Van Augur moved like a shadow slipping through cracks in panic.
The streets of Alubarna had transformed from orderly avenues into veins of chaos. Civilians ran in every direction, clutching children, bundles, anything they could grab. Guards shouted contradictory orders, some trying to form lines, others abandoning posts entirely to rush toward the palace or the gates. Smoke drifted low, stinging the eyes. Somewhere, something exploded—stone grinding against stone in a thunderous echo that rolled through the city.
Augur kept his head down, cloak pulled close, senriku strapped across his back beneath layers of dust and sweat. He moved slowly, for speed attracted attention, and attention was death in a crowd like this.
A guard nearly collided with him at an intersection, stumbling back with a sharp breath. His helmet was askew, eyes wide and unfocused.
Augur caught him by the shoulder.
"What happened?" Augur asked flatly.
The guard swallowed hard. "I-it's the Carragher pirates! They're here! They broke through the siege and pushed all the way to the capital!"
Augur's eyes narrowed. "How?"
The guard's composure cracked. "I don't know! Half our army is dead! The others—" his voice dropped to a near wail, "—they were never meant to win! The pirates in Nanohana were just a distraction. They burned towns, drew us out, split our forces. When we moved, the main fleet punched straight through!"
Augur released him.
"And Nanohana?" he asked.
The guard laughed, a hysterical sound. "Gone. Everything's gone. They want slaves now. Or worse." He clutched his spear tighter. "I'm going to die."
He bolted without another word.
Augur watched him disappear into the mass of bodies, then exhaled slowly.
So that was it.
Carragher hadn't merely attacked for the sake of it. He had planned everything out beforehand.
Augur's mind worked coldly, methodically. The captain had been taken to the palace. The kingdom will believe Jack to be part of Carragher's forces—a scout, an infiltrator. That meant heavy security, lockdowns, interrogation. Extraction would be difficult even under ideal conditions.
And these were far from ideal.
Another explosion shook the street.
Augur turned away from the fleeing civilians and headed toward the outer wall, slipping through side alleys, vaulting debris, ducking beneath hanging banners. The soundscape shifted as he moved—closer to the walls, the screams thinned, replaced by the roar of cannons and the barked cadence of military commands.
He reached a junction where several guards stood frozen, staring at the smoke beyond the ramparts.
One of them had slumped against the wall, helmet discarded, eyes glassy.
Augur struck him once. The guard collapsed without a sound.
Augur stripped the uniform quickly. It fit poorly around the shoulders and legs, stretched tight across his chest, but it would suffice. He donned the helmet last, tugging it low.
Then he climbed.
The wall was alive with activity.
Cannons boomed in irregular rhythm, recoil jolting stone beneath Augur's boots as he stepped onto the parapet. Soldiers ran ammunition back and forth, some bleeding, some shouting, some simply staring into the distance like men watching the end of the world approach.
An officer noticed him almost immediately.
"You!" the man barked, face red beneath his helm. "Why are you standing there? Get to firing! You've got a big gun—use it!"
Augur said nothing.
He unslung senriku.
The rifle drew looks—curiosity, admiration. Someone whistled. "That thing'll punch through a ship."
Augur took position at the edge and raised the scope.
The view beyond the walls was grim.
Pirate ships crowded the horizon, black sails tearing through smoke. Hundreds—no, more. Men poured forward in waves, banners flying, blades raised. The remaining Arabasta forces formed desperate lines, shields up, pikes braced, but they were being swallowed by sheer numbers and brutality.
Augur's jaw tightened.
The largest standing army in the Grand Line, reduced to a delaying force.
Incompetence.
The only other thing he didn't like, the first being damage to his beloved gun.
He adjusted the scope and fired.
The shot cracked through the air.
A pirate dropped, spinning backward, armor punched clean through.
The officer slapped Augur's shoulder. "That's it! Keep firing!"
Augur did.
Again. And again.
Bodies fell—pirates, soldiers, sometimes both in a single line. He did not discriminate. His face remained expressionless as the scope tracked targets with mechanical precision.
He remembered, distantly, that he was now a pirate himself.
It didn't matter.
The officer continued shouting praise, oblivious to the fact that Augur's bullets were tearing through Arabasta ranks just as efficiently.
Then Augur saw something that made his finger pause on the trigger.
Two figures, unmistakable even at distance.
Pintel.
Ragetti.
They were staggering forward through the chaos, chained, battered—and carrying a palanquin.
Augur stared.
"What," he muttered, "the hell…"
The palanquin was absurdly intact, swaying as they moved, somehow untouched by cannon fire or stampeding bodies. Guards lunged at them; pirates clashed around them.
Augur fired twice.
The attackers fell.
Pintel and Ragetti stumbled but kept moving.
Augur's tongue clicked against his teeth.
Of all the places.
Of all the times.
He rose from his firing position.
The officer turned, incredulous. "Where are you going? You're the only thing slowing them down!"
Augur stepped past him. "I'm deserting."
The officer spluttered. "You can't! You'll be court-martialed!"
Augur didn't look back.
Behind him, the city burned.