"TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND ARMY GREAT IMPALING MANSLAUGHTER SWORD OF ANNIHILATION!" Vander Decken shouted again and slashed.
Water lances erupted with even more density and quantity—so many that even fishman stationed on distant watch posts could see the field disappear. The air, the deck, the space between lanterns—everything was instantly covered in still-transforming water, a forest of forming spears.
One merman on the watch post reached out without thinking.
His finger brushed a lance that was still becoming.
"—!!!"
He pulled back with a strangled gasp.
Blood ran down his hand.
If he stayed even a second longer, his hand would be… what? Cut? Torn?
He stared at his own palm, stunned.
"Cut…? How come I was cut from water?" he asked himself.
To his eyes, it looked like a normal, flowing, quick-changing transformation—nothing sharp, nothing solid.
He didn't understand.
He didn't know that the speed of the transformation was off the charts, too fast for the eye to read—so fast it looked like something gentle.
The strike landed.
And again.
Decken's own ship suffered for it.
The front of the Flying Dutchman was already half-gone, shredded by its captain's enthusiasm. Splinters, mast fragments, torn railing—wood and iron rained down into the foggy void like confetti from a funeral.
Yet when the dust and spray settled, Arcturus simply walked out of it.
Not sprinting.
Not dodging.
Just… walking...again.
He moved to a safer section of the deck where he wouldn't fall into the sea, then stood still again, mask facing forward, cloak hanging like night itself.
For a few heartbeats, the whole ship went quiet.
Captain Vander Decken's grin twitched.
Then it died.
His face tightened into something ugly.
This time, he was not entertained.
He was pissed off.
Meanwhile, the crew was splitting into two tragedies.
Half were paralysed with deep trauma from hearing the captain's words once more, exceeding the daily limit that their brains could handle.
The other half were weeping over their empty savings, clutching purses and little sacks like gravestones.
Vander Decken glanced over his shoulder at the ridiculous sight.
At first, he had enjoyed their suffering.
But Arc's ridiculous tenacity had scraped the fun out of him.
He would deal with them later.
"YOU SHOULD BE OVERJOYED BY HEARING YOUR CAPTAIN'S VOICE, AMIGOS!!!" Decken yelled.
"LIKE HELL WE WILL!" the crew shouted back—paralysed or not, everyone somehow found the strength to protest.
"ONE MILLION~!!!!" Decken made a small prank
"CAPTAIN!!!! PLEASE!!! NO MORE!!!! WE BEG YOU!!! PLEASE!!! WE WILL BEHAVE!!! NO MORE CURSES!!! OUR HEARTS AND MINDS CAN'T HANDLE IT!!" they all said in unison, begging on their knees and crying.
Decken's eye twitched.
"Fine…Pendejo"
A murderous grin stretched across his face.
"Partner," he said softly.
"It's your turn."
He told nobody.
The ship creaked in a way that didn't sound like wood.
Athanacya, still at the earplug stand, froze mid-sale. Even the shameless vendor officer—still wearing only trunks—paused, sign half-raised.
Arc stood like he always did.
"..."
He had tanked everything so far. The attacks were not weak. In fact, they were quite strong.
A little… impressive.
Not enough to even make him step back.
But enough to make him finally decide he should speak.
He drew a slow breath—then his masked head tilted a fraction.
"W—!!!?"
BOOM!
Something pierced his back.
Not a water lance.
Not a cannon.
Something colder, bypassing his defences.
Arc's body jolted—just once—as a statue struck with a hammer.
He turned his head slowly.
Behind him stood a ghostly silhouette, barely there, its edges translucent as fog.
It held a sword.
A sword that looked like it had been forged from moonlight and bad memories of the ancient past.
"?!"
The entire crew took a step back at once.
Except a few officers.
One of them muttered with a hint of worry.
"So he summoned it."
Athanacya's eyes snapped toward him.
"It?" she asked.
The naked officer—BJ, because everyone had started calling him that—lifted his lantern with the seriousness of a priest.
"Do you believe in ghosts, woman?" he asked.
Athanacya scoffed instantly.
"Pfff. Of course not. They are just made to scare children… children… right?"
The confidence died halfway through the sentence.
She swallowed.
"No way it is real…" she murmured.
BJ opened the lantern and took a candle from inside, then held it up again.
The flame inside didn't burn yellow.
It flickered blue.
"Ghosts are real," BJ said, a bit dramatically, yet still without clothes. "They are."
"Don't try to scare me, you weirdo!" Athanacya snapped back. "I witnessed many things in the New World and the Grand Line. There are no ghosts!" she pointed her finger on BJ.
Some of the officers nearby smiled with a nefarious glee.
BJ's voice dropped.
"Ghosts… or rather, ship spirits… are a very rare thing. Especially when those ships are young."
He turned the lantern slightly toward the Flying Dutchman's hull.
"But this ship… is…"
A scream tore across the deck.
Not from the crew.
From Arc.
It was full of pain.
The ghost-sword twisted.
The strike had landed.
Arc coughed.
From the mouth slit of his mask, blood spilt—thick and yellowish
He lifted a hand, slow as ever, trying to push the figure away.
His palm met nothing.
The silhouette vanished.
Decken laughed again—but this time it was different.
Not playful.
Not showman.
This laugh had teeth.
"Fine work… AMIGO!" Decken roared. "MY PARTNER, THE FLYING DUTCHMAN! XAHAHAHA!"
Behind Decken, a figure began to manifest.
A presence.
More sinister by every second.
The air filled with disgusting voices—pain, suffering, the sound of drowned mouths trying to breathe.
And the ship… repaired.
The shattered bow groaned, then pulled itself together as if the wood remembered what it was supposed to be. Planks crawled back into place. Metal hooks clenched. The Flying Dutchman reassembled itself with the stubbornness of a curse.
Arc took one step back.
Then another.
His posture was still tall.
But something inside him had shifted.
"Im… po… ssi… ble," he whispered.
"No… one…"
"Cou… ld…"
"Hu… rt…"
"HO..W?!"
The words came out like they were being dragged from stone.
His fingers loosened.
A satchel slipped from his hand and thumped onto the deck.
Decken's laughter stopped.
He looked down at the satchel like it offended him.
Then he pointed.
"What's the matter, hombre?" he asked. "Regretting your plan?"
He kicked the big satchel toward Arc.
It slid across wet wood and bumped Arc's boot.
"Pick it up," Decken said.
Arc didn't move.
Decken walked closer.
He kicked it again.
Harder.
"Pick. It. Up."
….
"Do you fear death?" Decken whispered.
Arc stood there as if deciding something he wasn't allowed to decide.
"Arc… can't… deci...de."
Not allowed to fight.
Not allowed to reveal.
He bent his knees.
Then he took a long jump—straight off the deck.
A huge splash erupted from the sea below, rising up like a wall.
For a blink, the splash hid everything.
When it fell…
No one was there.
Arc was gone.
Decken's eyes widened.
"Gone from my Observation Haki… how?"
He strode to the edge, searching the fog.
Then he glanced at the place where the "yellow" blood had splattered.
It was gone too.
Vaporised.
Only the satchel remained.
Decken crouched and opened it.
Inside were three protective containers.
Inside those -) three stones.
Smooth.
Dense.
Wrong.
Decken's grin returned, smaller now, full of suspicion.
"Ehhh…why does this look so…? Am I in danger..?" he muttered.
Three Dyna Stones.
Yet he still didn't know.
Yet.
Because he was one of the few… who didn't see the legendary broadcast. And they don't know their potential.