Meanwhile….High above the white-capped waves of the Grand Line, suspended beneath a massive, striped hot-air balloon, the mobile headquarters of the World Economic Journal cut a bizarre silhouette against the azure sky.
Inside his opulent, wood-paneled office, Morgans, the mammoth-sized, avian editor-in-chief, sat in uncharacteristic silence.
The Den Den Mushi connecting him to Alabasta had gone quiet, but the echo of that conversation with the Sea Scourge still reverberated in the cavernous room.
He leaned back in his custom-made chair, the leather groaning under his weight, his feathered fingers steepled.
Ragnar's voice had been calm, assured, devoid of the bluster or desperation he so often heard from upstarts trying to make a name for themselves.
This was different. This was the chilling certainty of a force of nature. "Ensure the world is watching," the pirate had said. "Ensure they understand what happens when a warlord is challenged in his own desert."
It wasn't a request from him, it was a statement of fact. Ragnar wasn't asking for fame, he was announcing an event, and he was merely informing the world's premier chronicler that he had a front-row seat.
A slow, wide grin spread across Morgan's beak. It started as a twitch, then grew into a full-blown, toothy expression of manic glee. This wasn't just another petty pirate skirmish.
This was a paradigm shift. A Warlord of the Sea, a government-appointed pillar of the fragile world order, was about to be directly challenged in the kingdom where he resides.
And the man doing the challenging wasn't some revolutionary with an army or a fellow Warlord with a grudge. He was a storm given human form, a D., a man who commanded the sea itself.
"KAHAHAHA!" The laugh burst from him suddenly, a booming cannonade of sound that shook the very timbers of the floating ship.
He slammed his massive fists on the desk, sending ink pots and scattered papers flying around the room.
His employees, a very dedicated crew of reporters and photographers who were used to their boss's theatrics, still jumped at the outburst. They peered nervously through the office's large circular window.
Morgans surged to his feet, his immense frame casting a long shadow across the room. He threw open the door, his eyes blazing with the fire of a journalist who has just stumbled upon the story of a lifetime.
"EVERYONE! LISTEN UP!" he bellowed, his voice echoing through the corridors of the airship. The frantic clatter of typewriters and the murmur of hushed conversations ceased instantly. All eyes turned to him.
"We are changing course! Immediately! Set a heading for Alabasta! Full speed! I want us hovering over that dustbowl before the sun sets tomorrow!"
A junior reporter, clutching a notepad, dared to speak up. "B-but sir! The summit in Mariejois… the Celestial Dragons have issued a…"
"TO HELL WITH THE CELESTIAL DRAGONS AND THEIR BORING GARDEN PARTIES!" Morgans roared, cutting him off with a dismissive wave of his wing.
"A press release about whose hat is the most extravagant can be written by a trained monkey! This… this is history in the making! This is the spark that could set the whole damn world on fire!"
He began pacing the command deck, his excitement infectious and terrifying.
"A D. is going to war with a Warlord! Not in some backwater alley, but in the heart of his territory! Crocodile, the 'Hero' of Alabasta, the master of sand! Versus Ragnar, the Sea Scourge, the master of the vortex! It's elemental! It's biblical!"
He stopped and pointed a sharp talon towards the navigator. "ALABASTA! NOW! I don't care if we burn every last drop of fuel! I want to be there!"
He turned back to his stunned staff, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, yet still thunderous, whisper.
"I have to be there. Even if I don't witness Crocodile's fall with my own eyes… even if the Marines blockade the entire country… I need to be on the ground when the dust settles. I need to interview Ragnar myself."
He tapped the side of his head, his eyes gleaming.
"It's an intuition. A feeling in my feathers. This man, Vortex D. Ragnar… he isn't just another pirate. He's a catalyst. He's not just stirring up trouble in Alabasta; he's stirring the very foundations of the world. And I, Morgans, will be the one to tell that story!"
The ship erupted into a frenzy of activity. The roar of the engines intensified, the great propellers whirring faster. The massive balloon above adjusted its bearing, turning the entire vessel towards the distant heat haze of the desert kingdom.
Morgans stood at the main viewing port, his chest puffed out, watching the horizon. He wasn't just going to report the news anymore.
He was going to witness the birth of a legend, and he would be the scribe who carved it into the annals of history. The world was about to change, and he held the pen.
…
Meanwhile, not far from Alabasta the sea was a churning, white-frothed expanse beneath the prow of the marine vessel, the ship cutting through the waves at a punishing, full-bellied sprint that strained its timbers.
At the very bow, standing as immovable as a figurehead carved from granite and resentment, was recently promoted Captain Smoker.
His signature jitte was slung over his back, two cigars smoldered in his mouth, and his gaze was locked on the distant, shimmering horizon where the heat haze promised the shores of Alabasta.
A deep, permanent frown was etched onto his face, the lines around his eyes tight with a mixture of impatience and grim determination.
The crisp click of heels on deck announced the approach of his temporary, and highly reluctant, ally. Captain Hina came to stand beside him, her posture ramrod straight, her dark glasses reflecting the churning wake. Her expression was one of profound displeasure.
"Smoker," she began, her voice a low, controlled thing that barely concealed her irritation towards Smoker.
"Just because Hina agreed to give you a ride to this dustbowl does not mean Hina will let you do as you please with her ship. You are pushing the engines past their recommended limits. This is not the White Chase."
The smoker didn't turn. He didn't even acknowledge her presence beyond a slight tightening of his jaw. His silence was a wall, as solid and unyielding as the sea itself.
He simply kept staring ahead, as if he could already see the black sails of the Tidereaver and the chaos they heralded.
Hina let out a sharp, frustrated "Tsk!" She knew it was useless. Once Smoker had a scent, he was like the elemental force he commanded, impossible to divert.
Shaking her head, she turned her attention away from the stubborn logia user. From inside her jacket, she produced a freshly printed newspaper. The paper was crisp, the image stark.
It was Ragnar. The photo was taken during the chaos of Loguetown, capturing him in a moment of terrifying calm amidst the storm he had summoned.
His light blue hair was swept back by an unseen wind, his features were sharp and perfectly sculpted, and his golden eyes seemed to burn right through the paper, holding a magnetic, dangerous allure.
And lower, the epithet "Sea Scourge" was printed in bold letters below, and the original photo of his bounty figure was astronomical.
A slow, appreciative smile touched Hina's lips, a stark contrast to Smoker's thunderous scowl. "Hina admits," she said, her tone shifting from annoyed to contemplative.
"That he is very handsome." She traced the line of his jaw on the poster with a gloved finger. "There is a certain… savage nobility to his features. It's quite captivating."
"He is a pirate," Smoker grunted, the words emerging on a cloud of thick, white smoke. It was a flat, final statement, a condemnation that brooked no argument.
Hina rolled her eyes, though the gesture was hidden behind her sunglasses. "So what? That doesn't stop Hina from admiring his handsome face." She tilted the poster, studying the light in those fierce golden eyes.
"And besides, Hina has heard things. He has many fan groups everywhere, you know. All across the Blues and the Grand Line. Women, and some men, swoon over his pictures. Some are even saying he is the most handsome man in the world." She said it with a casual, gossipy air, deliberately needling the dour man beside her.
Smoker offered no further response. He simply took a long, deep drag from his cigars, the embers glowing fiercely before he exhaled a plume of smoke so dense it momentarily obscured his head.
The subject of pirate heartthrobs was beneath his concern. There was only the law, and the criminals who broke it.
Seeing she would get no more rise out of him, Hina shook her head in resignation. She carefully folded the bounty poster and slipped it back into her pocket.
With a sigh, she pulled out her own cigarette, lit it with a flick of a match, and leaned against the railing, joining Smoker in his silent, smoky vigil.
Two Marine captains, bound by duty and hurtling towards a confrontation with a storm, one seething with purpose, the other merely along for the ride, both enveloped in clouds of tobacco as the ship raced inexorably towards the gathering tempest in the desert.