After handling the affairs at G-5 Base, Kane became a complete hands-off boss.
He rode the storm alone, leaving Punk Hazard and quietly landing on the secluded island where Rouge was staying.
The front door of the villa was unlocked.
Kane pushed it open, walked along a gravel path, and found Rouge in the backyard.
She was sitting in a rocking chair under a tree, a parenting book open on her lap, her eyes half-closed, breathing softly—asleep.
Her belly was frighteningly large.
The last time they met, it was only "slightly swollen," but now the curve… Kane roughly estimated the months; she was almost due.
The normal human gestation period is ten months.
In the original story, this stubborn woman, to protect her child from the Navy's search, used her maternal will to keep the fetus inside her for a full twenty months, ultimately dying from exhaustion.
But now, under the protection of her "benevolent" godfather, she naturally didn't have to suffer like that.
Creak—
Perhaps sensing an unfamiliar presence, Rouge jolted awake, instinctively shielding her heavily swollen abdomen.
Only after recognizing Kane did her tense body relax slightly, though her expression remained complicated.
"You're here."
"Just passing by, thought I'd check on my future top disciple." Kane pulled over a rattan chair and sat down casually. "You look well. The food's adequate?"
"Gion delivers supplies twice a week. The fish and meat are fresh." Rouge slowly straightened up, leaning on the armrests. "She also brings me books, but… the selection is a bit limited."
"I'll have her bring more next time."
After the pleasantries, a brief silence fell between them.
Kane didn't beat around the bush. He crouched down and placed his hand on Rouge's abdomen.
Rouge's body tensed instinctively, but she didn't pull away.
The heartbeat transmitted through his palm was strong and steady, clearer than last time. This little one's vitality was excessively vigorous; the D Clan's bloodline was already showing its full potential in the womb.
"Nine months." Kane withdrew his hand, his tone matter-of-fact. "By the normal cycle, you should give birth in another month. How do you feel?"
Rouge looked down at her belly, her fingers unconsciously tracing circles on it.
"Everything's normal… but I always feel like he doesn't want to come out yet."
Kane knew what she was thinking.
"Rouge, drop those unnecessary worries. This kid is my designated future Navy Admiral. I've already drafted his training plan. I guarantee his future will be very, very fulfilling."
On the surface, his words sounded like a promise, but Rouge couldn't shake the feeling that the man's smile held a strange excitement.
"Alright, rest easy and focus on the pregnancy. When it's time, give birth. Don't hold back." Kane stood up, brushing off his uniform. "Within fifty nautical miles of this island, not even a seagull with ill intent can fly in. I guarantee it."
With that, Kane turned and walked out of the courtyard.
Rouge watched his tall, straight back, her lips moving slightly. "That... Roger, was he in pain when he left?"
Kane paused in his steps.
He recalled the world-shaking, bold laughter from the execution platform, and the slight twitch of pain at the corner of the old bastard's mouth that he stubbornly suppressed when Kane pierced his chest.
"He wasn't in pain. He was laughing happily."
Kane waved without looking back.
Walking a few hundred meters westward along the forest path, the scenery suddenly changed.
The vegetation on both sides of the road was trimmed unusually neatly, the shrubs cut to a uniform height, and even the weeds were completely cleared away.
At the end of this path, under a massive banyan tree, there was a mahogany lounge chair, a tea table, a set of bone china tea ware, and a pair of gardening shears.
Baron Redfield—a legendary Pirate once on par with Roger and Whitebeard—was wearing a straw hat, squatting by a flower bed, using a small trowel to add soil to a rose.
Kane leaned against the banyan tree trunk, arms crossed, quietly appreciating this surrealist painting for about thirty seconds.
"Red Count tending flowers," he spoke up. "If Morgans captured this, I've already thought of tomorrow's headline for him."
Redfield didn't look up.
"Clumsy small talk. You didn't come here to watch me garden."
"Indeed not." Kane walked over, sat down by the tea table, and poured himself a cup of tea.
The moment it touched his lips, he paused. The flavor was just right. This guy could live with the air of an aristocratic afternoon tea even on a deserted island.
"Punk Hazard is too crowded," Redfield finally stood up, removing his gloves. "The noise alone is enough to drive one mad."
"So you ran off here?"
"It's quiet here." Redfield sat down on the lounge chair, crossing his long legs.
"And that woman isn't noisy," he glanced toward the villa. "The Pirate King's woman is much more subdued than the Pirate King himself."
Kane took a sip of tea, deciding not to waste time on this topic.
He set down the teacup and leaned back in his chair.
"Old Red, how long have you been following me?"
Redfield's fingers paused at the rim of his teacup.
He heard the change in Kane's tone. This wasn't the rhythm of idle chatter.
"Three years, four months, and seventeen days."
Kane counted on his fingers. "You still owe me about six and a half years of labor."
"You came all this way just to remind me of that?"
"No." Kane toyed with the teacup. "I came to tell you some good news."
Redfield's pupils contracted for an instant.
Three years.
How much dirty work had he done for G-5? Assassinating disobedient underground brokers, raiding those fat and wealthy Pirate ship fleets in the New World.
And the only reason he endured all this was for that fruit.
Mythical Zoan: Bat Bat Fruit: Vampire Form.
Eternal youth. Immortal life. It was the only thing in this world that could make him bow his head.
"...You found it?"
Redfield's voice struggled to maintain its calm, but the hand holding the teacup trembled slightly—though he immediately relaxed his grip, resuming that composed, unflappable demeanor.
Kane noted this minor lapse but didn't call it out.
"It's coming together," he said. "My intelligence network has narrowed down the general location of the fruit. Confirming the exact coordinates will take more time, but it won't be long."
This was both truth and lie.
The intelligence on the fruit was indeed being pursued, but the phrase "won't be long" was elastic enough to stretch across an entire Great Age of Pirates.
Redfield could certainly tell.
But he chose not to expose it. Because this was the first time in three years that Kane had voluntarily brought up the matter of the fruit—that in itself was a signal.
"So, what are the conditions?"
Kane pulled a cigar from his coat, struck a match to light it, and exhaled a cloud of smoke that scattered in the sea breeze.
"The fruit's coordinates are coming together, but you'll have to pull off a big job for me."
Redfield didn't respond immediately.
He looked at the expression on Kane's face—the one that said "I'm about to stir up trouble"—and roughly anticipated what was coming. Matters that would make this man go out of his way to discuss in person were never small.
"Speak."
Kane flicked the ash from his cigar, the curve of his mouth tightening, his gaze turning serious.
"I want you to kidnap someone."
"A World Government person."
The evening breeze blew past, scattering petals across the ground.
Redfield fell silent for three seconds.
"Who?"
Kane uttered a few words, each one light as air yet landing with the weight of a thousand pounds.
"Vegapunk."