The discreet murmur of the restaurant faded to a respectful hush as a team of impeccably dressed waitresses arrived.
They moved with practiced efficiency, arranging an array of exquisite dishes and gleaming crystal glasses filled with wine upon the table.
Platters piled high with succulent seafood, fragrant roasted meats, and bowls of vibrant, exotic fruits quickly replaced the emptiness.
This was, truly, the best the establishment had to offer, a spread fit for royalty, or for an offer that could change destinies.
Once every dish was meticulously placed, and the wine was perfectly poured, the waitresses bowed deeply and retreated, leaving Tsuru, Gion, Guts, and Robin in complete privacy.
Without preamble, Tsuru placed a slim, unmarked file envelope onto the table, sliding it towards Guts.
Her gaze was steady, piercing. "To fully understand the nature of our offer, Guts-san, Nico Robin-san," she began, her voice calm and clear, "it's essential to understand the Shichibukai project."
She focused her explanation primarily on Guts, judging him to be the true decision-maker here.
"The Seven Warlords of the Sea," Tsuru explained, her voice even, almost academic, "are a system established by the World Government. They are a select group of seven exceptionally powerful pirates, granted official sanction to operate within the Grand Line."
She paused, allowing the weight of the words to sink in. "Their role is crucial: they form one of the Three Great Powers that maintain the global balance, standing alongside the Marines and the Yonko, the Four Emperors of the Sea."
"By agreeing to cooperate with the World Government," Gion added, her voice crisp, "their previously held bounties are frozen, effectively putting an end to their pursuit by Marine forces. They are also granted a degree of sanctioned plunder within certain territories, operating semi-independently. In essence, they fight other pirates, allowing us Marines to concentrate our forces on the most immediate global threats."
Guts listened, his face inscrutable, while he reached for one of the gleaming wine glasses.
He took a long, slow sip.
His eyebrows, usually furrowed in a permanent scowl, arched ever so slightly.
He was a little surprised at how good the wine was – a rich, complex flavor that lingered on his tongue.
Despite the quality of the drink, his attention remained razor-sharp, his eyes never leaving Tsuru's face.
Robin, seated beside him, listened just as intently.
Her hands, no longer clenched under the table, rested calmly in her lap.
As Tsuru spoke, Robin closed her eyes for a fleeting moment, her senses reaching out. She engaged her Whisperer ability, not just listening to the words, but feeling the underlying current of truth in them. She sought out the nuances, the hidden intentions, the absolute veracity of every word Tsuru uttered.
And to her surprise, she found no deception. The explanation was factual, the project precisely as described.
Once Tsuru had finished explaining the intricate balance and benefits of the system, she leaned forward slightly, her gaze locking onto Guts.
"The World Government," she stated, her voice formal, "has decided to extend an invitation to you, Guts-san. We offer you the opportunity to become one of them. To become a Warlord of the Sea."
A brief silence followed her pronouncement.
Guts, still holding his wine glass, simply looked at Tsuru, his dark eyes unblinkable.
"No," Guts said, his voice flat, resolute, betraying no hesitation.
He took another sip of wine. "I refuse to become a pirate."
Tsuru's expression remained perfectly calm, but a small, knowing smile, almost imperceptible, touched her lips.
He refuses to become a pirate.
Despite the brutality, despite the terrifying reputation, despite the chaos he seemed to attract, Tsuru mused internally, Guts possessed a surprisingly strong moral compass.
He might tear through enemies like a beast, but he never truly endangered common people, never plundered innocents, never seemed to act out of malice towards the weak.
He was a force of nature, yes, but one that could potentially be... guided.
He was a good asset for the World Government, a raw, untamed power that, if properly contained or utilized, could be invaluable.
"Oh, Guts-san, you needn't worry about that," Gion interjected smoothly, a faint, knowing smile gracing her lips.
Her tone was light, almost playful, yet sharp as a blade. "You don't need to become a pirate. Many Warlords candidates operate under their own codes, you see. Your primary duty would simply be to respond to the Fleet Admiral's requests when summoned. Beyond that, you'd retain considerable autonomy."
She leaned forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially.
"You could even choose a territory, a base of operations. Perhaps somewhere quiet like Shell Island, for instance? A place where you could truly operate without unnecessary interference."
The mention of the Fleet Admiral's requests, of a territory, of operating almost like a sanctioned mercenary, made Guts interested.
This was a deal, a contract, something he understood.
But his gaze kept flicking to Robin.
The real hook, the irresistible lure, was the revocation of Robin's bounty.
The thought of giving her back an innocent life, a chance to live normally, without the shadow of the World Government's constant pursuit, felt like a distant, impossible daydream.
As a former mercenary, the idea of lending his strength for a specific purpose, without full allegiance, was a familiar concept.
But then, the other memories surfaced.
The atrocities of the World Government.
The burning of Ohara.
The very source of Robin's suffering, the beginning of her endless nightmare.
His gut twisted.
The words of refusal, began to form on his tongue.
Before Guts could voice his objection, Robin's hand found his under the table.
Her fingers, delicate yet surprisingly strong, gripped his tightly.
She knew.
She knew he would refuse, and she knew, with a painful clarity, that his refusal would be because of her.
Robin was not ready to forgive and forget.
Not to the source of her losses, the organization that had snatched away everything she loved.
But she also, fiercely, didn't want to keep watching her father—Guts—keep breaking apart repeatedly to protect her.
The nightly horrors he endured, the gnawing curse, the relentless battles—all for her.
She couldn't bear the thought of him sacrificing his very sanity and existence just to avoid dealing with the World Government on her behalf.
Her eyes, filled with a complex mixture of pain, love, and desperate pleading, locked onto his.
Without a single word, Robin asked Guts to accept it with her eyes.
Tsuru, ever the astute observer, watched the silent exchange.
A profound warmth, surprising even to herself, bloomed in her chest.
A father who thought only of his daughter's freedom, and a daughter who, despite her own deep wounds, thought only of her father's peace.
It was a bond unlike any she had ever witnessed in the brutal world of pirates and Marines.
The heavy silence in the opulent restaurant booth was broken only by the soft clink of silver against porcelain as Guts, after a long, drawn-out sigh, finally lowered his wine glass. His gaze, weary but resolute, met Tsuru's.
"Alright," Guts rumbled, his voice rough.
"I accept."
A flicker of relief, quickly masked, crossed Tsuru's face.
"Excellent, Guts-san. We can discuss the terms of your stationing now. Do you have a preference for your territory in the Grand Line? Or would you prefer the World Government to assign one that suits your... operational style?"
Less surveillance means it will help our exploration. Guts thought.
Guts shrugged, a gesture of indifference.
"You can decide that."
Then, after a beat, a thought seemed to solidify in his mind.
"But Shell Island is mine."
That place is full of memories for guts and Robin.
Tsuru nodded, making a note.
"Very well. And your condition?"
Guts leaned forward, his dark eyes like chips of obsidian.
"One condition. The head of two names: Spandine and Laskey."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Tsuru's lips.
A positive response was guaranteed.
The World Government would not refuse the chance to control the abomination called the Devil Swordsman, especially with his mysterious power.
His condition was a small price for such a formidable asset.
And besides, Tsuru knew, Spandine was already dead, found hanged by his own hand a few weeks after the Ohara incident, his corpse bloated and disfigured, a ghastly sight the World Government had quickly covered up.
The name Laskey was new to her, but clearly another ghost from the past he sought to exorcise.
With the agreement seemingly reached, Tsuru and Gion rose, their mission accomplished.
"We will be in contact very soon regarding the formal proceedings and the revocation of Nico Robin-san's bounty," Tsuru stated, her tone final.
They offered polite, professional nods to Guts and Robin, then turned and took their leave, their footsteps echoing softly as they exited the restaurant.
Left alone, the father and daughter returned to their quiet lunch, the weight of the enormous decision settling over them.
The food, though exquisite, tasted somewhat flat.
The wine, no matter how good, couldn't wash away the lingering bitterness of the compromise.
A short while later, Guts and Robin emerged from the exclusive L'Écume de Mer restaurant, the bright Sabaody sunlight momentarily jarring after the dim interior. As they approached the polished bubble of the elevator leading to the surface's travel routes, a figure emerged from the side, waiting for them.
It was Potan—no, Guernica.
Despite his face remaining hidden behind the stark, emotionless mask, his entire posture radiated relief and satisfaction. He exuded an almost buoyant happiness.
He stepped forward, raising a hand.
"Guts!" Guernica exclaimed, his voice clear and genuinely pleased, though still muffled by the mask.
He reached out and slapped Guts's shoulder, a gesture of familiarity and approval.
"I'm so proud of you for accepting. It truly is the best path forward."
Guts merely brushed his hand away with a dismissive jerk. "Tsk," he grunted.
"I didn't accept anything yet until I get what I wanted."
His words were harsh, but there was no real malice in them.
Guernica chuckled, a dry, knowing sound.
"Oh, I already know your demands, Guts-san. Your acceptance is already set in stone."
He offered Robin a polite nod, which she ignored entirely, treating him as if he were air. Unbothered, he turned and stepped into the descending elevator, a quiet triumph in his stride.
His mission, as far as he was concerned, was complete.
Left alone, finally free from the watchful eyes of World Government agents and Marine delegates, Guts and Robin began their walk towards Shakky's Rip-Off Bar.
For the first time since their arrival on Sabaody, they truly had time to themselves, a rare moment of quiet togetherness.
The weight of their choices, the implications of their new 'alliance,' settled over them, a complex mix of dread and guarded hope.
As they reached the familiar, rickety door of the bar, Guts reached out.
He opened it gently, with an uncharacteristic care.
He certainly didn't want to repeat the chaotic, destructive entrance of their first visit to the bar on the archipelago.
He certainly not miss the haki coated ashtray.
Inside, the smoky haze was just as thick, the clinking of glasses just as constant.
Shakky, ever enigmatic, was behind the counter, polishing a glass with a slow, deliberate rhythm.
And there, perched casually on a bar stool, was Silvers Rayleigh, the Dark King, seemingly waiting for them, a faint smile playing on his lips.
Rayleigh's eyes lit up as he saw them.
He slid off the stool, his movements as fluid as ever, a wide, genuine grin spreading across his face.
"Guts! Robin! I knew you'd come back!"
With a booming laugh, he wrapped his arms around Guts, pulling the Swordsman into a hearty hug.
As Rayleigh then turned, intending to extend the same warm embrace to Robin, Guts's hand shot out.
His gauntleted hand, cold and unyielding, clamped down firmly on Rayleigh's shoulder.
It was a silent warning.
A possessive, protective gesture that spoke volumes.
And even the legendary Dark King was not exempt from the unspoken rule.