As Guts's mastless ship, pulled by the colossal Gargar, cut through the final stretch of water towards Sabaody Archipelago, Guts raised a hand, signaling their gargantuan friend to slow down.
His sharp eyes, even from a distance, had spotted the tell-tale silhouette of a Marine ship intercepting their path near Grove 13.
His original intent had been to dock his humble vessel close to Shakky's Rip-Off Bar, a familiar, if chaotic, haven.
Through a crackling megaphone, a voice with the distinct authority of a Marine Captain boomed across the water.
"Devil Swordman Guts! Per orders, you are to park your vessel at Grove 30! Repeat, proceed to Grove 30 for docking!"
Guts simply nodded, a silent acknowledgment of the order. While he despised compliance, he understood the necessity of these formalities.
Gargar, ever obedient, adjusted his course.
Minutes later, they arrived at Grove 30, a designated docking area bustling with marine activity, though kept at a respectful distance from their approach.
Guts, clad in his tattered cloak that mostly obscured his armor, leaped gracefully from his ship, followed by Boa Hancock and her sisters, their exotic beauty drawing gasps even amidst the tense Marines.
Gargar, understanding his role, began to settle into position to guard the ship. Guts gave him a mental command, reinforced by a quiet word: "No need to hide, Gargar. They already know you exist." He knew the days of discreet travel with the massive Sea King were over.
Guts then turned to the assembled Marines, who were still keeping a significant distance, none daring to approach too closely.
He addressed the closest group, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.
"Lead the way to the meeting location."
The Marines, however, were visibly hesitant. Their eyes darted nervously, avoiding direct eye contact with Guts.
One bravest among all, stammered, "W-where is Rear Admiral Momonga, sir?"
Guts merely grunted. "Don't know."
His patience was already wearing thin.
Hancock, watching the Marines' blatant fear, narrowed her eyes. Her annoyance began to flare.
"Hurry up!" she snapped, her melodious voice laced with irritation, echoing across the dock. "Lead us, you commoners!"
Her sisters, Sandersonia and Marigold, stood behind her, their own serpentine eyes fixed on the nervous Marines.
"W-wait, please!" another Marine called out, quickly fumbling for his Den Den Mushi. "We need to call our superior! We weren't... expecting..."
His voice trailed off.
As they stood waiting, a strange silence permeated the air. Guts, his brow furrowed, his Observation Haki didn't just sense their fear; he delved deeper, catching the faint whispers and murmurs that barely escaped their lips, the true cause of their unsettling behavior.
"Hey, don't look! Or you will get possessed..."
"He is that..."
"Yes... The Devil himself!"
"Are you mad!? Stop looking!"
"The curse will stick on you like a gum!"
"You'll find yourself hung on the adel tree!"
A grim understanding settled over Guts.
The rumors of the curse he carried had spread like wildfire through the Marine ranks.
They feared him, not just for his brutality, but the very essence of his existence.
Hancock, oblivious to the deeper horror but acutely aware of the terror she saw on the Marines' faces, let out a delighted, haughty chuckle.
She nudged Guts's arm playfully.
"Fufufu! It seems the Marines truly fear you, black lobster."
The air, already thick with the nervous energy of the Marines, suddenly crackled with a new, sharper tension.
Without a word, a swift, almost imperceptible black blur shot towards them.
In an instant, Guts stepped forward, covering Hancock with his massive frame.
His Berserker Armor pulsed, and with a familiar, almost instantaneous flow, he coated it in Armament Haki.
He didn't even flinch.
He simply tilted his head sideways, allowing the devastating blow to connect squarely with his armored shoulder.
CLANK!
The sound reverberated, a metallic clang that echoed through the entire grove, far louder than any warning shot.
The impact rippled through the ground, forcing the distant Marines to flinch.
The force was immense, enough to shatter stone and dent steel, but it merely bounced harmlessly from Guts's hardened shoulder.
Guts slowly turned his head, his squinted eyes fixing on the source of the attack.
Standing there, impossibly calm amidst the swirling dust and the trembling fear of the Marines, was the one who had just given him a warrior's welcome.
He was a tall, lean figure, clad in a distinctive, open black suit and a flowing cloak that billowed in the unseen breeze.
A wide-brimmed hat adorned with a green-feathered plume cast a perpetual shadow over his face, but his eyes, sharp as a raptor's, piercing and golden, like a hawk's, were unmistakable.
In his hand, held with casual grace as if it weighed nothing, was a colossal, jet-black sword with a cross-shaped guard - Yoru, one of the strongest blades in the world.
He was the world's greatest swordsman.
"You're certainly direct," Guts grunted, his gaze unwavering.
The man's lips curled into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "Indeed. Devil Swordman, I challenge you to a duel."
Guts merely nodded, a grim acceptance in his eyes.
"Later. After the meeting."
A flicker of genuine anticipation, a rare emotion for the Black Swordsman, stirred within Guts.
He had, strangely enough, come to quietly enjoy sparring ever since his very first clash with King Neptune back in the Fish-Man Island.
Despite the vast difference in their fighting styles and sheer power, Neptune's masterful handling of his trident, a graceful, flowing art form, had been a fascinating contrast to Guts's own rough and brutal sword style.
And then there was Rayleigh.
Even after two grueling years of constant, life-or-death sparring, Guts still couldn't land a single clean slash on that old man.
Rayleigh was a ghost, a blur, an impenetrable wall of experience and Haki.
So, yes, Guts was genuinely looking forward to crossing swords with this mysterious swordsman. This was a challenge of a different caliber.
The man, sensing Guts's acceptance of the future engagement, finally introduced himself, his voice deep and resonant.
"I am Dracule Mihawk. A fellow Shichibukai."
He was the second Shichibukai Guts had encountered so far, and already, the meeting was proving to be anything but dull.
The air around them remained charged, but the intensity of Mihawk's attack was quickly replaced by the piercing shrill of Boa Hancock's indignation.
"You fiend!" Hancock shrieked at Mihawk, her eyes flashing with fury.
"You almost grazed my beautiful skin! For such an unspeakable offense, you deserve nothing less than capital punishment!"
Her sisters, Sandersonia and Marigold, instantly echoed her outrage, their voices a synchronized chorus of agreement.
"Indeed! To almost harm humanity's greatest treasure! Unforgivable!"
Hancock then turned her imperious gaze to Guts. "Black lobster! Give him capital punishment! He dares try to hurt me!"
Neither Guts nor Mihawk even deigned to look at them, let alone acknowledge their theatrical demands.
Guts remained focused on the meeting ahead, Mihawk seemingly lost in his own world of silent contemplation, utterly unfazed by the divine fury of the Pirate Empress.
It was at this moment that a calm, collected voice cut through Hancock's tirade.
"Well, well. It seems some of you are already acquainted."
Vice Admiral Tsuru arrived, her white Marine coat fluttering softly in the sea breeze.
She offered a small, knowing chuckle, her sharp eyes taking in the scene with amusement.
"It's good that Guts-san already knows some of his new... colleagues."
She then produced a beautifully wrapped present from beneath her arm, a simple, elegant box tied with a satin ribbon. "This, Guts-san," she said, extending it towards him, "is a small gift from me and Acting Fleet Admiral. For your daughter's upcoming birthday."
Guts's one eye widened imperceptibly.
He paused, then, a rare softness in his grim features, he gratefully accepted the gift, giving Tsuru a curt, appreciative nod.
"If you'll follow me," Tsuru continued, her voice regaining its professional tone, gesturing towards the path leading deeper into Grove 33. She began to lead them towards a familiar place: L'Écume de Mer, the very restaurant where Guts and Robin had shared their quiet lunch in the past.
As they walked, Hancock's indignant complaints about Mihawk continued, a constant, high-pitched drone.
Guts, still half-listening to her tirade, began to notice the surroundings. The entire area around them was sterile of common people.
No curious onlookers, no bustling tourists, and most notably, no World Nobles and their heavily armed guards were anywhere in sight.
The World Government had clearly swept the area clean, creating a secure, almost unnerving, bubble of silence.
They arrived at L'Écume de Mer. The restaurant, which had been lively and elegant during their previous visit, was now utterly empty.
The tables and chairs had been cleared away, leaving only one imposing feature: a very large, round table, polished to a high sheen, standing solitary in the center of the vast room.
Tsuru led them directly to their designated seats at the colossal table.
"Please, make yourselves comfortable," she said politely, her gaze sweeping over the assembled Warlords. "My colleagues will be notifying the other Shichibukai. We appreciate your patience."
A while after Tsuru's departure, a palpable shift in the atmosphere heralded the arrival of the remaining Warlords.
One by one, they stepped into the sterile silence of L'Écume de Mer, each bringing their own distinct brand of power and presence to the desolate restaurant.
First came Donquixote Doflamingo.
He strode in with an almost theatrical flair, his signature shocking-pink feathered coat billowing behind him.
He was exceptionally tall, with long, gangly limbs, and his face was perpetually hidden behind his distinctive, orange-tinted sunglasses.
A wide, unsettling grin, a permanent fixture that seemed to stretch unnaturally, was plastered on his face.
An air of sheer, unadulterated arrogance radiated from him, an almost palpable madness that made him seem more like a puppet master than a man.
He moved with a confident, predatory swagger, taking in the scene with a condescending amusement that never quite reached his obscured eyes.
Next was Gecko Moria. He was a colossal figure, his bulbous body draped in a voluminous, dark cloak.
His skin, a pale, almost sickly green, was covered in thick, visible stitches, and his head was adorned with two prominent devil-like horns.
A massive, ever-present grin stretched across his face, lending him an unsettling, almost jovial appearance despite his imposing size.
He seemed surprisingly easy-going for such a menacing figure, his movements slow and deliberate, carrying a massive scissor-like weapon on his back as if it were a mere toy.
He yawned, his large mouth opening wide, before lumbering towards a seat.
Finally, Sir Crocodile entered, an aura of calm, calculating menace preceding him.
He was tall and lean, his features sharp and hawk-like.
A long, black fur coat draped elegantly over his broad shoulders, and his left hand was replaced by a gleaming golden hook.
A distinctive, jagged scar bisected his face, cutting across his piercing gaze, and his dark hair was slicked back, accentuating his predatory eyes.
A cigar was always between his lips, a thin wisp of smoke curling from it.
His eyes, however, were not scanning the room generally; they immediately found Guts. He regarded the Devil Swordsman with an intense, undisguised interest. One of the survivors of Ohara, Crocodile thought, taking a drag from his cigar.
One by one, they settled into their designated seats at the large, round table.
Mihawk had already taken his, a silent sentinel.
Doflamingo threw one leg over the other, a picture of insouciant power.
Moria slumped into his seat, looking vaguely bored.
Crocodile's gaze remained fixed on Guts for a beat longer before he finally settled down.
Boa Hancock crossed her leg, still feeling displeased from the previous event.
Guts, surveying the assembled figures, noticed something crucial. One seat, a prominent one at the table, still remained conspicuously empty.