Vegapunk held his breath, his eyes flicking over Kizaru's lazily indifferent face.
For the first time, he felt that Sengoku, that old fox, had reached new depths of shamelessness in his recruitment tactics.
The position of Fleet Admiral?
Dangle that bait in front of Sakazuki, and the man would burn Marineford to the ground on the spot.
But dangle it before Borsalino... Kizaru slowly set down his nail clippers.
He stretched, his joints cracking softly.
"Ooh~ Sengoku-san, if word of that gets out, Sakazuki will cry."
Though Kizaru's tone was still flippant, the standoffish laziness from moments ago had quietly ebbed away.
On the other end of the Den Den Mushi, Sengoku's voice was low and grave.
"I don't have time for jokes, Borsalino."
"The North Blue incident has the Gorosei furious; someone has to answer for CP0's annihilation."
"Kuzan is in a sickbed, and Sakazuki is putting down unrest in the New World."
"Right now, only you can bring that scientist back."
Sengoku paused, his tone turning unyielding.
"This isn't a discussion—it's an order."
Kizaru sighed, rising from his deck chair.
He walked to the window and gazed out at the surging sea.
"If the Fleet Admiral puts it that way, refusing would probably cost me next year's paid vacation, eh?"
"Stop testing me, Sengoku-san."
"Fine, I'll go."
On the other end, Sengoku clearly exhaled in relief.
"Good. The warship is ready at the Egghead Island port."
Click.
The call ended.
Kizaru tucked the Den Den Mushi into his pocket and turned to the solemn Vegapunk.
"Ooh~ Doctor, you've landed me quite the job."
Vegapunk adjusted his glasses, his voice urgent.
"Borsalino, I'm not joking."
"Bruce Banner's theory is decades ahead; his correlation between emotion and cellular mutation could be the key to cracking the 'Blacklight virus'."
Kizaru stepped to the lab door and draped over his shoulders the Marine Admiral's cloak emblazoned with the word "Justice."
"Jack the Drought... a troublesome brat, indeed."
"By the way, Doctor, do you think I could be Fleet Admiral?"
Vegapunk's face twitched. You've got nerve—but he still needed the man. Against his better judgment: "I think you can."
"Really? Sounds like way too much trouble."
Kizaru curled his lip, his body dissolving into countless dazzling photons.
"Then I'm off."
Whoosh—!
The moment the words left his mouth, his form scattered into golden motes and vanished from the lab...
New World, Calebari Island.
Located near the start of the New World, its treacherous terrain and tangled powers made it a playground for pirates, bounty hunters, and black market dealers.
There were no laws here—only strength.
On the island's edge, a rickety abandoned warehouse had been converted into a makeshift clinic.
A crooked wooden sign hung at the door: "Banner Clinic."
Inside, a middle-aged man in a loose white shirt and black-framed glasses sat cross-legged on a threadbare yoga mat.
Eyes shut, palms together, he muttered:
"Inhale... exhale..."
"Don't be angry, don't rage, the world is beautiful, the air is fresh..."
"Mind like still water, mind like still water..."
His chest rose and fell violently; beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
On his wrist, a strange watch ticked, the numbers jumping.
[Heart rate: 95... 92... 88...]
As the digits dropped, his furrowed brow finally eased.
Just then—
BOOM!
The clinic's flimsy wooden door was kicked in; half the plank flew off and smashed into the medicine shelf, shattering glass vials.
"Ow!"
Bruce Banner, startled out of meditation, jolted upright.
The watch spiked.
[Heart rate: 105... 110... 115!]
"Damn it! Damn it!"
Banner clutched his chest, gasping, his eyes wide with terror as he looked at the doorway.
"My heart rate! You nearly triggered an attack!"
Three reeking, drunk pirates swaggered in, curved blades in hand.
The pirate leading them was a one-eyed thug; he shot Banner a scornful glance—Banner cowering like a frightened rabbit—and casually spat a glob of phlegm.
"A fit? Looks more like you're asking for a beating!"
"Hey, four-eyes, time to pay this month's protection money."
The one-eyed pirate swung his cutlass, the blade glinting coldly in the dim light.
"Heard you've been healing a lot of folks lately and raking in the Berries. Hand over five million, or I'll tear this dump apart!"
Bruce Banner pushed his slipping glasses up his nose, his voice quavering, almost pleading.
"G-Gentlemen... could you keep it down a little?"
"I... I have a heart condition; I can't handle stress. I'll pay, just... please don't get violent, please..."
Seeing Banner's timid act, the three pirates exchanged looks and burst into wild laughter.
"Hahaha! Boss, look at this coward!"
"How does trash like this survive in the New World?"
The one-eyed thug stepped up and grabbed for Banner's collar.
"Enough talk! Cough up the cash, or I'll shove those glasses—"
However—
—just as his filthy hand was about to touch Banner—
—a black-gloved hand shot out from the side and clamped around his wrist like a vise.
Crack.
A crisp snap of bone.
No drawn-out drama, no extra words.
"Aaargh!"
The one-eyed pirate squealed like a stuck pig; his cutlass clattered to the floor.
He jerked his head in terror.
There, in the clinic's shadows, stood a towering man.
Black biker leathers, a rock-hard face behind shades, utterly expressionless.
It was the T-800.
"Hostile behavior detected."
The voice was cold, mechanical, devoid of emotion.
Threat level: low.
Recommended action: eliminate.
Sweat poured off the pirate as he fumbled for the flintlock at his hip with his free hand.
"Bastard! Let go! Do you know who I am? I'm—"
Bang!
Without hesitation, the T-800 drove a heavy boot into the man's knee.
Another sickening crunch.
The leg bent at a grotesque ninety-degree angle; the pirate collapsed like a sack, unconscious from the pain.
The remaining two pirates froze in shock.
They stared at the stony-faced figure in leather, blades trembling in their hands.
"W-What are you?!"
The T-800 gave no answer.
He advanced in slow, mechanical steps.
Behind the shades, a red glow flickered, scanning their bodies, calculating optimal strike points.
"S-Stay back!"
One pirate snapped, swinging at the T-800's neck.
Clang!
The blade rang against metal; a notch sheared from the edge.
Only a shallow gash marred the T-800's neck, revealing gleaming silver beneath.
"W-What kind of monster...?!"
The pirate's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
The T-800 raised a hand, clamped the man's throat, and lifted him off the ground with one arm.
A casual flick.
Boom!
The pirate shot through the doorway, slammed into the opposite wall, and lay still.
The last pirate shrieked, dropped his sword, and bolted.
"Monster—help!"
Only when the clinic fell silent did Bruce Banner, cowering in the corner, cautiously peek out.
He glanced at the one-eyed thug on the floor, then at the motionless T-800, and sighed in resignation.
"Arnold, how many times have I told you?"
"Be gentle, use reason, stop solving everything with violence."
Still trembling, Banner checked the heart-rate display on his watch.
Heart rate: 102... 98...
"Phew... still below the threshold."