"This isn't even a World Government affiliate—why bother with the hassle?"
Ross chuckled. "If we find any promising Sky Islanders, we can recruit them to our crew. If there's no solid leadership, we'll leave a bloodline behind—give the locals something to rally around."
"Not a bad plan. Best if that woman carries some weight here on Skypiea."
Sora nodded, seeing the sense in it. Raised in luxury from childhood, she'd seen plenty of nobles solidify their grip through calculated alliances like this. To her, it was the smart play for outsiders aiming to stick around.
"Skypiea's real goldmine is this sea of clouds stretching out below us—a unique resource no one else can touch," Ross added with a grin. "Get the locals on board, and they could rake in riches fast by tapping it."
As a conqueror, Ross knew better than to hoard every scrap of profit. Share the wealth, grow the pot, and folks would stick by you. Ruling through raw force alone? That was amateur hour. He couldn't swallow the whole world solo anyway—better to build an empire where everyone got a cut.
For the Jaygarcia family, privileges came naturally. But climbing the ranks? That took value. Ross judged people by what they brought to the table. Skypiea had plenty to offer, so he was open to folding it into the fold.
"Let's move. The blood mist's clearing—our cue."
Ross glanced at the fading crimson haze, signaling Gion had wrapped things up. Angel Island was just the opener, not the main event. The real prize—a Logia-type Rumble-Rumble Fruit—waited in Birka to the south.
They'd mop up here, then send Gion's team to secure Birka and snag the Devil Fruit. Known as the mightiest Logia for sheer destructive punch, its lightning could supercharge anyone's physical prowess. Even a half-decent talent eating it might vault straight to Admiral-level threats.
With an arm slung around Sora's waist, Ross stepped forward. In a blink, they stood on Angel Island's soil.
One stride... two...
Each step covered a hundred meters, his form blurring across the landscape. Ten seconds flat, and he hit the central square.
Nearly ten thousand Sky Islanders crammed the place. Most knelt with hands clasped behind their heads, subdued and silent.
They looked much like Blue Sea folk—average height, everyday builds—but tiny white wings sprouted from their backs. Useless for flying, more like badges of their heritage.
The square buzzed with tension, but no chaos. Dozens of Jaygarcia District enforcers ringed the crowd, weapons at the ready.
Gion lounged atop the central statue, her dagger sheathed. She swung her legs idly, looking bored.
The statue depicted a burly warrior in iron plate, no wings—just raw power carved ten meters high. It loomed over the square, a testament to how the Sky Islanders revered strength.
Crack!
Ross's boots hit the brick paving, arm still around Sora. Heads bowed as he arrived. Stella and Moira—leading the enforcers—stepped up with welcoming smiles.
Word had spread: Ross was the real boss here.
A few Sky Islanders sneaked peeks, curiosity overriding fear. No wings on him or his group, no Shandian tattoos or tribal gear. They screamed "Qinghai"—Blue Sea invaders.
"Master," Stella said, dipping her head. "Thanks to Lady Gion, we've got everyone rounded up: 10,459 in total."
With Gion's Observation Haki blanketing the island, hiding was impossible. This count excluded the dead—resistance crushed, original god's guards mostly wiped out. A handful who'd surrendered wisely lived.
To them, Gion outshone their so-called gods. They'd seen her unleash a flying slash nearly a hundred meters long, carving a thousand-meter path that sheared a distant mountain flat.
That was divine might.
"Sir!"
The two earliest turncoat god's guards spotted Stella and Moira, scrambling forward to grovel at Ross's feet.
"Traitors!"
Muttered disgust rippled through the crowd. Gods or no, folding to outsiders this quick? Even commoners scorned that spinelessness.
Ross swept his gaze over the masses. Less than ten thousand souls—way too few to fully exploit the Sea of Clouds.
The twin islands spanned over a hundred square kilometers, room for tens of thousands more. Pump up the population, layer in tech from below, and the resources would flow like gold.
"Pick someone from your ranks who can actually run things."
The crowd blinked in confusion.
"Run things?"
Their gods dwelled in Upper Yard, not here. The divine messenger who'd overseen Angel Island? Gion had cut her down on sight.
And Ross? Fresh off slaughtering resistors and their overseers. Why team up with the enemy?
The turncoats edged forward, but Jaygarcia enforcers yanked them back with sharp glares. Ross wanted fresh talent, not flip-floppers.
Shing!
A crimson slash whipped from Gion's blade, carving the ground like butter. A hundred-meter gash split the square, stopping inches from the front row.
Screams erupted.
"Wh-what?!"
"..."
Panic surged. They'd watched their invincible messenger die like a bug under Gion's heel. Now she looked annoyed—bad sign.
Eyes darted, but silence fell again. No takers.
They had no natural leader. Even the guards buried their faces deeper, dodging the spotlight. Survival meant submission, sure—but volunteering as Ross's puppet? That crossed into betrayal.
Amusing.
Ross eyed the frozen crowd, a spark of intrigue in his stare. Fear gripped them, no doubt. But this standoff? Pure herd instinct. Like ostriches with heads in the sand—waiting for one to break ranks before the dam burst.
So long as no one budged, they'd cling to silence, pressure from peers and lingering god-fear outweighing the blade's edge.
Unless death loomed closer.
Perfect.
Ross smiled faintly. Time to crank the heat and see which ostrich cracked first.
—