Many of the diners in the restaurant couldn't help laughing out loud. Even the woman sitting across from Hebodi covered her mouth, her shoulders trembling slightly.
To Hebodi, who cared obsessively about his image, that laughter was nothing short of the loudest slap in the face.
His face instantly flushed the color of pig liver, veins bulging on his forehead as rage and humiliation burned away the last shred of his reason.
"Bastard! What kind of joke is this?!"
Bang—!!
Hebodi suddenly stood up, slamming a power-filled fist down onto the dining table!
That punch, driven by fury, instantly smashed the solid wooden table to pieces.
Exquisite porcelain plates shattered across the floor. The painstakingly prepared soup, carefully cooked steak, and red wine all spilled over the carpet, creating a complete mess.
The laughter around them stopped abruptly. The diners stared in terror at the scene.
Yet at the center of the storm, Sanji didn't even blink.
He slowly crouched down, dipped his long fingers into a bit of the soup spilled on the floor, brought it to his nose to smell, then tasted it.
His eyes changed.
The casual, roguish air vanished, replaced by a chilling coldness—the ultimate fury of a chef whose food had been desecrated.
"Wouldn't it be drinkable if you just removed the bug?"
Sanji's voice was low and hoarse, heavy with suppressed anger.
"This soup… was made after three full days and nights of carefully removing the bitterness."
"Shut up!"
Seeing Sanji still dare to talk back only made Hebodi angrier.
He lifted his booted foot and stomped down hard on Sanji's hand resting on the floor—
Grinding it down with force!
"Don't you think your attitude is a bit too arrogant, waiter?!"
Hebodi roared from above, his face twisted with savage delight.
"I'm a customer! A paying customer! The customer is God, don't you understand?!"
If it were an ordinary person, their hand crushed like this, they'd already be screaming in agony.
But Sanji only stared at the food wasted on the floor, letting his hand be trampled as if he felt no pain at all.
He slowly raised his head. The exposed right eye stared coldly at Hebodi as he asked the creed that would define his entire life:
"Can money… fill a stomach?"
The question stunned Hebodi.
"H-huh? What… what did you say?"
Sanji suddenly stood up. The hand being stepped on clamped around Hebodi's ankle like a steel vise!
"I'll ask you one more time…"
Sanji's voice was like a freezing wind from hell.
"Money—can it fill a stomach?!"
Whoosh—!!
Before the words even finished, Sanji moved.
He didn't shove with his hands. Using his left foot as a pivot, his entire body spun like a top. His right leg became a black bolt of lightning, cutting upward with a sharp whistling sound, smashing viciously into Hebodi's chin!
Bang!!
A sickening sound of bone and flesh colliding rang out.
Hebodi's tall body flew like it had been hit by a speeding truck, spinning twice in midair before slamming into the ceiling—then dropping to the floor like a dead dog.
"Pff—ah!!"
Two streams of bright red blood sprayed from Hebodi's nostrils. His eyes rolled back, and before he could even scream, he passed out cold.
Dead silence.
Everyone stared in shock.
No one had imagined that this refined-looking waiter would knock out a Marine captain with a single kick.
Sanji straightened his slightly disheveled tie and walked gracefully toward the unconscious Hebodi.
Grabbing him by the collar with one hand, he lifted him like a piece of trash.
Sanji pulled a cigarette from his pocket, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it with a sharp click.
Taking a deep drag, smoke curling around him, his cold voice echoed through the silent restaurant:
"On the sea… even offending a Marine admiral is better than offending a cook."
"Because—"
Sanji's eyes were icy.
"Opposing a cook at sea is the same as seeking death. Remember that."
...
Sea Restaurant Baratie, Main Dining Hall.
Afternoon sunlight streamed through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, bathing the deep red carpet in vivid color.
The air had once been filled with the aroma of red wine and steak, but after Marine Captain Hebodi was knocked unconscious with a single kick, a subtle, suffocating silence spread throughout the hall.
Luffy, however, was completely unaffected by the tense atmosphere.
He sat cross-legged on a chair, arms folded, eyes locked onto the blond chef lighting a cigarette. A huge grin spread across his face.
"I found our cook."
"Huh?"
Zoro, who was about to complain, and Usopp, still trembling, both froze in confusion.
Luffy stretched out a finger, pointing straight at Sanji—who was calmly blowing out a smoke ring—his tone firm and unquestionable.
"I want him to be our cook!"
Ronan lifted his teacup and took a gentle sip, thinking to himself:
"So that's Luffy for you. That beast-like intuition—seeing straight through Sanji's cool exterior to his yearning for the sea and for dreams."
Still, as the crew's voice of reason, Ronan poured a little cold water on the idea.
"Luffy, getting a chef with a respectable job in such a high-end restaurant to become a pirate living on the edge… he might not agree so easily."
"Hehe!"
Luffy pressed down his straw hat, confidence sparkling in his eyes.
"Then leave it to me! I'll make him join our ship! Anyone I set my sights on won't get away!"
Just then, the restaurant's tightly shut doors were thrown open.
A Marine soldier stumbled inside, his cap crooked, terror written all over his face.
Ignoring the shocked looks from the diners, he rushed straight to Hebodi—who had just woken up and was clutching his jaw, groaning.
"C-Captain Hebodi! Th-this is bad!"
The soldier's voice shook with fear, on the verge of tears.
"We… we let the prisoner from the Krieg Pirates escape!"
Hebodi endured the pain and grabbed the soldier by the collar, shouting in disbelief:
"What did you say?! He escaped?!"
"How is that possible?! When we caught him three days ago, he was practically starving to death!"
"We didn't even give him a drop of water for three days! Where did he get the strength to escape?!"
"Krieg… Pirates?!"
That name seemed to carry some kind of dark power, detonating an invisible bomb throughout the spacious restaurant.
The diners who had been whispering moments ago turned deathly pale.
An elegant lady knocked over her wineglass; gentlemen dropped their forks with sharp clatters.
"H-hey… did I hear that right? Did they say the Krieg crew?"
"That pirate fleet with fifty ships, known as the 'Overlord of the East Blue'—the strongest pirate crew?!"
Fear spread like a plague.
In the East Blue, the name Krieg was synonymous with absolute violence and destruction.
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