Over the East Blue…
It’s a grim afternoon, the sky swallowed by storm clouds, dark as midnight. Rain falls like knives, pounding the deck, and thunder roars as if the heavens might split apart. I’m standing on a massive pirate ship fresh out of Loguetown, the air thick with the rancid stench of blood mixed with the acrid bite of gunpowder, enough to make you gag.
My left hand grips a revolver, my right clutches a blood-dripping longsword, and I’m cutting through these pirates like a grim reaper through a field of flesh. Each swing of my blade tears through muscle with a sickening squelch, their screams sharp and fleeting, swallowed by the storm. One slash opens a pirate’s chest, blood gushing out, his guts spilling onto the deck, washed away by the rain in a crimson flood. A single shot from my gun shatters another’s skull, brains and blood splattering across my coat, matting my light brown hair. It’s a grueso ss, but I don’t care. A cold smirk curls my lips as I carve my way from bow to stern, boots sloshing through blood-soaked planks with a sticky thud. My eyes don’t blink, sharp as steel, always clear.
I’ve nearly butchered every last soul on the deck when I hear a clamor of footsteps from below. Monts later, a burly man storms up from the cabin, a skull-emblazoned bandana tied around his head, clutching a spiked mace. A black eyepatch covers one eye, a jagged scar slashes across his face, and his scruffy beard is knotted, streaked with gri and blood. Behind him, a pack of vicious-looking n follows, their eyes burning with murderous intent, like they’d tear apart and feast on the scraps.
I give him a calm glance, sizing him up. “You’re Scarface Hilbert, right? Captain of the Scarface Pirates?”
His eyes narrow, voice cold as ice. “Hmph. You know who I am and still dare to board my ship? Tired of living, huh?” He waves a hand at his crew, his tone dripping with nace. “Hack him into mince and feed him to the sharks!”
“Aye!” his n roar, readying themselves. So brandish bloodstained cutlasses, others aim dark gun barrels at . These aren’t the pathetic grunts I just tore apart—they’re the ship’s elite, their eyes glinting with a harder edge. Makes sense. Who’d be fool enough to stand in this downpour unless they’re the best of the bunch?
I raise my longsword, its blade still slick with congealing blood, eting their stares. Hilbert’s about to sneer when I strike first. A single horizontal swing, and a flying slash rips through the air like a thunderbolt, carrying the stench of death toward them.
Hilbert’s quick, dropping low to dodge. Smart move. A deafening BOOM follows as my slash cleaves the deck in two. The control room explodes into splinters, the helm splits open, exposing twisted beams and mangled steel. Storage cabins burst, their contents spilling into the blood-soaked sea. The towering mainmast snaps with a sickening crack, crashing into the churning waves, and steel cannons are sliced clean through, fragnts scattering. Most of Hilbert’s crew aren’t so lucky. The slash cuts them in half, blood and flesh spraying in all directions, severed limbs and torsos littering the deck, so dangling from broken railings, blood pouring like a waterfall. A few quick or strong enough duck with their captain, barely escaping the carnage, their faces pale with terror.
The survivors stare, frozen, at the gore-strewn wreckage, the air heavy with the choking reek of blood. I toss my sword to the deck with a harsh clang and step toward them, boots crunching through blood and flesh, each step a wet, grisly squelch.
One pirate snaps out of his shock, voice trembling. “It’s… a flying slash! That kind of power… this guy’s a swordsman!”
I let out a cold chuckle. In this pirate-infested world, “swordsman” gets thrown around loosely, but a flying slash like that? It puts just over the edge into swordsman territory—barely. I’m no master, not like the legends out there, but in the East Blue, the so-called “weakest sea,” this move makes you a nightmare. A swordsman who can cut steel has grasped the basics of the craft, but I’m only scratching the surface.
“Swordsman!” Hilbert’s voice shakes, his bravado crumbling. In the East Blue, swordsn are top-tier, and the real heavyweights ditch this backwater for the Grand Line. His eyes tell he’s weighing up and coming up short. “Who… who the hell are you?”
I close the distance, boots thudding on the blood-drenched deck. Before he can react, I kick him hard, sending him sprawling, the crack of his ribs echoing under my heel. I plant my foot on his chest and draw my ornate, old-school revolver, aiming at his head. “? Just a bounty hunter.”
Hilbert’s eyes flick to my gun, and he freezes. “You… you’re John Morgan! The guy they call the East Blue’s top bounty hunter!”
I raise an eyebrow, smirking. “What, my gun’s more famous than now?” I tilt the revolver, rain glinting off its polished surface.
He shakes his head, almost frantic. “No… it’s because your na’s carved on the grip.”
I freeze, my smirk faltering. “Oh. Right.” That’s embarrassing. I clear my throat, brushing off the awkwardness, and pull the trigger. Bang! Bang! Bang! Three flashes of fire, and the bullets tear through Hilbert’s heart, blood erupting from his chest, pooling beneath him in a crimson tide. He slumps, lifeless, eyes dull. His crew cowers, not one daring to step up. Their captain’s dead, and not a single soul tries to avenge him. Pathetic bunch.
I holster my gun, glancing at Hilbert’s corpse, blood still oozing from the wounds. “You didn’t have to call out like that,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Was gonna drag you to Impel Down alive, but… eh, a corpse’ll still cash out fine.”
*****
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