Chapter 9: The Devil's Rumor
We had been at sea for five days.
Life on the Purgatory had settled into a grim, efficient routine. By day, I was a god. I trained, my Sunshine power turning every simple exercise into a feat of monumental strength.
I stood at the prow for hours, my mere presence a deterrent, my power so vast that the sea around us seemed calmer, the Sea Kings giving our vessel a wide berth.
By night, I was a trainee. The moment the sun dipped below the horizon, the divine power would recede like a tide, leaving behind the 15-year-old boy.
My stats would plummet from godhood back to my pathetic base form.
[Daily Quest: Train Like a Hero] -> COMPLETED!
[Rewards: +2 Random Stats (1 STR, 1 AGI), +20 EP]
[Swordsmanship: Basic -> Newbie (1000/10000 Swings)]
[Chain Quest: Path of Strength – Stage 1] (95/100)
My base stats had grown, but they were still laughably weak compared to the monsters of this world.
Strength: 21
Agility: 22
Total Base Stats: 95/100
"This is unbearable," a voice growled, snapping me from my nightly meditation.
I opened my eyes. Shimotsuki Riyon was leaning against the mainmast, his arms crossed.
His Commodore-level presence was a constant, comforting pressure at my back during the long nights.
"What is?" I asked, focusing on my Haki control.
"The food," Riyon spat, kicking an empty crate.
"It's saltwater-soaked hardtack and dried, stringy meat. We have a mountain of Berries in the hold, and we're eating like bilge rats. What's the point of being a pirate, let alone the crew of a god, if we starve?"
"We are not starving, Riyon. We are surviving."
"It's an insult," he countered. "To my stomach, and to my Captain. A lion should not eat scraps."
He was, unfortunately, correct. The supplies we'd hastily bought at Whisperwind were not meant for a long voyage.
"Elara?" I called out.
The door to the navigation room opened, and our navigator stepped out, stretching her back.
"I heard. And he's right, Captain. But I've got a bigger problem than just our menu."
She unrolled a map of the South Blue on the deck. "We're here," she said, tapping a point in a vast, empty stretch of ocean.
"The supplies we have will last another three days, tops. The currents here are tricky. The only major supply port for five hundred nautical miles is this archipelago. Rofure."
"Then we go there," I said.
"It's not that simple," Elara said, her face grim.
"Rofure isn't a civilian island. It's the home of G-12, one of the most fortified Marine bases in the South Blue. It's a Grand Line-level fortress planted here to make a statement. And the man who runs it is Commodore 'Ironjaw' Grubb. He's not some corrupt desk-jockey like Helio. He's a zealot. A true believer."
Riyon's wolfish grin finally appeared. "A fortress? A zealot? Sounds like a perfect place to shop. What's the problem?"
Elara shot him an exasperated look. "The problem, you walking sword, is that our Captain's face is on the front page of every newspaper in the world. We sail into G-12, and we'll have a Buster Call on our heads before we can buy a single orange."
I looked at the map. "Is there any other option?"
"...There is," she admitted, pointing to a small, unlabeled island just north of Rofure.
"It's a lawless port. A scrap town. Pirates, bounty hunters, and smugglers use it to trade in G-12's shadow. We can dock there, gather information, and maybe buy what we need. But it'll be expensive, and it's dangerous."
"It's settled then," I said, standing up. "We go to Scrap Town. We resupply quietly."
Quietly. The word felt foreign in my mouth.
Two hours later, the Purgatory was hidden in a secluded cove.
The three of us, cloaked and hooded, walked the muddy, chaotic streets of Scrap Town. The place was a tetanus-infected shantytown, built from the hulls of wrecked ships.
Elara was right. The air was thick with tension. Every tavern and shop was buzzing with Marines from G-12, spending their shore leave.
"This is a bad idea, Captain," Elara whispered, pulling her hood lower. "We're surrounded."
"We are gathering information," I said, my voice low. My Observation Haki: Intermediate was a godsend, a 360-degree radar of killing intent.
I could feel the casual malice of the pirates, the arrogant authority of the Marines, and the fear of the civilians. I steered us around a corner, avoiding a patrol I had foreseen seconds before they appeared.
"Let's try this tavern," Riyon suggested, gesturing to the largest, rowdiest building. "Best place for rumors."
We entered "The Barnacle" and took a dark booth. The place was packed. Marines and pirates were drinking side-by-side, a temporary truce held together by booze and greed.
We listened.
"Here's to Commodore Grubb!" a beefy Marine Captain roared, raising his mug. "Tough as nails, that one!"
"Aye!" another cheered. "Finally getting to hang that arrogant chef tomorrow! The 10 a.m. public execution is gonna be a hell of a show!"
My head snapped up.
A grizzled bounty hunter at the next table spat. "What's the story there? I heard he was from a fancy liner."
The Marine Captain grinned. "You won't believe it. This chef... Vasco, they call him... was on the Celestial Joy, Saint Jalmack's personal liner. Jalmack... you know, the one who likes 'exotic' foods... demands a dish. This chef, this cook, has the nerve to refuse him!"
The tavern went quiet, everyone listening in.
"Refused?" the bounty hunter whispered, shocked. "Gods... why?"
The Marine laughed. "Get this! The chef says... 'My art is for those who appreciate flavor, not for swine who feast on suffering. I will not cook for you.'"
A collective, horrified gasp filled the room. That was an execution order.
"Saint Jalmack, of course, shoots the liner's captain on the spot," the Marine continued, savoring the story.
"But he says shooting the chef is too good for him. He has him shipped here, to G-12, to be made an example of. 'Death for Defiance!' That's what the Commodore is calling it."
My hand, resting on the table, began to tremble. Not from fear.
Riyon and Elara were staring at me.
A single wisp of steam rose from my knuckles.
The air around me heated.
'He refused a Celestial Dragon.'
'He chose death over serving a "god."'
'He... is just like me.'
"Luthor," Elara whispered, her voice sharp with warning.
"Your power... it's not even sunset..."
The midday sun was high. My Escanor persona, which had been dormant, flooded my senses.
The pride, the arrogance, the righteous fury. It wasn't just my power. It was my soul. This man, Vasco, had committed the same sin as me. He had defied the gods. And for that, he was to be killed.
The injustice was so profound, so personal, that it was a physical weight.
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[New Side Quest Received: The Chef's Pride]
Objective: A man of pride is to be executed for defying the "gods" you despise. He is a kindred spirit. Save the chef, Vasco, from his execution at G-12.
Reward: +1 Crew Member (Cook), +500 EP, +10 Will.
Failure: The death of a kindred soul. [Pride] (Trait) permanently damaged.
___________________________________
There was no choice. There never was.
I stood up. The tavern went silent. My hood fell back, revealing the 15-year-old face from the 100,000,000 Berry poster.
The Marine Captain's mug shattered on the floor. "You... You're... Monkey D. 'Suncorch' Luthor!"
I tossed a gold coin onto the table.
"Elara," I said, my voice a calm, deep baritone that vibrated with power. "Find me the layout of the G-12 execution platform. Riyon. We have a schedule to keep."
I turned and walked toward the door.
"Captain," Riyon said, his wolfish grin splitting his face. "This is not 'quiet.'"
"No," I replied, the sun's heat beginning to radiate from my skin. "This is a judgment."