Rumble—

The brick-and-stone wall collapsed, and the crystal chandelier — already swaying on the verge of falling — finally came loose.

With a sharp crash, it shattered on the wreck-littered floor into countless glittering fragments, each reflecting a fleeting flash of lightning like a scatter of irresistible jewels.

Cobra pressed his lips together. He paid little mind to the palace’s destruction — his gaze remained fixed on the strange man who had stepped off the black ship.

Flung into a corner by Crocodile, he had avoided the brunt of the clash between these two monsters, but even so, he felt its lingering force reverberate through him.

What kind of battle was this?

Crocodile was one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea — even the World Government and Marines recognized his power.

If he were the sort of small fry easily dealt with, they would have erased him long ago. The fact that he still lived was proof enough.

By rights, the New World was where a Warlord belonged.

Here in “Paradise,” Crocodile should have been absolutely dominant.

Since being taken hostage by Crocodile, Cobra had never once thought of fighting back. After seeing the dried corpses of his royal soldiers, he had been more certain than ever —

At least in the kingdom of Arabasta, Crocodile was unbeatable.

This was the desert, after all.

It was his crocodile’s lair, with sand endless and inexhaustible.

That unshakable belief was torn apart the moment Davy Jones made his move.

Water… yes, that was Crocodile’s natural enemy.

But to bring a large quantity of water to bear against him — and land the blow — that was another matter entirely.

Who could have imagined that Davy Jones could command the wind and rain, bend the course of water at will, and utterly suppress Crocodile?

The battle was almost one-sided.

Unbelievable.

Cobra braced his arms and tried to stand, wanting to thank this savior of the nation — but saw Davy Jones striding straight into the gap in the shattered wall.

Even before he approached, the rubble piled high from the collapse blasted apart to either side.

A golden poison hook swept toward him.

Crocodile, hair disheveled, hauled himself out of the debris. His Armament Haki had saved him.

He had feigned defeat to lure Davy Jones close, intending to kill him with the toxin on his hook.

It was a mutual-destruction tactic — the poison would not take effect instantly, leaving Davy Jones ample time to strike back.

But if Crocodile could land the blow, he could rely on his own antidote to survive — and force Davy Jones back to the negotiating table.

Unfortunately for him, Davy Jones had already sensed his feint with Observation Haki.

His hand had been resting on the pistol at his hip the whole time — and now he drew and fired without hesitation.

Bang!

The invisible bullet struck Crocodile, freezing the poisoned hook’s arc halfway through.

Startled, Crocodile tried to force his limbs to move — but they refused, as if they no longer belonged to him.

In that instant, four tentacles extended from Davy Jones’ body. Seizing the moment of distraction, they lashed him in a brutal flurry — striking his face, shoulders, chest, and abdomen.

Crocodile was knocked to the ground, only to be beaten further without mercy. Unable to turn into sand, he endured a full minute of relentless strikes.

When Davy Jones finally withdrew his tentacles, Crocodile lay sunken into the stone-tiled floor, mouth slightly open, his body soaked in crimson — unconscious.

After a moment, Davy Jones gripped one of Crocodile’s legs and dragged the “Sand Crocodile” out.

Cobra watched, wanting to see the outcome. Crocodile’s sudden earlier outburst had startled him.

The once-slicked-back hair now hung in disarray, covering his face. Cobra couldn’t see his expression.

But with no resistance in him, it was clear enough — he was unconscious, if not dead.

The battle’s victor decided, Cobra breathed a sigh of relief.

Davy Jones set Crocodile aside — then his gaze suddenly swept toward Cobra.

Cobra’s heart nearly stopped. He opened his mouth to speak.

But Davy Jones’ eyes shifted away from him, settling instead on the black ship standing nearby.

His demeanor made it clear: he had no intention of speaking to Cobra.

Indeed, he neither knew nor cared who this man was, nor what had happened to this country.

He had achieved his goal — that was enough.

The deafening clash just now had drawn more of the King’s Army.

They burst through the doors and froze at the palace’s devastation, unsure where to begin in understanding what had happened.

Was it the black ship?

The half-collapsed hall?

The heap of dried corpses?

Crocodile lying unmoving on the ground?

Or the grim, inhuman figure still standing?

Too many thoughts and too much evidence can only cloud the truth.

Fortunately, someone spotted Cobra and rushed over to help him up.

They were about to speak when Cobra raised a finger to his lips, motioning for silence.

He understood now: Davy Jones was a man who acted entirely on his own whims — not to be judged by common sense.

If the royal soldiers disturbed his mood, he might very well turn on them — a disaster they could not afford.

No more blood could be spilled here.

Though they did not understand Cobra’s intent, loyalty kept the soldiers silent.

Even the Baroque Works spies among them had the sense to stay still and silent, awaiting orders from above.

Soon, more figures descended from the upper levels of the palace — men and women alike — the crew of Davy Jones.

They stood silently behind him.

Under everyone’s gaze, Davy Jones calmly crushed the fear he had harvested — fear gathered from throughout the palace and the square outside — and channeled part of it into repairing the Terror Ghost.

Wood, iron, and even the fragments from where the ship had crashed detached from their places, rising into the air like a swarm of black crows. They whirled in midair before descending to the ship’s broken bow.

Crack… crack…

The pieces forced themselves together without any care for beauty or harmony — yet miraculously restored the bow as if it had always been there.

“Incredible…”

Cobra was still lost in the awe and eerie majesty of the sight when Davy Jones said simply:

“Board.”

“Yes!” the crew answered.

A gangplank dropped from the rail with a heavy thud. Davy Jones led the way aboard, his crew following in turn.

The quick-witted Buggy made sure to haul Crocodile aboard, sharing the burden with Hachi, one man to each leg.

Once everyone was aboard, the gangplank was hauled in.

A royal army officer quietly asked Cobra:

“Your Majesty… are we just going to stand here? Aren’t they the villains who attacked the palace?”

Villains?

Who was truly the villain?

What sort of man could be called such?

And would a villain necessarily harm Arabasta?

“Do nothing,” Cobra said, shaking his head with a sigh. “So long as it ends this nightmare, for whatever reason, that’s enough. We mustn’t stir up more trouble.”

The soldiers looked at the complicated, unreadable expression on their king’s face, unsure how to respond.

Then, the event that drew every gaze unfolded before them.

With a deep rumble, the black ship slowly rose from the massive pit where it had crashed — floating upward as though weightless.

In the blink of an eye, it was gone, vanishing from the palace like a burst bubble.

The sudden appearance and equally sudden disappearance of the black ship sent the King’s Army into a murmur of speculation.

Where had it come from — and where had it gone?

Who exactly were those aboard?

Cobra’s eyes widened in surprise as well, though he quickly composed himself. After all, he had seen so much wonder today that he was growing numb.

Moreover, though he could not read the script on the Poneglyph in the royal mausoleum, the oral history passed down through the royal line told him enough — that it recorded the location of the Ancient Weapon, Pluton.

And Pluton’s legend he knew well — a warship said to be able to sink an island with a single shot.

With that legend in mind, it was easier to accept the black ship’s unnatural nature.

For now, curiosity would have to wait — there were more urgent matters to address.

“You, upstairs — tend to the wounded. Princess Vivi should be unconscious on the top floor. Pell and Chaka should be on the middle level. All others are enemies.”

He continued:

“Check if any of these soldiers here have survived. Tell the forces outside — all troops stand by. No engagement with the People’s Army.”

He had quietly changed his definition of the rebels.

At the news that Princess Vivi was unconscious upstairs, a number of soldiers rushed to comply. Before long, they returned carrying her along with Pell and Chaka.

A quick examination by the army doctor confirmed that Vivi was merely unconscious, with no serious injuries.

Pell and Chaka, however, were badly wounded and needed urgent care.

Cobra immediately assigned men to assist the doctor.

After gently touching Vivi’s cheek, he steeled himself once more and, with the royal officers in tow, walked out the palace gates.

The rain had eased to a light drizzle. The square was crowded with people, all looking toward him.

His gaze swept the crowd until it landed on Koza — and several familiar children.

He felt both weary and immensely relieved, and without hesitation, he walked toward Koza.

They needed to talk — truly talk.

Perhaps, had they done so earlier, none of this would have happened.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep