Chapter 8: Traditional Plot
During their first encounter, Crocodile had called Alvin Vergil a "primitive man."
That was fair.
The exact age of the ancient Poneglyph was unknown, but it was akin to others—dating back to before the Void Century, perhaps even earlier.
So labeling the awakened "humanoid creature" a primitive wasn't technically wrong.
Given that…
When the slave trader's whip cracked, the young man wailed, the onlookers were numb or indifferent, and a few even watched for entertainment…
Vergil pointed at the scene and uttered that line:
"I thought I was primitive enough…"
After he said it, Crocodile also looked at the slave traders. After a few seconds of silence, a low chuckle escaped him.
"Hehehehe…"
Was this a high-level joke from a primitive? It was actually amusing.
Crocodile was indifferent to the slave trade itself. But occasionally mocking the pretentious was a decent diversion.
From that angle, traveling with Alvin Vergil wasn't as unpleasant as he'd feared.
"There are far more 'primitive' things on these seas," Crocodile said, taking a drag. "You'll still—"
He stopped. The space beside him felt empty.
He turned. No sign of Vergil.
Where did that primitive go?
The familiar irritation surged. Crocodile had a bad feeling.
He looked down. Sure enough—right where Vergil had stood was a fresh, jagged crack in the ground.
No need to guess. Alvin Vergil's handiwork.
In his "Chīguǐ" form, Vergil could tear through earth and travel underground. But why activate it now? What was he planning?
Crocodile looked at the slave trader still whipping his stock. The answer clicked.
That primitive wasn't about to start trouble under the World Government's nose, was he?
Where were they?
The Red Line. The World Government's backyard. A single misstep could create waves.
Crocodile felt a headache coming on. All he wanted to know was how the primitive planned to handle this. Surely not a direct confrontation.
His eyes narrowed. After a moment's consideration, he slowed his pace, melting into a side passage to observe. Avoiding trouble wasn't his style; he preferred to spot opportunity in chaos.
Soon, the underground Vergil made his move.
Crocodile felt a faint vibration through the gravel underfoot. It traveled toward the slave convoy.
The trader, bored of beating, had finally re-coiled his whip and slumped onto the carriage seat. The onlookers lost interest and turned away.
Right then—
A subtle shift occurred beneath one of the slaves. Then, upward movement.
Whoosh!
A hole opened under the slave's feet. He vanished without a sound.
Interesting.
Crocodile savored his cigar. Alvin Vergil had fantastically creative applications for his power.
Letting the slaves drop quietly underground, then digging a tunnel for their escape? A clever, discreet solution.
These were cheap, common slaves. No explosive collars—just ordinary shackles. No risk of underground detonations.
As one slave disappeared, the earth smoothed over, leaving no trace.
One by one, silently, the slaves vanished.
By the time the slave trader noticed, dozens were gone.
His eyes bulged. He smacked his dozing subordinate awake. "Where are our goods?!"
The underling blinked, looking around blearily. "Dunno!"
The trader's face purpled with rage. He scanned the area wildly. "Have I seen a ghost?!"
Crocodile, leaning against the wall, allowed himself a soft, dark chuckle.
So Vergil wasn't impulsive. That was good. If word got out about a "living Poneglyph sculpture," every power on the sea—Government, Marines, pirates, underworld—would hunt him without rest. His evolution was rapid, but he couldn't stand against the entire world yet.
This subtle trick proved a degree of rationality.
But…
Crocodile grew curious. The slaves were rescued. Why wasn't Vergil back yet?
Hah. Surely he doesn't just want to vent on that beaten boy…
…Oh.
Not good.
Crocodile's head snapped up.
As predicted.
Two dark-green horns burst from the ground beneath the slave caravan's cargo wagon.
Then, a massive mound of earth erupted upward, shattering the wagon into splinters.
A hulking "monster" emerged, tearing free of the wreckage with a deafening roar.
"ROAR—!"
A humanoid beast over six meters tall. Crimson skin, dense muscle, prominent fangs, and eyes glowing with piercing red light.
Undoubtedly, the full beast form of Alvin Vergil's Mythical Zoan—the Chīguǐ.
Vergil's human form was a masterpiece of physique. His full beast form was raw, terrifying power.
He seized the slave trader and his lackey, one in each massive hand, and slammed them into the ground, embedding them in the soil. They went limp before they could even process what happened.
This sudden, blatant violence baffled Crocodile. How does he plan to escape now? Dig into the Red Line itself?
As he pondered, World Government guards swarmed the commotion.
They saw a destroyed wagon and a roaring monstrosity.
"A New World beast got loose?!" a guard shouted. "Open fire! Kill it!"
This was the Red Line. No mistakes allowed.
But ordinary bullets merely scratched the beast's hide. Ping! Ping! Thud!
After several volleys, the "beast" seemed enraged. It roared louder, swatted guards aside, and began to charge.
"…"
Crocodile watched, a touch of helplessness settling in. Well, so much for traveling together. A mess like this on the Red Line meant Vergil would be on the World Government's radar. Crocodile had plans in Alabasta. He didn't need that kind of attention.
He turned to leave, then froze.
The direction Vergil was charging… was straight toward him.
What?
Did this primitive, about to become a wanted man, intend to drag him down too?
Crocodile moved to evade, but Vergil's sprint was blindingly fast. He was before Crocodile in an instant.
Their eyes met.
Without a word, Vergil raised a fist and brought it down.
Crocodile instinctively raised a hand to block.
But the moment he did, Vergil's beastly head jerked up. A shrill, agonized wail tore from his throat—a beast's desperate, final imitation of human speech:
"NO—!!!"
Crack!
In the next instant, "Vergil's" massive form turned to crumbling stone and shattered apart.
"?"
Crocodile stared, astonished.
But a mind like his connected the dots swiftly. He understood Vergil's play.
He turned slowly, facing the encircling World Government guards, and allowed a dark, satisfied smile to curl his lips.
The result: Crocodile was showered with gratitude.
To the guards, this was a simple case of a wild beast escaping. The slave traders' own fault.
As one of the Seven Warlords, Crocodile had neutralized the threat, aiding the World Government. Compared to other, more erratic Warlords, this act would undoubtedly boost his standing.
After accepting the guards' thanks, Crocodile departed.
He walked a distance, turning into a deserted alley.
He took a long drag from his cigar, raised a brow, and addressed the empty space beside him with a low, amused growl. "That performance was terrible."
"Was it?"
Another voice.
A mound of earth rose beside Crocodile. Vergil emerged, shedding the Chīguǐ form and brushing dirt from his shoulders.
He grinned, shaking his head. "But I've always liked that kind of traditional plot."
"And…"
His fangs were still visible, a faint crimson glow lingering in his eyes.
"That was a blast."
(End of Chapter)
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