The gathering in Nanohana was not an ordinary gathering.
The port square—what remained of it—reeked of smoke, sweat, spilled wine, and blood that had already begun to darken under the sun. Burned merchant stalls leaned like broken teeth. Half-crushed perfume crates leaked sickly sweetness into the air, mixing grotesquely with the iron tang of death.
Pirates filled the space.
Hundreds of them. Thousands even.
Some sat on looted crates, counting coins and gems with greedy fingers. Some drank openly, laughing about the women they had chased, the guards they had gutted, the homes they had burned. Others sharpened blades or checked firearms, eyes flicking constantly, measuring everyone else in the crowd.
Among them stood the Munna Pirates.
Munna himself stayed near the back, arms crossed, scarred face unreadable. He had survived long enough in the underworld to know when bravado was a liability. The Carragher Pirates were not a loose coalition. They were predators with hierarchy—and hierarchy always meant blood.
A raised platform had been assembled hastily from broken ship planks and overturned wagons.
Onto it stepped Gerrard.
Silence spread outward like a tide.
Gerrard was tall and lean, posture impeccable even amid the chaos. A long coat hung neatly from his shoulders, untouched by soot or ash. Thin, sharp glasses rested on his nose, reflecting the burning city in pale glints. At his side hung a katana—plain, undecorated, and unmistakably well-used.
He stood there, hands folded behind his back, and waited.
The pirates quieted one by one.
When Gerrard spoke, his voice carried effortlessly—calm, measured, and cold enough to cut.
"Congratulations," he said. "Nanohana has fallen."
A few cheers broke out. Gerrard allowed them to echo for exactly three seconds before raising one finger.
Silence returned.
"I know what you're thinking," he continued. "About the loot. About what you've taken. About what you believe you own now."
A pirate near the front scoffed loudly. "What's there to distribute? Finders keepers!"
Several pirates laughed. A few shouted agreement.
Munna did not.
He watched Gerrard's glasses catch the sunlight.
Gerrard tilted his head slightly. "You. Who are you?"
The pirate puffed his chest. "Captain America!"
A ripple of confusion passed through the crowd.
Gerrard's lips twitched—not quite a smile. "Captain America. Is that your name? Or are you America who happens to be a captain?"
The man's grin vanished. "That's my name. Given proudly by my mother. And let me tell you this in advance, I won't take insults about my name from some coat-wearing clerk."
The square went dead silent.
Gerrard nodded slowly. "Are you a member of the Carragher fleet?"
"No," Captain America said loudly. "I'm a pirate. Pirates bow to none!"
A few pirates opened their mouths to shout agreement.
They never got the chance.
There was a flash—so fast that Munna barely registered movement—and a soft, almost gentle sound.
Shk.
Captain America stood there for half a second longer, eyes wide.
Then his body slid apart.
Blood hit the sand in two separate arcs.
The top half collapsed backward. The bottom half crumpled forward.
Gerrard stood where he had been, katana already sheathed. Not a single drop of blood stained him.
Someone gagged.
Someone else dropped their bottle of rum.
Gerrard looked over the crowd calmly. "Anyone else prefer to keep their own share?"
No one spoke.
Even the pirates who had shouted moments earlier stared at the ground, throats tight.
Gerrard nodded, satisfied. "The Carragher Pirates will take sixty percent. The rest will be divided among you."
He paused. "Objections?"
Heads shook. Some too quickly.
"Good." Gerrard's tone warmed by exactly nothing. "Nanohana is not our goal. It is a stepping stone."
Murmurs spread.
"Our true objective," Gerrard said, voice sharpening, "is all of Arabasta."
The square erupted.
Cheers. Roars. Ambition spilled freely now.
Gerrard raised his hand again, cutting through the noise. "Arabasta has the largest standing army in the Grand Line. They will attempt to surround Nanohana. They will hope the Marines cut us off at sea."
A few pirates exchanged nervous glances.
"We do not wait for them," Gerrard said. "We move first."
He leaned forward slightly. "They must protect civilians. Refugees. Cities. We do not."
A murmur of ugly understanding passed through the crowd.
"We mix with them. We use them as shields. While the main Carragher pirates draws the army away along the coast, you march on Alubarna."
The cheers now were feral.
"Take the capital," Gerrard finished. "And the kingdom falls."
Munna felt a slow grin spread across his face.
This was better than he'd hoped.
------
Alubarna – Royal Palace
King Nefertari Cobra looked like a man carrying a country on his spine.
His once-proud posture sagged as he leaned over the map table, fingers pressed against his temples. Dark circles ringed his eyes. His beard was untrimmed. In three days, he truly had aged ten years.
Chaka stood before him, voice steady but grim. "The Carragher main fleet is attacking coastal settlements. Refugee camps. Smaller cities."
Cobra closed his eyes. "Pell?"
"Still insists on maintaining the siege on Nanohana," Chaka replied. "He believes abandoning it will show weakness."
Igaram, standing stiffly to the side, spoke up. "Your Majesty, this has gone beyond pride. We must call the Marines."
Cobra opened his eyes slowly.
"The people are dying," Igaram continued. "Every day. Our treasury bleeds. Our army is stretched thin."
Chaka said nothing, but his jaw tightened.
Cobra stared at the map—at Nanohana, Alubarna, the coastlines marked with spreading red.
Finally, he straightened.
"Chaka," he said quietly. "Take half the army. Engage the Carragher main fleet. Protect our citizens."
Chaka bowed deeply. "At once."
Cobra turned to Igaram. His voice wavered only slightly. "Send word to the World Government. To the Five Elders."
Igaram stiffened. "Your Majesty—"
"Tell them," Cobra said, swallowing his pride, "that the Nefertari family asks for aid."
The word tasted like ash.
--
Somewhere in the Desert
Jack Sparrow trudged forward, sand crunching under his boots, squinting at the horizon.
Behind him, Van Augur walked in silence.
Between them, Crocodile walked stiffly, bandages darkened with fresh blood, eyes sharp despite exhaustion.
Jack broke the silence. "So. Alubarna. Big city. Palace. Probably good taverns."
Crocodile did not respond.
Jack glanced at her. "You really don't want to talk about it, do you?"
"I said no."
Augur watched the horizon. "We are not the only ones heading to the capital."
Jack frowned. "Meaning?"
Augur nodded toward a distant plume of smoke.
Jack followed his gaze. His expression sobered.
"Ah," he said quietly. "That would explain the screaming."
Crocodile's jaw clenched.
Jack adjusted his hat, pain flickering briefly across his face before he masked it with a grin.
"Well then," he said. "Seems like we've wandered into something big."