The steady rhythm of the ship's engine, a constant drone for the past two days, finally ceased as we approached the island. The air, thick with salt and the anticipation of battle, crackled with tension. I shifted my weight, the sand crunching beneath my boots.
"Finally, solid ground," I muttered, stretching my stiff limbs. "Two days is too long at sea."
Zephyr, his gaze fixed on the approaching shore, remained unmoved. "Precision, Purple-hair Kid," he rumbled, the familiar nickname grating on my nerves. "This operation requires precision, not your usual...impatience."
"Understood, sir," I replied, suppressing a sigh. "Precision."
Drake, a stern figure despite being two years my junior, stood beside me, his reptilian eyes narrowed. "The target is in sight," he stated, his voice flat. "Lukas. A Zoan type. We must proceed with caution."
"Caution is wise, Dory," I said, using the nickname I'd recently adopted, a subtle reminder of our age difference. "But we also can't hesitate."
Drake's eyes flickered towards me, a hint of annoyance in their depths. "Do not use that name," he said, his voice low. "It is unprofessional."
"Relax, Dory," I replied, a slight smirk playing on my lips. "It's just a nickname."
Zephyr cut through our brief exchange. "The Blackheart Pirates are visible. Prepare for landing. We will execute the plan as discussed. Purple-hair Kid, stay focused. Drake, maintain situational awareness."
"Understood," Drake replied, his voice flat.
As we disembarked, the Blackheart Pirates were visible, a motley crew gathered on the beach. Drac, their captain, stood at the forefront, his imposing figure radiating an aura of menace.
"Purple-hair, Drake, with me," Zephyr commanded. "Senior recruits, you're with them. The rest of the division, engage the crew. Minimize civilian casualties."
The fight erupted with explosive force. Drac, a master swordsman, wielded his black sword, Shadow's Edge, with deadly precision. But Zephyr, with his legendary Armament Haki, was a force of nature, his fists a blur of motion, each blow a thunderous impact.
"He's strong," Drac gasped, his voice strained, after taking a brutal right hook to the jaw. "Stronger than they said."
"Strength without discipline is meaningless," Zephyr retorted, his voice a low growl.
Drake, his gaze fixed on Lukas, turned to me. "We engage now. Lukas is a priority."
"Agreed," I replied. "Let's move, Dory."
We charged towards Lukas, the massive white tiger a blur of motion. His roars were deafening. Drake, shifting into his Allosaurus form, met him head-on, the ground trembling as they clashed.
"Roar!" Drake bellowed, the sound a challenge, a declaration of dominance.
"You think you can stop me?" Lukas snarled, his voice a guttural growl. "I've faced stronger!"
"That is irrelevant," Drake stated, his voice flat and unwavering. "Your actions end here."
I moved to flank Lukas, my own abilities ready. The senior recruits, meanwhile, were engaged with Aldo, Drac's right-hand man. The clash of steel echoed across the beach, a symphony of violence. I kept my focus on Drake and Lukas. Lukas was fast, powerful, a whirlwind of claws and teeth. But Drake, in his Allosaurus form, was a living tank, his thick hide deflecting the worst of Lukas's attacks.
"He is resilient," Drake observed, his voice devoid of emotion. "But his movements are becoming predictable."
"Don't underestimate him, Dory," I warned. "He's been fighting for decades."
"Decades do not guarantee victory," Drake replied, his eyes focused. "They merely indicate experience. We will adapt."
I supported him, using my bubble fruit ability to disrupt Lukas's movements. Every time my bubbles touched Lukas's body, they made him feel heavy, as if he were sinking into the ground. He struggled to maintain his footing, his powerful leaps becoming sluggish and his swipes less precise. We worked together, a well-oiled machine, our combined power a force to be reckoned with. We would win, just like Zephyr always did, even if Drake insisted on his professional demeanor and I insisted on calling him Dory.
Even though I was helping Drake, my senses were always focused on Aldo who was fighting five seniors. The air around them crackled with the energy of their clash, the metallic tang of blood mixing with the salty sea breeze. Aldo, a figure of lean muscle and deadly grace, moved with a fluid precision that belied his ferocity. He wielded a wickedly curved saber, its edge shimmering with an unnatural darkness, each swing a whisper of death that forced the seniors to retreat.
They were skilled, those seniors. Years of training had honed their reflexes and coordination. They moved as a unit, a coordinated dance of steel and evasion. One would parry a blow, another would attempt a flanking maneuver, while a third would try to exploit a momentary opening. Yet, Aldo's sheer skill and relentless aggression kept them constantly on the defensive.
My hand was always holding a gun, a custom-made revolver with enhanced stopping power. Although sniping wasn't a popular combat style in this world, no grand title of "Sniper King" or "Strongest Sniper" to aspire to, I was proud of my skill. I embraced the precision, the calculated patience, the ability to end a threat with a single, decisive shot. Some might call it a "sneak attack," but to eliminate pirates, to protect the innocent, I would do anything.
I watched the battle unfold, analyzing every movement, every shift in stance, every flicker of Aldo's eyes. I was waiting for the perfect moment, a fleeting instant when Aldo's focus would waver, when his defenses would drop.
The seniors were holding their own, but they were tiring. Their movements were becoming slower, their parries less precise. Aldo, on the other hand, seemed to grow stronger with each passing moment, his strikes becoming more brutal, his movements more fluid.
One of the seniors, a young woman named Ain, with quick reflexes and agility, attempted a daring maneuver, a feint followed by a swift strike to Aldo's exposed side. Aldo, however, anticipated her move, his saber a blur as it intercepted her attack. The force of the impact sent Ain flying, crashing into the sandy beach.
The others rallied, their determination fueled by Ain's fall. They pressed their attack, their blades flashing like silver lightning. But Aldo was a whirlwind of destruction, his saber a scythe reaping their efforts.
I saw my opportunity. Aldo, in the midst of a complex series of slashes, had momentarily exposed his head. The seniors, exhausted and battered, were unable to capitalize on the opening. But I was not.
My gun roared, the sound a sharp crack that cut through the din of battle. The bullet, a high-velocity round, found its mark, piercing Aldo's head. He crumpled instantly, his saber clattering on the sand.
Ding! Host gets 155 simulation points.
The battle was far from over, but the tide had turned. I lowered my gun, my eyes still fixed on Aldo's fallen form for a moment and then returned my focus to Drake and Lukas, the fight continuing to be a spectacle of power and speed.