Chapter 61: A Familiar Past
Crocodile mused, not for the first time, that someone ought to be selling tickets for this spectacle.
To witness [Red-Haired] Shanks wield his sword was a rarity afforded to few. The famed Gryphon—rumored to have clashed with the World's Greatest Swordsman, Dracule Mihawk himself—was a legend. For any aspiring swordsman, a single glimpse would be the culmination of a lifetime.
And here they were, receiving not just that, but a full suite of bonus performances.
The [Demon]'s stone-warping earthcraft.
The Knight's radiant, powerful swordsmanship.
The Blind Swordsman's gravity-defying skill.
Each was a masterclass, a devastating display that would leave any onlooker stunned. A complete, horrifying, utterly educational surprise package.
"Hehehehe…"
Crocodile used the curve of his golden hook to lift the pirate captain's head by his hair. In his right hand, a scimitar of compacted sand formed, its edge tapping lightly against the trapped man's cheek.
"Don't play dead now. It'll only make me take this more personally."
"Gah!"
The pirate's eyes flew open. He was a survivor, adept at reading situations. The beings surrounding him… no, these monsters… had left him alive for one reason only: information. But if he talked, the ones who hired him would ensure a far more gruesome end.
"I… I…" he stammered, watching the sand-blade drift perilously close to his carotid artery. The will to live won out. "I'LL TALK! I'LL TALK!"
Crocodile allowed the sand-scimitar to dissolve, his expression one of bored expectation.
"They… they're from the Grand Line! They promised us huge payoffs!"
"Purpose?" Crocodile's voice was a flat line.
"The kids!" the pirate blurted, jerking his eyes towards the huddled children now being comforted by Vergil and Zorian. "Musicians fetch a premium in the slave markets! Elegian ones can go for triple! We'd never normally touch a World Government affiliate, but they said they could bypass surveillance, get them smuggled out! That's all I—urkk—!"
His words cut off mid-sentence. His eyes rolled back, white foam bubbled at his lips, and he fell utterly unconscious.
No one paid the fainted man any immediate mind. The information had landed, and its implications had frozen everyone in place.
Crocodile's brow was furrowed in calculation. Fujitora's face was a mask of stern gravity. Zorian's shone with pure, blazing outrage. Vergil's usual smile had stiffened, his eyes glinting with a cold, predatory interest.
The most severely affected was Nico Robin.
This girl, hardened by years in the bloody underworld, was trembling violently. Her blue-black pupils shook, threatening to roll back into her head entirely.
Rumble… Rumble…
A vibration began, not in the earth, but in the very air—a palpable, oppressive pressure that felt like the heartbeat of a wrathful god. It tore at their nerves, a psychic onslaught so intense it manifested physically. The stone cobbles of the alleyway beneath their feet began to crack, fissures spider-webbing outwards.
It was the strongest, most terrifying Conqueror's Haki on the seas.
Its source was [Red-Haired] Shanks.
This was not yet the world-quaking power of the future Emperor who would split the sky—his body was whole, his experiences not yet fully forged in the fires of the coming era. But one thing was already absolute: the trigger for his fury.
Uta.
"How dare they…" Shanks's voice was a low, vibrating growl, his pupils constricted to pinpricks. "How dare they threaten my daughter's dream…"
His anger was a cold, focused inferno. He could endure slights, insults, and challenges directed at himself, but the safety of those he cherished was an inviolable line.
"Round up the little ones. We need to gather everyone, root this filth out completely!"
The saying was true: profound care could lead to profound disorder. Consumed by the thought of Uta's concert—her joy, her dream—being stained by such vile commerce, Shanks's legendary calm shattered.
Snap.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
The raging, subconscious wave of Conqueror's Haki recoiled as if it had struck an immovable mountain—no, as if it had been bitten. In that psychic clash, the others present sensed it: not a mountain, but a primordial, slumbering beast of impossible scale. As Shanks's Haki washed over it, the beast's eyes—scarlet and depthless—snapped open in the shared consciousness of those sensitive enough. It didn't roar with sound, but with a silence so profound it was deafening.
ROAR.
Shanks jolted back to himself, his Haki snapping inward like a retracted whip. He blinked, the cold fury in his eyes momentarily replaced by shock and then chagrin. He turned to see Alvin Vergil's hand on his shoulder. Vergil's face seemed to superimpose over the vision of the invisible beast, and he was grinning, a spark of wild excitement in his eyes.
"This is really getting exciting…"
"Ah! Sorry, sorry!" Shanks waved his hands, his earlier intensity replaced by abashed concern. "My bad, that was immature of me! Is everyone okay?"
"…"
"Ohoho…" Fujitora rubbed his temples, his "sight" reeling from the violent psychic collision. "So this is a 'Yonko'… What a fearsome presence."
"…"
"Are you alright?" Zorian, his own vision swimming, stumbled over to where Robin was swaying. The knight's instincts compelled him to aid the one who seemed most affected. He placed a steadying hand on her shoulder.
"…"
Robin clutched her head, eyes squeezed shut, and managed a weak wave. "I'm… fine."
"Hey?" Crocodile nudged the unconscious pirate leader with his boot. "Hello. Tch. Useless."
He lit a cigar with a flick of his thumb, the flame steady despite the lingering pressure in the air. He glanced back at the others, still collecting themselves, and decided to skip the deliberation. He already had the answer.
"Slave traders," he announced, exhaling a plume of smoke.
"What?"
"Powerful ones from the Grand Line. They've identified Elegian musicians as a high-value commodity. The festival provides the perfect cover and volume for a mass kidnapping. A simple, greedy operation."
The group turned their attention to him. Vergil tilted his head. "How did you deduce that?"
"Someone approached me for a similar venture in another kingdom once. A quick, dirty profit scheme. I found it… distastefully small-time. Declined."
"…"
The collective stare he received was sharp enough to cut diamond.
"Don't look at me like that."
Apart from Crocodile, every person present harbored a deep-seated hatred for the slave trade. Crocodile's feeling was simpler: utter contempt. Dealing in human flesh was a groveling business, prostrating itself before the Celestial Dragons for scraps. His ambitions soared far higher than mere profit.
The plan formed quickly. Shanks would lead them to his friend, King Gordon of Elegia, to coordinate a royal response. Simultaneously, he would signal his scattered crew to assist the King's Army in protective duties and investigation. Dividing the tasks was the most efficient path.
They made their way to the magnificent music palace at the city's heart, the residence of Elegia's royalty and its great musical families. In a stately reception hall, they were greeted by Gordon. Dressed in a white conductor's tailcoat, with a high forehead and a gentle, if not handsome, face marked by a prominent double chin, he exuded the calm authority of both a king and a world-renowned musician.
"Ah, Shanks! The King's Army has informed me. Thank you for your assistance." Gordon was already briefed. The grand finale concert was in two days. This threat had to be neutralized before then. He trusted Shanks and, by extension, those he vouched for.
As Gordon and Shanks huddled over a map, a small figure peeked out from behind a curtain.
She was a beautiful girl with luminous amethyst eyes. Her hair, a striking blend of red and pale pink, was tied into two long braids. A set of headphones rested around her neck, and she wore a simple beige dress. Her gaze swept the room with curiosity before settling on Shanks.
This was Uta. The "daughter" Shanks had claimed as treasure from a slave ship's hold, a child whose prodigious musical talent shone brighter than any gem. She was here to perform, to share her song with Elegia.
Listening to the serious conversation, understanding the danger to the island and its people, worry clouded her young face.
"Shanks… will everyone be okay? The people of Elegia…"
"Don't you worry!" Shanks's expression softened instantly. He knelt and ruffled her hair, his voice full of warm certainty. "I promise you, everyone will be safe. The concert will happen, and it will be amazing!"
It was a simple, tender scene of familial affection. To most, it was heartwarming.
But for Nico Robin, it was a knife twisting in an old, deep wound.
The warmth, the protective promise… it violently resurrected memories of Ohara. Of Dr. Clover, of the scholars, of a family and a home erased by the Buster Call's flames. A pain so acute she had to press down on the brim of her hat, her shoulders trembling slightly as she fought to contain it.
Then, a large, surprisingly warm hand came to rest on her head, ruffling her hair with a gentle, clumsy motion.
She flinched, looking up into the face of Alvin Vergil. He wasn't smiling his usual broad smile, but his expression held a quiet, simple acknowledgment. This sudden, unlooked-for comfort from a stranger alarmed her. Her life had taught her that kindness was often a prelude to betrayal.
"I don't…" she began, trying to pull away.
But as she looked at his face, that nagging sense of familiarity from earlier surged back with overwhelming force. A memory, long buried under years of survival and pain, surfaced with perfect clarity.
The library of the Tree of Knowledge. Ohara.
A younger Robin, absorbed in a book. The gentle weight of Dr. Clover's hand patting her head. The smell of old paper and ink. The quiet companionship.
And in the corner of her eye, amidst the towering bookshelves… not a person, but a sculpture. An ancient, weathered stone carving of a human form, standing sentinel-like among the historical relics. A curious artifact the scholars had recovered, its origins unknown.
The face of that stone sculpture…
Her breath hitched. The lines, the posture, the silent observation…
It superimposed perfectly over the man comforting her now.
Alvin Vergil.
(End of Chapter)
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