Chapter 12: Smooth
Back on the ship leaving Punk Hazard, Crocodile had tossed Vergil a spare set of clothes.
Crocodile's wardrobe was fine—a long coat over a casual suit.
But Vergil's body was already near "perfection." This wasn't just about his face; his proportions and musculature were the idealized masterpiece of an ancient sculptor. Even a modern master would need years, perhaps decades, to replicate him flawlessly.
Such a physique naturally drew eyes. It was life's instinctive attraction to "beauty."
Because of this, the dancers had been especially enthusiastic.
They'd greeted the tall, perfectly-proportioned young man, thinking it far better to entertain him than some smelly pirates.
But just as they were about to enter the tavern, a mustached man with two burly guards blocked Vergil's path.
"Impressive physique, young man!"
"Seeing you're in such shape… Interested in making some serious money?"
In just two sentences, the words "bad intentions" were practically written on his face.
But Vergil's guileless expression made Mustache mistake him for a fresh, gullible rookie.
So Mustache pressed on. "Brother, it's rare to come to Sabaody. Don't you want to make a name for yourself here? Earn a fortune before entering the New World?"
"I've got a great opportunity!"
Mustache raised a hand. His guards immediately produced two briefcases.
Click!
They opened, stuffed with berry notes.
"I run a fighting arena. I organize matches."
"You look like you can handle yourself. How about it? Want to give it a try at my place?"
Mustache gestured grandly. "Just for showing up, 10,000,000 berries. Survive the match, 50,000,000. Win, and there's a grand prize of 100,000,000!"
"And that's just for one match!"
The pitch was slick, rehearsed countless times.
"…"
Vergil looked at Mustache, then traced the path the man had come from. Sure enough, it led into the lawless zone.
Vergil knew what an arena in the lawless zone meant. "Matches" and "huge prizes" were usually traps leading to death.
As he pondered, a hand suddenly grasped his.
It was a brown-haired dancer, holding his hand, her eyes pleading for him not to follow.
Having worked on the fringes of the lawless zone, the dancers knew exactly who Mustache was. It was rare to see such a pleasing young man; they didn't want to watch him get tricked to his death.
"Wait…" the brown-haired dancer began.
But before she could finish, one of Mustache's guards stepped forward and seized her by the head.
"Hey." The guard's face was stern. "Girl, you know what happens if you interfere, right?"
His grip tightened. He meant to crush the troublesome woman's skull.
But at the same moment, an even larger figure materialized behind the guard.
A massive, crimson-skinned hand clamped around the guard's head—mirroring exactly how the guard held the dancer.
Only with far greater force.
"P-Pain… pain…!"
The guard felt his skull about to implode. He instinctively struggled, releasing the dancer.
His head was locked in that vise-like grip. He couldn't see what was behind him, but he felt primal, instinctive terror.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Mustache and the other guard staring wide-eyed, trembling.
What… is it?
Those were his last coherent thoughts.
Then, the ground beneath his feet began to churn, becoming a soft, swirling vortex that gripped his legs.
He felt himself sinking. Excruciating pain shot upward from his feet, spreading through his entire body.
CRUNCH.
Chīguǐ Form.
The demonized Vergil, holding the guard's head with one hand, drove the man's entire body into the earth, leaving only a head visible—eyes rolled back, unconscious, alive or dead unknown.
The soil and stone twisted under Vergil's will, forming a vortex that entombed the guard.
"Eek—!" The dancers screamed at the bizarre, terrifying sight. Mustache and the remaining guard froze in place.
The latter two realized—they'd kicked an iron plate.
Mustache, a veteran of the underworld, was quick-witted. He immediately bowed deeply.
"My apologies for disturbing you, sir!"
"Please, enjoy your drinks. We'll take our leave at once!"
Seeing Vergil hadn't immediately attacked again, Mustache turned to flee.
But halfway, his head, too, was seized in a crushing grip. Cold sweat drenched him.
"You…"
"Don't rush off."
Vergil's twin dark-green horns gleamed. His scarlet eyes swept over the enthusiastic dancers, then the fiercely dressed Mustache and his guard.
He grinned.
"I think it's getting more interesting here…"
Crocodile felt things were finally going smoothly.
He'd successfully parked Alvin Vergil. He'd successfully located the underworld broker for his transaction.
As a Warlord with "legal plundering rights," Crocodile had no shortage of funds. But his target was Alabasta.
The king of that desert superpower, Nefertari Cobra, was an upright, rigorous man. With his ministers' aid, a sudden influx of pillaged wealth would raise alarms.
So Crocodile's first step was to "launder" his funds.
In Sabaody's lawless zone, he'd found someone to arrange it.
Sabaody Archipelago, Grove 13.
A no-rules fighting arena. A playground for nobles and the upper crust.
Slaves and beasts were caged together, then released into the arena to tear each other apart. The outcomes fueled noble gambling and entertainment.
In the arena's broadcast room, Crocodile met with the arena's owner.
Crocodile's plan: use the arena's gambling system to clean his plundered funds through noble transactions, then purchase "goods" to quietly funnel the money into Alabasta.
"Gambling…?" Crocodile smirked darkly.
He was good at this. In the near future, he'd build a massive casino in Alabasta itself.
But now, his priority was ensuring this operation went off without a hitch.
"Hey." Crocodile glanced back at the arena owner, his voice low. "Your people are in place? The match outcome is fixed, yes?"
"Hehehehe, don't worry, Sand Crocodile." The owner was a scrawny, monkey-like man with a sharp smile. "No one can beat our final fighter this time. Our deal will go smoothly!"
"Now, hehehehe… Sand Crocodile, let's enjoy the warm-up act together!"
"…"
Crocodile didn't respond. He watched the broadcast screen, looking somewhat bored.
The "warm-up act" was just releasing a vicious beast on a few unlucky slaves or foolish youths, letting it tear them apart. Crocodile was indifferent to such spectacles; he merely found them tedious.
Just let this end so I can return to Alabasta with that primitive.
Speaking of which… what is that primitive up to now?
Hah. Probably already drunk.
Crocodile puffed his cigar, his eyes drifting casually to the screen.
Then, among the group of unlucky "slaves," he saw a familiar face.
Smiling, sunny, and pure.
It was none other than Alvin Vergil.
Instantly, Crocodile's expression twisted. He rubbed his temples hard and let out a low, strained chuckle.
"I knew it was too good to be true."
(End of Chapter)
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