The next morning, the Sanctum anchored at the private dock outside the Red Port.
Blake walked at the front of the procession, his steps unhurried.
A step behind him were Stella and two expressionless Cipher Pol agents, followed by several dozen slaves, maids, and guards in perfect formation.
The day before, Blake had defeated Charlotte Linlin's childhood form and acquired the Iron Balloon ability. That single victory filled him with an unfamiliar sense of security. For the first time, he felt ready to step beyond the Holy Land and seek his own destiny upon the open sea.
This voyage was not meant to be short.
He intended to travel across the Four Seas, searching for powerful individuals and unclaimed Devil Fruits that history had yet to awaken.
A man in a crisp Marine coat approached him at the dock. His hair was golden, wild, and lion-like. He stopped before Blake and gave a respectful half-bow.
"Saint Blake," he said in a deep voice, "I am Vice Admiral Gumir, assigned to oversee your voyage. This is my adjutant, Bastille. Our ship will accompany the Sanctum for the duration of your journey to provide escort."
When commoners encountered a Celestial Dragon, they were expected to kneel.
The Marines, however, were exempt. Respect was enough.
Because this mission would span months and cross multiple seas, the Navy had dispatched an entire battleship for protection.
Blake inclined his head slightly.
"I appreciate your cooperation."
Vice Admiral Gumir froze for a moment. He had never met a Celestial Dragon who spoke so courteously.
Once Blake boarded his ship, Bastille whispered under his breath, "He doesn't seem as unreasonable as the rumors say."
Gumir shot him a sharp glare. "Quiet, and stay alert."
Blake was not a particularly polite man by nature. He simply believed that true arrogance did not need to be announced aloud.
The Navy, after all, was technically under the Celestial Dragons' authority. There was no reason to offend subordinates unless necessary.
As he settled into his cabin, he murmured to himself, "Gumir and Bastille… I remember those names."
Gumir commander of G-2 Base had once crossed paths with Ace.
Bastille, with his ox-horned mask and auburn hair, looked like the type who would intimidate others by appearance alone. In truth, his record was less impressive; Blake recalled that during the Dressrosa incident, he had been knocked out cold by Sabo in a single strike and had yet to regain consciousness by the time Blake transmigrated.
Still, their presence was convenient. The Marines would deter opportunistic pirates and prevent fools who did not recognize the World Government's banner from disturbing his peace.
Two months later – South Blue.
"Lord Blake, we are approaching the Kingdom of Taya," Stella reported softly.
Blake removed his sunglasses and rose from the deck chair, gazing at the faint silhouette of land on the horizon.
"So we've finally arrived," he murmured.
It had been two months since he left Mary Geoise.
During that time, he had spent most of his days inside the Card Space, sharpening his combat ability. With every battle, his strength grew exponentially, and now his progress was like a snowball rolling downhill fast and unstoppable.
His physique and Haki had both advanced far beyond their former limits, but what pleased him most was his Observation Haki.
After defeating a nameless New World fighter weeks ago, he had begun to glimpse fleeting fragments of the future tiny flashes that confirmed he was close to mastering the advanced form of Observation Haki: Future Sight.
For Blake, growth was not a matter of chance.
Most people's mastery of Haki was uneven; their strength and technique rarely aligned.
Yamato could wield Conqueror's Haki, yet her attacks lacked the destructive might of true kings. Douglas Bullet's Armament Haki erupted like a storm, but his control and internal damage were crude compared to his raw output.
Blake's progression was different.
His Haki grew through accumulation a gradual, methodical strengthening that eventually crossed a threshold. When that happened, the techniques that others struggled to grasp revealed themselves to him naturally, as if his instincts had always known the answer.
He exhaled, pulling his focus back to the present.
The harbor of Taya came into view. He stepped lightly onto the bent back of a slave, who served as his living bridge, and took his seat upon an ornate chair.
Before him, tens of thousands of people filled the port but not a sound could be heard.
It was as if the entire kingdom had been robbed of its voice.
The ground trembled beneath the collective weight of knees striking stone.
The slaves and guards who had disembarked first had already drawn a crimson boundary upon the ground a precise demarcation line of life and death. To cross it, or even to meet Blake's gaze directly, meant execution.
A row of children crawled across the pavement, polishing the stone tiles with grass and shells until they gleamed.
It was an ancient World Government tradition, passed down for centuries: the path of the divine must remain spotless.
Blake descended slowly from the Sanctum, carried on the backs of slaves. His expression was calm, yet his thoughts stirred.
From a moral standpoint, he found the scene excessive.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, a different emotion stirred a raw, intoxicating surge of power.
He wanted the entire world to look like this.
To kneel.
At his feet.
A pulse of dark crimson energy rippled from his body, radiating outward like a shockwave.
Then, just as suddenly, it vanished.
Blake exhaled and muttered, "Too close. I almost lost control. I need to stay low… stay quiet…"
Behind him, Vice Admiral Gumir frowned and looked around. "Was that… my imagination?"
Among the silent crowd, a bare-chested boy around Blake's age lifted his head. His emerald-green curls caught the sunlight, and for a moment, his eyes met Blake's.
Shock flashed across the boy's face.
A guard reacted instantly, charging forward with his sword raised high.
To meet the eyes of a Celestial Dragon was a capital offense.
Before the blade could strike, one of the Cipher Pol agents flicked his wrist.
A crisp metallic clang rang out.
The sword shattered.
Blake ignored the kneeling king and trembling nobles. He tugged lightly on the rope in his hand, signaling his slaves to carry him forward straight toward the boy.
Up close, Blake studied him carefully.
Sharp brows, downward-slanted eyes, slightly thick lips.
Wild green curls. A lean but athletic frame.
"You just offended me," Blake said flatly.
The boy stiffened. "Forgive me, exalted Saint." His voice trembled, but he spoke clearly.
Blake smiled faintly. "I've been at sea for two months. Feels good to stand on solid ground again. I'm in a generous mood today, so I'll forgive your offense. From this moment, you belong to me. You will serve as my retainer, under the name of Hilbert Blake."
The boy blinked in disbelief, then dropped to his knees in relief and awe.
"It is my greatest honor, Lord Blake," he said, his forehead pressing against the stone.
Blake nodded and gestured again. His slaves began to move, carrying him toward the royal palace.
As he passed, his voice drifted back through the wind.
"Don't just kneel there. Follow me."
The boy scrambled to his feet and hurried after him, steps quick and careful.
Among the onlookers, a few others exchanged glances. Greedy curiosity flashed in their eyes.
Before they could act, the guards drew their swords and dragged them from the crowd. The wet sound of steel piercing flesh echoed through the silent port.
Blake chuckled softly.
"So many hidden talents in one place," he mused. "What an amusing little kingdom."