Chapter 54: The So-called Pirates

After this period of hands-on experience, Qiubai finally came to a profound realization: sniping, as a skill, cannot be performed with excessive tension. The more tightly wound you are, the less likely you are to hit your mark. Only when the mind is relatively relaxed does accuracy follow. Shooting obeys this general law—it's much like pregnancy; focusing too hard on sowing yields little effect, while unexpected moments tend to be far more efficient and probable.

Perhaps it is for this very reason that the "Crown of Forgiveness" has become so prevalent.

Ahem. In any case, once Qiubai had struck the mainmast of the "luxury cruise ship" dead-on, escape was no longer possible. The passengers and crew could only watch helplessly as the pirate ship drew closer, then maneuvered sideways until its hull was flush with the cruise ship.

In terms of size, the cruise ship far outmatched Don Quixote's pirate vessel—even from the opposite side, the pirate ship could be entirely lost in the cruise ship’s shadow. Its masts might jut above, but without careful scrutiny, they would go unnoticed. The cruise ship, with its multi-deck design, towered above; the bulwarks of the two vessels could never truly align.

Such ships are built for capacity and comfort, their seaworthiness and luxury prioritized above all. Their length-to-width ratio is low, their speed sluggish; even without its sails shot through, the cruise ship would have been unable to escape.

On the pirate ship, the heavy anchor was cast overboard with a splash, the hull swayed gently a few times, and then settled, steady and unmoving.

At this moment, the grinning pirate insignia—painted boldly on the sail and hung from the mast—was now staring every soul on the deck straight in the face.

“Don... Donquixote Doflamingo!!” The voice from above was laced with terror, trailing into utter despair.

Finally, someone had recognized the pirates' true identity, and the Donquixote family was nothing like ordinary pirate crews. A clamor rose—shouts and screams erupted in waves.

Doflamingo was the most infamous, the most formidable, and, according to rumor, the most brutal pirate on these seas. Among the common folk, the tale that he dined on human flesh at every meal was believed far more readily than the notion that he simply ate chicken.

Doflamingo glanced up. His flamboyant sunglasses hid his eyes, but there was no mistaking his enjoyment of the panic above; the corners of his mouth curled up involuntarily.

Pirates cultivate fear. Pirates savor fear. Nothing could be more natural.

Doflamingo tapped the cruise ship’s hull, then, with a light leap, vanished from where he stood—reappearing atop the cruise ship’s bulwark.

Now, he could see his guests. Of course, his guests could see him as well, prompting the ladies’ shrieks to rise in pitch.

Close behind him was Rosinante, who, as always, became the victim of some mishap.

The height was nothing he couldn't handle, but as he landed, his foot slipped and—with a resounding thud—he toppled from the bulwark onto the deck of the cruise ship. Perhaps, unintentionally, he was diffusing the tension among the soon-to-be-robbed.

The accident silenced the screams, but the slapstick did not elicit laughter. Undoubtedly, this was the correct response; at times like these, anyone who dared laugh would not live long.

The other officers followed, landing on the cruise ship one after another. Qiubai came last, for he was the caretaker.

He grabbed Baby-5 in one hand and Buffalo in the other, tossing them up so they wouldn’t have to scramble up the ropes like the lesser crew. He considered doing the same for Iron, but that proved unnecessary—she ascended six decks in a single breath, effortlessly.

“Hmph, let’s hope she doesn’t keep going forever,” Qiubai mused, beginning his own spiral ascent.

With a dull thud, Doflamingo landed lightly on the deck. He advanced with a smile, step by step, while the crowd before him retreated en masse, quickly leaving a ring of empty space on the deck.

“Is the party not continuing?” he asked.

The crowd clustered on the deck; perhaps they had been in the midst of a dance—something like “you tag me, I tag you.” No one answered Doflamingo’s question.

His swagger was unmistakably arrogant: both hands in his pockets, hunched forward, his legs swinging in a crab-like strut. If an ordinary man walked like that on the street, he’d be lucky to escape with his life. The effect was that Doflamingo looked less like a grand pirate than a petty gangster.

But, cowed by his infamous reputation, not a soul dared move.

“Heh heh heh... What are you all so afraid of?”

Qiubai, arriving just in time to hear this, thought to himself: What else could they be afraid of, if not you? Even the way you walk is menacing.

“Rest assured, I have no intention of harming any of your lives... as long as everyone cooperates.”

Doflamingo’s words were smooth, but anyone with sense would never trust a pirate’s promise—least of all one as capricious as Doflamingo.

“R-really?” someone stammered from within the crowd, mustering the courage to ask.

“Of course. Please believe me; I am a man who values his ‘reputation’ greatly. Now, if everyone would kindly hand over their money and valuables, that will be the first step in establishing trust between us.”

“And remember, I mean everything.”

“Oh, and... do not, under any circumstances, attempt to resist. You know, pirates who are willing to keep their word can just as easily become pirates who are not. My crew and I are men of principle—unless, of course, someone among us breaks the rules.”

The officers lined up behind Doflamingo, while the underlings, well-versed in the routine, sprang into action: brandishing swords and guns, they stormed the cabins, herding anyone they found into the open and collecting all valuables.

But amid the chaos, someone in the crowd tried to edge away, believing his movements subtle. Doflamingo extended his hand in that direction:

String-String Fruit: Parasite String.

So, this is what it means to “break the rules.”

He was a handsome middle-aged man, no doubt a distinguished gentleman before, but now pale with terror.

He could no longer control his body. Under the power of Doflamingo’s String-String Fruit, he had become a marionette. Doflamingo’s fingers were extraordinarily dexterous, manipulating him into various gestures. The man tipped his hat and bowed to the crowd, as if about to perform.

Doflamingo’s fingers danced, though he himself seemed unconcerned with the man's predicament—his negotiation continued: “Which one of you is the captain of this ship?”

With a collective shudder, a space opened in the packed crowd, leaving a lone man of about thirty standing in the center.

His neck shrank, hands clutching his captain’s cap to his chest, and he shuffled forward, trembling.

“I... I...” The young captain, it seemed, had never faced pirates before.

“Captain, please bring me the passenger manifest,” Doflamingo said, giving him a glance before turning back to the assembly. “Henceforth, the more distinguished the guest, the better the treatment. I hope everyone will be forthcoming.”

This was not a lie. Robbery was a pirate’s main business, but kidnapping often yielded far greater returns.

Some people were worth a hefty ransom.

Meanwhile, the man under Doflamingo’s control had already scaled what was now the ship’s highest mast—the mainmast, shattered by Qiubai’s shot, left only the mizzen as the tallest. Many who knew the man looked up.

He stood atop the mast.

Then Doflamingo’s middle finger gave a gentle tug, and the man leapt lightly from above.

His body arched in the air, feet toward the sea, head toward the ship. As he plummeted, potential energy turning to kinetic, gravity accelerating his fall, his head struck the solid bulwark with ghastly precision—blood burst forth in an instant.

But not just blood—red and white, round eyeballs, shattered bone.

The sound of a skull splitting and a shinbone twisting rang clearly in every ear. After performing the most thrilling act a man could do only once in his life, he toppled into the sea.

Now, one could only say he had once been a fine gentleman.

Adrenaline surged through everyone; nerves were shredded. In this scene, the “guests” either fainted outright from terror or choked their screams back in their throats.

No one wished to become another bloody stain on the bulwark. The man’s age, profession, status, family—who could say? What did that matter to Doflamingo? His only concern was killing him.

Doflamingo cast a glance at the captain, who immediately scrambled to fetch the manifest, wetting himself in the process.

“Do not make me repeat myself. What can be taken from the living can also be taken from the dead, can it not? Heh heh heh...”

For a moment, only Doflamingo’s gloomy laughter filled the deck.

No one dared make another move.