Princess Titi's words cut straight to the heart, raw with emotion. Sora had scripted them simply—no flowery rhetoric, just blunt honesty that hit like a cannonball. Titi read them aloud, her voice trembling with sincerity, and the massive crowd of Alabasta's citizens hung on every syllable.
The plaza fell deathly silent for a beat, then erupted in echoes of her plea.
"Alabasta won't know peace until Cobra's killers are brought to justice."
"We stand against every pirate until they're wiped from the seas!"
"Finally... I must apologize to you all once more."
Titi bowed deeply, her head lowered to the stunned masses below. Gasps rippled through the throng—hundreds of thousands strong, from weathered farmers to wide-eyed children.
"I'm not fit to rule Alabasta anymore," she continued, voice steady despite the tears welling in her eyes. "With no heir and Cobra gone, I beg the Marines and Saint Ross to step in and guide our kingdom. Please... understand our desperation."
The silence shattered into murmurs, a wave of confusion and unrest. But as Titi held their gaze, earnest and unbroken, the whispers faded. The people knew the truth: Cobra's death had shattered the royal line, and with Titi's pregnancy complicating everything, Alabasta teetered on collapse. Handing the reins to the Marines and a Celestial Dragon? It was a lifeline, not a surrender.
Ross wasn't some outsider. Over the past ten days, he'd scattered Berries like confetti—feeding the hungry, easing debts, turning skeptics into supporters. And as a Celestial Dragon? No one feared he'd usurp the throne for good. Dragons didn't slum it as kings; they lounged in Mary Geoise's gilded halls. This was temporary stability, plain and simple.
The only raw nerve was Cobra's murder. Ross had been there when it happened—undeniable. But witnesses at the funeral procession had seen the aftermath, whispers of vengeance already swirling. The crowd simmered, eyes locked on the stage, demanding answers. Alabasta craved blood for their king's.
Titi felt it too. In her mind, Cobra's end was bad luck—Ross couldn't have stopped it, and he owed the man nothing. But the people needed more than excuses.
Meeting her eyes, Ross nodded. He stepped forward, joining her at the podium's edge. This was why they'd burned through sacks of gold across the kingdom: to buy loyalty, not with swords, but with hearts. Brute force conquered land; legitimacy held it.
Gazing down at the sea of faces, Ross spoke evenly, his voice carrying like a captain's call over storm-tossed waves.
"You all know who I am—no need for introductions."
"Cobra died right in my sight, and it lit a fire in me. That wasn't just an attack on Alabasta; it was a slap to my face, to the World Government, to the Celestial Dragons themselves."
"Whatever doubts you harbor, hear this: the blood Cobra spilled will be repaid in kind!"
A murmur of hope stirred below. But Ross pressed on, his tone sharpening.
"I couldn't take down the Red the Aloof alone. The bastard was a legend for a reason—he'd have slipped away otherwise."
Disappointment flickered across the crowd's faces. They'd hoped for a clean win, a tale to retell over campfires. If even Saint Ross couldn't bag the monster, who could? The Red the Aloof? Untouchable shadow, slayer of kings. Vengeance felt like a distant dream.
"But..."
Ross pivoted, gesturing to Sakazuki, who stood rigid as a mast beside him.
"That doesn't mean Admiral Sakazuki failed. He's the Marines' unbreakable fist. In a brutal trade of blows, he crushed the Red the Aloof—left him broken and bleeding out on the sand."
Ross snapped his fingers sharply.
At his signal, a figure in the wings activated her Devil Fruit power, manipulating seawater to lift an ice-sealed coffin from hiding. It drifted downward like a grim trophy, the Red the Aloof's corpse frozen in eternal defeat—pale, twisted, unmistakably dead.
"Blood for blood."
Ross's words boomed. "His body's yours to witness. I'll have it strung up on the palace walls for seven days—let every pirate know Alabasta's justice bites back."
The plaza exploded. Cheers crashed like waves against cliffs, fists pumping skyward. The Red the Aloof's head was a prize beyond gold—a symbol that even legends fell to men like Sakazuki and Ross.
"Saint Ross! Saint Ross!"
"Sakazuki! Sakazuki!"
The chants swelled, a thunderous roar drowning out the desert wind.
Ross just smirked faintly, guiding Titi back a step. He yielded the spotlight without a fuss—fame was Sakazuki's fuel, not his. This wasn't about ego; it was strategy. Boost the admiral's star, and the Marines would anchor Alabasta's future like an unbreakable chain.
Sakazuki's path to Fleet Admiral demanded more than kills—it needed the people's fire in his sails. Let them cheer; let it harden his resolve. Together, they'd forge a world free of pirate scum, one island at a time.
That was Ross's unspoken pact.
Up on the stage, Sakazuki faced the adoring tide, his stern features cracking with rare emotion—a flicker of grim satisfaction. His war on pirates wasn't born of blind justice alone; it was forged in the ashes of his youth, an unyielding creed etched into his bones. Innocents might suffer, but the plague had to end.
He'd never waver. For this crusade, he'd burn it all.
But ideals needed allies. Ross, with his grand visions and iron will, fit the bill—even if their endgames diverged. Sakazuki didn't care about utopias or reforms. A world without pirates? That was victory enough. He'd pour his magma heart into it.
The crowd below, baying for pirate blood, could swell the Marine ranks someday. From civilians to soldiers, their fury would grow the force until it swallowed the seas.
The Red the Aloof was no finale—just the opening salvo. One day, every shadow of piracy would be scorched clean from the Grand Line.
—