The walk through Mock Town was a study in controlled intimidation. The Sea Scourge crew moved with the unshakeable cohesion of a wolf pack, their collective aura carving a path through the usual chaotic bustle of the pirate haven.
Hard-bitten men who would gladly knife a rival for a sideways glance found themselves instinctively stepping back, their hands falling away from their weapons as Ragnar's golden gaze swept over them.
The whispers that had begun at the docks grew into a muted, nervous buzz that trailed them like a wake.
Their destination was inevitable: the largest, loudest, and most disreputable-looking tavern at the center of town, a place called the "Grog-Soaked Serpent."
Its sign, featuring a drunken sea monster tangled in its own tail, creaked ominously in the salt-tinged breeze. Ragnar pushed the double doors open without breaking stride, and his crew flowed in behind him.
The atmosphere inside, which had been a roaring cacophony of raucous laughter, shouted boasts, and the clatter of pewter mugs, died an instant, like it was suffocated death.
Every eye in the smoke-hazed room turned towards the door. The silence was so profound they could hear the drip of a leaky tap behind the bar and the sputter of a guttering candle.
Dozens of pirates, bounty hunters, and assorted scum froze mid-gesture, their faces a gallery of stunned recognition, fear, and calculation. They didn't just see a new crew, they saw him.
They saw the man whose name was already being whispered alongside the Warlords, the man who had humbled Crocodile and laid claim to Alabasta's power. They saw Vortex D. Ragnar.
In a shadowy corner, a man with a head of wild, sunflower-yellow hair and a cruel, hyena-like grin permanently etched on his face suddenly found the bottom of his mug incredibly interesting.
Bellamy the Hyena, who normally held court with his own brand of arrogant brutality, had shrunk into his seat, his shoulders hunched, his entire being screaming a desire to become invisible.
The stories of what this 'Sea Scourge' had done to those who crossed him had clearly reached even his thick skull. He dared not even meet the man's gaze, let alone mock him for his dreams like he did so many others.
Ragnar's eyes scanned the room, a slow, deliberate pass that felt like a physical weight settling on every soul present.
He saw the fear, the posturing, the latent threat. It was tedious. It was noisy. He had come for information and a brief respite, not to endure the bleating of sheep.
He didn't shout. He didn't draw a weapon. He simply… exhaled.
It was not a sigh of frustration, but a release of will. An invisible wave of pure, domineering pressure erupted from him, washing over the tavern with the force of a silent thunderclap. Conqueror's Haki. The very air crackled, charged with the essence of a king asserting his domain.
The effect was instantaneous and brutal. Pirates seated at tables simply slumped forward, their faces planting into bowls of stew or crashing onto the sticky wood, unconscious.
Men standing by the bar collapsed like marionettes with their strings cut, mugs falling from nerveless fingers to shatter on the floor. A card game in the corner ended abruptly as all four players slid from their chairs into a heap.
In the span of three heartbeats, over two-thirds of the tavern's occupants were down, leaving only a handful of the strongest-willed, or most fortunate, still conscious, gasping and wide-eyed amidst the carnage.
The sudden silence was now one of utter defeat.
Ragnar walked calmly to the bar, his boots stepping over prone bodies without a second glance. "Finally," he stated, his voice cutting cleanly through the quiet.
"At least we can have a drink in silence."
Behind the bar, the terrified bartender, one of the few untouched, hurriedly began wiping a clean glass with a shaking cloth.
In his corner, Bellamy trembled, sweat beading on his forehead. He had felt the wave pass over him, a psychic sledgehammer that had threatened to shatter his consciousness.
He'd barely clung on, his vision swimming. His mind reeled. Conqueror's Haki… A king… just like Doflamingo-sama.
The realization was a cold knife in his gut. This man wasn't just strong; he was of the same rare, terrifying breed as his idol.
All his arrogant philosophies about the New Age and the strong preying on the weak felt like childish nonsense in the face of such absolute, innate sovereignty.
From another, darker corner of the room, a different kind of shock was unfolding.
"Zehahaha!"
The laugh was loud, forced, and grated on the newfound silence. It came from a large man with missing teeth, wild black hair, and a seemingly jovial demeanor that didn't quite reach his eyes. Marshall D. Teach.
He was seated with his own nascent crew: the hulking, silent Doc Q and his horse Stronger, the sharp-dressed marksman Van Augur, and the sinister navigator Lafitte. All of them were sweating, their faces pale.
They had weathered the Haki blast, but it had been a close thing. Teach's laugh was a facade, a desperate attempt to project normalcy, but the cold sweat pouring down his temples betrayed him.
Ragnar, who had just accepted a bottle of dark rum from the bartender, slowly turned his head. The motion was languid, almost casual, but it carried the weight of a cannon being aimed. His golden eyes locked onto Teach.
"Marshall D. Teach," Ragnar said, his tone conversational, as if remarking on the weather. "Fancy meeting you here."
The bottle in Teach's hand stilled. His false joviality evaporated, replaced by a deep, wary tension. His small, piggish eyes narrowed.
"Zehaha… You know me?" he asked, his voice several notes lower.
"You don't need to be so wary," Ragnar replied, taking a slow sip of his rum. He savored the burn, his gaze never leaving Teach. "And I do know you. We met a long time ago, albeit there was some… distance."
This was the truth, though only Ragnar understood its full meaning. He was remembering a moment outside of linear time, a point where he had used the Time Travel Card to go to the past.
He had seen Teach when he was a child, fleeing with his mother Eris, although it was just a glimpse before he returned to his timeline.
Teach's mind raced, scrambling through a lifetime of memories, of faces in ports and shadows. He had never, ever seen this man before. He would have remembered such a formidable presence, such an aura of latent, cataclysmic power.
The statement was impossible, and yet, it was delivered with such absolute certainty that it planted a seed of profound unease. This man spoke as if he had peered into his very soul from across a gulf of years.
"Is that so…" Teach said slowly, his smile now a tight, uncomfortable grimace. "Nice meeting you again." It was a blatant lie, a social nicety to facilitate a swift exit. He subtly signaled to his crew with a flick of his hand.
Doc Q coughed weakly, Van Augur adjusted his hat, Lafitte gave a thin, bloodless smile. As one, they began to rise, their movements careful, like prey animals aware of a nearby predator.
Ragnar watched them, his expression unreadable. He took another sip of rum. "Till next time," he said, his voice a soft promise.
Those three simple words, dripping with implication, landed on Teach's ears not as a farewell, but as a prophecy.
"Till next time." It meant this wasn't over. It meant this man, who knew things he shouldn't, who possessed a king's power, expected their paths to cross again, and soon. It was a declaration of a future confrontation.
A fresh wave of cold sweat broke out on Teach's back. He gave a curt, wordless nod, then turned and practically hustled his crew out of the tavern, the doors swinging shut behind them, cutting off the sight of their retreating, hurried forms.
The silence in the Grog-Soaked Serpent deepened once more, now layered with a new, bewildered tension.
The remaining conscious patrons, including a thoroughly cowed Bellamy, stared at the space where the Blackbeard Pirates had been, then back at Ragnar, who had already turned back to his drink as if nothing of consequence had happened.
He had cleared the room with a thought, and then with a few cryptic sentences, sent another dangerous crew fleeing in naked fear.
The legend of the Sea Scourge had just taken root in the filthy soil of Mock Town, and it was a legend built on absolute, unquestionable dominance.