"Why hasn't the Captain returned yet?"
Inside a domed, reinforced safehouse in the royal capital, the atmosphere was thick with tension and cigarette smoke.
Several people were pacing or sitting on the plush sofas of the hall.
Though they weren't wearing official uniforms, their sharp suits and cold demeanors bore the distinct, arrogant mark of the CP Organization.
"The Captain went to the palace to secure the King," a tall agent said, checking his pocket watch for the tenth time.
"He should be back soon."
"Those damned commoners won't break through Coal-Iron City that quickly," another scoffed, lighting a fresh cigarette from the butt of his last one.
"We still have time."
"Have you called the Marines? What did they say?" the tall man snapped at a beautiful woman sitting by the transponder snail.
She shook her head, her expression helpless. "I just contacted the base. It's bad news. Most of their personnel have been dispatched to hunt down Byrnndi World. The naval forces remaining in the Eryoku Kingdom are extremely weak. They simply don't have the capability to suppress a hundred thousand rebelling miners."
BANG!
The tall man slammed his palm hard against the wall, smashing a large hole in the plaster.
"Damn it! What should we do then?!"
He didn't care about the rebel army—that was the Captain's concern.
He cared about his own skin!
He still had so much embezzled Belly left to spend and had absolutely no desire to die in a backwater industrial kingdom.
"Can't they just send one warship to pick us up? We have priority clearance!" The woman sighed.
"They said the naval base can only dispatch one ship, and that's specifically sent to pick up King Edward III. Everyone else... has to find their own way out. We've been abandoned."
The tall man scratched his head irritably andkpaced around the room like a caged tiger.
The other men were equally anxious, smoking cigarette after cigarette until the entire room was filled with a dense, choking blue haze.
"Cough, cough, cough... why are you guys smoking so much? It's bad for your health, you know."
In the tense, quiet environment, a boy's voice suddenly cut through the smoke.
Everyone froze.
They spun around, looking toward the hole the tall man had just punched in the wall.
A boy wearing black breeches and a black short-sleeved shirt was sitting casually in the window frame, swinging his legs.
"Kid," a man with a ridiculous rooster-comb hairstyle growled, approaching with his cigarette dangling from his lip.
"This isn't a place for you. Get lost. Do you know where this is?" He reached out to grab the boy's collar.
Swish.
The boy dodged the outstretched hand with effortless grace, a slight, mocking smile playing on his lips.
"Of course I do," he chirped. "This is the CP organization's secret hideout, right?"
The boy's words made the previously indifferent group shudder.
Their eyes suddenly went cold, revealing the killing intent of trained assassins.
The rooster-comb man stared intently. "How do you know that?"
The murderous aura facing him didn't affect the boy in the slightest.
He hopped down from the window.
"My name is Miles," he announced proudly. "North Blue Vice commander Christian Raleigh is my master. He's the one who told me."
After hearing Miles' words, the CP organization members visibly relaxed.
The tension drained from their shoulders.
"Oh! You're from the Marines?"
"That's great, young man! Send our regards to Rear Admiral Raleigh!"
"Where is the Marine ship docked? Take us there quickly. We need to leave immediately."
The people in the hall were extremely excited.
They had thought this was an insurmountable crisis, but now that a messenger from Raleigh had appeared, they felt saved.
Miles revealed a bright, innocent smile.
"Sorry, everyone. My master didn't send any warships for you."
The rooster-haired man stopped, confused. "What? Rear Admiral Raleigh sent you but didn't arrange for a ship? Did he send you here to die with us?"
Miles shook his head and said very seriously, "No, you misunderstand. The ones who will die aren't me." His eyes turned sharp.
"The ones who will die... are you."
After hearing Miles' words, everyone's minds went blank for a second.
"Wh-what do you mean by that?" the tall man stammered.
CRASH!
Just as he was about to question the boy, the circular glass dome above them shattered.
A tall figure dropped from the skylight, landing silently in the center of the room.
At the same time, the doors burst open.
Over a dozen enemies poured in from various parts of the building, blocking every exit.
The one who jumped down from above was Momonga, his hand resting on his katana.
Blocking the main entrance were Bell-mère, Hans, and Beck, dressed in rebel rags but holding Marine-issue rifles.
And at the broken wall stood the new generation, Miles, with a young woman carrying a flag hidden in the shadows behind him—Belo Betty.
"Marines?!" The tall CP agent roared, drawing a hidden pistol. "What's the meaning of this?! Are you opposing the World Government?!"
Strangely enough, both were organizations under the World Government.
But the CP organizations and the Marines had always viewed each other with disdain.
The Marines thought CP members were government lapdogs, completely lacking their own will or justice.
Meanwhile, CP members thought the Marines were blunt instruments, too rebellious and self-righteous.
Their relationship was complex—sometimes cooperating, sometimes undermining each other.
But incidents like today, where the Marines openly attacked a CP stronghold? That was unheard of.
"Damn you, cursed Marines!" the rooster-haired man screamed, his face twisting. "You think you can take us? We are elite agents! Even if you want to kill us, it won't be easy!"
Momonga stood in the center of the room, surrounded by the agents.
His eyes held a cold trace of disgust.
"Elite?" Momonga said, his voice calm. "You didn't even notice the air change."
He slowly drew his blade.
"The battle has ended before it even began."
As soon as he finished speaking, the CP members who had raised their weapons suddenly convulsed.
Cough! Hack!
Simultaneously, they spat out mouthfuls of black blood.
Everyone's complexion turned a sickly shade of purple, and green veins rapidly climbed up their necks and faces.
"What... what the hell is this?!"
"I can't... breathe..." The rooster-haired man collapsed, clawing at his throat, screaming hoarsely.
Momonga casually raised his hand, grabbing a handful of the swirling smoke in the room.
It condensed in his palm.
"I'm a Mist-Mist Fruit User," Momonga explained coolly to the dying men. "While you were nervously chain-smoking earlier, I used the fruit's power to blend a colorless, odorless toxin into the haze."
He dispersed the mist with a wave.
"Actually, I should thank you for smoking so much. It made the distribution system very efficient. Otherwise, my plan wouldn't have been completed so easily."
After being tempered by Raleigh and Zephyr, Momonga's combat style had evolved.
He was no longer the straightforward swordsman who only charged forward recklessly.
He now contemplated how to achieve victory at the smallest cost.
While Miles distracted them, Momonga had turned their own anxiety into their executioner.