In the East Blue, there's a small island called Tresis. At first glance, it seems unremarkable, but in truth, it's the largest gathering place for pirates and bounty hunters in the region.
It's also the hub for information, where rumors spread faster than the Marines' professional intelligence networks. At dusk, the largest tavern in Tresis is packed to the brim. The air is thick with the smell of roasted meat and cheap liquor. A group of rough-looking pirates devour their food and drink, boasting loudly about their exploits at sea and the latest major events.
A bard strums familiar, timeless tunes under dim lighting, while scantily clad dancers sway sensually on stage, drawing endless cheers and whistles.
It's crude, but you can't exactly expect pirates to have refined tastes or manners.
In a shadowy corner of the tavern sits a figure cloaked entirely in black, a finely crafted pistol tucked at their waist. They blend seamlessly into the darkness, exuding an air of mystery that clashes with the raucous atmosphere around them.
The upper half of their face is concealed by the hood, revealing only a smooth chin and rosy lips. The black cloak appears ordinary at first glance, but only a master tailor would recognize the exceptional quality of its fabric.
Tresis is no stranger to pirates and outlaws, so a hooded figure like this doesn't raise eyebrows—people are used to such types.
This person, of course, is Sherlock. Ever since the Marines put a bounty on his head, Sherlock has been lying low in Tresis, researching the abilities of his Mirror-Mirror Fruit while gathering intelligence. Through constant practice, he's discovered he can exert even greater control over his mirror entities.
Sherlock places a 100-Beli coin on the table. Then…
"Mirror Entity!" With a thought, a mirrored copy of the coin appears in his palm, slowly floating upward. Guided by Sherlock's will, it hovers and circles above his hand, rising and falling.
This is his newfound ability: not only can he control the size of his mirror entities, but he can also move them with his mind.
The mirrored coin dissipates in the air above his palm. Sherlock picks up his glass, takes a sip of juice, and tilts his head slightly under the hood, listening carefully for any information that piques his interest.
"Hey, did you hear? Captain Creek got arrested by the Marines!" someone suddenly blurts out.
"What?! You mean Admiral Creek? Didn't he take 50 ships to the Grand Line just a while ago?" another pirate says, incredulous.
"It's true! And I heard it didn't happen on the Grand Line—it was right here in the East Blue!"
"The East Blue? Was it that old chain-smoker in Loguetown who made the move?" At the mention of the White Hunter, several pirates shudder, clearly familiar with Smoker's reputation.
One pirate swallows hard and says, "Nah, probably not. Doesn't he stick to Loguetown?"
The conversation takes a sharp turn as the pirates start speculating about which Marine captured the East Blue's 17-million-Beli tyrant.
"No wonder I couldn't get in touch with Creek," Sherlock muses, pushing up his glasses. "So he went to the Grand Line, that lunatic obsessed with it… But how did he get caught by the Marines in the East Blue?" He's puzzled.
At that moment, a burly, one-eyed man slaps the table with a massive hand, cutting through the chatter. "You guys are spouting outdated news!" he sneers, his voice booming.
"It's true Creek got nabbed in the East Blue, but it wasn't the Marines who took him down—it was a rookie! A pirate wearing a straw hat!"
The crowd erupts in shock, voices overlapping in heated discussion. Even Sherlock pauses, his hand holding the glass freezing midair. Under the hood, his dark eyes glimmer with intrigue.
The one-eyed man grins, clearly reveling in the chaos he's caused. He continues, "That's not even the best part. Hawkeye—yeah, Hawkeye—came to the East Blue! And with one swing of his sword, he sliced Creek's flagship into three pieces!"
Silence.
As if on cue, the pirates stop talking, the bard halts his music, and the dancers freeze, all staring at the one-eyed man.
What did this guy just say? Hawkeye? Dracule Mihawk, one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea, the world's greatest swordsman—an existence on a completely different level from everyone in this room. After a long pause, someone bursts out laughing, and the tavern explodes into a chorus of guffaws, save for Sherlock in his corner and the stunned one-eyed man.
"Hahaha! One-Eye, you're full of it! No way Hawkeye would come to the East Blue, the weakest sea!" a pirate scoffs.
"Yeah, right! Creek's flagship is massive—how could anyone slice it into three pieces with one swing? That's ridiculous!" Sherlock knows a bit about Creek's flagship, built by the Goldglint Trading Company's shipyard. While he doesn't know the exact specs, he's aware it's an enormous vessel. To cut something that big into three pieces… just how massive would Hawkeye's blade have to be? What kind of place is the Grand Line, with such magnetic allure that countless pirates flock to it?
Having lingered in the East Blue for so long, Sherlock feels a spark of excitement for the first time, an urge to venture to the Grand Line and see it for himself.
No one believes the one-eyed man's story. And really, why would the world's greatest swordsman, Hawkeye, cross the Calm Belt from the Grand Line just to chop up some 17-million-Beli pirate's ship? If they knew Mihawk's real reason—that Creek's crew had disturbed his nap and he was simply bored—they'd probably be floored.
The one-eyed man's face turns red as he tries to explain, but no one's listening, no matter how convincingly he pleads.
Finding no more useful information to glean, Sherlock grows bored. He tosses some coins on the table to cover his tab and leaves the noisy tavern.
The tavern is close to the sea. Crossing to the other side of the road, Sherlock gazes into the distance. At dusk, the fiery clouds on the horizon blend with the vast ocean, creating a breathtaking view.
A sea breeze stirs, lifting Sherlock's hood to reveal a strikingly handsome face—black hair, dark eyes, and silver-rimmed glasses. At a glance, he could pass for a scholarly noble, not the "diabolical sorcerer" described in the bounty posters.
Basking in the breeze, Sherlock squints comfortably.
After a moment, he speaks. "You've been hiding for a while. Time to come out."
No sooner do the words leave his mouth than a mob of pirates bursts from both sides of the road, surrounding him like a swarm of soldier crabs. Armed with swords and guns, they look every bit the part of vicious pirates, practically screaming "We're pirates!" with their menacing glares.
A grim-faced man steps forward, exuding arrogance. He sizes Sherlock up and then laughs loudly. "So this is the guy who hurt my crewmate? Didn't expect such a pretty face! Hell, I almost mistook you for a lady!"
The pirates erupt in harsh laughter.
(Hurt his crewmate? Wrong guy? I haven't gotten into any fights these past few days…) Sherlock thinks, his eyes glinting with a chilling, almost tangible killing intent behind his glasses.
The pirate, oblivious, continues his posturing. "Listen up! The man who's gonna end you is Thor, captain of the Outlaw Pirates, with a 3-million-Beli bounty!" Thor glances at Sherlock's cloak and sneers. "Tch, another wannabe copying that sorcerer, huh? Think throwing on a black cloak makes you like him?"
Ever since the "sorcerer's" bounty poster went up, cloaks—especially black ones—have become a trend among East Blue's pirate circles, selling out everywhere.
Sherlock's expression turns odd, eyeing Thor like he's an idiot. He sighs. "Actually, I wasn't calling you lot out. And you've got the wrong person. It's just a coincidence that I'm wearing a similar cloak. This is all a misunderstanding."
"But since you're here…" Sherlock pushes up his glasses, a smirk curling his lips. "Why don't you help me test my new ability?"
With a wave of his hand, a long-barreled flintlock appears above his head. It splits into two, then four, then eight… until over a hundred flintlocks float in the air.
"Unlimited Gun Works!" Sherlock chants silently, extending his right hand forward.
The hundred-plus flintlocks swivel in unison, their dark barrels blooming like a lotus of guns, each one trained on the now-stunned Thor and his crew.