"What do we do, Captain? Fujitora won't be easy to deal with!"
Mr. 3's earlier composure had evaporated entirely. The flame on his head sputtered wildly, threatening to ignite the hem of his coat.
Buggy stood at the center of the cabin, arms folded, expression unreadable.
"What's the panic?" he said lazily. "It's just a Marine Admiral."
Just.
Alvida stared at him.
Just?
An Admiral was the pinnacle of the Marines' military power. Sengoku had retired. Garp rarely moved unless he chose to. Fleet Admiral Sakazuki would not leave headquarters lightly. Aramaki had been dispatched elsewhere.
That left Fujitora Issho.
A monster capable of bending gravity itself.
And their captain had called him "just."
Mr. 3 swallowed. "Captain… that is Admiral Fujitora."
"I'm aware."
Buggy's tone remained light, almost bored.
Inside, however, Lock's thoughts were sharp.
Fujitora likely represented the strongest force the Marines could deploy on short notice. This wasn't a half-hearted pursuit. The presence of a captured Celestial Dragon ensured that.
Still, there were limits. The Marines were stretched thin after Wano. Political pressure from Mary Geoise would be immense. They needed a resolution—fast.
Which meant Fujitora would prefer negotiation before escalation.
That was the opening.
The four officers in the room exchanged uneasy glances.
They knew their own strength better than anyone.
The Buggy Pirates were a strange crew. Their officers were not overwhelmingly powerful compared to Yonko commanders. Their true backbone lay in the many hardened criminals who had escaped Impel Down's lower levels—fighters seasoned by brutality and desperation.
Those men believed in Buggy.
They believed he had once sailed with the Pirate King.
They had seen him laugh alongside Whitebeard and Red-Haired Shanks at Marineford.
In their minds, Buggy had always stood among giants.
But belief was not the same as reality.
And reality was currently sailing toward them on a floating battleship.
"Captain Buggy," Mr. 3 said, voice trembling, "Fujitora defeated the Revolutionary Army at Mary Geoise. He is not someone we can stall casually."
"Then we won't stall casually," Buggy replied.
He turned toward the door.
"We'll go meet him."
Alvida blinked.
"You're not going to use your giant projection?" she asked carefully.
Buggy's habit was to split and rearrange his body beneath voluminous robes, appearing much larger than he truly was—an illusion of overwhelming presence.
"No," he said dismissively. "Those tricks are beneath me now."
Alvida frowned slightly.
He really has changed…
Buggy paused halfway to the exit.
"…Actually," he added, glancing down at himself, "you four go ahead."
They froze.
"I'm going to change."
Mr. 3 nearly exploded.
"Change?!" he shrieked. "This is not the time to worry about fashion!"
Buggy pointed at his bright, flamboyant outfit.
"Does this look like the attire of a man who sits among Emperors?"
Mochi picked his nose and examined the fabric critically. "It's colorful."
Alvida shot him a glare of disgust.
"Do you want help choosing something, Captain?" she offered.
"No. I'll handle it." Buggy waved them toward the door. "Stall Fujitora. There's a Celestial Dragon aboard—he won't act recklessly."
That, at least, was true.
Reluctantly, they left.
The door shut.
Buggy turned to the wardrobe.
He opened it.
An explosion of color assaulted his eyes.
Bright stripes. Polka dots. Glittering capes. Excessively dramatic collars.
He stared at them.
"No," he muttered.
If he was going to stand before an Admiral as one of the Four Emperors, he needed presence.
Authority.
Controlled madness—not carnival excess.
He extended his hand.
The garments inside the wardrobe separated into floating fragments—threads, fibers, buttons suspended in midair like a cloud of confetti.
He narrowed his eyes.
Reassemble.
Not into chaos.
In order.
Threads intertwined. Fabrics layered. Colors darkened. The fragments compressed, reshaped, fused.
A long coat formed first—deep crimson with black trim, high collar framing his jaw. Gold accents lined the cuffs. The material shimmered faintly, structured yet flexible.
Underneath, a fitted dark vest replaced the baggy shirt. Clean lines. Sharp silhouette.
His gloves reformed—sleeker.
He studied the result in the mirror.
He still had the red nose. The blue hair. The painted grin.
But now—
Now he looked deliberate.
Not a clown who had stumbled into power.
A clown who owned it.
Buggy adjusted the collar slightly.
"Yes," he murmured.
A strong man's fashion sense was very important.
Because before a word was spoken, before a blow was struck—
Appearance set the tone.
On deck, the atmosphere had transformed.
The earlier cheers had died completely.
Above them hovered a Marine battleship, lifted slightly by invisible force, sails bearing the name Issho.
Gravity pressed subtly against every shoulder.
Fujitora stood at the bow of his ship, sword resting at his side, blind eyes calm and unreadable.
Behind Mr. 3 and the others, the Revolutionary Army had gathered.
Sabo stood forward, expression steady but tense. Koala hovered at his side. The four Revolutionary commanders watched the sky warily.
Jewelry Bonney stood apart, jaw clenched.
"Where is Captain Buggy?" Sabo asked.
Mr. 3 coughed awkwardly.
"As an Emperor, Captain Buggy does not appear casually."
He stepped forward, wax forming a handgun in his palm. He raised it dramatically toward the sky.
"Fujitora! Blocking the path of an Emperor's crew—are you prepared for war?"
Alvida leaned toward him.
"He's blind."
Before Mr. 3 could respond, Fujitora's voice drifted downward.
"No need to worry, young lady. I can sense him quite clearly."
Mr. 3 stiffened.
Fujitora's tone remained calm.
"Hand over Saint Rosward. I will permit you to leave."
Bonney's fists trembled.
"That piece of trash—"
"Miss Bonney," Fujitora interrupted gently, "if harm befalls him, innocent kingdoms will suffer the consequences."
Her teeth ground audibly.
Fujitora continued, "Especially the Sorbet Kingdom."
Silence fell.
Sabo's expression darkened.
"So the lives of civilians are bargaining chips now?" he asked.
Fujitora did not answer immediately.
"I follow orders," he said at last. "But I prefer not to see blood spilled unnecessarily."
Behind him, another presence stepped forward.
White suit. Black coat draped over his shoulders. A decorative flower was pinned neatly at his chest.
Rob Lucci.
"Enough talk," Lucci said coldly. "Where is Clown Buggy?"
Murmurs rippled through the Buggy Pirates.
"Show some respect!"
"How dare you speak of Captain Buggy like that!"
Lucci's gaze swept across them with open disdain.
"Jumping fools."
The tension thickened.
Sabo's hand ignited with flame.
Lucci's fingers flexed.
The Marines shifted.
Gravity subtly intensified.
And then—
A voice cut through the air.
"Just a dog of the Celestial Dragons—what right do you have to insult my crew?"
Every head turned.
Bootsteps echoed across the deck.
Buggy emerged from the shadows.
The coat flowed behind him in the sea breeze. The crimson fabric contrasted sharply against the darkening sky. Gold trim caught the light faintly. His posture was straight, measured, and confident.
The crew inhaled collectively.
He looked—
Different.
Sharper.
Deliberate.
For a moment, even Sabo blinked in surprise.
Buggy stepped forward slowly, stopping at the edge of the deck. His eyes—normally wild with theatrical chaos—were steady.
Lucci's gaze narrowed.
Fujitora tilted his head slightly.
Gravity shifted, pressing downward like an unspoken challenge.
Buggy smiled.
The painted grin remained—but something beneath it had changed.
And the sea waited.
---
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