A piercing whine tore through the air like a sonic boom, slicing through the atmosphere itself. A dark blur shot past in an instant.
Standing in the middle of a devastated street, Arlan barely managed to twist his body out of the way. The blur grazed his arm and, in the blink of an eye, punched through the stone walls of several buildings before embedding itself halfway into a massive boulder with a heavy thunk.
On closer inspection, the projectile was a gleaming steel short spear, still humming and vibrating with deadly force where it was lodged.
"Damn... No wonder they call him Flying Shot. That's some serious technique." Arlan glanced back at the hole blown clean through the wall, his expression shifting to full alert.
Copra's throwing speed was insane—so fast the spear was practically on him before he could react. And that penetration power? In the chaos of a battlefield, that kind of force could likely pierce through ten men in a row. Terrifying.
"This kind of power... It might even tear through my Armament Haki defenses," Aeridar muttered, breath catching, eyes narrowing. Just that one technique from Copra was enough to pose a lethal threat. Even with Armament Haki, he wasn't sure he'd come out unscathed.
Of course, part of that was because Aeridar's Haki was still underdeveloped.
"I swear I'm gonna carve that bastard up." Oliver yawned as he strapped on his twin blades, Nagamitsu and Yubashiri, stepping out of the inn in a foul mood. "First thing in the morning and I'm dealing with some pain-in-the-ass lunatic... and interrupting my damn sleep on top of it."
"Serves you right," Dimitri and Gorbo muttered as they emerged behind him, buttoning their jackets and scowling.
Behind the trio, the crew of the Chris Pirates poured out of the inn in droves, weapons at the ready.
"Well, well. Morning, fellas. Thought you'd sleep in a bit more," Aeridar said with a wide, mischievous grin.
"With all that racket? Who the hell could sleep?!"
"Wipe that smug look off your face, you bastard!"
Oliver and the others snarled back without missing a beat.
From the wreckage of a nearby building, Copra climbed out, chunks of stone and rubble falling off his dust-covered body. Ignoring the grime, he reached back into the ebony case on his back and pulled out another short spear.
A gust of wind surged as he took to the skies again. His soot-blackened body was streaked with ash, his feathers singed in patches—his whole figure a picture of battered desperation.
"Damn it. Too many officers... and they're all strong. And there's even more of them," Copra muttered through bloodied lips. Watching Oliver, Dimitri, and Gorbo emerge alongside the entire Chris Pirates crew, unease churned in his gut. His instinct screamed at him to turn and run.
If his crew hadn't taken such a beating already, he might've considered rallying his remaining men and throwing down. But right now, he had barely a hundred left, and only one officer—his first mate—who was currently bedridden with serious injuries.
If this dragged on, it'd be a total wipeout.
"Who are you people?" Copra growled from midair, his tone dark and suspicious.
There was no way some no-name pirate crew could wield this kind of power. If their first mate could push him to this point, then what about their Head of Combat? Their squad captains? And what of the captain himself?
But more than anything, what rattled Copra was this: Why did that man, Gilbert Arlan, know Moonwalk, the airborne technique used by those human traffickers?
Was there some connection between them?
If they were allies—or worse, subordinates—then things were bad. Real bad. The last thing Copra wanted was to drag those monsters into this mess. Better to flee now than fight a losing battle.
"No point repeating myself, you feathered freak. I already told you—I'm Blue-Haired Gilbert Arlan, First Mate of the Chris Pirates." Arlan's tone was flat with irritation. "Oh, right. Forgot to mention... My last bounty was fifty million berries."
"Chris Pirates...? That name rings a bell..." Copra muttered, fingers tightening on the spear's cold metal shaft. He needed the chill to keep his focus. "But fifty million with this kind of power? Were the Marines blind? ...Wait—he said last bounty. So it's from half a year ago? That means... they only made their debut six months back."
"Hold on. A rising crew from the East Blue... that caused an uproar in Loguetown half a year ago... Could it be... them?!"
Copra's voice dropped to a frigid growl. "You're from the East Blue, aren't you? You're the rookie crew that stirred up all that chaos last year."
"I figured you'd have realized by now," Arlan said with a wry shrug. "Guess we're still not that famous."
"Damn it... So it is them..." Copra's heart sank. Word was their captain, Aeridar, had an eighty million berry bounty—and he was a Devil Fruit user to boot. Which meant the Chris Pirates had three Devil Fruit users... maybe more. And each one stronger than the last.
Suddenly, a gritty wind whipped through the street. Then—
A massive blade of sand cleaved through the air, arcing straight for Copra.
"What the hell?! Sand?!"
Copra's sixth sense kicked in, and he twisted midair, barely dodging the incoming slash.
The sand blade swept past him and struck a towering tree in the distance. In an instant, the lush, thick-trunked tree shriveled up. Leaves, bark, and branches all desiccated, as though every last drop of moisture had been drained from it.
"What the hell..." Copra gasped, horror-struck. The tree had withered completely in seconds. If that hit had landed...
"I'd be a dried-up corpse right now..."
"Was that dehydration? Sucked dry in an instant."
"Another Devil Fruit user?"
"Whoever that was... they're no amateur."
Arlan, Oliver, and the others stared in stunned silence, just like the rest of the crew. Even Aeridar reached up to rub his chin, grinning wide.
"Sand... water absorption... desiccated tree..." he murmured. "No doubt about it. That's his ability."
The sandstorm settled over the ravaged street, and then—
Grains of sand compressed, twisted, and took shape—until they formed a tall, broad-shouldered man. His slicked-back hair glinted under the sun. A scar crossed the bridge of his nose. A cigar jutted from his mouth. A gold hook gleamed in place of his left hand, while his right hand was adorned with heavy rings. His cold, predatory gaze made it clear—he was a man accustomed to killing.
Aeridar's eyes lit up as he tilted his head.
"He's here," he whispered, grinning ear to ear. "The sandstorm of this desert... the Sand Crocodile."
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