Amid the race's feverish town buzz, a dim upstairs room in a modest two-story inn caught a sliver of light.
The organizer lounged in a grand chair at the hall's center, smirking at the doorway, sprawled like a king.
"Figured you'd show... Happens every year. That's why I prepped."
His uninvited guest didn't faze him. He'd anticipated this, safeguards in place.
One lone figure at the threshold. No threat.
Dozens of bodyguards lined the walls—thirty strong, weapons gripped, faces stern, shielding their boss.
Plenty of room, but packed tight. He grinned at the odds: who could pull foul play against this?
Capone "Gang" Bege. Solo, no crew. Foolish.
He chuckled, voice smug. "Races always draw idiots like you, sniffing for my pot. Too bad—we're ready."
"Yeah. Looks that way."
Bege stood stone-still, hands in pockets, cigar clenched, face blank. No twitch.
Attack intent clear, yet no move. No crew in sight—odd. His gang was massive; why alone?
No worry. Hired muscle: battle-hardened pirates, coin-bought.
One foe. Victory assured. Even ambushes? His guards outclassed.
The organizer's ease held firm.
Bege? Motionless, no strike vibe. Crewless weirdness gnawed, but he stayed seated, smug.
Guards leveled weapons at him.
"So? Scamper now, or else."
"No need."
"Hah! Then what? Take us solo?"
"Nah. No need for me to budge."
A scoffing sigh.
"Surrender. Outmatched."
Bege's words hung, aimed at the room. The organizer's brow twitched—absurd in this setup.
"What? Blind to the numbers? Or admitting you're outgunned?"
"If you're running, now's the time. That's my line."
"Huh?"
Unyielding tone sparked fury. Grin faded; confidence's source baffled, unease stirring.
"You know my demand. Hand it over quiet, I walk. Ten seconds grace, say."
"Watch your mouth. Solo punk—what can you do?"
"Ten... nine... eight—"
"Ridiculous."
Bitter mutter, but no attack order. Curiosity won; he'd watch the bluff play out.
Just Bege. All bluster, no bite. Guards sealed it.
Bege counted on.
Past five, four—organizer unmoved.
Down to three.
Pure hokum. He smirked anew.
"Zero... Done."
Cigar smoke curled; Bege shook his head, exasperated.
"Cannon fire."
Quiet murmur. Then—his chest sprouted doors. Mini-cannons peeked, tiny voices chattering.
Bege's body: a horde of miniature folk.
Onlookers gaped. Doors in flesh? Cannons? People inside?
Bewilderment froze them as Bege's order hit.
Pop. Faint crack—cannon shot? Unnoticed at first.
Tiny shells from his chest—harmless specks. No one dodged.
Size belied truth. Mid-air, they ballooned massive.
Too late. No evade.
Room engulfed in blasts.
Twenty rounds. Explosions shredded guards, walls; flames devoured all but Bege. Wreckage everywhere.
Unrecognizable chaos. Bege stood serene, fanning smoke.
"Overdid it a tad. Eh, prize intact."
Charred ruin spared only treasure chests, varied sizes.
Bege laughed, gut parting—a drawbridge gate, vast.
Suits poured out, swelling normal, fanning into the room with practiced ease.
"Done quicker than thought. Haul 'em."
"Yes, boss."
"Father, to the ship? Or inside you?"
"Ship. Clear interference."
"Yes."
Crew bundled chests out. Numbers demanded more; belly emptied steadily.
Loot: race fees, 500k Berry per crew. Total? A fortune.
Their goal: all of it.
Easy pickings, especially here. Dead End's history brimmed with organizer hits—simplest jackpot, no racing needed.
Guards hired knowing this; outmatched? Useless.
Fire Tank Pirates claimed the trove, hauling seaward.
Surveying the takedown, Bege mused.
Could've raced. Fun enough.
But Gasperde's hand muddied it. No standard run; factored that, chose simple.
Still, other thoughts brewed.
Standouts among entrants: Straw Hats, Kid Pirates, Heart Pirates. Their plays? Intriguing.
Chaos guaranteed either way.
Smirking, he turned—spotting the man at the door, ahead of crew chatter.
"So, you're cut from my cloth."
Fire Tanks ignored, X Drake stood solo. No backup—truly alone, no Bege-like power. Unarmed, unguarded gaze on Bege.
Chilling stares clashed.
Crew inhaled sharp at the weird standoff. No fight, just... presence. What now? Jitters fair.
Drake waited seconds, then spoke—no aggression, eyes steel.
"No fight. No gold. I want something else."
"Hm. Spill—got my interest."
"The organizer's Eternal Pose. Hand it, I leave."
"Eternal Pose?"
Bege's brow quirked; he glanced back.
Organizer sprawled, charred X, clothes and skin crisped.
"Blasted him post-boom. Might be smashed."
"Let me check. Won't cramp your style."
"Hmph... Oi, search him."
Crewman rifled pockets; chest inner held the Pose—intact. Delivered to Bege.
He checked the inscribed isle.
Race goal: "Partia." This? Elsewhere.
Not the race, then.
"That's your prize? What's the angle?"
"Not sharing. Just give it."
"Refuse, and war? Fine."
No hesitation; tossed it right-handed.
Drake caught clean.
Eyes hard, lips parted thanks.
"Sorry. Owe you."
"No biggie. Just grabbed it."
Curt reply; Drake pivoted, gone.
Stiff bastard.
No pirate charm expected, but anticlimax stung. Walked free amid gold-hauling crew.
Bege snorted, irked. "Boring prick. Straw Hat's got more spark."
"Alright handing it over?"
"Drop it. Useless pointer to me. Besides—"
Crew query cut mid; Bege grinned wide, cheerier than versus organizer.
"That guy's... strong."
Praise to Drake's retreating back.
Clear sans clash. Head-on? Room'd shatter; mutual wounds, unclear win. Crew? Heavy losses, likely.
Not foe for here.
Round two later. Worthy arena earned the pass.
"Business done. Hustle the gold! Sailing out!"
"Yes!"
Bege strode forth, inn behind.
Crew trailed, loot stripped clean.
Race chaos? Par for course. Fire Tanks paraded streets unchallenged; challengers? Blasted aside.
Unwavering march, zeal bare.
Under Bege, new voyage beckoned.
＊
Elsewhere, sans Pirate Island, carnage unfolded.
A Marine gawked at a titanic arm—giant's? No: metal horde forged limb.
Fingers splayed, blotting sky. Hovering overhead.
Death's vision.
It swung, gravity's hammer—thudding doom.
Roar. Screams.
One blow felled masses; survivors blanched at flesh-rending blades. Warships crushed, decks buckled, sunk swift.
Island? Hellscape.
Night's assault razed town to rubble. Intact homes? One or two, tops. Laggard civilians littered ruins.
Charred reek; last night's hum, lie.
Harbor smoked—fresh Navy wreck among five shattered hulks.
One unscathed: Jolly Roger aloft.
Battles done, breath caught.
Perched on a crate, Captain Kid drawled boredom.
"Lame... All talk, this mess."
No flinch at the corpse-field. His orders, his crew's slaughter.
Town razed, summoned Marines crushed—victor absolute.
Savage might, pirate elite.
Killer loomed beside, arms crossed, spine straight. Mask hid face, but vibe? Weary exasperation.
"Overkill, no? Reinforcements inbound, unknown."
"Then smash 'em too. Options?"
"Too many foes? Voyage sours."
"Bring it. If they block, they die."
Killer's caution bounced off; Kid grinned feral, unchanged.
His bounty spiked from civilian hits like this. Not pure innocents here, but razing a "peaceful" town? Unhinged.
Post-fight, eyes smoldered—madness plain.
Killer sighed, resigned. Warnings? Rare heed.
Taming him? Herculean, even for mates.
Fight over, rest earned, sure.
Gazing debris-flecked sea, Kid probed Killer.
"Hey, Killer—what's your take on these clowns?"
"Which? Marines you pulped, or pirate-fakers?"
"Both. Pathetic, right? Their pea-brains make me puke."
Three briefcases at his feet.
Glanced, then Killer's mask.
Killer'd clocked 'em.
"Three mil Berry, and grown-ass pirates whine 'cheat'? Racing hand-in-hand like kids for sea throne? Legends' isle, crawling with this trash—makes me wanna cry."
"Yeah, pitiful saga."
"Being pirate? Win or die. No rules. Victor claims glory. So I, the winner, call it—flawless."
Kid rose, lips twisting warlike, madness glinting, sea glared.
"Race results? Who cares. Redefine here. Prize goes to the last standing—fists decide. Odds on 'General' Gasperde? That snotty 'Straw Hat'? Or wildcard? Smash arrivals 'til one stands."
Here: Partia, Dead End's goal isle.
Pre-race insiders, spectator pirates—bustling. Till Kid's midnight raid. Devastated; HQ nonfunctional, gore-pocked.
Resisters? Kissed dirt.
Bounty? At his feet. Hijack, plain.
Races? Zero interest. One itch: gauge the beasts drawn.
Finally, pulse-quickening stakes; Kid's glee boundless.
Killer? Brooding doubt.
Smooth sail? Pirates aplenty, quirks galore. What fraction lands? Who fights fair?
Worst: white-flag foes. Kid blind to that—snag.
Anyway, survive race or bust. Mulling futile; wait it out.
"Wonder how it'll shake..."
"No gloom. Time reveals. Just squat here, wait."
Eager for comers, grin fixed. Kid snatched a battle-rolled bottle, swigged dregs.
Killer watched silent, worry deepening.
Horizon bare—no sails yet.
First blood? Mild curiosity, but gut soured.
--------------------------
Thank you so much to everyone who has followed and supported the story! 🙏
Every like and comment means a lot to me.
If you want to go further, join my Patreon to be able to read the latest chapters!
👉 Check it out here: [patreon.com/Greyhounds]