Charlimako's corpulent frame lounged atop a slave's back, savoring the sight of thousands prostrating themselves.
The red carpet blanketing the street pleased him, yet the deathly hush felt dull.
His fleshy cheek twitched and his gaze locked on a trembling figure at the crowd's edge.
It was a ragged old fisherman, half-deaf, unaware of the silence, slow to kneel.
A guard behind him sprang forward without hesitation and drove a heavy boot into the old man's back.
Thud!
The frail body pitched forward, forehead slamming cold stone with a pained grunt. He struggled but could not rise.
"Grandpa!"
A child's shrill cry shredded the silence as a ten-year-old boy burst from the kneeling throng and stumbled toward the fallen elder.
Charlimako's thick lips curled at the interruption. "Noisy little insect."
He flicked a lazy hand to the nearest guard.
"Dispose of it."
The guard drew his pistol, black barrel leveling at the weeping child.
Bang!
Before his mind could decide, Smoker's body reacted. Smoke exploded outward, ready to surge as a white torrent rushed toward the boy.
An iron arm barred his path.
Onigumo's cold face loomed, snarling into his ear.
"Smoker! Would you doom every Marine in Loguetown?"
The words doused his rage like ice.
As he saw the trusting faces of his men, Smoker froze, solidifying again, fists clenching, the cigars between his teeth snapping and scattering.
He could risk his own life, but not theirs.
He could only watch the bullet fly.
A final mercy: the boy tripped, pitching forward.
Swoosh!
The bullet grazed his shoulder, spraying blood.
The boy crawled sobbing to his grandfather, cries louder now.
"Hm?"
Charlimako clapped, delighted, ugly face alight with sick glee.
"Oh? He dodged? How amusing."
His fat finger jabbed at the huddled pair. "Seize them. Drag those vermin to the execution platform."
He flailed in excitement. "I shall stage a delightful execution. Wahaha!"
He smacked his lips, still unsated. "A show needs more than mere criminals."
He turned to Onigumo, imperious. "You! Fetch me a pirate—an execution without pirates is dull!"
"Yes, Saint Charlimako."
Onigumo bowed and strode into a quiet alley.
Smoker, gut churning, dissolved into white smoke and followed.
In the deserted lane, he solidified, eyes blazing as he watched Onigumo.
Onigumo made no search. He simply hoisted an innocent cowering townsman by the neck.
One chop and the man went limp.
"Stop!" Smoker roared.
"Onigumo! He's a civilian!"
Onigumo glanced back, sneering, "Civilians?"
He spoke with casual contempt, "These weeds regrow, their lives mean nothing. Only the Celestial Dragons' pleasure matters."
His eyes flashed. "A mere Captain dares lecture me?"
Armament Haki cloaked his boot as he smashed it into Smoker's chest.
Too fast, too close.
Smoker had no time to guard.
Crash!
He slammed into the wall, stone webbing outward and spat blood.
"Stay down."
Onigumo hoisted the "pirate" and strode off.
Smoker, ribs blazing, hauled himself upright. Images of murdered civilians, crushed fishing boats, silenced Marines, and this farce fused into a detonator.
The justice meant to protect had become the tyrant's accomplice.
Was this the justice he sought?
The order he'd sworn to defend?
"No…"
He forced himself upright.
"…more!"
Boom!
White smoke erupted, swallowing the alley and Onigumo.
Onigumo halted, tossing the man aside, scanning the smoke.
"Hmph, you think this mist—"
Swish!
He vanished, reappearing mid-air.
His hand shot into the smoke. Fingers closed on Smoker's throat, yanking him from elemental form.
"—can trap me."
Armament Haki sheathed his fist as it smashed into Smoker's cheek.
Crack!
His knee, equally Haki-hardened, rammed Smoker's gut.
Smoker gasped, vision blurring, smoke recoiling.
Onigumo snapped seastone cuffs around his wrists.
Click.
Unconscious, Smoker dropped to the ground.
Onigumo hoisted the "pirate" and marched back toward Charlimako and the waiting scaffold in Loguetown's square.
Inside the tavern, the dim lighting reflected off Ryoma's calm, expressionless face, but his fingers gripping the wine glass were unconsciously tightening.
The clamor outside, mixed with fear, grew increasingly clear in Ryoma's ears.
The other patrons in the tavern had long since been scared into silence, each huddling in corners, wishing they could bury their heads in the ground.
Ryoma drained the last sip of ale from his glass. The cold liquid slid down his throat, but it couldn't suppress the growing fire of irritation in his heart.
He really had just wanted to be a tourist. To see the place where the pirate king was executed, lament the torrent of the era, and then enter the Grand Line to continue his leisurely yet exciting adventure.
But this damn world never let him have his way. First, there was that unreasonable old man Garp, and now he had run into world-class trash like the Celestial Dragon staging a human tragedy.
"An execution? What a grand display of power." Ryoma whispered self-deprecatingly, tossing a few Berries onto the bar counter.
The tavern owner looked at him with trepidation, his lips trembling as if he wanted to advise him not to go out now, but he couldn't say a single word.
Ryoma ignored him. He adjusted his hood, pushed open the creaking wooden door, and just as he stepped out of the alleyway, an oppressive, extreme silence rushed toward him.
The wide street was densely packed with kneeling people, everyone lowering their heads, their bodies shaking uncontrollably from fear.
The wall of Marine soldiers remained straight, though the faces of many young soldiers were filled with struggle and pain.
In the center of the road, an impossibly obese man rode on the back of a slave. He wore a ridiculous bubble helmet on his head and was currently flushed with excitement, enjoying the sight of the masses kneeling before him.
A Celestial Dragon.
The corner of Ryoma's eye twitched.
He naturally recognized this species. Rather, in his original world, he had seen plenty regarding their 'great achievements.'
Within the Celestial Dragon's procession, a cold-faced Marines wearing a twin-headed dragon helmet was particularly conspicuous, carrying an unconscious man on his shoulder.
Two guards at the front of the procession were dragging two civilians, one old and one young. The old man seemed to be on his last breath, while the little boy was crying out in despair, a wound visible on his shoulder.
Ryoma's footsteps stopped.
He wasn't from this world and felt no sense of belonging to the Marines' justice or the pirates' freedom.
He had originally only wanted to travel around, get stronger, and then quietly wait out his time to go home. But the scene before him made his stomach churn.
It was a pure, unadulterated evil that treated human life as if it were grass.
The morbid smile on that fat pig's face, the matter-of-fact indifference of the Marine Vice Admiral, and the silent despair of the kneeling crowd together formed a portrait of hell that he couldn't look away from.