"We're here to capture him. Please cooperate—only then can we catch him quickly and help recover your losses."
After a long silence, the burly man at the front still didn't speak.
Karl sighed helplessly and turned to Smoker.
"Take all the Marines back to the ship. Ain and I will stay."
"Why?" Smoker asked, confused.
Karl didn't answer.
I can't exactly say it's because you don't look trustworthy…
Once Smoker and the others withdrew, only Karl and Ain remained—and they instantly looked far less threatening.
"Now it's just us. Please trust us—trust the Marines."
The burly man covered his mouth and coughed lightly, then turned to the people behind him.
"Everyone, lower your guns."
He faced Karl again.
"Rear Admiral Karl, hello. I'm Joe, the mayor here. Just call me Old Joe. We really had no choice earlier…"
Karl smiled and waved it off.
"It's fine. I understand. I just need some information about Gasparde."
"Sigh… two days ago…"
Some time later, Karl and Ain returned to the harbor. They had obtained almost everything they needed.
"Well… this just got troublesome," Karl muttered.
"What's wrong?" Smoker asked, baffled.
Karl glanced at Ain, who explained,
"Gasparde stole a steamship here called the Salamander. It's extremely fast—he's probably long gone by now."
Smoker grew anxious.
"Then what do we do? We can't just let him roam free!"
Karl rubbed his temples, recalling what Mayor Joe had told them.
Gasparde could reshape parts of his body at will—and bullets didn't work on him.
That sense of familiarity surfaced again.
Is this guy a plot character?
Tch… even small fry can be annoying.
"Ain, what islands are nearby?" Karl asked.
"Hold on—I'll check the chart."
Ain spread out the sea map and listed them one by one.
"Selum, Mastar Island, Windrest Island, Banana Island, Levik Port…"
"Is that all?"
Ain shook her head.
"No. There's also an island called Hannabal, but it—"
"Wait."
Hannabal.
The name rang a bell.
"We're going to Hannabal."
Ain and Smoker looked at each other, then spoke in unison.
"Why?"
"Instinct."
Alright. You're the boss.
Karl, meanwhile, was confident—he'd remembered it.
Gasparde was the Gummy-Gummy Fruit user.
Its nature was similar to Katakuri's Mochi-Mochi Fruit. Properly developed, it could be terrifying—but with Gasparde's level, it wouldn't amount to much.
"Set sail immediately!"
Hannabal.
An awkward name, but the island itself was a genuine drifting island.
Its magnetic field was unstable, making it impossible for Log Poses to record—finding it required a bit of luck.
Fortunately, the Marines had long since studied Hannabal's drifting pattern.
Locating it was easy.
After just three days, they reached the surrounding waters.
From afar, the island looked like a massive roadblock. A towering peak rose at its center—and more bizarrely, a waterfall cascaded straight from the summit into the sea.
"It's said Hannabal hosts a death race every year," Ain said.
"The rewards are enormous, attracting countless pirates."
"In other words, it's a pirate gathering ground. If we go in openly, we'll likely alert the target."
Karl nodded.
"Good point. Ain, you stay on the ship. Smoker and I will go in."
"Why am I always the one staying behind?"
Karl raised an eyebrow.
"…Fine."
To avoid drawing attention, Smoker changed into a drifter's outfit, while Karl wore the classic boss tourist set—floral shirt, beach shorts, flip-flops, and oversized sunglasses.
"That should do it. We shouldn't get noticed. Let's go."
As for getting from the ship to Hannabal—
Eight immortals cross the sea; each shows their own skill.
Smoker dispersed into smoke and flew off.
Karl, meanwhile, mounted an enlarged Raven. Using Moon Step would've been too tiring.
Hannabal
Their arrival caused no stir at all.
Smoker nailed the rough aura perfectly, and Karl looked exactly like a casual tourist.
"Tch… this place is crawling with pirates," Karl muttered.
"Small fry," Smoker replied.
"Don't forget our objective."
Smoker nodded, and the two entered a tavern filled with tattooed, unsavory types—none of them looked clean.
After ordering two glasses of rum, Smoker approached the bar and asked quietly,
"Is the death race held here?"
The flat-topped bartender eyed him.
Menacing face, knife scars, sloppy clothes.
Pirate or thug—either way.
"What do you want? Competing or betting?"
Smoker exhaled a smoke ring and chuckled.
"Betting, of course."
He pulled out a thick wad of cash and pretended to sniff it.
"Follow me."
Smoker glanced back at Karl and winked. Karl followed immediately.
The bartender led them into a hidden room, closed the door, and lit a lantern, illuminating the space.
Ahead was a pitch-black tunnel—like an abandoned mine.
"Go straight. When you reach the end, you'll know. That's as far as I take you."
Smoker said nothing and walked in. Karl smiled at the bartender.
"No danger, right?"
"Relax. You're customers."
Karl pretended to relax, took the lantern, and followed.
After about five minutes, light appeared ahead.
"This must be it… Quite the hidden world," Karl said.
Inside the mountain lay an underground casino. Pirate flags hung everywhere. Pirates crowded together—eating, gambling, drinking.
"Hey! You two here to gamble? The bookie's upstairs!"
"Thanks!"
At the top level sat the so-called bookie—a fat man with rolls of flesh, a fair-skinned beauty perched on his lap.
He grinned when he saw them.
"Here to bet?"
"Yes," Smoker replied, placing a stack of Beli on the table.
"But I don't know who to bet on. Any popular contenders?"
The fat man pocketed the money with a laugh.
"Of course. Here's the roster. All the seeded fighters are on it."
Karl took the list and flipped through quickly.
When he saw the man with the broad chin in the photo, a smile spread across his face.
"Smoker," Karl said calmly,
"let's bet on him."
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