#torchlight: infinite

[neona]

oops I have 3.3k FE

maybe I should spend that

[savingcontent]

SS7 Arcana of Torchlight: Infinite is now live with new hero, Iris

Continue reading SS7 Arcana of Torchlight: Infinite is now live with new hero, Iris

[sonsofks]

Prepárate para una experiencia de juego increíble! Torchlight: Infinite lanza su temporada innovadora a nivel mundial.

¡Torchlight: Infinite anuncia su lanzamiento global con un nuevo héroe y reworks de juego revolucionarios! XD Games, Shanghai – 22 de abril de 2023 | ¡La fecha de lanzamiento mundial de Torchlight: Infinite ha sido confirmada después de su éxito en beta abierta durante un anuncio en vivo para la comunidad! A partir del 9 de mayo, a las 1:00 am BST, el ARPG de saqueo y exploración de mazmorras…

[zhelin-thames]

Since the majority of the ppl Chose "Danny as Ra's overpowered ex that Ra's still simps over" I give youuuuuuu

The Ghost King and the Demon’s Heart

The League of Assassins’ base was unusually quiet. Too quiet, considering the Batfamily was storming the place. Batman led the charge, followed closely by Nightwing, Red Hood, Robin, and Batgirl. Their mission was clear: stop Ra’s al Ghul from completing yet another dangerous ritual.

“Move!” Batman barked as they pushed deeper into the stone fortress, their shadows flickering under the dim torchlight.

They burst into a grand chamber, its walls etched with ancient carvings. At its center stood Ra’s al Ghul, bathed in an eerie green glow, his arms raised as he chanted in a language no one could understand. Around him, a circle of glowing runes pulsed with power.

“Stop him!” Batman ordered, and the team sprang into action.

Robin threw a smoke bomb to disorient the guards while Red Hood and Nightwing engaged the assassins. Batgirl worked on disabling the defensive mechanisms surrounding the circle. But despite their efforts, Ra’s’ loyalists held them off long enough. The ritual reached its climax.

The glowing circle erupted in a flash of green light, forcing everyone to shield their eyes. When the light subsided, they saw him.

Standing in the center of the circle was a figure unlike anything they had expected. A man, tall and imposing, radiated an aura of raw power. His eyes glowed a vibrant green, and a faint mist swirled around his form. A silver crown rested atop his head, and a dark cloak shimmered like the night sky.

The room fell silent. Even the League’s assassins froze, uncertain whether to attack or flee.

Ra’s al Ghul’s stoic expression melted into something uncharacteristically human—pure adoration.

“Beloved,” Ra’s whispered, taking a step toward the man.

The figure raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Ra’s,” he replied flatly, his tone laced with annoyance. “Still messing with forces you barely understand, huh?”

Nightwing leaned toward Red Hood. “Did he just call Ra’s ‘Ra’s’ like it’s his nickname?”

“Forget that,” Red Hood muttered. “Did Ra’s just call this guy ‘beloved’? What the hell is going on?”

Ra’s ignored them, his focus solely on the glowing figure. “It has been centuries, my king. You are as radiant as ever. Surely you feel it too—the pull of destiny that binds us still.”

The man—Danny—rolled his glowing eyes. “Ra’s, we dated for three months, centuries ago. It wasn’t destiny; it was boredom. Get over it.”

Ra’s clutched his chest dramatically, as though Danny’s words had physically wounded him. “You wound me, my love. No one has ever compared to you. Not in power, nor in beauty.”

The Batfamily collectively recoiled.

“Wait,” Nightwing whispered, wide-eyed. “Did we just crash a lover’s spat?”

“Focus,” Batman growled, though even he looked taken aback.

Before Danny could retort, a voice broke through the tension.

“Father,” Talia al Ghul stepped into the room, her expression a mix of awe and frustration. “You summoned the High King of the Infinite Realms? Why didn’t you tell me?”

Danny’s glowing gaze shifted to her and then to Damian, who stood rigidly beside Batman. Danny’s expression softened.

“And who’s this?” Danny asked, crouching slightly to meet Damian’s eyes.

Damian hesitated, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. Batman stepped forward. “That’s my son.”

Danny blinked, his gaze darting between Damian and Batman. A slow, amused smile spread across his face.

“Your son?” Danny chuckled. “Ra’s has a grandson now? Oh, this just got interesting.”

Damian scowled. “Are you implying—”

“I like you already,” Danny interrupted with a grin.

Nightwing snickered. “I think Damian just found his favorite relative.”

Ra’s, however, bristled. “Beloved, surely you do not wish to lower yourself to mingle with mortals.”

Danny turned to him, unimpressed. “Mortals? Ra’s, your ‘immortality’ is a cheap parlor trick compared to what I deal with daily. Honestly, it’s cute you think you’re still relevant.”

Ra’s faltered, his usual composure cracking under the weight of Danny’s words.

Danny turned back to Batman. “So, why are you all here? Stopping one of Ra’s’ schemes, I assume?”

Batman nodded. “We weren’t expecting… you.”

Danny shrugged. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” He glanced at Ra’s. “Do me a favor. Stick to your League and leave the realms out of your drama. The last thing I need is another cosmic mess because you’re lonely.”

“Beloved—” Ra’s started, but Danny raised a glowing hand, silencing him.

“Nope. We’re done here.”

Danny turned to Damian. “Seriously, kid, if you ever need advice about Ra’s, hit me up. I’ve got centuries’ worth of stories.” He paused, looking at the Batfamily. “And Bats? Keep doing what you’re doing. Lady Gotham’s lucky to have you.”

Before anyone could respond, Danny waved his hand, opening a swirling green portal. He stepped through, leaving behind stunned silence.

Ra’s stared longingly at the spot where Danny had vanished. “One day, my Beloved,” he murmured. “One day, we shall reunite.”

Nightwing broke the silence with a laugh. “Well, that was… something. Can’t wait to tell Alfred.”

Red Hood smirked. “I’m never letting Ra’s live this down.”

Damian crossed his arms, glaring at his family. “I don’t see what’s so amusing.”

Batman sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Not now.”

And with that, the Batfamily left the chamber, leaving Ra’s al Ghul alone with his heartache and the faint green glow of the fading ritual.

Masterpost

[stupendous-spiff]

Wait torchlight infinite is actually a good game? But...how????

[luiscosta13]

Nem Sei o Que Dizem playing Torchlight: Infinite

[worldbolding]

The only things I enjoy about Torchlight Infinite are the loading screen animations and the weird way that the script was clearly machine translated, resulting in delightful non-sequitors in every cutscene delivered by voice actors who didn't think about what they were actually saying.

The rest of the game is just as much of a mess as it was last year, and I'm not sure how to write about it exactly. "This game is bad and you shouldn't play it" only works for so many paragraphs.

[n0cturn4]

Character: Adult!Damian Wayne x Reader Summary: “I offer you my heart,” he murmured, his voice now an intimate whisper. “And the freedom to do with it as you will.” Word Count: 1185 Music: Habibi

It was a night of scorching heat in the infinite desert, where the sky, dotted with stars, reflected the glow of a fate written long before the birth of kingdoms. In the palace of Al-Nadir, grand and carved in marble and gold, Prince Damian Wayne, now a grown man, wandered silently through its vast corridors. His firm steps echoed like a whisper of responsibility and power. Damian, the prince who carried the weight of two legacies within him, had always been an enigma, a man made of shadows and steel. But that night, something beyond the throne unsettled him. He felt an emptiness, an absence that neither gold nor glory could fill.

The festival of Al-Nadir pulsed like a living heart in the city below, where the people celebrated, and the arts flourished under the desert heat. On that special night, dancers from all corners came to showcase their talents, but there was one in particular, a presence that stood out among all, like a rare flower in the sands of destiny.

And then he saw her.

You, a dancer whose movements seemed to defy the very stars. Your feet glided across the stage like a gentle breeze over the dunes, and your eyes, burning and mysterious, revealed stories that words could never contain. Your body, adorned with veils and jewels that shimmered in the torchlight, moved with a grace that did not belong to this world. Every gesture, every curve of your body was silent poetry, a promise of freedom and power.

Damian, a man accustomed to hiding his emotions, felt his heart waver. The serenity he always carried like armor shattered before your dance. He, a prince of steel, was captivated by a flame he did not understand but could not ignore.

When the music ceased and the applause echoed, Damian knew he had to meet you. He ordered to be taken to you, not with the arrogance of a prince, but with the curiosity of a man before a mystery he longed to unravel. In the palace’s private gardens, beneath the shadows of exotic trees, he waited. The sound of water running through the fountains was the only noise besides his own heartbeat.

You arrived, your eyes raised, firm and fearless, as enigmatic as your dance. There was no fear in your posture, only calm curiosity, as if you knew this encounter was inevitable.

“You called for me, Your Highness?” your voice was a thread of silk, as soft as the night breeze.

Damian tilted his head, his green eyes analyzing you as if he could read your soul through every subtle movement.

“There is something in your dance,” he said, his voice deep and controlled, “something that goes beyond art. There’s a story behind every one of your movements. A battle... a freedom.”

Your lips curved into a slight smile, something enigmatic, like a moon partially veiled by clouds. You observed him with the same care, surprised by his insight.

“Every gesture I make carries the weight of my own story,” you replied. “Dancing is the only freedom I truly have.”

Damian stepped closer, his words like veiled promises in the warm night air. “What if I could offer you more than just that fleeting freedom? What if I could give you something greater?”

You raised an eyebrow, your eyes sparkling with curiosity. “What exactly would you offer me, Your Highness?”

He did not hesitate, his words were precise, like the arrows he so skillfully wielded. “A choice. Stay by my side. Not as a prisoner of my will, but as an equal. Someone who challenges my spirit and shares the burden of power with me. I see in you what few would—strength that deserves to be honored, not tamed.”

The night seemed suspended between you, the wind carrying only the echoes of something forming, something neither of you had anticipated.

“And if I accept this offer,” you asked, your tone low but filled with meaning, “what do I get in return, besides power and your wealth?”

Damian took another step closer, until his eyes, intense as the desert itself, penetrated yours.

“I offer you my heart,” he murmured, his voice now an intimate whisper. “And the freedom to do with it as you will.”

You stepped forward, reducing the distance that still remained between you. Your eyes, deep and mysterious, met his with firmness. It was like looking into a distorted mirror—you, the free dancer, and he, the chained prince. Two worlds so different, yet drawn to each other as if the universe had conspired for this moment.

“And what would you do, Prince,” you began, your voice flowing like a soft melody, “if I took your heart and turned it into my own dance? If I made it part of who I am?”

Damian smiled, a rare smile, almost imperceptible, carrying both melancholy and hope. There was something vulnerable in his stance, a man who had always been a fortress now lowering his defenses before a stranger, yet still, a soul he seemed to have known forever.

“Then,” he replied, with a soft gleam in his eyes, “I would become part of your freedom. Because in the end, there is no greater power than being in the hands of someone you trust.”

For a moment, the world around you seemed to stop. The sounds of the festival in the distance, the murmuring fountains, even the soft breeze among the leaves, all silenced in the intensity of that moment. The moon poured its silver light over the garden, as if the heavens were watching and approving of what was unfolding.

You stepped even closer, until you were so near that you could feel the heat emanating from his body, his presence strong and solid. Your fingers, delicate and skilled like in your dance, gently touched Damian's chest, right over where his heart beat. The touch was light, almost like a breeze, but the connection that formed was deep, instantaneous.

“Your freedom and mine are like two stars dancing in the sky, Prince,” you said softly. “I accept what you offer, but know that I will not be a silent companion. My soul is not meant to be contained.”

Damian breathed deeply, as if your words had the power to ignite something deep within him. His eyes never left yours for a moment.

“That is exactly why I chose you,” he murmured, his voice dense, full of promise. “I don’t want someone who bows, but someone who walks beside me. I want someone who challenges me, who makes me question the world as it is.”

You tilted your head slightly, studying him, as if deciphering the final secret hidden in his soul.

“Then, Prince Damian,” you said, a light smile on your lips, “we will dance together.”

And so, under the stars that silently watched, the bond between you was formed. The Prince of Al-Nadir, with his heart in the hands of a dancer, and you, with the promise of a love that could not be contained by borders or duties. The night, a silent witness, became the stage for the first act of a story that would defy fate and time.

And in that dance of souls and hearts entwined, Damian Wayne's world began to change, one step at a time.

[belleisnowhere]

Gale's Revenge

"Isn't that right, Astarion?"

"..."

"Astarion?"

You trail off as you realise your vampire companion, who was following closely behind you as you trudged through the dimly lit underground passage, has fallen silent. As you turn to check on him, a knot forms in your stomach.

Astarion is gone.

Lae'zel and Shadowheart, too.

You are utterly alone in the darkness.

The black void beyond your weak torchlight instantly feels thicker, more oppressive. Your wide eyes dart around, trying desperately to penetrate the darkness that stretches out infinitely in every direction.

A smooth voice echoes through the passage from behind you.

"Hello."

Whirling around, your torchlight faintly illuminates a figure standing a few feet away from you in the gloom. A man, draped in shadow, the deep purple glow from his eyes cutting through the dark like a knife.

"I'm Gale of Waterdeep. I'd shake your hand, but... well."

He raises his arm towards you. A chill races up your spine as you see the bandaged stump protruding from the base of his sleeve. You recognise your own handiwork immediately. This is the man you found trapped in the unstable rune near the nautiloid - the man whose hand is currently rotting in a pouch in your camp.

The man you thought was dead.

Gale observes you silently for a moment before folding his arms across his chest. He tilts his head as he speaks again.

"It appears that you're alone, and in desperate need of aid, my friend. Just as I was, once."

You reach for your dagger but find the sheath at your side hanging empty. Before you can turn to run, Gale lifts his remaining hand in front of him, muttering an incantation under his breath, eyes locked on yours. Your eyes widen as you feel your body become rigid, your limbs held firmly in place by an unseen force.

"I needed you then. You could have rescued me. Instead, you butchered me and left me to perish in that stone."

You try desperately to give him an explanation but your clenched jaw refuses to release the words. As you struggle in vain, Gale slowly begins stalking towards you, his flinty gaze never leaving your face. As he approaches, he moves his fingers through the air in an intricate pattern. Your breath catches in your throat as your own dagger appears before you, suspended a hair's breadth above your chest.

"Unfortunately for you, my friend - I didn't perish."

His hand comes to rest on the hilt of the blade, his face inches from yours, eyes radiating malice and hatred as he begins to press the blade down.

"And now it's my turn."

[cuntsukuroi]

To You Who Returned With Stars in Your Hands

Suzerain of the brazier where jewels and jinn in violet incandescence abide yours is the glory of nighttime heroes and the tales of folk who have come and gone before us. Delighter of flowers and celestial perfumes concealed necessarily in silence through the ivory gate do we find love suffusing into sands into stars into springs bubbling in cyan light. Artist-craftsman who drinks from our hands you dress in the panoplies of your vocation you paint with crowtongue unbound you cast purple waves into the dark above you pour libations into the unseen. Dying and reviving god whose wounds bear ivy vines dripping with honey we find your work in shadows tethered to dreams your traditions name your unraveling sacred your return brings weeping of delight your loom promises your presence. Sinless king you descend from the nightwomb you are cradled in the infinite you bear the tapestry of all time. Vivifying chariots bring us your grace in the love and language of dreams where the sileni chatter and dance where they tend to the cauldron of the cosmos where they take our sins and let them bloom where our mistakes become something jeweled and something gold where our tragedies twirl in torchlight. We whose eyes are filled with tears who witness your right to sit in the garden who fall to our knees as you dance in the valley who sit in the warmth of your smile and are warmed. We gave you our love freely and found it returned thousandfold we listen as your feet stamp the reason you came we listen as you weave your rhythm into the earth with full hearts we sing your songs and listen as we would to our mothers as you bring us lessons of mirth.

[skatingthinandice]

tag game

rules: you will be given a word, then share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word!

i was tagged by @estelanel, thank you so much! i've been writing today so this was the perfect wind down. this is with the word WORM.

W - "What would you have me do, Majesty?"

O - Outside the soft flickering torchlight of this moment, stretching into the infinite darkness beyond, the cataclysm draws closer.

R - Rich wine from Naxos, amphoras filled and close to overflowing, folds of the finest Aegean silks and golden trinkets have spilled forth as faithfully as their honeyed words of obeisance.

M - "My ladies are not always as guarded as they ought."

i'm tagging @brynnmclean @buildarocketboys and anyone else who wants to do it! you have the word SWEAR

[neona]

Warcries are way more impactful than you thought.

[savingcontent]

"The Frozen Canvas" SS6 of Torchlight: Infinite releases on October 25th

Continue reading “The Frozen Canvas” SS6 of Torchlight: Infinite releases on October 25th

[sonsofks]

¿Buscas emociones fuertes? Torchlight: Infinite ya está disponible en todo el mundo en PC y móvil.

¡TORCHLIGHT: INFINITE YA ESTÁ DISPONIBLE EN TODO EL MUNDO EN PC Y MÓVIL! El juego RPG multijugador ha vuelto con una jugabilidad renovada y una nueva temporada de contenido emocionante. XD Games, la desarrolladora de Torchlight: Infinite, ha creado un emocionante juego con una amplia variedad de héroes, gráficos vibrantes, personalización gratificante e integración cruzada de plataformas. ¡Y lo…

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

Final attempts to understand before the Shape is unveiled

What is the Light?

Matter. Creation. Complexity. The Light is all these things, and in all things. Look up at the Sky. Light reveals. Light blinds.

What is the Traveler?

A manifestation. A generator. A projector. A computer and storage drive for one form of existence. A cage. A source. A wellspring. A Gardener seeking to sow. A half-truth.

What is the Veil?

A manifestation. An enigma. A blueprint. A mirror. A cocoon and a web. A matrix. A devourer. A reaper. A recycler. A chalice. A xenotaph. A prism. A prison. A black box. Katabasis. Minds; yours, mine, ours. Its. Rivers. All-in-one and one-in-all. The other half.

What are we meant to be?

Not soldiers given orders by the general of a grand campaign of conquest. Not warlords granted power to rule over the weak. Guardians, vested with a singular, true purpose; protect this reality and those passing through it in mortality. See them safely along the path so they may realize their potential. Steadfast sentinels, insatiable explorers, mindful truth seekers; a trinity that ripples across the ocean of life itself.

What are the Ghosts?

A Guardian's guardian. A link. A proxy. A go-between. A stopper on death.

When one dies and vacates their form of Light, the soul is reclaimed to the bottle from which we all once poured... all except Guardians. Guardians remain because another soul stands in the way, one already taken from life but torn back from death and given a new shell. A ghost, holding the reaper at bay. For now.

What is the Witness?

Not the Shape, but the shadow of one. The first child, the first knife to carve flesh and stone. Not the pyramidion, but the block supporting it, lifting it up, making it possible. Many in one, an aspirational reflection of that which was seen darkly beyond the Veil. A seer. An observer. A summoner. A false prophet. A thorn. A witness to the end, to the true Shape.

What is the Darkness?

Thought. Memory. Emotion. Consciousness. Collapse. The mirror's image. A byproduct. You. Me. The universe. The Deep.

What is the Final Shape?

Beauty. Fear. Sorrow. Majesty. A winnower to shape the garden, to give it ultimate purpose. A singular mind with a singular vision and a singular purpose which is what it is because it is all it ever could be. A force of nature yet shaped by a hand. Created to devour you, me, everything and everyone we know. The pyramidion. The peak. The pinnacle. The inevitable.

Choose the form of the destructor.

What is the truth in the Darkness?

Light casts shadows. The shadows dance upon the cave wall, lies projected to convey the truth, the meaning; there is no meaning. We are all the same.

We are all pinched silhouettes impaled on the twitchings of infinitely long spiderlegs.

All the while I thought on the truth of Bashaarat’s words: past and future are the same, and we cannot change either, only know them more fully. My journey to the past had changed nothing, but what I had learned had changed everything, and I understood that it could not have been otherwise. If our lives are tales that Allah tells, then we are the audience as well as the players, and it is by living these tales that we receive their lessons.

— The Merchant and the Alchemist's Gate by Ted Chiang

V. What the Thunder Said After the torchlight red on sweaty faces After the frosty silence in the gardens After the agony in stony places The shouting and the crying Prison and palace and reverberation Of thunder of spring over distant mountains He who was living is now dead We who were living are now dying With a little patience Here is no water but only rock Rock and no water and the sandy road The road winding above among the mountains Which are mountains of rock without water If there were water we should stop and drink Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand If there were only water amongst the rock Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit There is not even silence in the mountains But dry sterile thunder without rain There is not even solitude in the mountains But red sullen faces sneer and snarl From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water And no rock If there were rock And also water And water A spring A pool among the rock If there were the sound of water only Not the cicada And dry grass singing But sound of water over a rock Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop But there is no water Who is the third who walks always beside you? When I count, there are only you and I together But when I look ahead up the white road There is always another one walking beside you Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded I do not know whether a man or a woman —But who is that on the other side of you? What is that sound high in the air Murmur of maternal lamentation Who are those hooded hordes swarming Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth Ringed by the flat horizon only What is the city over the mountains Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air Falling towers Jerusalem Athens Alexandria Vienna London Unreal A woman drew her long black hair out tight And fiddled whisper music on those strings And bats with baby faces in the violet light Whistled, and beat their wings And crawled head downward down a blackened wall And upside down in air were towers Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells. In this decayed hole among the mountains In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel There is the empty chapel, only the wind’s home. It has no windows, and the door swings, Dry bones can harm no one. Only a cock stood on the rooftree Co co rico co co rico In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust Bringing rain Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves Waited for rain, while the black clouds Gathered far distant, over Himavant. The jungle crouched, humped in silence. Then spoke the thunder DA Datta: what have we given? My friend, blood shaking my heart The awful daring of a moment’s surrender Which an age of prudence can never retract By this, and this only, we have existed Which is not to be found in our obituaries Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor In our empty rooms DA Dayadhvam: I have heard the key Turn in the door once and turn once only We think of the key, each in his prison Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus DA Damyata: The boat responded Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar The sea was calm, your heart would have responded Gaily, when invited, beating obedient To controlling hands I sat upon the shore Fishing, with the arid plain behind me Shall I at least set my lands in order? London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down Poi s’ascose nel foco che gli affina Quando fiam uti chelidon—O swallow swallow Le Prince d’Aquitaine à la tour abolie These fragments I have shored against my ruins Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo’s mad againe. Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata. Shantih shantih shantih

[abbythewritor]

Winter is coming. Chapter 5.

Description: Y/N Targaryen, the last true daughter of House Targaryen, bears the weight of her lineage on her broad shoulders. Young, fiercely determined, and often underestimated for her plus-size figure, she is forced into an unyielding marriage alliance with one of the most dangerous men across the seas: Crocodile, the ruthless warlord and cunning leader of Baroque Works. Torn from Westeros and thrust into the unpredictable waters of the Grand Line, Y/N must navigate the treacherous alliances, schemes, and monstrous forces that haunt her every step. As Crocodile’s bride, her life becomes a game of survival—earning his respect while enduring his cold indifference and manipulative tendencies. However, the fire in her blood will not be dimmed. With whispers of ancient dragons and visions of the Iron Throne calling her home, Y/N begins to embrace her Targaryen birthright, proving that dragons do not cower—they conquer.As war brews across the seas and in Westeros alike, Y/N’s journey will test her body, spirit, and mind. With Crocodile as both her captor and potential ally, she will rise through betrayal, blood, and fire to claim her destiny. Winter is coming, but fire and blood will follow.

Warnings: Explicit content, blood, Violence, Sexual content, you know Game of Thrones stuff.

Just to be clear: I do not own Game of Thrones or One Piece, they belong to the creators. I wrote this story on Chat GTP as to help with story structure and Spelling. Y/n in this story is overweight and plus size, as I rarely see Y/n's that are bigger in fanfiction at all, so I'd thought it will be different. THIS STORY IS NOT FOR CHILDREN!!! As like Game of Thrones, it will have a lot of explicit, and graphic scenes!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!!!!!!!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The interior of Crocodile’s fortress was as cold and unwelcoming as its exterior promised. The air was still, the temperature markedly cooler within the stone walls, though it lacked the comfort of relief. The chill wasn’t soothing—it was oppressive, like stepping into a crypt. Echoes of their footsteps bounced off high, vaulted ceilings that loomed in shadow, the torchlight casting flickering shapes that danced along walls carved with faint, swirling patterns of sandstorms and serpents.

Robin led the way, her strides calm and deliberate, the sound of her heels steady against the marble floor. Y/N followed just behind her, her hands clasped tightly to keep from trembling. The grand hall stretched on endlessly, every inch of it carved to intimidate. It was not beautiful—there was no warmth, no lavishness. It was a space meant to remind anyone who entered it who owned it.

Crocodile.

They rounded a final corner, and the path opened into a massive chamber, the throne room. Y/N’s breath hitched ever so slightly as her gaze lifted.

The chamber was cavernous, lit only by tall braziers that lined the walls, their fire crackling softly. The ceiling rose high into darkness, and shadows played tricks on the eyes, making the space seem infinite. At the far end of the room, elevated on a dais of smooth dark stone, stood Crocodile’s throne—though “throne” was hardly the right word. It was carved from sandstone, stark and jagged, its design resembling the shifting patterns of a desert dune frozen in place. Behind it, large tapestries hung, each one bearing an emblem of a crocodile coiled in the heart of a swirling sandstorm.

And seated there, like a phantom risen from the sands, was him.

Crocodile leaned back lazily in his chair, the thick fur collar of his coat framing his sharp features like a mane. His legs were crossed at the knee, a cigar balanced between his gloved fingers, its ember glowing faintly. The golden hook on his left arm glinted cruelly in the torchlight, resting casually against the arm of the chair, as though it, too, were waiting.

He exhaled a slow cloud of smoke, the faint curl of his lips twisting into a smirk as his single visible eye fixed on Y/N.

This is him, Y/N thought as she stood frozen at the threshold of the room. She had seen him before—briefly, from a distance—but seeing Crocodile here, in his own domain, was something else entirely. He radiated power, the kind of power that was quiet and lethal, the kind that made the air heavier and the room feel colder.

“Welcome to Rainbase,” Crocodile said, his deep voice breaking the silence. His tone was smooth, mocking, like a man who already knew the answers to the questions you hadn’t yet asked.

Robin stepped aside, her role as escort complete, and turned her gaze toward Y/N, wordlessly prompting her to step forward.

Y/N’s heart pounded in her chest, but she forced herself to move, her steps slow and deliberate as she walked across the vast chamber. The hem of her robe dragged against the cold marble, the sound faint but echoing in the oppressive stillness. She could feel Crocodile’s gaze on her, measuring her with each step.

She stopped at the base of the dais, her head tilting up slightly to meet his eye. She would not bow. She would not kneel. Not to him.

Crocodile’s smirk deepened, the scar across his face twisting faintly. He tapped the ash of his cigar onto the floor carelessly, the embers falling like dying sparks. “You’re quieter than I expected,” he said. “Most people talk too much when they’re nervous.”

Y/N swallowed the sharp retort that rose to her lips and forced herself to remain steady. “I have nothing to say to you.”

Crocodile raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by her defiance. “Is that so?” He leaned forward slightly, his golden hook catching the firelight as it shifted. “A bold answer. You’re not afraid of me, then?”

“Should I be?” Y/N countered, the words escaping her mouth before she could stop them. Her voice sounded stronger than she felt, but she would not let him see her falter.

For a long moment, Crocodile simply stared at her, his smirk fading into something quieter, sharper. The air in the room seemed to still, the crackle of the flames growing fainter. Then he chuckled softly, the sound low and rumbling, though there was no warmth in it.

Robin, standing quietly to the side, tilted her head slightly as though intrigued by the exchange, but she said nothing.

Crocodile leaned back again, flicking his cigar dismissively as smoke curled around his face. “You’re not what I expected.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly. “And what exactly did you expect?”

“A pawn,” he replied smoothly. “Your brother offered you like one, after all. A piece on his board—something to bargain away for a chance at my favor.”

Y/N’s chest tightened at the mention of her brother, but she said nothing, waiting.

“But you’re no pawn,” Crocodile continued, his voice lowering slightly. “At least, not yet. You’ve got fire in you, girl. I can see it.”

Y/N clenched her fists at her sides, her nails biting into her palms as she fought to keep her composure. “What do you want from me?”

Crocodile tilted his head slightly, as though considering her question. “Want?” he repeated, his voice softening into a mockery of curiosity. “That depends on you. You’re here now, in my city, in my palace. Whether you’re worth keeping depends on what you can offer me.”

“I’m not a prize,” Y/N said sharply, her voice cutting through the tension.

Crocodile’s smirk returned, slow and predatory. “Good.” He tapped his hook against the stone arm of his chair, the sound metallic and deliberate. “If you were, this would be over already.”

Robin spoke then, breaking her silence as she turned toward Crocodile. “Shall I show her to her chambers?”

Crocodile didn’t take his eyes off Y/N. For a long moment, he said nothing, simply watching her, as though daring her to speak further. Finally, he gave a small, dismissive wave of his hand. “Do what you want. I’ll decide what to do with her soon enough.”

Robin nodded once before gesturing for Y/N to follow. Y/N hesitated, her gaze lingering on Crocodile for a moment longer, though he seemed already disinterested, leaning back into his chair and taking another slow drag of his cigar.

He’s testing me, Y/N thought as she turned to follow Robin. The sound of her footsteps echoed in the hall, mingling with the faint hiss of fire and the soft click of Robin’s heels. He wants to see if I’ll break.

But she wouldn’t.

As they left the throne room, the heavy doors closing behind them with a resounding thud, Y/N exhaled slowly. Her mind raced, replaying every word Crocodile had said.

Robin glanced at her as they walked. “You did well.”

Y/N frowned slightly, her voice low. “What do you mean?”

Robin smiled faintly, though it wasn’t unkind. “You didn’t crumble. Most do.”

Y/N said nothing, her gaze fixed ahead as they walked deeper into the fortress. The halls were dimly lit, the air cool and silent, but her mind burned with a single, unshakable thought.

I won’t crumble. I won’t break.

Whatever Crocodile wanted, whatever game he intended to play, Y/N would face it. And if she was to be a piece on this board, then she would be the one to decide how to move.

For now, the lion had seen the girl. But the fire he thought he could tame still burned.

And Y/N would make sure he never forgot that.

The chambers Robin led her to were unlike anything Y/N had ever seen. They were vast and cold—much like the rest of Crocodile’s fortress—designed more for intimidation than comfort. The walls were stone, carved with swirling patterns of sandstorms, though they offered no warmth or beauty. A massive arched window framed the desert outside, the dunes stretching on endlessly beneath the dying light. It wasn’t a prison, not yet, but it felt like one.

Robin paused just inside the door, turning slightly toward Y/N. “These are your quarters for now,” she said simply, her voice calm and measured. “You’ll be expected to prepare yourself. Sir Crocodile will summon you again when he sees fit.”

Y/N’s throat felt dry, but she managed a nod, her gaze sweeping over the room before settling back on Robin. “And what does that mean?” she asked quietly.

Robin’s lips curled faintly, though there was no humor in her smile. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

She turned to leave, her heels clicking softly against the stone. The door shut behind her with a finality that made Y/N’s stomach sink. She exhaled slowly, scanning the chambers once more. A wide bed, covered in fine silks and dark fabrics, sat near the center of the room. An ornate wardrobe, a standing mirror, and a bathing basin had all been set along the far walls. A low table was laden with water and dates—enough to sustain, but not to comfort.

Y/N moved toward the window, her fingertips brushing against the cold stone as she looked out at the desert. The sun was sinking lower now, staining the dunes red and orange as if the earth itself bled. She wrapped her arms around herself, the wind outside howling faintly like a ghost calling her name.

What am I doing here?

She didn’t have long to dwell on the thought. The door creaked open again, and a group of women entered—Crocodile’s servants, judging by their identical pale linen robes and headscarves. They carried bundles of cloth, basins of water, and small boxes that jingled softly with whatever was inside.

The maids moved with silent precision, their eyes barely flicking toward Y/N as they set down their burdens. It wasn’t until one of them gestured toward her that Y/N realized their intent.

They were here to dress her.

“No,” she said firmly, stepping back instinctively. “I can manage on my own.”

Her refusal didn’t seem to matter. The women advanced with practiced efficiency, reaching for the ties of her robe without asking. Y/N flinched at their hands—small, quick, and impersonal—as they began pulling at her clothing as though she were a doll in need of repair.

“Stop it!” she hissed, trying to twist away. “I said I can do it myself!”

But they didn’t stop. The women spoke to each other in hushed tones, their words flowing smoothly in the Alabastan tongue—words that Y/N recognized, though they clearly assumed she couldn’t understand.

“Too big.”

“This won’t fit.”

“Why did he want her? She’s like a cow.”

The words hit her harder than she expected, each one a sharp blade that sliced through whatever shred of dignity she still held. Y/N froze, her face heating as they tugged and prodded at her, the Alabastan words swirling around her like gnats, stinging her over and over.

“The fabric won’t tie at the waist. It’s useless.”

“She’s so round—how do we make this look presentable?”

The sharp sound of laughter escaped one of them, though it was quickly hushed by the others. Y/N clenched her jaw tightly, her fists curling at her sides as she forced herself to stay silent. She wanted to scream at them, to tell them she understood every cruel word, but what would it accomplish? Nothing would make them stop. Nothing would make this moment hurt less.

She felt raw—exposed in ways she had never been before—as they struggled to wrap the fabrics around her body. The fine silk tugged awkwardly against her form, refusing to sit the way they wanted it to. The women muttered their frustration, occasionally pausing to pull tighter or tug harder, as though she were an object they could reshape with enough force.

I’m not an object, Y/N thought bitterly, tears pricking her eyes. I’m not—

“Enough!” a voice cut through the room sharply, startling everyone.

The maids froze, their hands hovering mid-air as they turned toward the door. Robin stood there, her dark eyes narrowed behind her red-tinted glasses. Her tone was quiet but edged with an authority that demanded obedience. “Leave us.”

The women exchanged hesitant glances before stepping back. They gathered their fabrics and boxes in hurried silence, retreating toward the door like shadows fleeing from the light. The door closed behind them with a dull thud, and for a long moment, the room was silent again.

Y/N stood there, her shoulders trembling slightly, her body still half-wrapped in fabric that hung awkwardly from her frame. Her gaze remained fixed on the floor, unwilling to meet Robin’s eyes.

Robin stepped forward, her movements softer now, though she didn’t speak immediately. She regarded Y/N carefully, her gaze lingering on the faint red marks left on her arms where the maids had pulled too tightly.

“Did you understand what they said?” Robin asked finally, her voice low.

Y/N swallowed hard, forcing herself to nod. “Yes.”

Robin tilted her head slightly, something unreadable flickering across her expression. “And yet you didn’t stop them.”

“What good would it have done?” Y/N shot back, her voice quieter than she intended. She finally lifted her gaze to meet Robin’s, her eyes glassy but determined. “They’re not the first people to look at me that way. To talk about me that way.”

Robin regarded her for a long moment, her expression softening slightly. “You’re stronger than you think,” she said finally.

Y/N blinked, taken aback by the words. “What?”

Robin stepped closer, her voice calm but certain. “They wanted to break you, even if they didn’t know it. But you didn’t let them. You’re still standing.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath, her fists uncurling as she forced herself to relax. “What does it matter?” she muttered. “They still think I’m useless. That I’m…” She hesitated, her voice cracking faintly. “…ugly.”

Robin tilted her head, her gaze sharp but not unkind. “They’re wrong.”

Y/N looked up sharply, meeting her gaze again. Robin’s expression held no mockery, no lies—only quiet honesty.

“They’re wrong,” Robin repeated. “Sir Crocodile didn’t summon you here because of what they see. He doesn’t care about appearances. He cares about what’s inside—a will that refuses to bend, fire that refuses to burn out. You think you’re weak, but you’re here. You survived your brother. You survived this day. And you’ll survive what comes next.”

Y/N stared at her, the words settling over her like a heavy blanket. She wasn’t sure whether Robin’s intent was to comfort her or simply to prepare her for what lay ahead. Either way, it worked.

She straightened her back slightly, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand as she steadied herself. “Why do you care?”

Robin smiled faintly, though it was small and fleeting. “I don’t,” she replied softly. “But I admire people who survive.”

With that, she turned toward the door, pausing briefly to glance back. “Dress yourself however you see fit. You don’t need their approval.”

She left the room then, the door clicking shut behind her.

Y/N stood there alone, the silence settling once more, though it no longer felt as suffocating as before. She looked down at the discarded fabrics on the bed, her fingers brushing against the soft silk.

Robin’s words echoed in her mind. “You survived your brother. You survived this day.”

Y/N took a deep breath, her gaze hardening as she picked up the fabrics and began wrapping them herself, letting the material fall however it would.

If Crocodile wanted fire, then she would show him fire.

Only fire.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Marine base bustled with its usual sounds of shouting voices, clashing steel, and the thuds of boots against the packed dirt. Morning drills were in full swing, recruits sprinting across the field as they carried weighted packs, their breath sharp and labored in the crisp morning air.

Vice Admiral Garp stood atop a raised platform overlooking the training yard, arms crossed over his broad chest as his sharp eyes surveyed the scene below. His coat hung loosely over his shoulders, the billowing Marine insignia catching the wind as he grinned at the sight before him.

“Look at ‘em go!” he barked with a laugh, his voice carrying over the clamor of the courtyard. “Good! That’s how you build strength! You hear me, Koby? I don’t want to see you slow down!”

Koby, panting heavily, stumbled slightly under the weight of the pack strapped to his back. His face was red, his glasses fogged from exertion, but he pushed himself forward, his small frame a blur of determination as he struggled to keep up with the others. “Yes, sir! I won’t slow down!”

Garp’s grin widened, the deep lines of his face crinkling with satisfaction as he watched the young recruit. “Good kid,” he muttered to himself, though loud enough for Bogard—his ever-silent companion—to hear. “The brat’s got fire. I like that.”

Bogard nodded faintly, as he always did, though his gaze remained distant and watchful.

For a moment, Garp allowed himself the luxury of feeling pride. He’d seen too many men lose their edge—lose their fire—over the years, but Koby? Koby had something that reminded Garp of an earlier, hungrier time. Maybe the kid wasn’t strong yet, but he was honest and willing to fight through the pain.

Garp exhaled contentedly, though the moment of peace didn’t last. A sudden voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Vice Admiral Garp, sir!”

A Marine jogged up the stairs to the platform, breathing heavily as he stopped in front of the Vice Admiral and snapped to attention with a sharp salute. He held a tightly folded newspaper in one hand, its edges smudged faintly with ink.

“What is it?” Garp asked, his tone gruff but curious.

“Urgent news, sir,” the Marine replied, holding the newspaper out to him. “It’s about Alabasta—and the Warlord Crocodile.”

At the mention of Crocodile’s name, Garp’s grin faded ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing as he snatched the paper from the Marine’s hand. “Crocodile, huh?”

Bogard turned his head slightly, watching as Garp unfolded the paper with a flick of his wrist. The bold headline immediately caught his eye, the black ink stark against the off-white page.

CROCODILE FORGES MARRIAGE ALLIANCE WITH TARGARYEN PRINCESS IN ALABASTA.

The subheading detailed the rumors of the arranged marriage and Crocodile’s intentions, hinting at the power a union with a Targaryen could bring. Garp’s brow furrowed as he read the words, his face darkening with every line.

“Married?” he muttered, the disbelief in his tone almost comical. “That sand bastard’s getting married?”

The Marine standing at attention shifted nervously, unsure whether the Vice Admiral’s reaction was amusement or anger. “Yes, sir. The reports confirm it. Crocodile visited a noble estate in northern Alabasta days ago. A princess of the Targaryen bloodline is involved, and sources say she’s been summoned to Rainbase.”

Garp snorted loudly, his lip curling with distaste as he crumpled the edge of the paper slightly. “Targaryen? That’s one of those ancient noble families, isn’t it? Dragons, thrones, all that nonsense.”

Bogard nodded, stepping closer to glance at the paper. “Yes. Old blood, powerful name. The Targaryens ruled far-off lands in ages past. Their legacy is tied to fire and conquest, or so the stories go.”

Garp scoffed, his fist tightening around the newspaper as he scanned the page again. “So Crocodile’s playing noble now? What’s his angle?” His voice grew darker, the edge of authority returning as his mind worked through the implications. “That bastard doesn’t make moves unless he sees a way to win. If he’s marrying a Targaryen, it’s not for love.”

“No, sir,” Bogard said quietly, his tone grave. “It’s for power.”

Garp lowered the paper, his sharp eyes flicking toward the distant horizon as if he could see all the way to Alabasta from where he stood. “Damn pirates,” he muttered, his voice thick with disdain. “They’re all the same. Give ‘em a drop of power, and they start acting like kings.”

The Marine shifted nervously under Garp’s gaze. “Sir, if this alliance is true, it could mean trouble for Alabasta. Crocodile already controls so much of the region—this could solidify his hold completely.”

Garp was silent for a moment, his jaw tight as he considered the weight of those words. He didn’t care about titles or noble houses, but power—real power—was something that could reshape entire kingdoms. If Crocodile thought he could forge an alliance with ancient royal blood, it wouldn’t stop at marriage. It wouldn’t stop with Alabasta.

“What do we know about the girl?” Garp asked abruptly, his tone clipped.

The Marine shook his head. “Very little, sir. Her name isn’t listed in the report—only that she is connected to the Targaryen bloodline and that her brother arranged the meeting.”

“Her brother, huh?” Garp snorted again, though there was no humor in it. “Selling his sister off to a pirate. What a fine family.”

Bogard’s expression remained unchanged, though he spoke quietly. “If Crocodile succeeds in this alliance, it could put him beyond our reach. Alabasta’s people would rally under his banner, believing him to be legitimate.”

Garp’s scowl deepened, the edges of the paper crumpling further in his hands. He hated politics. He hated the games men like Crocodile played—games where innocent people were pawns, traded and discarded to satisfy the ambitions of powerful men.

But most of all, he hated the way pirates slithered into power, masquerading as something greater than they were.

“Keep your ears open,” Garp ordered suddenly, his voice firm. “I want updates on Crocodile’s movements—everything. Where he’s been, where he’s going, who he’s dealing with. If this girl is important enough to tie herself to him, I want to know why.”

“Yes, sir!” the Marine replied quickly, saluting before turning and hurrying off the platform.

Garp watched him go, his gaze lingering on the recruits below as they continued their drills, their movements sharp and coordinated. Koby was still pushing himself, his face a mask of determination as he ran alongside the others.

Garp sighed deeply, rubbing the back of his neck as he turned to Bogard. “Damn fools are going to tear the world apart chasing power.”

Bogard inclined his head faintly. “It’s already happening, sir.”

Garp grunted in response, turning his gaze back toward the distant horizon. Somewhere out there, Crocodile was playing king in his desert fortress, and some poor girl—a Targaryen princess, no less—was being dragged into his plans.

The bastard won’t get away with it, Garp thought, his jaw tightening.

Whatever Crocodile was planning, Garp would be watching.

And if the Warlord thought he could solidify his grip on Alabasta without the Marines noticing… he was sorely mistaken.

“Crocodile,” Garp muttered under his breath, the name like a curse. “You’re gonna choke on that ambition of yours one day.”

The wind carried his words out over the courtyard, lost amidst the shouts of Marines training below—unheard by all but Bogard, who stood silent at his side, his hand resting lightly on his sword hilt as if waiting for the storm to come.

The quiet clatter of boots on the polished floors echoed softly through the Marine base's corridors as Garp and Bogard walked side by side. The usual din of the base—recruits training, commanders barking orders, and weapons being hauled—faded to a dull murmur as they moved into the quieter, administrative wing. Despite his usual boisterous demeanor, Garp was silent, his heavy brows furrowed in thought.

Bogard remained at his side, ever silent, a shadow who needed no words. He could tell Garp was thinking—thinking hard. That alone was enough to set an ominous undertone to the day.

Garp’s fingers drummed against his arm absentmindedly as he walked, his sharp eyes narrowing toward nothing in particular. The newspaper still sat crumpled under his arm, the words about Crocodile’s rumored alliance and arranged marriage clinging to his mind like oil.

Crocodile, a Targaryen princess, Alabasta, he thought grimly. None of this sat well with him. A man like Crocodile didn’t marry for romance—he didn’t need a marriage. Which meant this wasn’t about the girl. It was about power. An alliance that could tighten his hold on Alabasta and solidify his influence on the Grand Line.

It was dangerous. Dangerous for the Marines. Dangerous for the world.

And yet Garp didn’t have the information he needed—not yet. If there was a scheme, Crocodile had hidden its roots well, and Garp had no interest in wasting time untangling a web of whispers. If he wanted answers, he would need an inside source. Someone who walked the thin line between the law and the lawless.

Someone who already knew the world of the Warlords.

Garp stopped suddenly, his shoulders straightening as a thought struck him like a hammer. He turned sharply toward Bogard, his eyes gleaming with a clarity that hadn’t been there moments before.

“I know just the bastard for this job,” Garp said.

Bogard raised a brow faintly, a silent question.

Garp’s grin returned—not his usual, jovial one, but something sharper and darker. “Dracule Mihawk.”

Bogard’s brow furrowed further. “The Warlord?”

“Who else?” Garp muttered, resuming his pace and striding quickly toward his office. “The greatest swordsman in the world. One of Crocodile’s ‘equals,’ at least in title. If anyone can sniff out what’s happening in Alabasta and get close to the princess’s brother, it’s him.”

“Do you think he’ll agree?” Bogard asked, his tone calm but cautious.

Garp chuckled darkly. “We’re not gonna ask him nicely.”

They reached Garp’s office—a cluttered space that barely reflected the rank of the man who owned it. Maps were strewn across the desk, half-empty bowls of rice crackers sat amid piles of papers, and the walls were plastered with faded Marine notices and bounty posters.

Garp stomped toward the desk and dropped heavily into his chair, grabbing the transponder snail on the corner of the desk. The snail, shaped like a miniature black mollusk, blinked lazily as Garp adjusted the receiver and began to dial.

Bogard folded his arms, stepping to the side as Garp leaned forward, the edges of his mouth curling into a faint smirk.

The snail rang once. Twice. Three times.

Then, with a faint click, the transponder snail’s features shifted—its small eyes narrowing, its mouth curling into a smooth, indifferent line. A voice followed, low and faintly amused, as though it couldn’t be bothered with the world’s affairs.

“Well, this is unexpected,” Dracule Mihawk’s voice drawled through the line. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Vice Admiral Garp?”

The snail perfectly mimicked Mihawk’s expression—detached and calm.

Garp leaned back in his chair, his grin widening slightly. “Mihawk! You’re a hard man to track down, you know that?”

“I don’t make it easy,” Mihawk replied smoothly. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t exchange pleasantries. What do you want?”

Garp’s smile thinned, his tone turning serious. “I need information, Mihawk. About Alabasta. About Crocodile.”

There was a pause on the line, though Mihawk’s expression didn’t change. “Crocodile?” he repeated, a faint edge of interest in his voice.

“You heard me,” Garp said, his grin disappearing entirely now. “Rumors say he’s forging an alliance—marrying a Targaryen princess.” He glanced at the crumpled newspaper on his desk and tapped it pointedly. “You’ve got the freedom to move where you want. And I need you to move to Alabasta.”

Another pause, though this one felt longer. Mihawk was thinking.

“And what, exactly, do you expect me to do there?” Mihawk asked finally, his tone carrying faint boredom. “I’m not a dog you can command, Garp.”

“Don’t need you to be,” Garp shot back. “I need you to look into her brother.”

“Viserys Targaryen,” Bogard interjected softly from where he stood.

“Yeah, him,” Garp grunted, nodding. “Find out what he’s scheming. He’s the one who arranged this whole damn mess. I want to know what Crocodile’s really after. And if there’s something bigger coming, I want to know before the powder keg goes off.”

The snail’s eyes narrowed faintly, Mihawk’s silence stretching as though he were weighing his options. When he finally spoke, his tone carried that faint smirk of amusement again. “Why would I involve myself in your affairs? Crocodile’s ambitions are of no concern to me.”

“Because you’re curious,” Garp said, leaning forward, his voice edged with challenge. “You’re not the kind of man to ignore a storm on the horizon, Mihawk. And you know as well as I do—if Crocodile’s pulling strings, it won’t stop with Alabasta. Whatever he’s after, it’s gonna shake the seas. And you don’t strike me as someone who likes being caught off guard.”

The snail’s expression twitched ever so slightly, the faintest sign that Mihawk was, indeed, listening.

Garp pressed on. “You head to Alabasta. Keep an eye on Viserys, on Crocodile—hell, even on the girl. Find out what they’re planning. I don’t care how you do it. You get me the information I need, and you can go back to drinking wine in whatever castle you’re haunting these days.”

A beat of silence. Then Mihawk’s voice returned, cool and unbothered as ever. “And what do I get in return for playing your errand boy?”

Garp’s grin returned, sharp and wolfish. “You’ll have my word to stay out of your hair for a while.”

The snail blinked slowly, Mihawk’s faint hum of amusement echoing through the receiver. “A tempting offer.”

“Take it or leave it,” Garp said simply.

Another pause. Then, finally, Mihawk replied. “Very well, Vice Admiral. I’ll look into your little conspiracy. I’ve been meaning to stretch my legs anyway.”

“Good,” Garp said, satisfied. “I knew you were smarter than you looked.”

Mihawk ignored the jab entirely. “I’ll contact you if I learn anything worth sharing. Don’t waste my time.”

With that, the transponder snail let out a final click, its features returning to a neutral, blank stare as the call ended.

Garp leaned back in his chair, letting out a long breath as he folded his hands behind his head. “Mihawk won’t disappoint,” he muttered, though whether it was to Bogard or himself wasn’t clear.

Bogard nodded once, his expression unreadable. “He’ll find what we need.”

Garp stared at the crumpled newspaper again, his jaw tightening as his thoughts turned back to Crocodile, to Alabasta, and to the Targaryen name that carried far too much weight for comfort.

“Yeah,” he said softly, his voice low and dangerous. “And when he does, we’ll be ready.”

The sound of training exercises outside echoed faintly through the walls, but in Garp’s office, the tension sat thick and heavy, as though the first gusts of an oncoming storm had already begun to blow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~