Chapter 120: Plan
The Corrida Colosseum — Finals Stage
"LOOK AT THIS! CONTESTANT LUCY, BELOVED BY THE ENTIRE AUDIENCE, IS DEFENDING REBECCA!"
The announcer's voice cracked with theatrical disbelief, his microphone feedback shrieking across the arena.
"IS THIS AN ACT OF MISGUIDED KINDNESS?! BUT SURELY HE MUST KNOW—THE ROYAL FAMILY THIS GIRL BELONGS TO HAS BROUGHT NOTHING BUT SHAME AND DISGRACE TO DRESSROSA!"
The crowd howled in agreement, their earlier adoration for "Lucy" warring with their deep-conditioned hatred of the Riku name.
Diamante had no such conflict.
"You want to play hero, boy?!" The Donquixote officer's lip curled. "A HERO who saves the BEAUTY?!"
The fluttering blade-hammer reshaped itself mid-swing, its edge hardening from billowing silk to razor steel in the space between heartbeats. Diamante thrust forward—a killing stroke aimed not at Rebecca, but at the man who had dared to intervene.
Sabo smiled.
"Interesting fruit you have there."
His hand shifted. Fingers curled into a claw. Armament Haki flooded his forearm, the invisible armor hardening to gleaming black that spread across his fingertips like polished obsidian.
The blade met the claw.
CRACK.
Diamante's sword—the weapon that had ended countless gladiators' lives on this very sand—shattered like dry kindling. Fragments of steel scattered across the arena floor, glinting under the lights.
"What—?!" Diamante stumbled backward, his eyes bulging. "MY BLADE! WHAT DID YOU—"
"DRAGON CLAW FIST!"
Sabo's other hand was already moving, his body pivoting to meet the massive fist that was hurtling toward his blind spot. Burgess had closed the distance in seconds, his Iron Wall Gauntlet—a weapon designed to crush battleship hulls—descending with the force of a meteor.
The dragon claw met the gauntlet.
The gauntlet lost.
"WEEEE-HA—WHAT?!"
Burgess's armored fist crumpled like paper. The Blackbeard captain stared at his ruined weapon, his jaw hanging slack.
"It seems you're nothing compared to your captain's insidious abilities." Sabo's voice was calm, almost conversational. "That trick your captain used to absorb physical attacks... it was just Haki-enhanced defense combined with the pull of the Dark-Dark Fruit. A clever deception."
He flexed his clawed fingers.
"But deception only works when the enemy can't see through it."
With a contemptuous shove, Sabo sent Burgess stumbling backward across the arena sand.
He turned to Rebecca, who was still frozen in the defensive stance she had instinctively assumed. Her gladius trembled in her grip. Her eyes—wide, uncomprehending—searched his face for some explanation that made sense.
"I'll say it one more time." Sabo's voice softened, just slightly. "Someone entrusted me with your safety. So don't die easily."
Before Rebecca could respond, Sabo was already in motion. He sprinted across the arena floor, his water pipe swinging onto his shoulder, his eyes fixed on the water surrounding the fighting stage.
"COULD IT BE?! IS CONTESTANT LUCY TRYING TO LURE OUT THE FIGHTING FISH?!"
The announcer had caught on.
"LET ME REMIND THE AUDIENCE—THE GRAND PRIZE OF THIS TOURNAMENT, THE MERA-MERA FRUIT, IS CURRENTLY BEING GUARDED BY ONE OF THE SIX LEGENDARY FIGHTING FISH KINGS!"
Burgess, having recovered his footing, charged after Sabo with a roar of wounded pride. Diamante, momentarily forgetting Rebecca, turned to assess the new threat.
Neither of them noticed the dark red shape rising from the water.
The Fighting Fish King breached the surface like a nightmare given flesh—a massive, scaled monstrosity with jaws that could swallow a ship whole. It arced through the air, its shadow falling across Rebecca.
She raised her blade on pure instinct—
"BARRIER!"
Bartolomeo's crossed fingers materialized between Rebecca and the descending monster. The fish crashed against the invisible wall with a thunderous impact, its teeth scraping uselessly against a surface that could not be scratched, could not be cracked, could not be broken.
The beast slid back into the water, defeated.
"I heard what the old man said to you, little girl." Bartolomeo grinned, his fanged smile stretching ear to ear. "I'm here to help the old man get the Mera-Mera Fruit. But also..."
He raised his hand, scanning the spectator galleries with the desperate intensity of a pilgrim seeking a holy relic.
"...to see where THAT senior is! SENIOR! WHERE ARE YOU?!"
The Colosseum Dome
Itachi observed the scene below in silence.
Sabo had the Mera-Mera Fruit well in hand. Bartolomeo—eccentric as he was—was clearly invested in Rebecca's survival. And Diamante, despite his theatrical menace, was outmatched by the Revolutionary Army's Chief of Staff.
The fruit will go to Sabo. That much is certain.
Rebecca will survive. At least long enough for me to retrieve her after the tournament concludes.
He had fulfilled his promise to the toy soldier. Not by direct intervention, but by ensuring that capable hands stood between Rebecca and death. In the shinobi world, this was an acceptable delegation of mission parameters.
When the conversation with Fujitora is finished, I'll return here and extract the girl.
His Sharingan swept the colosseum one final time—confirming positions, cataloguing threats, memorizing the flow of battle for future reference.
Then he vanished from the dome.
Dressrosa — The Flower Field — Ten Minutes Later
The journey from the colosseum to the Flower Field had been circuitous, shadow-skirted, and entirely undetected. Itachi moved through Dressrosa's back alleys and rooftops with the fluid ease of a man who had memorized the toy soldier's map in its entirety. He bypassed Marine patrols without breaking stride. He crossed open streets in the gaps between footsteps. He arrived at the Flower Field exactly four minutes before the agreed-upon time.
And as he stepped into the clearing, he allowed himself a single, quiet exhalation.
"Ugh."
From the moment I set foot on Dressrosa, I've been running in circles.
The Flower Field stretched before him in gentle waves of color—wild blooms cultivated by the Tontatta over generations, their petals swaying in the afternoon breeze. At the field's center stood a massive leafy tree, its branches spreading wide enough to shade a small army.
Beneath that tree, cross-legged on the grass, sat Admiral Fujitora.
He was eating noodles.
Mustard wheat noodles, to be precise, served in a simple wooden bowl that he cradled in one scarred hand. His staff-sword lay across his knees. His blind eyes were closed in what appeared to be genuine culinary contentment.
"When the situation has deteriorated to this extent..." Itachi's voice emerged from directly behind the Admiral. "You still have the appetite to eat?"
"GACK—!"
Fujitora choked. Noodles flew. His chopsticks clattered against the bowl as he coughed and sputtered, one hand thumping his bandaged chest.
"Uchiha Itachi-dono! You've arrived!" He half-turned, still clutching his noodles. "You startled this old man. I didn't sense your approach at all."
"Apologies. Old habits."
"No, no, the fault is mine for being so absorbed in my meal." Fujitora gestured vaguely with his chopsticks. "After so much turmoil, this old man found himself rather hungry. The stress of the day, perhaps."
He reached beside him and produced a second bowl, still steaming.
"Would you care for one? There's plenty."
Itachi declined with a slight shake of his head. He did not sit beside Fujitora. Instead, he leaned against the trunk of the great tree, his black cloak settling around him like folded wings. The cat-face mask had been removed and hung at his belt, revealing features that were young—far younger than Fujitora had expected—and cold with the particular chill of someone who had seen too much and forgiven too little.
"Stop calling me '-dono,' old man."
"I am likely decades your junior."
"Decades?!" Fujitora's scarred face registered genuine surprise. His blind eyes widened behind their milky film. "Impossible. This old man judged you to be at least forty. Fifty, perhaps. The way you fight... the weight of your words..."
He shook his head slowly.
"A hero truly can emerge from youth. This old man is humbled. Hehehe."
He returned to his noodles with renewed appreciation.
"Let's get to the point."
Itachi lowered himself to the grass, but not beside the Admiral. He remained where he had been leaning against the tree—close enough for conversation, distant enough to make a statement. His Sharingan, still active in its Mangekyō state, studied Fujitora with the unblinking focus of a hawk observing prey that might yet prove to be an ally.
"You asked for this meeting. What did you want to discuss?"
Fujitora downed the last of his noodles in two quick mouthfuls. He set the bowl aside and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Very well. Uchiha Itachi-dono—ah, Itachi-san." He corrected himself with a faint, self-deprecating smile. "What do you think of the word 'hero'?"
"My opinion?" Itachi's voice was flat. "There are no heroes in any absolute sense."
"Oh?"
"Heroes are written by the victors. History is a narrative composed by those who survive long enough to tell it." He paused. "Doflamingo is the hero of Dressrosa now. His subjects cheer his name. His enemies are vilified. His crimes are erased from memory."
He let the implication hang in the air.
"And if someone else were to defeat him... they would become the hero in his place."
"Hehehe. What a penetrating insight." Fujitora shifted his weight, turning to face Itachi more directly. "Then let me ask you this: do you believe this old man wants the Straw Hats to act as my proxies? To defeat Doflamingo so that I may claim the title of hero?"
"I don't."
"Correct." Fujitora's voice lost its lightness. "This old man is an Admiral of the Navy. My duty—my sole duty—is to protect this country. This devastated, bleeding country. Even if its current king is Tenyasha Doflamingo."
He drew a slow breath.
"But as a newcomer to the Navy—a man conscripted through the World Military Draft—I joined with a specific purpose in mind. An idea I wished to pursue."
"And that idea?"
"Is the abolition of a cancerous system that has been allowed to fester at the heart of this world for far too long." Fujitora's scarred brow furrowed deeply, casting his features into grim relief. "The Warlord of the Sea system. The Shichibukai."
Itachi went still.
For a long moment, he simply looked at the blind Admiral—at the bandages still seeping red beneath his robe, at the scars that spoke of a lifetime of violence endured and inflicted, at the sightless eyes that somehow saw more clearly than most.
"I see."
His voice was quieter than before.
"Fujitora. I retract a portion of my earlier judgment of you."
"Oh?"
"You are not blind to nuance. You possess standards for judging good and evil that exist independently of the Navy's doctrine. You are not..." He searched for the word. "...simple."
"Hehehe." Fujitora's laugh was dry as autumn leaves. "From the very beginning, Itachi-san, I have walked beside Doflamingo. Anyone observing from the outside would inevitably conclude that this old man stands on the side of the Warlords. After all, I—"
"However."
Itachi cut him off.
"I do not retract my earlier warning."
Fujitora's smile faded.
"If you persist in your kindness—if you consistently place mercy above pragmatism—that kindness will eventually kill you. This world does not reward the gentle."
"Is that so." Fujitora exhaled slowly, heavily, the breath of a man carrying burdens that had accumulated over decades. "If I were to die in service of my kindness... if my life were spent in defense of the common people of this world... I believe that would be a death worth dying."
The words hung in the air between them—the Admiral's quiet conviction, the former ANBU captain's cold skepticism. Two men who had seen the worst of their respective worlds and drawn very different conclusions.
But Itachi did not argue the point.
"Enough philosophy."
He rose to his feet.
"You didn't ask me here to debate. You have a plan." His Sharingan fixed on Fujitora's scarred face. "Tell me what it is. Specifically. Clearly. The detailed plan behind this meeting."
(End of Chapter)
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