Two days later, at the Southern Port of Water 7.
A triple-mast, ironclad warship with a wolf's head prow loomed imposingly at the docks. Its obsidian-black exterior armor gleamed with menace under the sun, and both the bow and stern bristled with triple-barreled turret cannons. Compared to the previous Chris, the current version was a seaborne fortress—far more formidable, far more battle-ready.
Not only had the ship's external armor and turrets been overhauled, but its side batteries were reinforced, and the internal layout had been completely redesigned. The once-cluttered compartments—bar, library, grand dining room, bathhouse, storerooms—had been stripped of unnecessary fixtures. With smarter planning, the Chris now felt twice as spacious.
Moored beside the wharf, the Chris buzzed with activity. Over a hundred crew members worked in coordinated rhythm, hauling onboard crates of supplies—freshwater, provisions, ammunition, and more.
From afar, a group strode forward purposefully.
"Captain, the boys are loading the last of the supplies. We'll be ready to set sail soon." Arlan, impeccably dressed in a sky-blue suit, smoothed back his hair as he spoke.
"No rush. We've got time," Aeridar replied with a wave of his hand. "Before we head into the New World, we need to recalibrate. Build strength. Get in the right headspace."
"By the way, Oliver," Dimitri chimed in, curiosity piqued. "I heard you met Dracule Mihawk at Marine Headquarters. What was that like?"
"Hawk-Eye Mihawk?" Oliver, typically half-asleep, blinked in surprise. The memory stirred, an image of the man with eyes like raptors, sharp enough to pierce a soul.
"That man... he's strong. Stronger than the captain," Oliver said flatly.
"...Huh." Aeridar paused, glancing at Oliver. But he didn't deny it.
"I mean, it's not exactly unexpected, but it's still insane," Arlan muttered, lighting a cigarette, brows furrowed. "Stronger than our monster of a captain? That's hard to wrap my head around."
"Following the captain and seeing the vastness of the Grand Line... it was the smartest decision I ever made," Gorbo said, arms crossed, voice cool.
As the group made their way toward the ship, members of the Chris Pirates greeted them with a mix of reverence and awe.
Chattering as they went, they finally boarded the Chris.
Half an hour later, the cargo was fully stowed, the crew all aboard. The anchor was raised. Sails unfurled.
The Chris set out to sea.
As the Chris Pirates departed, Water 7 collectively exhaled in relief. Gang members, bounty hunters, rogue pirates—hell, even civilians—had been on edge for weeks. The Chris Pirates had systematically purged the city, slaughtering hundreds in brutal retaliation for earlier attacks. Corpses had littered alleys and streets, instilling fear not only in criminals but in the hearts of everyday residents.
Grand Line, Paradise side.
Unnamed, classified island.
The island was small, flanked by towering cliffs and mountains on one end and lush forests and plains on the other. A natural harbor curved into the coastline, while a wide beach stretched along the back. At the mountain's base stood the ruins of an old castle.
Now, over ten pirate ships were moored at the natural dock, each flying a black Jolly Roger: half of the skull white, the other gray, with a sword and rifle crossed behind it.
It was the flag of the Demon Mask Pirates.
The castle had been partially rebuilt. Cannons lined the walls, and nearly a thousand pirates now called the stronghold home.
In the castle's sole intact hall, hundreds of pirates reveled in raucous celebration. At the head table sat a tall man with golden hair parted neatly down the middle. One half of his face was striking, almost handsome. The other was disfigured, marred by deep burn scars that twisted his features into something monstrous.
Even seated, he stood out, nearly three meters tall, with a well-proportioned frame draped in a traditional brown captain's coat embroidered with golden thread. Beneath it, a gray shirt with ghostly skull motifs hugged his torso, paired with black-and-white checkered pants and knee-high black boots. At his waist hung a golden flintlock pistol, and a black sheathed longsword leaned against his seat.
Demon Mask—Hodgil Gutte, Captain of the Demon Mask Pirates.
Latest bounty: 580 million Berries.
Gutte drank straight from a clay jug, his expression unreadable as he watched the merriment unfold. Just then, a bare-chested, white-haired man in a black coat approached, a bottle of rum swinging in one hand.
"Captain. Of the six scientists we captured, one's dead, two were rescued, and one's unaccounted for. If we stay here much longer, it's only a matter of time before the World Government locates us," the man said grimly. "Kizaru's already on our tail."
"I know, Jig. Once Puda returns, we head back to the New World." Gutte downed another swig, then growled through gritted teeth, "We can't fight Kizaru, not as we are now. But one day... I'll tear him and Garp both to pieces."
His voice was hoarse, rough—his vocal cords clearly damaged alongside his face.
Back in the New World, the Demon Mask Pirates once held territory over three islands. Their fleet boasted over twenty ships and more than five thousand men. They feared no one... except the Four Emperors.
Then came their disastrous clash with the Marine Grand Expeditionary Fleet, led by the Hero of the Marines—Garp. The Demon Mask Pirates were crushed. Over sixty percent of their forces, ships and men alike, were lost. Gutte himself was severely wounded. Three of his five top officers were killed, the other two maimed. Only his Vice Captain, Jig, remained unscathed.
They had fled the New World in disgrace, so broken they didn't even dare stop at Fish-Man Island.
"Those scientists were more trouble than they were worth. I still don't know what the hell Golden Lion is planning. If not for his scheme, we'd never have attacked a World Government ship in the first place," Jig muttered, clearly agitated.
Jig, Vice Captain of the Demon Mask Pirates.
Alias: The Calamity of Ten Thousand.
Bounty: 360 million Berries.
"No choice. Tying ourselves to someone like Shiki always comes at a price." Gutte's tone was resigned. They had no real leverage to negotiate with a living legend like the Golden Lion. If they wanted an alliance, they had to play by his rules.
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