certain… transformative favors.
Is that why you skipped Haki training, brother?
You smell like trouble. Ahem.
At the very front stood a red-haired boy shoulder to shoulder with a red-nosed one, muttering about who-knows-what.
Kael drew his eyes back and sighed without a sound.
An absurd thought crossed his mind.
Here in Loguetown's square, the future Yonko, Warlords, even the leader of the Revolutionary Army had gathered like stars.
If a few Buster Calls swept the plaza now and scooped up this brood of future monsters in one go…
The seas might know peace for a hundred years.
No. Even a Buster Call would not scrub it all clean.
Just then, his expression turned odd.
Directly beneath his feet, inside the loft, a man in a suit and sunglasses knelt amid dust. One hand pressed to the Den Den Mushi at his ear, the other clenched at his holster. His voice was low, tight with a sober edge.
"Yes. We have reconfirmed all targets. Gecko Moria, Donquixote Doflamingo… a long list of pirates over one hundred million are in the square.
However, the special target you emphasized, the 'Waveguide King' Kael Grylls, has not been sighted."
Relief crept into the man's tone.
Trailing future big-name pirates was one thing. Trailing the monster who punched a hole clean through Marineford was another job entirely.
He did not finish.
The wooden ceiling above him rippled oddly, as if something were squeezing out of solid timber.
The agent's head snapped up.
His pupils shrank to pinpoints.
A face he had memorized a thousand times from wanted posters eased down through the wood, upside-down.
Beneath the hood's edge, a pair of golden eyes watched him with a faintly amused smile, the way one might watch a mouse blunder into a trap.
Half of Kael's body phased through the floorboards, hanging in the air.
"Moshi moshi," he said softly, and the word detonated in the agent's ear like thunder.
The man's blood turned to ice. He wanted to scream, to draw, to run, but terror crushed his throat and numbed his nerves. His mind went white.
"Good night."
Kael's hand chopped down, casual as a flick.
Thud.
The man never made a sound. His eyes rolled back as he toppled flat, slamming the boards and kicking up dust.
Silence returned to the loft.
The Den Den Mushi still sat open, its face frozen in the man's borrowed panic, mouth stretched wide as if it had witnessed the impossible.
Kael slipped free of the ceiling entirely and dropped without a sound, boots kissing the floor.
He did not so much as glance at the unconscious Cipher Pol agent. He stooped, picked up the Den Den Mushi, and lifted the receiver.
"Moshi moshi?"
His voice was light, as if greeting an old friend.
"Is that our little Saint Warcury calling from Mary Geoise?"
The other end went dead quiet.
Holy box.
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