The sun sank behind the endless dunes of Alabasta, bleeding its final light across the desert in long, crimson streaks. The sky turned molten, a canvas of fire slowly giving way to the cool indigo of dusk. Shadows stretched across the sand like claws, and the wind picked up with a whisper of something ancient and uneasy. Yet even as the night deepened, Alabasta remained unaware. Blind. Its cities clung to the illusion of order, its people trudged through the day-to-day with parched lips and hollow eyes, never knowing that a storm had already come. A storm not of sand, but of silence. A storm that did not roar—but watched.
I stood at the prow of the Abyss Serpent, the ship's hull creaking as it cut through the desert river leading into Rainbase. Velra stood at my side, her figure like an obsidian statue carved from purpose and war. Her spear was gripped lightly in her right hand, and it flickered faintly with threads of Abyssal energy in the deepening twilight. The desert wind caught her crimson-lined cloak, whipping it behind her like a banner announcing death. We said nothing. There was no need. Before us, the city lights of Rainbase shimmered across the water—golden, vibrant, lively. But it was a painted corpse. A beautiful facade draped over a rotting skeleton. The false heart of a false kingdom.
Mihawk knelt before me, calm and composed as ever. He did not bow because he was lesser. He bowed because he chose to—because he understood what it meant to follow something greater than legacy. His golden eyes met mine without question, waiting for the words he already knew were coming. "You will deliver my message," I said, my voice steady and final, like the slow closing of a tomb. "One warning. Only one."
He tilted his head slightly, that old flicker of a smile playing on his lips like a swordsman savoring the moment before a duel. "And if he refuses?" he asked, though we both already knew the answer.
I didn't smile. "Then you will break him."
As if summoned by my intent, the System chimed with cold clarity in my mind:
[Side Objective Activated!][Deliver Ultimatum to Warlord Crocodile.][Success Condition: Crocodile Kneels or is Defeated.][Bonus Reward: Regional Fear Spread Increased.]
Mihawk stood in a single fluid motion and turned without another word. He stepped into the mist, and then he was gone, like a blade swallowed by its sheath. I did not watch him go. My thoughts had already moved ahead—to the next step, the next piece on the board. Far from the throne room Mihawk would soon reduce to rubble, my focus shifted to the true strategist behind Alabasta's decay. Nico Robin.
She was the mind behind Crocodile's schemes, the whisper that guided his hand through Baroque Works, the true architect of quiet collapse. Crocodile believed he had her on a leash. But she was not a pet. She was a blade. And unlike him, I did not seek to use her. I would free her—bind her not with control, but with purpose. She was a woman who walked among ruins because she had not yet found a world worthy of building. I would offer her one.
Velra's voice broke through my thoughts, soft and amused. "You move before the pieces even know they are pieces," she murmured.
I allowed myself a thin smile. "As a king must."
Rainbase — Crocodile's Throne Room
The air inside the palace was heavy with heat and the copper sting of old blood. Torchlight flickered along sandstone walls, casting long, twitching shadows across columns carved with symbols of a kingdom long forgotten. The throne was not gilded in gold, but forged from blackened stone, scorched at the base as if fire had once licked at it from within. Upon it lounged Crocodile, his long frame draped across the seat like a man utterly convinced of his own invincibility. The golden hook at the end of his arm caught the light with each subtle movement, gleaming like a predator's grin. Smoke curled from the corner of his mouth as he puffed idly on a cigar, the scent mixing with sweat and iron.
When Mihawk entered, the atmosphere shifted. The guards who recognized him froze in place. The wiser among them turned and fled. The rest died moments later, sliced down by a motion too fast to see. Mihawk didn't stop. He strode forward with the indifference of a man who had already decided the outcome. Each step echoed with finality, Yoru resting across his back like the weight of judgment itself.
Crocodile didn't rise immediately. He chuckled, amused, blowing a stream of smoke through his nose. "Well, well," he drawled, golden eyes narrowing. "The world's greatest swordsman darkening my doorstep. Should I be honored… or insulted?"
Mihawk stopped several paces from the throne and looked directly into his eyes. "You are summoned," he said. "By Ravro D. Flare. King of the Abyss."
Crocodile lifted an eyebrow. "And?"
Mihawk's gaze sharpened. "Kneel… or be unmade."
For a moment, silence reigned. Then Crocodile laughed—a sharp, bitter sound that echoed through the chamber. He rose to his feet, exhaling smoke, his voice laced with scorn. "Ravro who? I don't bow to shadows. You? You've surrendered your blade to a name no one's heard of. Is that what you are now? A herald? A pawn?"
His sneer widened. "You disappoint me, Mihawk."
The swordsman said nothing. He simply stepped forward. Once.
Yoru hissed from its sheath. The air split.
Crocodile barely managed to raise his golden hook before Mihawk was upon him. Sand erupted from his body as he shifted into his elemental form, lunging forward in a defensive blur. But it wasn't enough. Mihawk's strike cleaved through sand, through steel, through illusion. The golden hook shattered into molten shards that rained down across the throne room. Crocodile staggered back, half of his arm dripping blood where steel had met flesh. He gasped, twisted into sand again, fleeing.
But Mihawk was faster.
With a blur of movement, he closed the distance, and Yoru struck again—this time slamming Crocodile into the back wall of his own palace. The impact sent cracks spidering through the stone. Crocodile's body, forcibly returned to flesh, slumped to the ground, blood pooling beneath his knees. He coughed violently, clutching his ruined arm, his breath ragged.
Mihawk stepped back, letting the weight of silence crush the room.
"You mistook mercy for weakness," he said. "You mistook the Abyss for myth. You will not make that mistake again."
Crocodile, once a Warlord of the Sea, knelt broken before the man who had once sailed alone. The System chimed again, its verdict absolute:
[Crocodile Defeated: Status – Shattered Will.][Option: Subjugate or Eliminate Target Available.][Bonus: Fear Spread +15%.]
Rain Dinners Casino — Ravro's Hunt
The casino was alive, but its pulse was wrong. Laughter echoed from the tables, music drifted from the corner stage, and the sound of clinking coins hummed through the air like insects. But beneath the glamour, beneath the perfume and illusion, something darker had taken root. An unease that couldn't be traced to any one sound or scent. It was in the air. It was in the bones.
It was me.
I moved through the crowd like a whisper of death, and the world tilted with each step. The Abyss coiled behind my every breath. Velra walked beside me, her presence a blade sheathed in silence. Together, we crossed the casino floor unnoticed by all—and yet felt by everyone. Conversations faltered. Laughter died on tongues. And no one could say why.
At the far end of the room, at a small, darkened table, sat Nico Robin. Composed. Still. Watching everything and saying nothing. Her expression was calm, but her eyes burned with calculation. She had felt it the moment we entered—not who we were, but what. A presence that did not belong in her world. A predator that made even her spine stiffen.
"She feels it," Velra murmured, her lips barely moving.
I didn't answer. I merely smiled, letting her question sink deeper into the archaeologist's thoughts. Let her wonder. Let her calculate. Let her fear. The Abyss did not need to chase its prey. It only needed to exist long enough for all other options to rot.
I turned away, letting the casino fade behind me.
"When she's ready," I said softly, "she will come to us."
"And when she does…"
I did not finish the sentence. I didn't need to.
We would give her something no tyrant ever could—a purpose. A throne of her own. A place not stolen, but earned. A kingdom not built from ruins… but from silence made whole.
Across the sands, across the seas, the Abyss stirred.
And the world had already lost.
It simply hadn't realized it yet.