Chapter 59: There Are Still Experts?!
Continuity Bridge: Following the rescue of the Elegian children, Vergil and Issho observed Prince Gia Zorian's dangerously naive reaction to the pirates' deception. Meanwhile, in the mountain cabin, Crocodile finalized his alliance with Nico Robin, the sole survivor of Ohara.
Abandoned Mountain Cabin.
Candles cast flickering shadows across the weathered wooden walls.
The girl wore a dark purple dress, her long, straight black hair framing a face that held a beauty prematurely hardened by the world. At fifteen or sixteen, her features were pretty, but her blue-black eyes—the color of a deep, bruised twilight—were heavy with a fatigue and vigilance that spoke of years spent running.
She was the last survivor of the archaeological holy land, Ohara. The only person alive who could decipher the Poneglyphs and read the True History.
Nico Robin.
Paramecia-type Hana Hana no Mi user.
Seven years ago, the World Government had issued a Buster Call, reducing the island of scholars to ash for the crime of seeking knowledge. The child who escaped carried not just a bounty of 79 million Berries, but the weight of an erased civilization.
Her initial attempts at survival—simple work for food and shelter—had crumbled under the constant pressure of betrayal. The title "Devil Child of Ohara" made her a target and a pariah. To survive, she had descended into the underworld, learning to navigate a world of gangs, revolutionaries, mercenaries, and even the occasional Marine, trusting no one and expecting betrayal from everyone. Her sole unwavering purpose: to uncover the lost century, no matter the cost.
She raised her eyes, her gaze assessing the man before her.
[Sand Crocodile] Sir Crocodile.
His method of finding her was impressive, but his ambition was transparent. He wanted to use Ohara's knowledge to locate the legendary Ancient Weapon, Pluton. Robin understood this perfectly. She was long past disillusionment with the world and its power games. If this warlord wanted to use her as a key, she would use him as a shield and a resource. It was a simple calculus of mutual exploitation.
She didn't know if, in the end, she would betray the Warlord or die in the pursuit of the weapon. Frankly, she didn't particularly care which came first.
"…"
"A pleasure to work with."
Robin offered a practiced, hollow smile and extended her hand. She tilted her head, the gesture deceptively innocent. "What should I call you? Captain? Or Mr. Crocodile?"
"Hehehehe…"
Crocodile took her hand in his, his own grip firm and cold. A dark smirk played on his lips. "I originally intended to found a covert organization called Baroque Works. Given that context… 'Miss All Sunday' will do for you. You may call me… President."
"President…" Robin repeated softly, then her sharp intellect caught the phrasing. "Why do you say 'originally intended'?"
"Because plans have a notorious habit of crumbling in the face of… unique complications," Crocodile replied, raising a brow with a heavy sigh. Still, finding the linchpin—Nico Robin—was a significant victory. In a rare moment of good humor, he took a long, satisfying draw on his cigar.
"As for the organization, secrecy is paramount for our endeavors. My public identity must remain separate."
"Of course," Robin nodded, her smile not reaching her eyes. "After all, in the eyes of the world, I am 'Ohara's Demon Child'…"
Cough!
The title struck a nerve. Crocodile inhaled a mouthful of cigar smoke straight into his lungs and erupted into a violent, hacking fit.
"Cough-cough—Ack! D-Demon?!" he wheezed, his eyes widening momentarily with a spike of genuine alarm. He glanced down at the composed girl before him and reality reasserted itself. Right. That demon. The wanted poster demon. Not the actual, walking, chaos-inducing stone demon he was allied with.
"President?" Robin observed his reaction, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing her features. The infamous Warlord of the Desert, thrown off balance by a nickname? Perhaps he wasn't the unflappable chess master she'd anticipated.
"…Fine," Crocodile grumbled, waving his golden hook dismissively as he regained his composure. "I was merely reminded of another… asset. A troublesome one, but potentially indispensable for locating the Poneglyphs themselves."
This was true. While Robin could read the indestructible stones, Alvin Vergil's visceral, transformative reaction to them was a mystery unto itself—a mystery that could lead to more stones. More clues were always better.
"Let's move," Crocodile stated, his voice returning to its usual gravelly authority. "We need to locate the… primitive man. He may have already uncovered something useful. If not, we regroup with him and then determine the best way to make contact with Elegia's royal family."
"…"
Robin gave a silent nod and fell into step behind him.
Their alliance was forged in the cold pragmatism of the underworld—a transaction of skills and objectives. As they descended from the mountains towards the festival-lit city, their conversation was a delicate dance of probing questions and half-truths.
Robin tilted her head again, the picture of casual curiosity. "I must admit, I'm curious. How did the President manage to find little old me?"
"Information purchased from certain World Government channels," Crocodile answered, his tone nonchalant. "A specific fairy tale book mentioning Elegia provided the final lead."
"…"
"Tot Musica?" Robin murmured, her pupils contracting slightly. "So the World Government has records of it as well… Could the legend be real?"
"Who knows?" Crocodile shrugged. "Perhaps they merely used it as bait in a trap for you." He paused, took another drag, and amended his statement with a grunt. "…But perhaps it is real. This sea is full of absurdities that defy belief."
The existence of Alvin Vergil had irrevocably expanded Crocodile's definition of "possible." Little could truly shock him anymore.
They merged with the bustling festival crowds in the city center. The air was thick with music, laughter, and the smell of spiced food—a stark contrast to the shadowy dealings they represented.
"A word of warning," Crocodile muttered from the corner of his mouth. "The primitive man's mind operates on a… unique wavelength. Do not be alarmed. Simply follow along and try not to let him escalate any situation."
"Understood."
Robin's smile was serene. She had navigated the eccentricities of countless criminal minds. How strange could one man be?
"Might I ask, President, for a description of this 'primitive man'?"
"Appearance?" Crocodile thought for a moment, a faint scowl forming. "Taller than me. A powerful build, but not grotesquely so. His physique is…" He searched for a word, disliking the one that came to mind but unable to deny its accuracy. "...Perfectly proportioned. Annoyingly so."
"I see," Robin said, her eyes already scanning the crowd. "And he travels alone?"
"Yes."
"With two companions?"
"No."
Crocodile answered automatically before the question fully registered. He blinked. "Why do you ask that?"
Robin simply pointed a slender finger towards a side street.
"Hey, little crocodile!"
The voice, brimming with undisguised amusement, made the hairs on Crocodile's neck stand up. He spun around, irritation boiling over. "You primitive brute, I told you not to call me that—huh?"
His retort died in his throat.
It was indeed Alvin Vergil standing at the corner, a bottle of local fruit wine in hand. But he was not alone. Flanking him were two others: a blind man in a simple purple kimono, leaning on a wooden sword, and a young man whose gleaming white armor and radiant demeanor seemed to physically push back the surrounding shadows.
The trio stood together, sharing drinks and conversation as if old friends.
Crocodile: "…"
Wonderful. The trouble magnet had already attracted more trouble.
The two groups converged, a study in contrasts. On one side, the dour, calculating atmosphere of Crocodile and Robin. On the other, the easy, open camaraderie of Vergil, Issho, and Zorian.
Introductions were made. The gathering now comprised a Warlord, his new archaeologist, a blind wandering samurai, a naively noble prince, and the "adventurer."
"Ha!" Crocodile listened to Vergil's breezy self-introduction and muttered darkly under his breath. "Wandering adventurer… A fine cover."
"…"
Robin remained quiet, her analytical gaze fixed on the man Crocodile had called a "primitive." The description of a "perfect" physique was apt, but there was more. A strange, nagging sense of familiarity tugged at the edges of her memory, an echo from the countless historical texts and rubbings she'd studied. She couldn't place it, so she filed the sensation away for later examination.
Crocodile, meanwhile, was swiftly assessing the new additions. The armored youth, Zorian, had the bearing and power of a skilled knight, dangerous but readable. The blind man, Issho, however, was different. He stood with a preternatural stillness, his closed eyes seeming to perceive more than sight ever could. The air around him felt heavy. A true master, and one of significant caliber.
Fortunately, Crocodile mused, our immediate goals seem aligned.
"Ohoho! So you are friends of Brother Demon!" Fujitora (Issho) said with a warm smile. "As we were just discussing, unidentified pirates with ill intent are active in Elegia. We were on our way to report the child abduction incident to the Royal Knights. Would you care to join us?"
"…"
Report to the authorities? The idea was almost laughable to a man like Crocodile. But the strategic value was immediate. Assisting the local royalty would grant unparalleled access and goodwill, smoothing their path to any historical secrets the island held.
"But of course," Crocodile agreed smoothly, his politician's smile returning. "Public safety is everyone's concern."
Robin fell into step beside him as they merged with the trio.
Just then, at the next intersection, a figure stumbled out of a tavern doorway, reeking of alcohol. He wobbled unsteadily and bumped squarely into Vergil.
"Oof! S-sorry there, friend!" the drunkard slurred, waving a hand vaguely before shuffling past the group.
A minor incident. But as the man passed Crocodile, the Warlord felt it—a sudden, instinctual flare of danger, a pressure that spiked his adrenaline. It wasn't the obvious power of a brawler, but the deep, restrained presence of a apex predator wearing a disguise.
Another one?!
Crocodile's eyes narrowed to slits as he turned to look.
The drunkard seemed to feel the collective weight of their gazes. He paused, turned back, and a wide, unfiltered grin split his face. He let out a booming, joyful laugh that cut through the festival noise.
"Wahahaha! Have I had that much to drink? Or am I really seeing so many familiar faces from the wanted posters all in one place?!"
The man swept his red hair out of his eyes, his single-armed stance suddenly looking far less unsteady.
[Red-Haired] Shanks. Bounty: 4,048,000,000 Berries.
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