Inside the auction hall, beams of golden light streaked like lazy meteors.
Kizaru was "working," and each casual kick was pulverizing the pride of the Supernovas.
Outside the hall, however—
the world had fallen into an eerie silence.
King did not look back.
That historic scene — Supernovas flying like footballs — had nothing to do with him.
He dragged Saint Charlos by the ankle like a sack of rotten fish bought at a discount market.
The Celestial Dragon's powdered wig dragged through gravel.
Thump… scrape… thump…
Dust, spit, and sand coated the face that had commanded kneeling moments ago.
Marines nearby twitched.
Not one dared speak.
This trash is heavy.
KING had only one objective:
Deliver. Sign. Leave.
His vacation had 1 day, 19 hours, 37 minutes remaining.
Every second mattered.
The Blockade
Just as he reached the Marine perimeter, a mountain of muscle stepped forward and blocked his path.
A massive double-bladed axe slammed into the ground.
Cracks spread through the pavement.
It was Sentomaru, captain of the Science Unit and self-proclaimed world's greatest defensive fighter.
"WAIT! Vice Admiral KING!"
His booming voice echoed across the plaza.
"By regulation, a Celestial Dragon must be transferred under my direct supervision! You must also provide an oral incident report!"
Report?
Another report?
KING stopped.
His dead-fish eyes lifted slowly.
Behind Sentomaru, yellow light flickered as Kizaru punted another pirate into architectural ruin.
"Report, he writes."
KING pointed lazily behind Sentomaru.
Then he nudged Charlos's limp body with his shoe.
"My mission was delivery."
He released the ankle.
THUD.
"Mission complete."
He stepped forward.
Sentomaru's breathing hitched.
An invisible pressure brushed past him like a tidal undertow.
His legs trembled.
But he planted himself firmly in KING's path.
He had heard the stories.
He assumed exaggeration.
What's with this arrogant logistics vice admiral?
"Procedure… is procedure!"
Sweat streamed down his temples.
"I cannot allow you to leave until proper handover is complete!"
He turned sharply.
"PX-5! Threat assessment protocol!"
Pacifista Activation
The towering Pacifista unit behind him stirred.
Identical in appearance to Bartholomew Kuma.
Red optics ignited.
BEEP—
The machine raised its palm.
Energy gathered in the laser emitter.
Low-frequency resonance vibrated the air.
Threat Level: EXTREMELY HIGH
Recommendation: ELIMINATE
…Is this ever going to end?
KING's patience expired.
He didn't even turn around.
Just as the laser charge peaked—
he extended one finger behind his back.
A casual flick.
System Silence
The red glow in PX-5's eyes vanished.
The charging laser collapsed like a punctured balloon.
The enormous machine shuddered once…
and froze mid-aim.
Still.
Silent.
Time stopped.
Sentomaru slowly turned his head.
The Pacifista's armor remained intact.
No burn marks.
No damage.
Except—
a coin-sized dent in the center of the chest plating.
Barely visible.
But Sentomaru understood instantly.
The vibrational shock had bypassed the armor…
and destroyed the internal control core.
Not exploded.
Not crushed.
Silenced.
He activated his communicator.
Response returned:
SYSTEM OFFLINE
ENERGY CIRCUIT DISCONNECTED
CONTROL CORE NONRESPONSIVE
Sentomaru's thoughts went blank.
Destroying a Pacifista was one thing.
Silencing it with a fingertip—
that defied engineering logic.
(Unknown to him, KING had personally reviewed the Pacifista funding schematics; he knew exactly where the primary energy regulator housing was located.)
"Now," KING said without turning,
"is the process complete?"
Sentomaru jolted like ice water had been dumped over him.
The plain hoodie back before him now felt heavier than a Yonko's cloak.
"I-It's complete!"
The words burst out of him.
KING placed his hands back in his pockets and walked away.
No victory pose.
No pause.
No interest.
Sentomaru looked down at the unconscious Celestial Dragon…
at the priceless disabled Pacifista…
then at Kizaru still working overtime in the distance.
He muttered:
"…Whose subordinate is this monster?"
Port 7
Sunset painted the sea in molten orange.
A passenger liner's horn sounded gently.
KING stepped onto the gangway.
Salt air brushed his face.
Finally.
It's over.
He exhaled slowly.
Two weeks of exhaustion drained from his bones.
His second foot lifted to step aboard—
and leave this vortex behind.
Then—
an aged voice spoke behind him.
Warm.
Unhurried.
Amused.
"Young man."
KING stopped.
He did not turn.
But his Observation Haki had already registered the presence.
An ordinary old man.
Coating craftsman's clothes.
Smelling faintly of alcohol.
Unremarkable.
Except—
he had approached without triggering KING's instinctive threat response.
The old man smiled gently.
"If you don't mind…"
"How about sharing a drink with a retired old man?"
Standing behind him was:
Silvers Rayleigh.