The third day of battle began with harsh winds carrying a biting chill. The sky above Mad Hat Island was blanketed in gray clouds—the smoke of still-burning buildings adding bitterness to the already grim mood. Screams and the echoes of yesterday's gunfire lingered faintly, a reminder that this city was never truly quiet… except for the roar of death.
---
[Western District]
Amidst the rubble of past clashes, the corpse of Butcher Fang lay still. The head of the crocodile-man was split open wide, cracked scales revealing white bone beneath. His spiked warhammer lay several meters away, surrounded by wind and pools of drying blood on gravel. Not a single civilian remained—only the bodies of criminals, gang members, shadow cartel enforcers, and the prostitutes who once preyed on drunken sailors at the docks.
---
[Eastern Market]
Alleys that were once bustling had become a sorrowful labyrinth: shattered rooftops stabbed into the ground, burned merchandise scattered ash into the bitter air. Dust and charred wood fragments clouded every view. Each step echoed with a creak that seemed to awaken the city's own grief.
At the heart of the ruins lay Serpent Smile. His face was half-melted, scaled skin corroded by an explosive of caustic gas—green liquid still dripping, giving off a suffocating stench. His dagger had fallen from his stiff hand, now dancing alone amid the smoldering ash.
Corpses surrounded him: drug dealers, street prostitutes, gang leaders—all brought down by the very violence they had once thrived in. But the most tragic were the tiny bodies of street children. Kids as young as five to teens not yet grown, now lying stiff and cold. Some clutched torn dolls; others wrapped themselves in rags, their eyes closed in a false peace.
Once, they darted through alleys, smuggling messages in hidden pockets. Once, they accepted every job despite hearts still aching for home. Now, they had become Serpent Smile's favorite targets—the snake captain who relished the cries of little girls as the battlefield's lullaby.
Those small bodies could no longer run or scream. Silenced, they bore witness to cruelty beyond reason. Ash and blood stained their faces, sealing away childhoods that should've been filled with laughter.
---
[Northeast Port]
Morning fog blanketed the shoreline of Mad Hat like a curtain of death. No gulls. No crashing waves. Only the silence of a world holding its breath.
Then—from beyond the mist… a shadow appeared. Six Navy warships pierced through the white veil. They sailed in tight formation, gray hulls advancing like walls of iron toward a city drowned in sin.
The thunder of anchors shook the half-ruined docks. Pier planks cracked, seawater flooding through broken seams.
Dozens of fully armed marines stood firm, rifles and swords at the ready. Their descent echoed in unified rhythm—boots pounding stone like hammers of justice. No other sound followed but the clink of chains and the march of judgment.
At the prow of the lead ship, a lone figure stood tall. Wind blew through her white coat, crafting a silhouette like that of a divine executioner.
Rear Admiral Momosagi Gion descended the steel steps. Her expression was calm and cold, like marble carved by time. Her gaze swept across the city: ruins, the stench of blood, and the sound of damned souls wailing beneath debris.
She stood on the cracked dock and spoke in a quiet voice that thundered like a verdict:
"I am Momosagi Gion. All criminals—pirates, mafias, cartels, and spies—will be arrested. All slaves will be freed. Mad Hat Island… will rejoin the civilized world."
Silence followed.
Then, the troops advanced.
Chains snapped into place in unison. Marines swept through warehouses, alleyways, and dens of vice long untouched. Each step they took cast the inescapable shadow of justice.
From above, what remained of the underworld could only mutter in terror—the day of reckoning had arrived.
---
Iron cage doors opened. Hundreds of slaves—men, women, and children—were pushed out, heavily guarded. Their faces were hardened, scarred, and filled with buried rage. Among them, Elyndra kept her head down, breath labored, eyes red.
When a marine offered a hand, Elyndra turned. Her gaze was hollow, yet lit with a fiery resolve. It shot through Gion like an arrow, freezing her for just a moment.
What she saw was not pity, but a defiant spark—an indomitable will to live.
Without a word, Gion raised one finger. A single signal. Elyndra's chains were released. She stepped forward—weak, but steady. Not a slave, but a fighter awakening from slumber.
"Get them aboard the ship," Gion ordered. "Any who stand in the way—eliminate them on sight."
A few gangs tried to resist—throwing smoke bombs, ambushing from shadows—but they were crushed within seconds. Baton strikes, swift cuffs, even bursts of portable cannons tore through them like thunder.
---
Behind the wreckage of a collapsed watchtower, Rick Blacknose waited with his two lieutenants, Marlo and Sexton. Both possessed strength worthy of Grand Line brawlers, though their full abilities remained hidden. Marlo—the living shield. Sexton—shadow-fast and explosive.
Rick studied the marine formations, then signaled.
Using the hidden waterways and secret tunnels only they knew, the three slipped away. Rick clutched a scroll of documents: patrol maps, informant lists, operation schedules.
One small explosion created a diversion. They leapt into a boat hidden beneath planks. The vessel sped off into the fog.
On deck, Rick turned back toward the island, its fires dimming at last:
"The Grand Line calls. The curtain falls on Mad Hat's masquerade."
---
Twilight fell. Hundreds of freed slaves boarded the rescue ships. Elyndra stood on deck, watching the marines in formation across the marketplace square. Suddenly, an elite masked unit advanced: shining helms, long cloaks billowing, blades at their sides.
Without a word, they severed the last chains from the captured criminals. No one dared resist.
Mad Hat Island… was finally silent. But beneath that silence, seeds of change had been sown—with blood, ash, and a flame that would never be extinguished.