The lowest level of the Abyssal Spire.

The Terror Ghost remained still and silent upon the surface waters.

On a lone rock nearby sat Trafalgar Law, his hands stained in blood, waiting wordlessly.

Before long, the sound of footsteps reached his ears. The figures he had been waiting for finally appeared.

Davy Jones and his crew emerged from the whale skull, making their way along the cliffside path until they stood before him.

Law rose to his feet. The crew regarded him with open wariness — each of them remembered all too clearly how this man had severed the Awakened One’s hind leg.

“What business do you have?” Davy Jones asked, as if only now noticing Law’s presence.

“Can you tell me… who you really are?” Law asked in a low, heavy voice.

Standing forward, Alvida removed her hat, shook out her flowing black hair, and answered coolly:

“Before you stands ‘The Sea Reaper’ Davy Jones, Captain of the Terror Ghost. And who are you?”

Davy Jones…

Law vaguely recalled the name. A short while back, the newspapers had been abuzz with stories about it. At the time, he had dismissed them as little more than sensationalist hype.

Now, seeing him face-to-face, Law realized Davy Jones was no empty rumor.

Crocodile, the Awakened One, and the Spire’s horrors had already proven that much.

But was it wise to approach him directly?

Would Davy Jones turn out to be another Crocodile — a man whose “help” would only drag Law deeper into ruin?

Law didn’t know.

“Captain Davy Jones,” he said after a long pause, “if I were to say I wished to strike a bargain with you… would you be willing to hear me out?”

Davy Jones’ lips curled in faint amusement. “Speak.”

Knowing the advantage was not his, Law chose to lay it bare:

“I have an enemy. Someone I cannot possibly defeat as I am now—”

“No need for a story.” Davy Jones drew a pipe, lit it, and exhaled a trail of smoke, cutting him off.

“Just tell me his name.”

“…One of the Seven Warlords of the Sea. Donquixote Doflamingo, the ‘Heavenly Yaksha,'” Law answered. “I have a reason that compels me to see him dead.”

“What can you offer me in return?”

“I am a doctor,” Law replied, extending a hand toward the wounded Hachi. “If you’ll allow it, I’ll join your crew, tend to your men, and heal them.”

“Not enough.” Davy Jones blew a smoke ring.

He didn’t know the going price on the underworld for eliminating a Warlord, but his eyes flicked briefly toward Crocodile — recalling Alvida’s reports of his past.

Crocodile had been a Warlord in Arabasta over twenty years ago. His “fee,” therefore, had been high indeed.

“Forty years,” Davy Jones said at last, lowering the pipe. His gray-blue eyes locked with Law’s.

“You will serve aboard my ship, without complaint and without regret, for forty years.”

“Forty… years?!”

Law’s breath caught. Forty years — by then, he would be over sixty, only then free to step off this cursed ship.

Was it worth it?

To spend his youth and life in bondage, just for the chance to kill Donquixote Doflamingo?

Faces flashed in his mind: some laughing, some weeping, some reduced to corpses so disfigured they could no longer be recognized.

Yes. Worth it.

His heart itself gave him the answer.

“Captain Davy Jones.” Removing his spotted round-brimmed hat, Law bowed deeply.

“I am willing to serve you, without regret or complaint, for forty years.”

The moment the words left his lips, he felt something settle upon his body — a weight, a binding presence. He frowned, uncertain.

He did not yet know that a vow spoken before Davy Jones was no mere promise, but a shackle, invisible and inescapable.

“Good.” Davy Jones’ voice was cold and satisfied.

“Our pact is sealed. Come. We leave this place. Later, we’ll discuss this ‘Heavenly Yaksha.'”

Law saw Davy Jones turn toward his ship. After a moment of hesitation, he spoke up:

“Captain, grant me but a moment. There is one last matter I must attend to before I board.”

Davy Jones did not look back. “Go.”

Law turned away, approaching his beloved golden submarine.

Within it rested the mangled remains of his fallen comrades — the reason his hands were so drenched in blood.

He reached out, brushing his palm across the smiling face painted on the vessel, leaving behind a crimson handprint.

Then, drawing his cursed blade Kikoku, he used his “Surgery” to cut open the submarine’s hull.

Seawater rushed in at once. The submarine sank steadily, vanishing beneath the waves, leaving only a trail of bubbles.

Law stood in silence, watching.

Only then did he turn, boarding Davy Jones’ Terror Ghost.

At once, the ship was shrouded in ghostly green light. With a violent surge, it plunged into the icy depths, pressing ever forward through the darkness.

Marine Headquarters, Marineford.

Fleet Admiral Sengoku sat at his desk, holding a Den-Den Mushi to his ear while absentmindedly passing a stack of documents — stamped with a bright red CLASSIFIED seal — to the goat at his feet.

The goat chewed them away contentedly.

The Den-Den Mushi chattered impatiently: “Brrip… brrip… brrip…”

At last, the call connected.

“Who is this?” came Smoker’s hoarse voice.

“It’s me.” Sengoku’s tone alone was enough to reveal his identity. “What’s the status of your investigation?”

Silence for a moment. Then: “…Troublesome.”

“What was that?”

“We can’t find them,” Smoker admitted grimly. His Den-Den Mushi was snatched away — Tina’s voice followed:

“Hina and Smoker have tried our utmost, but Davy Jones’ crew vanished without a trace after leaving Alabasta.”

“I can’t keep the press under control much longer,” Sengoku muttered darkly. “Damn that Morgans. Why can’t he understand — not reporting on Arabasta is for the good of the entire world?”

“Then Crocodile’s true identity has already been exposed?”

“Yes.” Sengoku nodded. “In the latest issue. Alongside it — the humiliation of the World Government and Navy, laid bare again and again.”

“Then… should Hina and Smoker still extend the invitation to Davy Jones to become a Warlord of the Sea?”

“Not for now.” Sengoku’s voice hardened.

“We can’t allow Morgans to seize another chance to wound our reputation. If Davy Jones is ever to be made a Warlord, it must be at his own request, not ours.”

“…Hina understands.”

“His bounty will be updated. You two continue your pursuit. Report the instant you find anything.”

“Yes, Fleet Admiral.”

Sengoku ended the call. Without pause, he dialed another.

“Brrip… brrip… brrip…”

“Fleet Admiral Sengoku?” drawled a lazy voice, followed by the crunching of snow under tire.

“Kuzan. Where are you?” Sengoku demanded.

“…Not sure. Somewhere in Paradise,” Admiral Aokiji replied casually.

“You’re in the middle of the ocean?”

“Yeah. Taking a walk.”

Sengoku could picture it already — Aokiji pedaling his bicycle across the sea, freezing a path of ice with his Devil Fruit as he went.

“You fool!” Sengoku’s roar shook the office.

“The New World is in chaos, Marine HQ is drowning in work, and you say you’re taking a walk?!”

“Didn’t Kizaru get time off too?”

“At least he flattened a few pirate crews first!” Sengoku bellowed, so loudly that his goat bolted from the room in fright.

“I’m assigning you a mission, and you will see it through!”

“…Fine. Say it,” Kuzan answered coolly.

Sengoku’s tone dropped, calm as still water — though his words were sharp as a blade:

“Your target is Davy Jones and his crew. Either bring them to heel beneath the World Government, make them a piece in maintaining order on this sea… or erase them from it entirely.”

“…Yeah, yeah. Got it. Hanging up.”

And just like that, Aokiji cut the line — as if Sengoku had merely asked him to pick up a bottle of soy sauce.

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