Two days passed before anyone was fit to sail. Bullets, bruises, and broken pride had simply taken a vote, and the vote had been unanimous.
Bege's compound had turned into an unpleasant kind of hospital. Someone—Jack suspected it was Enoy, solely because Enoy looked perpetually furious—had assigned actual doctors to the pirates, which Jack found faintly insulting.
"I'm perfectly healthy," Jack had announced on the first day, swaying slightly while holding rum like it was a medical certificate.
Gibbs had stared at him, then at the doctor, then back at Jack. "He's not healthy. He poured rum to a burn wound."
Jack had tried to argue, but the doctor had jabbed him somewhere that made him yelp and promise to behave. He did not behave, but he did yelp less, which everyone agreed was progress.
Pintel's ankle was wrapped so many times it looked like a stuffed sausage, and he insisted on limping dramatically even when no one was watching. Ragetti had begun to believe he was blessed.
Van Augur spent those two days in silence, cleaning his rifle, checking its mechanisms, and observing everyone as though he were studying a new species. Robin kept to herself, reading, though Jack noticed she turned pages slower than usual whenever she thought no one was looking, as if her mind kept drifting back to burning libraries and screaming scholars.
On the morning they left, the air tasted like salt and gunpowder.
Two ships departed the harbor at dawn.
Bege's vessel went first.
It looked like a Marine warship because it had been one—only now it wore no insignia, no moral pretense. The hull was thick, angular, reinforced like a floating vault. Cannons lined its sides; Bege had placed them trying to maximize the amount of canons he could. Barrels of gunpowder were strapped in nets, stacked in crates, shoved into compartments that ought to contain food or medical supplies or, ideally, nothing that could explode. The whole ship smelled faintly of oil and smoke.
Bege had explained it with a smile that was half pride and half spite. "Old Marine ship. Repurposed. The Government throws away plenty. I just paid a guy I know who is in the business of taking Government's rejected trash enough to let me repurpose this ship for my own safety."
The Black Pearl followed behind, and the difference was immediate.
Where Bege's ship moved like a marching line of steel and looked intimidating, the Pearl was still faster. Her black sails caught even the slightest breath of wind. Her hull cut through the water like butter.
Jack stood at the helm. One hand rested lazily on the wheel, the other held rum. His hat sat at a slightly wrong angle, which somehow made it look more correct on him.
Augur stood near the mainmast, rifle in hand, calmly cleaning the barrel, checking the scope, then checking it again. Every movement was economical, and calculated. He did keep eyeing the horizon once every while.
Pintel climbed into the crow's nest. "If I spot anything," he shouted down, "I'll shout a special signal! How about 'OH-OH-OOO'?!"
"Just shout normally," Gibbs called back.
"Special signals can confuse our enemies!" Pintel replied. Gibbs sighed and ignored Pintel for the rest of the time.
Below deck, Ragetti had been assigned to the kitchen, to prepare a victory feast in advance. He stood beside a stove, frowning at a cookbook as if the letters were personally mocking him. Robin sat at the table with the book open, reading aloud slowly and patiently.
"It says… simmer," Robin explained.
Ragetti stared into the pot. "It's hot."
"That's boiling."
"So it's… aggressively simmering."
Robin's mouth twitched. "No. Lower the fire."
Ragetti lowered the fire, then watched the pot suspiciously like it might wake up and scream the difference between simmer and boil.
Gibbs stood at the railing, looking out over the sea. His posture was calm, but his eyes weren't. He'd served merchants, watched pirates, seen Marines smile while lying through their teeth. He'd learned to recognize the weight of a bad plan the same way sailors recognized storms: before it arrived, before it could be avoided.
He stepped toward Jack, boots tapping the deck.
Jack didn't look up. "If this is about the rum, the answer is no."
Gibbs ignored him. "Bege's plan is full of holes."
Jack took a sip. "How can a plan have holes?"
"It.... anyway," Gibbs said flatly. "We're going after Chinjao with gunpowder and looking to fool him. It's like we're hunting a sea king with kitchen knives. If it were that easy, Bege would've done it long ago."
Jack finally glanced at him, eyes narrowing slightly, expression thoughtful.
Gibbs leaned in, lowering his voice. "He's going to sacrifice us. Use us as the bait and walk away with the treasure."
Jack's gaze slid past Gibbs toward the trailing warship. Bege's ship looked heavy against the sunrise, a floating threat. Men moved across its deck like ants.
For a moment, Jack didn't speak.
Then he smiled, slow and bright.
"Well then," he said pleasantly, "we'll sacrifice Beach instead."
Gibbs blinked. "It's Bege."
Jack waved a hand. "Tomato, potato."
"That's not—"
"Mister Gibbs," Jack interrupted gently, "if someone intends to throw me into the sea, I prefer to throw them first."
Gibbs stared at him for a second, then exhaled slowly. "I don't like that I find comfort in that sentence."
Jack grinned. "You will, eventually."
Gibbs shuddered, "Maybe I don't want to."
The rest of the day passed in uneasy calm.
They sailed deeper into Kano waters, the sea widening and the sky clear.
The next day began as an ordinary day for the Happo Navy.
The Happosai, their flagship, cut through the sea with pride. Its yellow tiger figurehead bared carved fangs, eyes wide and fierce. "Happo" was written across its main sail in bold characters, a warning.
They were pirates by name, but in practice they were an arm of Kano's economy. They hunted pirates unlucky enough to drift near their waters, stripped them of goods, and delivered wealth back to their king. They were feared, respected, and—most importantly—useful.
Don Chinjao sat beneath a canopy on the deck, a massive man who somehow looked smaller than his reputation. His body still carried strength, but there was a heaviness in the way he rested his arms, in the way he breathed. His head, once tall and sharp like a drill, was flattened—collapsed telescopically from the day Monkey D. Garp's fist had crushed his pride along with bone.
Sai, his grandson, sat nearby. Thirteen years old, eyes bright, jaw set with youthful certainty. He watched the sea with curious eyes as if he might spot a whale.
A subordinate hurried forward. "Don Chinjao! Report!"
Chinjao didn't look up. "Speak."
"A black ship on the horizon," the man said. "Black sails."
Sai perked up immediately. "Black ship? Pirates?"
Chinjao's only reaction was a slow grunt. "So?"
"It's unusual," the man insisted. "It could be a pirate crew attempting to pass through our waters."
Chinjao's hand lifted, touched his flattened head absentmindedly. The gesture held bitterness inside it like a locked box. "Unusual ships come and go. I'm not rising for every ship, no matter the color."
Sai looked at him, disappointed. "Grandfather—"
Chinjao raised a hand. "Send the Ipposai."
The subordinate hesitated. "All seven?"
Chinjao's eyes shifted, cold for a moment. "Yes. They've been idle too long. Let them gain experience. If it's nothing, it wastes time. If it's something, they'll earn gold."
The subordinate bowed and rushed away.
Chinjao leaned back again, as if the matter were settled.
And for him, it was.
On the horizon, the Black Pearl approached like a dark rumor.
Pintel spotted the sails first, then the glint of seven smaller ships behind them—fast, aggressive, tightening like a net.
"Seven ships!" Pintel shouted from the crow's nest. "Fast ones! Coming in hot!"
Jack lifted his spyglass, casual as ever. Through the lens, he saw the Ipposai: seven ships bearing "Happo" on their sails, smaller than the flagship but clearly trained, moving in formation with the confidence of men who believed numbers were a substitute for skill.
Gibbs didn't bother with a spyglass. His eyes were on the water, on angles, on distance. "Orders, Captain?"
Jack smiled. "Proceed as planned."
The Pearl shifted course slightly.
To the Ipposai crews, it looked like the black ship was turning away and fleeing.
"Speed up!" one of their captains shouted. "Don't let it escape!"
They surged forward.
Jack kept the Pearl's speed deliberately restrained, but not slow enough to be caught up. He let them close the distance, let them taste the chase. He wanted them behind him, exactly where he needed them.
Then the trap tightened.
"Ship astern!" a lookout on the trailing Ipposai screamed.
The seventh ship, farthest back, spotted it first: a bulky vessel emerging from the morning haze like a steel fist. It hadn't been visible a moment ago. It was closing fast.
The trailing Ipposai fired a warning flare and signaled the others.
The formation faltered.
Confusion rippled through the crews.
On Bege's warship, Capone Bege stood near the bow, cigar in hand. The wind tugged at his coat, and beneath it, the faint clink of weapons and mechanisms made his men uneasy. He watched the Ipposai ships ahead like a man watching dice roll across a table—already knowing which numbers he wanted.
He glanced toward the Pearl and scowled. "That ship… it shouldn't be that fast."
Enoy stood beside him, face tight. "Orders, Boss?"
Bege exhaled smoke. "Fire."
Enoy relayed the order, and the warship's cannons roared.
Iron slammed into the trailing Ipposai before it could even aim properly. The first volley shattered its railing and ripped its mast. The second tore through its hull. The third ignited something inside—gunpowder, oil, fear—and the ship erupted in flame.
Men screamed.
Sails burned.
Wood split.
The ship broke apart like a toy.
Bege's lips curled into a satisfied smirk. "Reload."
His men moved with practiced speed. This was what Bege loved: control through firepower, outcomes decided by who had the bigger gun.
He watched the Pearl ahead increase speed slightly, slipping farther away from the remaining six ships.
Bege's smirk deepened. "Move to the next."