While Nami was conducting a symphony of lightning and Usopp was discovering the joys of becoming a physical juggernaut, the battle between the Cook and the Ballerina raged on the other side of the aquarium room.
To the untrained eye, it looked like a blur of black and pink. To a martial artist, it was a high-speed collision of two distinct kicking styles.
Sanji, the master of the Black Leg Style, moved with hands in his pockets, his body a fluid line of aggression.
Bon Clay (Mr. 2), the master of Okama Kenpo, moved with frantic, dizzying energy, spinning like a top and striking with the grace of a swan and the impact of a bullet.
"Swan Arabesque!" Bon Clay shouted, launching a high kick that aimed to decapitate the cook.
Sanji didn't even take his cigarette out of his mouth. He leaned back, the heel of the ballet slipper missing his nose by a millimeter.
"Too wide," Sanji critiqued.
He planted his hand on the floor and pivoted.
"Epaule Shoot!"
Sanji's heel drove downward like a pile driver, slamming into Bon Clay's shoulder.
CRACK.
The stone floor beneath Bon Clay shattered. The Okama agent grunted, his knees buckling under the sheer weight of the attack.
"Gaiaaaa!" Bon Clay shrieked, backflipping away to create distance. He rubbed his shoulder, grimacing. "You kick like a mule! A very stylish, well-dressed mule! But you cannot defeat the beauty of the Okama Way!"
Sanji exhaled a stream of smoke. He adjusted his tie.
"You're annoying," Sanji said flatly. "And your kicks are light. Are you sure you're an officer agent? Because I've fought appetizers tougher than you."
Bon Clay's eyes narrowed. He was losing. He knew it. Every time their legs clashed, his shins screamed in protest. This blonde pirate wasn't just fast; his bones felt like they were made of iron.
I can't beat him with strength, Bon Clay realized, pirouetting nervously. He's faster. He's harder. I need... a trick.
Bon Clay smiled. A wide, devious grin painted with thick lipstick.
"Oh, Mr. Prince! You are strong! But do you have the heart to crush a flower?"
"I stomp on weeds," Sanji said, stepping forward. "Ready for the main course?"
"Wait, wait!" Bon Clay waved his hands. "Look closely! Look at my face!"
Sanji frowned. "I'm looking. It's covered in makeup."
Bon Clay slapped his right hand against his cheek.
Slap.
His bone structure shifted. His hair shortened. His nose grew.
He transformed into a random, burly man Sanji had never seen.
"I ate the Mane Mane no Mi," Bon Clay explained, his voice changing to match the face. "I can become anyone I have touched!"
"So?" Sanji raised an eyebrow. "Now you're an ugly guy. I have no problem kicking ugly guys."
"Oh, really?" Bon Clay giggled. "Then what about... THIS?"
Bon Clay slapped his face again.
Poof.
The burly man vanished.
In his place stood a woman with short orange hair, large brown eyes, and a familiar, mischievous smile.
Nami.
Sanji froze mid-step. His heart stopped. His eyes turned into literal hearts.
"NAMI-SWAAAAAAAAAN!" Sanji noodle-danced, floating into the air. "Oh, Nami-san! You're here! Did you come to give me a kiss for good luck?"
The "Nami" smiled sweetly. "Yes, Sanji-kun. Come closer."
"I'm coming, my love!" Sanji sprinted forward, arms open for a hug.
"Memoirs of Winter: Throat Chop!"
The Nami-face vanished instantly, replaced by Bon Clay's grinning visage.
WHAM.
Bon Clay's stiffened hand slammed into Sanji's throat.
"Gah!" Sanji choked, clutching his neck. He stumbled back, wheezing.
"JOKING!" Bon Clay pirouetted away, laughing. "Un-Deux-Trois! You have a weakness! A big, heart-shaped weakness!"
Sanji coughed, massaging his throat. He glared at the Okama. "That was... cheap. Don't use her face."
"Oh? Does it bother you?" Bon Clay slapped his face again.
Nami reappeared. She looked at Sanji with teary eyes.
"Sanji... why do you want to kick me? Do you hate me?"
Sanji's leg, which had been raised for a Collier strike, froze in mid-air. He trembled.
"I... I can't..." Sanji stammered. "I can't kick Nami-san! Even if it's fake! The silhouette is sacred!"
"Prima Donna Kick!"
Bon Clay reverted instantly and slammed a heel into Sanji's ribs.
CRUNCH.
Sanji went flying, crashing into a stack of overturned chairs.
The fight shifted dramatically. It wasn't a battle of skill anymore; it was a torture session.
Every time Sanji wound up for an attack, Bon Clay turned into Nami.
Sanji would freeze. The chivalry drilled into him by Zeff, combined with his hopeless romanticism, acted like a physical kill-switch. He physically could not follow through.
BAM. A kick to the face.
SMACK. A chop to the kidneys.
THUD. A knee to the stomach.
Sanji lay on the ground, bleeding from his nose and mouth. He pushed himself up shakily.
"Stop it..." Sanji wheezed.
Bon Clay stood over him, wearing Nami's face. "What's the matter, Mr. Prince? Can't hit a lady? You are a fool! In a pirate fight, you use every advantage! If you don't fight back, you die!"
Sanji wiped the blood from his chin. He stood up, swaying slightly.
"I don't care if I die," Sanji muttered, lighting a fresh cigarette with shaking hands. "I was taught never to kick a woman. That is the law of the universe. If I break that... I'm not a man anymore."
"Then die as a man!" Bon Clay reverted to his true form, wound up his leg, and launched a massive, spinning kick. "BOMBARDIER ARABESQUE!"
Sanji watched the kick coming. He knew he could dodge it. But he also knew Bon Clay would just shift again.
I can't look, Sanji realized. My eyes are betraying me. The image stops my leg.
Sanji took a deep breath of nicotine.
He closed his eyes.
The world went dark.
"Giving up?!" Bon Clay shouted, his leg inches from Sanji's head.
In the darkness, Sanji didn't see Nami. He didn't see a woman.
He felt intent.
He felt a spike of aggressive energy. He felt the rush of wind. He felt the malicious, masculine spirit of the Okama aiming to break his skull.
There, Sanji thought.
Sanji ducked.
He didn't see the kick, but he moved perfectly under it. Bon Clay's leg swept through empty air.
"What?!" Bon Clay gasped.
Sanji kept his eyes closed. In the void, he could sense Bon Clay's presence like a burning fire.
"You can change your face," Sanji said softly, his voice calm. "But you can't change your soul. And your soul... smells like cheap cologne and sweat."
Bon Clay landed and backflipped. "Lucky dodge! Take this!"
He slapped his face. Nami appeared again.
"Sanji-kun! Help me!" the fake Nami cried, rushing forward.
Sanji didn't flinch. With his eyes closed, the visual trick was useless. He didn't see the teary eyes or the trembling lip. He only felt the attack coming.
He felt the muscle tension in Bon Clay's leg preparing for a sucker punch.
Sanji vanished.
He moved so fast he left an afterimage.
"Collier..."
Sanji reappeared in mid-air, right above the fake Nami.
Bon Clay looked up, shocked. "He's not stopping?! But I'm Nami!"
Sanji's leg came down like the axe of a guillotine.
"...SHOOT!"
SLAM.
His heel connected with the top of Bon Clay's head (who frantically reverted to his normal face at the last second to harden his defense).
The impact drove Bon Clay face-first into the floor. The stone erupted upward.
Bon Clay bounced off the ground, stunned, blood pouring from his forehead. He staggered back, his vision blurry.
"H-How..." Bon Clay stammered. "You kept your eyes closed! How did you know where I was?"
Sanji landed softly, his back to the enemy. He exhaled a long cloud of smoke. He opened his eyes, which were cold and blue.
"I stopped looking at the illusion," Sanji said. "And I started looking at the trash."
"Trash?!" Bon Clay raged. "I am a swan! MEMOIRS OF WINTER: FINAL DANCE!"
Bon Clay poured every ounce of his remaining strength into one final attack. He spun rapidly, generating enough wind to cut skin. He launched himself at Sanji like a human drill.
Sanji didn't turn around. He simply waited.
He sensed the approach. The screaming intent.
Right... there.
Sanji spun on his heel. His leg caught fire—the friction of his speed igniting the air.
"Diable Jambe..."
"FLAMBAGE SHOT!"
Sanji's flaming leg collided with Bon Clay's face.
The heat seared through the makeup. The force rearranged the bone structure.
Bon Clay was launched like a meteor. He flew across the room, smashing through three pillars, skipping off the ceiling, and finally embedding himself into the far wall, forming a star-shaped crater.
Bon Clay hung there for a moment, smoking.
"The Okama Way... never... dies..." he mumbled.
Then his eyes rolled back, and he slumped forward, unconscious.
Sanji lowered his leg. The flames died down. He patted the dust off his suit.
"Using a lady's face for a cheap shot," Sanji muttered, looking at the defeated agent. "That's a flavor I can't forgive."
He looked around the room. Nami was counting money. Usopp was flexing.
"Looks like we're done here," Sanji said.
---
Outside the Casino.
While the interior of Rain Dinners was a cacophony of destruction, the street directly behind the casino was eerily silent.
The wind blew gently, carrying grains of sand down the cobblestones. The moonlight cast long, sharp shadows.
The street, however, looked like a natural disaster had passed through it.
Buildings on either side were sliced cleanly in half. Some cuts were diagonal, some horizontal. The cuts were smooth, polished, as if a laser had severed the stone.
A lamppost slid slowly off its base, cut at a perfect 45-degree angle, and clattered to the ground.
In the middle of the street lay a man.
Mr. 1 (Daz Bones). The Assassin. The Dice-Dice Human. A man who could turn his entire body into steel blades.
He was lying on his back, staring up at the moon.
His trench coat was in ribbons. His steel body—the body he prided himself on, the body that was supposed to be invincible—was covered in a single, terrifyingly deep slash mark across his chest.
Blood pooled beneath him, dark and viscous.
"Monster..." Mr. 1 wheezed, blood bubbling at the corner of his mouth. "You... are a monster."
Standing ten feet away was Roronoa Zoro.
The Pirate Hunter was perfectly calm. He wasn't panting. He wasn't bleeding. There wasn't a speck of dust on his clothes.
He held Wado Ichimonji in his right hand. The white blade gleamed under the streetlights.
Zoro looked down at the defeated assassin with a look of mild disappointment.
"Is that it?" Zoro asked, his voice low and raspy. "I thought this would take longer."
He flicked Wado Ichimonji to the side, clearing the blood from the blade.
The fight had been short. Brutally short.
Mr. 1 had arrived, confident, turning his arms into rotating buzzsaws. He had attacked with the intent to mince Zoro into ribbons.
Zoro had simply walked through it. He had parried the steel blades as if they were made of tin. And then, with a single, decisive strike—Lion's Song—he had cut through Mr. 1's strongest defense like it was butter.
It wasn't a duel. It was an execution.
"Straw Hat..." Mr. 1 gritted his teeth, his consciousness fading. "What kind of crew... are you people?"
Zoro slowly guided Wado Ichimonji back into its white scabbard.
Click.
The sound of the sword locking home echoed in the silent street.
"We're the crew that's going to the top," Zoro said, turning his back on the fallen agent. "You were just a stepping stone. And a small one at that."
Zoro looked at the massive pyramid of Rain Dinners. He could hear explosions coming from inside. He could feel Luffy's chaotic energy spiking.
"Looks like the cook and the others are having fun," Zoro yawned, stretching his arms. "I guess I should go in. Maybe there's a liquor store in the lobby."
He began to walk toward the casino entrance, stepping over the unconscious body of Mr. 1 without a second glance.
The strongest agent of Baroque Works, the man who was supposed to be Crocodile's right hand, had been neutralized before the main party even started.