Chapter 1: The Adjudicator of the East Blue
In the world of pirates, where dreams are built on chaos and legends are forged in battle, the simplest joys for an ordinary person are a peaceful day and a strong drink. For one young man, however, ordinary was a luxury he could no longer afford.
Marine Reporter: "Excuse me, Commander Ian! A philosophical question for the men! If a normal human eats the Animal-Type, Human-Human Fruit... is he still a human?"
Ian: "He is a human... but also something more. It's like becoming the very concept of a human. It's a paradox, you see?"
Grand Line Calendar, 1519
East Blue, Glass Bead Island
The air in the bustling tavern was thick with the smell of cheap ale and saltwater. It was a familiar, comforting haze for the island's residents, a brief sanctuary from the ever-present fear of pirates. Laughter and loud chatter filled the space, a symphony of ordinary life.
That symphony was shattered in an instant.
BANG!
The tavern door splintered inwards, followed by a terrified scream. A massive figure, silhouetted against the afternoon sun, staggered into the room. The laughter died, replaced by a stunned, choking silence.
The man was a horrifying sight. Ornate, golden armor, once a symbol of arrogant power, was now dented and hanging from his body in tatters. His face was a roadmap of fresh and old wounds, and a thick, coppery scent of blood cut through the smell of ale. This was no weary traveler; this was a cornered beast.
"Shut up! All of you!" the man roared, his voice a gravelly mix of panic and fury. "Get down in that corner! Now!"
BANG! BANG! BANG!
He raised his arm, revealing a custom-built double-barreled flintlock grafted to his wrist, and fired several shots into the wooden ceiling. Splinters rained down like bitter snow. The terrified patrons, their faces drained of all color, scrambled over one another to huddle in the far corner, a shivering mass of fear.
"Crick," a voice called from outside the door. It was calm, almost teasing, cutting through the tension like a knife. "How long do you plan to play this tiresome game of hide-and-seek?"
The armored man—Crick—flinched as if struck. A vein throbbed violently on his forehead. In a flash of desperation, he lunged into the huddled crowd and dragged out a young woman, clamping a thick arm around her neck.
"Ian! Don't you come any closer!" he screamed towards the door, his eyes wide with a primal fear. "Take your Marines and get off my island! Now! Or I'll... I'll kill every last one of them!"
He was "Admiral" Crick, a pirate who had once commanded fifty ships and five thousand souls across the East Blue. His name had inspired terror. His bounty of 17,000,000 Berries was a testament to his ruthlessness. But that was before the balance of power in the East Blue had shifted. Before him.
Jock Ian.
At just eighteen, a string of impossible victories had earned him the rank of Commander at Marine Branch 16. And in the six months that followed, he had swept across the sea like a typhoon, dismantling pirate crews with an efficiency that bordered on cruelty. Crick, the most cunning and powerful of them all, had been run to ground, his empire reduced to this final, desperate stand in a dusty tavern.
Squeak...
The tavern door swung open slowly.
A single figure stepped into the dim light, his white Marine justice jacket worn open, flapping slightly in the breeze. He was young, with a head of unruly black hair that fell carelessly across his brow. The uniform did nothing to contain the wild, untamed aura that radiated from him. He had a strong jaw, a high nose bridge, and eyes so deep and calm they seemed to absorb the surrounding panic. A faint, almost sarcastic smile played on his lips.
A wave of whispers rippled through the hostages.
"Is that... Commander Ian?"
"The 'Adjudicator of the Sea'!"
"We're saved! He never fails!"
"Lord Ian, please help us!"
"SHUT UP!" Crick bellowed, losing control. BOOM! Another shot into the ceiling silenced the pleas. The air was thick enough to choke on.
Ian seemed utterly unfazed. He paid Crick no mind, strolling calmly to an empty table as if he were just another patron. He picked up a half-finished bottle of rum, inspected the label, and poured a generous amount into a wooden tankard.
Glug, glug, glug.
The sound of the liquid was deafening in the silence.
"Huh..." Ian sighed, taking a long, appreciative sip. "As expected. In the entire East Blue, only the rum from Glass Bead Island is strong enough to be worth drinking."
WHAM!
He slammed the empty tankard back onto the table. The sound was like a gunshot, making Crick flinch and stumble back two steps, his grip tightening on the sobbing woman.
"Ian! You bastard! Did you hear me?!" Crick screamed, spittle flying from his lips. "Get your Marines and retreat! Now! Or I will paint these walls with their blood!"
Crash...
Ian simply poured himself another drink, the liquid sloshing into the cup.
"Then kill them," Ian said, his voice flat and devoid of all emotion. "You've been threatening for a full minute. Are you going to talk them to death?"
Crick was speechless, his entire body trembling with rage and terror. The double-barreled gun in his hand shook uncontrollably.
"You think I won't?! I'll start with two of them! Right now!" he shrieked, his voice cracking. "According to Marine regulations! If a hostage is killed in front of an officer, it's a catastrophic failure! You'll be court-martialed! You'll be stripped of your rank and thrown in a cell! You'll die with me! A decorated Captain like you has too much to lose!"
He thought he had found a lifeline, a thread of bureaucratic red tape to cling to.
However.
"Pfft... AHAHAHA!"
Ian threw his head back and laughed. It was a loud, genuine, and utterly merciless laugh that echoed through the terrified tavern.
"What are you laughing at?!" Crick roared, his confidence shattering.
"Sorry, sorry," Ian said, wiping a mock tear from his eye. "I just couldn't help it. You think that's a rule? Our Marines... we don't have that rule."
His words landed with the force of a physical blow. Not only was Crick dumbfounded, but the hostages behind him also stared in disbelief. This was not the compassionate hero from the stories. This was something else entirely.
"You're bluffing, Ian! You're trying to trick me!" Crick yelled, his sanity fraying at the edges. "Damn you! I'll show you! I'LL DO IT!"
There were so many hostages. Killing one would still leave him with plenty of bargaining chips. He would make Ian regret his arrogance. He would show him why he was once called the 'Tyrant of the East Blue'!
"No! Please! I don't want to die! Lord Ian, save me!" the female hostage begged, her tears streaming down her face.
The trigger mechanism was right under his right index finger. He pointed the gun at the woman's head, his finger tensing to pull the trigger and teach Ian a bloody lesson.
Just pull the trigger.
Activate the mechanism.
Pull.
...Buckle?
What? Why can't I move?
A cold, numbing dread flooded Crick's veins. It wasn't just his right hand. His left arm, which was locked around the woman's neck, also went numb. He couldn't feel her struggling anymore; it was like holding empty air.
His eyes, wide with dawning horror, snapped back to Ian. The moment their gazes met, the world around Crick began to swim. The colors bled together, the sounds melted into a dull hum.
A Paramecia? What kind of Devil Fruit power is this? How could it be... wu... wula... wula...
The rest of his words were lost. His vision, his hearing, his sense of touch—even the internal sensation of his own bones—vanished completely. He was adrift in a void.
The woman, who had been crying just a second before, suddenly felt the iron grip around her neck vanish.
Ian looked past Crick's frozen, statue-like form to the stunned crowd.
"What are you all waiting for?" he said, his voice returning to its normal, casual tone. "Run."
It was all the permission they needed. In a frantic scramble, the patrons burst past the frozen pirate and out into the safety of the street, not daring to look back.
Once the tavern was clear, Ian stood up and walked slowly towards Crick. His boots echoed on the wooden floorboards. He stopped in front of the paralyzed pirate, whose eyes were wide with uncomprehending terror.
"See?" Ian said, plucking the flintlock from Crick's unfeeling hand. "I told you we didn't have that rule."
End of Chapter