"You know…" the pirate captain said, rolling his shoulder as he steadied the massive rifle across his back, his grin widening into something feral, "quite a few people are willing to pay a premium for your head… on top of that bounty of yours."
His eyes never left Jinbe. Blood dripped steadily from Jinbe's shoulder, dark against the wooden planks—but his posture remained unbroken. Unshaken. Unimpressed. Jinbe didn't answer. Didn't waste a single word. Because words were meaningless here. Only action mattered.
And in the next instant, he moved. The deck beneath his feet exploded as he launched forward, his massive frame cutting through the encirclement like a cannonball. The pirates barely had time to react before he was already upon their captain.
"Gyojin Karate: Senmaigawara Seiken!"
His fist surged forward—not just with brute strength, but with the force of the ocean itself. The air compressed, spiraling around his arm as if drawn into the strike, amplifying its impact into something monstrous. The captain's grin faltered.
For the first time—he felt it. "—Tch!"
Instinct screamed. He raised his arms, coating them in hardened Armament Haki, the invisible armor turning his skin as tough as iron. The strike landed.
BOOOOOOM—!
The impact didn't just hit—it detonated. A shockwave tore through the hold as if a tidal force had been unleashed in a confined space. The captain's guard held—but barely. His arms trembled under the pressure as the force blasted through him, launching his massive body backward like a ragdoll.
He crashed through crates. Through beams. Through the very structure of the ship's interior. Wood splintered violently, exploding into shards as he was driven across the deck before finally slamming into the far wall with a bone-rattling crash.
For a split second—silence. Then—chaos. Jinbe didn't stop. Didn't even look back. Because the fight had already begun. He turned, stepping into the next wave of attackers as if he had expected them all along.
A blade came from the left—he caught the wielder's wrist mid-swing and crushed it with a sickening crack before driving his palm into the man's chest, sending him flying into two others. A spear thrust from behind—Jinbe twisted, letting it graze past him before delivering a short, explosive elbow strike that caved in the attacker's guard and dropped him instantly.
Gunshots rang out—but in the confined space, they were clumsy. Predictable. Jinbe moved through them, his body flowing like water, each step calculated, each strike decisive. Every blow, crushing. Every movement—efficient. This wasn't a brawl. It was a dismantling.
Meanwhile, across the shattered debris, the captain stirred. A low growl escaped his throat as he pushed himself up, wiping the blood trickling from the corner of his lips. His arms still trembled faintly from the impact.
"…Heh…" His grin returned. Wider. Sharper. "You've got some bite, fish-man…" He reached back, gripping the massive rifle and swinging it forward in one smooth motion, planting its butt firmly against the ground as he steadied himself. His gaze locked onto Jinbe once more. This time—with killing intent.
"GET THE BASTARD…!" he roared, voice echoing through the ship. "I WANT HIS HEAD!" Above them, the noise had already begun to spread. Boots thundered. Shouts erupted. The entire stronghold was waking up. Because this wasn't just one crew anymore.
Jinbe had become a problem—for all of them. And many here had suffered because of him. Ruined trades. Lost profits. Destroyed operations. They all had a score to settle. The captain lifted his rifle, lining up his shot through the chaos, his Haki sharpening his aim. He had underestimated his opponent. That much was clear. But it didn't matter.
Because now Jinbe wasn't fighting a crew. He was fighting an entire den of predators. The lower deck erupted into utter chaos. Steel clashed. Gunfire roared. Men shouted over one another, their voices cracking under the weight of panic and fury. What had begun as a carefully laid ambush had devolved into a desperate melee.
At the center of it all stood Jinbe. Unmoving. Unyielding. Another wave came at him—five men this time, coordinated, their weapons coated in Armament Haki. Not amateurs. Not fodder. They attacked together. A blade from the front, two spears from either side, a chain swung low to bind his legs, and a pistol aimed straight at his chest.
For an instant— it looked airtight. Then Jinbe moved his observation haki on override. His foot slid forward, pivoting his body just enough for the blade to skim past his shoulder. His arm snapped out, catching the chain mid-swing and yanking it hard—its wielder stumbled forward, directly into the path of the incoming spear.
THUD.
The spear struck his own ally. Before the others could react, Jinbe drove his palm forward.
"Gyojin Karate…!" The air itself seemed to compress around his strike. "Arabesque Brick Fist!" The impact landed squarely on the second attacker's torso. A concussive force exploded outward, launching the man backward into two more, their Haki defenses cracking under the sheer pressure.
"BANG…!" The gunman fired, but it was too late. Jinbe stepped inside the line of fire, his forearm deflecting the pistol upward. The shot tore into the ceiling as his other hand closed around the man's throat. A twist. A slam. The body crumpled. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
Behind him, more pirates surged in, emboldened by numbers. A dozen at least now, their Haki flaring unevenly but aggressively. They circled again, tighter this time. They had learned. But not enough. Jinbe exhaled slowly, lowering his stance.
The blood from his shoulder still flowed—but it didn't slow him. If anything, it sharpened him. Because this—this was where he thrived. Close quarters. Overwhelming odds. Relentless pressure. A man charged with a war hammer, roaring as he brought it down with crushing force. Jinbe met it head-on—his palm striking the side of the weapon mid-swing.
The trajectory shifted. The hammer slammed into the deck beside him, splintering wood. Jinbe's elbow followed instantly, driving into the man's jaw with a crack that silenced him permanently. Another came from behind—a Haki-coated blade aimed for his spine. Jinbe didn't turn. Didn't need to. His hand shot backward, catching the attacker's wrist blindly. Grip tightening. Crushing. The blade fell.
Jinbe spun, using the man's own momentum to hurl him across the hold, crashing into a cluster of advancing pirates and scattering them like pins. Every movement was controlled. Every strike decisive. They couldn't keep up. Not with his strength. Not with his precision. And certainly not with his mastery of Haki.
Their blows landed—but they didn't matter. His body endured. His guard held. While theirs shattered. Across the deck, the captain steadied his rifle once more, his expression no longer amused. Now—It was tense. Focused. He fired. Again. And again. Each shot threaded through the chaos with deadly intent—but Jinbe moved through it all like a current, impossible to pin down, impossible to predict.
A bullet grazed his side. Another tore through his sleeve. But none struck true. Because he was already upon them. Again. And again. And again. Minutes passed—but it felt like seconds. The numbers dwindled. Bodies littered the floor. Groans replaced shouts. Fear replaced fury.
Because they realized it now—numbers meant nothing. Not here. Not against him. One final group hesitated at the edge of the hold, weapons trembling. Jinbe stepped forward. Slowly. Calmly. And that was enough. They broke. Turning. Running. Desperate to escape the monster they had tried to trap.
Silence began to return, broken only by the creak of the damaged ship and the ragged breathing of the defeated. Jinbe stood amidst it all. Alone. Still standing. Still unbroken. His chest rose and fell steadily as his gaze lifted—locking once more onto the captain.
"Tch… it seems the information that bastard fed me about your strength was complete trash…" the captain spat, rolling his shoulder as he stepped over the fallen bodies of his men. His grin hadn't disappeared—but it had changed. Less amused. More dangerous.
"I'll make sure to pay him a visit… right after I deal with you." Despite the carnage around him, he didn't look defeated. Because he wasn't done. Not yet. His eyes flickered briefly to the side. A subtle motion. A signal. The vice-captain caught it instantly. Jinbe's instincts flared. A sharp, sinking premonition coiled in his chest—but before he could move— "Ah—!"
A strangled cry echoed from behind. Jinbe's head snapped toward the source. One of the cages. The vice-captain had already dragged a bound fish-man from within, gripping him by the hair and forcing him to his knees. The captive struggled weakly, chains rattling, his strength long since drained.
A blade flashed. Cold. Cruel. It pressed against the fish-man's throat.
"hehe… didn't you sneak in here to save them?" the vice-captain sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "Let's see how mighty you are… when their lives are on the line."
Around them, the remaining pirates shifted uneasily, watching. Waiting. The air tightened. Jinbe stood still. His gaze locked onto the scene. Unmoving. Unreadable. The captain frowned slightly.
"…What's this?" he mocked. "Don't tell me the great Jinbe doesn't care about his own kind?" No response. Not a word. "Then listen carefully," the captain's tone hardened. "If you want them to live… drop your resistance. Surrender."
A pirate, emboldened by the standoff, stepped forward cautiously, testing. Testing whether the legend would break. For a heartbeat—nothing happened. Then Jinbe moved. A single step. A single strike. His fist drove forward like a cannon.
BOOM.
The pirate was sent flying across the hold, crashing into the far wall with bone-shattering force before collapsing in a heap. The message was clear. Jinbe would not kneel. The captain's expression twisted instantly.
"You…!" he snarled, fury flashing in his eyes. So be it. If threats weren't enough, then reality would have to suffice. His gaze shifted. A silent command. The vice-captain didn't hesitate. The blade pressed deeper. The captive's eyes widened in terror, his muffled cries turning frantic as he thrashed weakly against his restraints.
And then—Slice. Clean. Effortless. Merciless. The knife cut through flesh. Blood sprayed across the wooden floor in a dark arc as the fishman's body went limp, collapsing forward as the vice-captain released his grip.
For a moment, everything stopped. Sound vanished. The world narrowed. Jinbe's eyes froze on the falling body. On the blood. On the stillness that followed. He hadn't even been given a moment to speak. Not a chance to act. Just—Gone. The vice-captain let out a low chuckle, wiping the blade casually against his sleeve.
"Oops…" His grin widened. "Guess you were too slow." The captain stepped forward, his boots echoing against the blood-streaked floor, his expression now devoid of any pretense. Cold. Cruel.
Certain.
"This is what happens," he said quietly, his voice cutting through the silence, "when you try to play hero in my territory." Behind him, the remaining captives trembled. Fear spread like wildfire.
"Aaaagh—!!" The roar tore out of Jinbe like a breaking tide. The deck beneath him shattered as he launched forward, his massive frame cutting through the air with terrifying speed. There was no restraint left in that charge—no calculation, no hesitation.
Only wrath. His fist surged forward, muscles coiling, power condensing into a single devastating strike aimed straight for the vice-captain's skull. One hit. That was all it would take. The vice-captain's eyes widened in pure shock—his body frozen, mind failing to catch up. He hadn't expected this. Not this speed. Not this overwhelming presence.
He couldn't dodge. Couldn't block. Couldn't even raise his weapon. Death was already upon him, and then, Jinbe stopped. His fist halted inches from the man's face. The air cracked from the force alone, the pressure distorting the space between them as the vice-captain felt the breath of death brush past his skin.
But it didn't land. It couldn't. Because in that final instant, Jinbe felt it all around him. His Observation Haki flared. Sharp. Clear. Unforgiving. And what he had just seen using his senses forced his body to obey. To stop. Behind him. To his left. To his right. Steel glinted. Knives—pressed tight against fragile throats.
Not one. Not two. But many. Several pirates had moved in the chaos, each one grabbing a captive, dragging them forward, blades digging into flesh just enough to draw blood. The faint tremble of terrified bodies. The desperate, muffled cries.
And at the center of it—the captain. Calm. Smiling. The barrel of his massive rifle pressed coldly against the temple of a bound fish-man, his finger resting lightly on the trigger. Waiting. Jinbe's arm trembled. Not from weakness—But from restraint. His fist hovered there, suspended between justice and consequence.
The vice-captain stood frozen beneath it, breath ragged, sweat pouring down his face as realization dawned. He had been saved. Not by strength. But by leverage. A slow, unhinged chuckle broke the tension.
"Go on…" the captain's voice slithered through the hold, laced with cruel amusement. "Why'd you stop?" His grin widened, eyes gleaming with madness. "What's the matter, hero?"
He pressed the rifle harder against the captive's head, tilting it just enough to make the man whimper beneath the gag.
"Do you think we're more afraid of death…?" A pause. Then—"…or that these precious kin of yours are?" Around him, the other pirates tightened their grips, blades biting deeper, thin lines of blood trailing down trembling necks. The message was clear. Loud. Brutal.
"I'm sure…" the captain continued, his tone almost playful now, "we can slaughter at least half of them… before you manage to bring us down." His laughter echoed—raw, unrestrained, completely devoid of humanity. Because, to him, this wasn't a risk. It was entertainment. A game where the pieces were disposable.
Even his own men. Even himself. All that mattered was proving a point. Showing the so-called Knight of the Sea—that here… In this hell he ruled—Jinbe wasn't the one in control. The hold fell into a suffocating silence. Jinbe's fist slowly lowered. Not in defeat. But in acknowledgment.
Seeing Jinbe take that single step back—It was enough. A cruel, triumphant smile spread across the pirate captain's face, his lips curling as if he had just won the battle outright.
"Break him…" he sneered, voice dripping with malice. "Break the filthy fish bastard." His eyes gleamed with greed as he glanced over Jinbe's bloodied frame. "Handing him in alive will fetch us far more than a corpse ever could…"
A low murmur rippled through the remaining pirates. They understood. The seas had changed—brutality was currency now. Ever since the Donquixote Family had set a new standard, public executions and spectacles of cruelty had become a message. A warning. And Jinbe—the so-called Knight of the Sea—would make for a perfect example.
"If he resists…" the captain added, pressing the rifle harder against the captive's temple, "start slitting throats. One by one." A pause. Then, with a cold smile— "But keep him alive."
The command was clear. And the pirates moved. Cautiously at first. Then with growing confidence. One stepped in and swung the butt of his rifle straight into Jinbe's ribs.
CRACK.
The impact landed clean. Jinbe didn't move. Didn't retaliate. Another followed—this time a blade, drawn across his side, shallow but deliberate. Blood spilled freely, staining his already torn clothes. Still—no response. They tested him. Prodded him. A punch to the gut. A kick to the knee. A hammering blow across his back.
Each strike landed harder than the last as the pirates realized something horrifying—he wasn't fighting back. Not because he couldn't. But because he wouldn't. Encouraged, they grew bolder. A chain was wrapped around his arms, tightening with each pull as two men strained to bind him. Another smashed a club across his shoulder—the same shoulder that had already been pierced earlier.
The wound reopened. Blood flowed faster. Jinbe staggered—just slightly. But he stayed on his feet. His breathing deepened. Controlled. Measured. His eyes—still calm. That unnerved them more than anything.
"Bring him down!" someone shouted. A blade stabbed into his side—deeper this time. Another struck his back. A spear thrust into his thigh. Each hit drew more blood. Each strike chipped away at flesh. But none broke him. Not his posture. Not his will.
Because every time his body tensed—every time instinct screamed at him to retaliate—his Observation Haki reminded him. Of the knives. Of the trembling captives. Of the lives balanced on a razor's edge. So he endured. Silently. Brutally.
Until finally, a heavy blow to the back of his knee forced him down. One leg buckled. Then the other. Chains tightened. Weapons pressed in from all sides. The pirates circled closer, their earlier fear now replaced by savage satisfaction as they forced the giant to kneel. The Knight of the Sea was brought low. Blood pooled beneath him, dripping steadily from his wounds. Yet even then—he did not bow his head.
"But… Captain…" A hesitant voice broke through the moment. One of the pirates—his arm twisted unnaturally from earlier—stepped forward, fear evident in his eyes. "He's too dangerous… we should just kill him now while we have the chance…"
His voice trembled. Because he had seen it. Felt it. Even together, they hadn't stood a chance. That 195 million bounty? It was a lie. An insult. Even their captain, with his 200 million, had been overpowered effortlessly. Keeping Jinbe alive was a gamble. A dangerous one.
BANG—!
The shot rang out without warning. The pirate froze. Then collapsed. The bullet had torn clean through his ribs, sending him crashing to the ground in a choking gasp. The hold fell silent. The captain lowered his rifle slowly, smoke curling from the barrel as his expression darkened.
"Are you saying…" he began, voice low and venomous, "that I should be afraid of this fish-man freak?" No one answered. No one dared. "Know your place, vermin." He stepped forward, boots echoing against the blood-soaked wood, his gaze sweeping across the remaining crew. "Anyone else… have a problem with taking him alive?"
Silence. Heavy. Absolute. Because fear had returned. Not of Jinbe—but of the man who now stood above them all. And at his feet—kneeling, battered, bleeding—was a monster they had barely managed to restrain.
****
A dozen miles away from the hidden cove—beneath the surface of the sea—a shadow moved. Not a creature. Not a current. But a ship. A massive galleon drifted silently through the depths, its hull coated and sealed, wrapped in a shimmering layer of bubbles that distorted its outline and masked its presence from prying eyes above. From the surface, there was nothing—no ripple, no sign that death was sailing just below.
But within that veil, a force gathered. Atop the mast, swaying gently even beneath the sea, a flag fluttered within the bubble's contained air. The Sun Pirates' Jolly Roger. Bold. Defiant. Unyielding.
Every soul aboard the ship was a fish-man—warriors of the sea, hardened by loss, sharpened by purpose. Weapons were being checked, blades honed, chains coiled, harpoons secured. Some tightened bindings around their fists, others rolled their shoulders, their gills flaring as they prepared for what was to come.
No laughter. No idle chatter. Only focus. Because tonight they were going to war. Their target—a hidden stronghold. A den of slavers. The same cove where, unbeknownst to them, Jinbe now knelt in chains.
At the center of the deck stood Fisher Tiger. Alone. Seated on a crate, his massive frame leaned slightly forward as his hands moved in steady rhythm—steel against stone.
Shhk… shhk… shhk…
A whetstone ran along the edge of his cutlass, each stroke deliberate and precise. But his eyes—they weren't there. They were elsewhere. Lost. Distant. His body bore the truth of what he had endured. Fresh scars crossed old ones, jagged and unhealed, carving a brutal map across his skin. The most prominent among them—a deep, savage gash that ran from his shoulder down to his navel—was still faintly raw, still angry against his flesh.
A wound that should have killed him. A fall that no one should have survived. From the summit of the Red Line itself. Even now, none of his crew truly understood how he lived. When they had found him, broken and sinking into the sea, he had been closer to death than life. It had taken two full months before he even opened his eyes again.
Two months of silence. Of waiting. Of hoping. And yet he had returned. As if death itself had refused to claim him.
"Brother Tiger…" The voice broke through his thoughts. A hammerhead shark fishman approached, stopping just short of him. For a moment, he hesitated—his gaze lingering on the scars, on the weight that seemed to sit permanently on his captain's shoulders.
"Brother Tiger… we are ready." The sharpening stopped. Tiger's hand paused mid-motion. For a brief second, the silence deepened. Then he exhaled slowly, the breath heavy, as if it carried something far greater than fatigue. Without a word, he slid the cutlass back into its scabbard and rose to his feet. Towering. Resolute. But not unburdened.
"Brother Tiger…" the same fish-man spoke again, this time more hesitant. "Are we… going to rescue the humans as well? Like last time…?"
There was a faint edge to his voice. Not defiance. But reluctance. The kind born from pain that hadn't healed. Tiger didn't answer immediately. His back remained turned. His gaze fixed ahead—though it seemed to look far beyond the ship, far beyond the sea itself.
For a moment, the past clawed its way forward. Flames. Chains. Screams. The Holy Land. And then—another memory. Ruins. Silence. Fish-Man Island. Gone. Because of him. Because of what he had done. No matter what others said—no matter how they tried to absolve him—he knew. His actions had lit the spark.
And the world had answered with annihilation. His people had paid the price. And yet— It was humans who had saved what little remained. Protected them. Sheltered them. Given them a future when their own world had been erased. Tiger's jaw tightened. His guilt had never left him. It never would.
"We save all the slaves," he said finally, his voice low but absolute. "No exceptions." He turned slightly, just enough for the weight of his gaze to fall upon the crew. "If I see any of you deliberately neglecting the human captives…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. The message was clear. The consequence understood. Silence followed. Not one among them dared to challenge him. Because this—
This was not a command born from ideology. It was one forged in regret. In responsibility.
In a debt he believed could never be repaid.
Tiger turned fully now, stepping forward as the crew instinctively parted before him. "Prepare to surface." His voice carried across the deck. Steady. Unshaken. "Tonight… we break their chains."
And as the Sun Pirates' vessel began its silent ascent toward the hidden cove—none of them knew—that among the captives they sought to save…was one of their own.