James had slipped to the front of the crowd, weaving through gaps like only a small kid could. Most people didn't even notice him pass. He ducked under arms, squeezed between coats, and used his size to his advantage. The smell of wool, sweat, and lingering smoke clung to the packed bodies around him. A swinging coat brushed his face, and a knee clipped his shoulder as someone stepped forward, but he kept moving without slowing down.
Unbeknownst to James, Grack and Storn tried to follow. They pushed in behind him but had a much harder time. Grown men didn't move through crowds like that—not without bumping shoulders and getting dirty looks. One cursed as he got elbowed in the side; the other tried forcing his way through, only to get shoved back by an older woman holding a meat skewer. Storn muttered something under his breath but kept moving. Grack's eyes stayed fixed ahead.
James stood at the front now, grinning. A rope hung waist-high in front of him, frayed in places and stretched between two carved posts. It marked the barrier for the projection space. No one stood past it. The snow there had been cleared, and only a few muddy footprints showed where people had tested the line and been pushed back. The view was clear.
He was still hungry. He'd had a decent breakfast—some smoked fish and thick bread—but that sprinting with the heavy branch earlier had burned through it. His stomach growled again, low and steady. He gave it a quick rub and shifted his feet in place, glancing around.
Still, he was content. He rested his hands on the rope, fingers curled lightly over it, and rocked back on his heels as he waited. Cold air pushed in from the open space ahead, brushing against his legs and stinging his nose, but he didn't seem to notice.
Then the snail kicked to life.
It stirred with a sluggish ripple, shifting its weight on the sled. Its shell was thick, dark, and cracked in places, held down by leather straps and metal clamps that dug slightly into the rim. Its skin flexed, pale and damp, as the eyestalks slowly rose. The ends blinked open—wide, wet, and unblinking now—and pointed straight ahead.
Mounted to the shell was a brass-framed rig, four lenses locked in place, clicking softly as they rotated and aligned. A small coil on the side gave a quiet electric snap. Green light flickered on, and a low hum passed through the base of the sled.
The crowd reacted instantly—yelling, cheering, clapping. Some pointed. Others whooped or raised arms. The sound swept through the space like a wave.
Then came the shimmer. It started like rising heat—thin, wavering lines in the air—until it flashed into a flat, floating projection. The image sharpened.
The projection came into focus, and James leaned forward, eyes wide.
At first, all he could see was the crowd… it was massive!
As a cop, he'd worked big sporting events and political rallies, and sometimes picked up concert gigs on the side. Just being around those kinds of crowds—managing flow, watching how people filled a space—had given him a good intuition for estimating numbers. Looking at the projection now, with the packed plaza and streets overflowing in every direction, he figured there had to be at least twenty thousand to thirty thousand people watching.
Bodies packed shoulder to shoulder filled a massive stone plaza, the same way people were crammed around him now—only tighter, denser. The crowd filled every ledge, stair, and open window. People stood on balconies three, four stories high. Others sat on roof edges, legs dangling over the drop. Flags rippled from poles tied to chimneys.
He could see narrow streets branching off the plaza, every one of them clogged with more people. Some stood on crates, some on wagons, and some had climbed onto signposts or the shoulders of others just to get a better view. Rooftops were dotted with figures all the way to the edge of the screen.
The buildings looked heavy—stone, timber, metal. They leaned slightly, rough and old, patched in places with new boards and bolts. Smoke curled from chimneys. Banners stretched from one wall to the next, faded by years of wind and salt.
The sound of it came through the speakers: yelling, cheering, the deep beat of drums thudding somewhere beneath it all.
Drummers could be heard in the background as the camera came into view.
Then the camera began to move. It swept slowly back across the city, turning toward the center of the square. The noise kept rolling. Faces blurred together. Arms waved. Cloth snapped in the wind.
And then the scaffold came into view.
A wide wooden platform stood high above the crowd, supported by thick beams at each corner. A single straight staircase climbed the back. The surface stood clear—just flat boards, a low railing along the far edge, and a post toward the corner where guards often stood. The wood looked solid and freshly cut, shaped for height and visibility.
It stood empty.
James leaned in a little further.
Just as I thought think back to the crowd and town… everything was bigger. The crowd, the city—more vibrant, more full. Guess everyone had a limit to how much could be drawn and animated.
The image held. The drums kept beating. The wind moved across the projection.
James leaned forward, eyes locked on the image.
The noise swelled as the projection shifted. Bodies pressed closer. James barely noticed. He was locked in, eyes on the shimmering image in the air.
The angle had changed—low now, angled upward toward the empty scaffold. Wind moved a banner behind it, the cloth stiff and snapping against the lingering chill of early spring. Bits of frost clung to the edges of the wood, and the platform itself stood tall, solid timbers bolted together at the corners. The stairs on one side creaked as a single figure climbed into view.
James narrowed his eyes.
The man looked like he belonged in a traveling stage show—or maybe a costume party gone wrong. Mid-fifties, tall and wiry, with movements so exaggerated he might have been afraid the camera wouldn't catch him unless he swung his arms like a windmill. His moustache curled into perfect little hooks, stiff enough to hold coins, and his face was dusted with pale powder that made his skin look like it had never seen sunlight. Bright rouge sat high on his cheeks, two shiny red circles that made him look more doll than man.
He wore a deep royal blue coat that swept behind him with every step, heavy with gold braids, buttons, and tassels that jingled faintly when he moved—like someone had attached curtain ties to military dress. His breeches were paper-tight, almost painfully so, clinging to his skinny legs before disappearing into tall white boots that looked buffed between every step. The soles barely scuffed, even on the frost-stained wood.
Perched on his head was a hat so tall and floppy it looked like a crown had crashed into a feather duster. The whole thing tilted forward with each gust of wind, occasionally flopping into his eyes until he jerked his head back with an annoyed snap.
A scroll was tucked under one arm like a sword, and a Den Den Mushi mic clipped high to his ruffled collar tracked his ascent. The camera lens clicked twice, adjusting to center him in frame as he strutted toward the platform's middle with a kind of self-importance that didn't need words.
James didn't move.
The man reached the center of the scaffold and threw out his arms like he was opening a grand performance. With a dramatic flick, he unrolled the scroll—long enough to slap against his boot—and raised it high.
"By order of the World Government!" he bellowed, voice sharp through the Den Den Mushi's projection. "Let it be known that today, the pirate Gol D. Roger—also known as the Pirate King!—shall be executed for crimes most foul!"
He began pacing the platform, each step echoing as the charges spilled forth:
"Piracy across the Four Seas and the Grand Line! Pillaging of World Government territories! Ransacking of civilian towns and trade ports! Destruction of island settlements loyal to the Crown!"
James stood still, watching. The crowd around him had quieted slightly—just enough to catch every word.
"Crimes of pirateering! Unlawful command of armed fleets, hostile engagements in protected waters, blockade running, and seizure of fortified supply routes!"
The man's voice climbed, steady and dramatic.
"Murder of civilians during raids! Kidnapping for ransom! Disruption of commerce! Spread of rebellion across stabilized regions!"
"Destruction of Marine vessels and outposts! Assault and murder of Marine personnel, including Captains, Rear Admirals, Vice Admirals, full Admirals—and confirmed engagement with the Grand Admiral himself!"
"Combat against officers of all known ranks within the God Knights! Sabotage of naval armories! Theft of World Government property!"
Then came the thunder.
"Assault—and murder—of Celestial Dragons!" the announcer roared, slicing the air with one hand as the scroll snapped in the breeze. "The blood of the gods spilled! Hands raised against the sacred few!"
He pressed on, eyes burning beneath powdered lids.
"Breaking the seals of Celestial compounds! Trespassing upon divine estates! Harassment of noble-born staff! Interference with inter-lineage rituals!*"
His boots thudded across the platform, coat flaring behind him.
"Vandalism of sacred archives! Theft of heirloom property and tribute vessels! Mockery of Celestial rites and symbols! Defiance of blood-sealed decrees issued under Holy Law!*"
A turn, a stomp, a rising pitch.
"Public desecration of statues within the Domain of the Gods! Assaults on armored envoys in open waters! Forcing the retreat of a World Noble's vessel flying the white flag of truce!*"
He stopped center stage, scroll raised high, voice full of thunder.
"*Undermining the divine authority of the World Nobility—*in deed, in word, and in will!"
Around James, some people clapped. Others muttered quietly or nodded along. A few just stood still, watching.
As the list of crimes dragged on, James kept listening, eyes steady. Obviously, it was a ridiculous list—bloated, theatrical, meant to overwhelm. But every government he'd known in his old life did the same. That wasn't new. The victor always got to write the history.
He didn't agree with the World Government across the board. It had problems—real ones, if the anime was anything to go by. But what didn't? Authority, structure, rule of law—they were still necessary. The world needed them. It just needed people inside who believed in justice, not power.
He believed he could be one of them.
He steeled himself, already thinking about the kind of man he'd have to be when he finally donned the coat of justice.
The announcer gave a final sweep of his arm and stepped back, scroll still raised. Then, with a practiced bow, he turned and descended the stairs, coat flaring behind him in the breeze. His boots echoed on the wood until he vanished from the frame.
The platform stilled.
Only the wind moved now—pulling at the banner behind the scaffold, brushing across the timbers. The two executioners remained in place, halberds gleaming, shoulders squared. The camera lingered on them for a moment. No one spoke.
James felt the shift happen—subtle but unmistakable. The crowd leaned in. The silence grew heavy. People adjusted their footing. A few whispers flickered and died.
Something was about to happen. Everyone felt it.
Then, finally—movement.
The projection sharpened as two Marine guards stepped into view, rising slowly from the lower edge of the frame as they began their climb. The stairs creaked beneath their boots—thick, black leather polished to a mirror shine. Their uniforms were clean and formal, crisp blue coats with high collars and golden shoulder knots, the kind worn for ceremony. Each man carried a halberd, shaft pressed flat against the shoulder, blades gleaming with fresh polish.
Between them walked a tall figure bound in iron.
The chains wrapped across his chest and arms in a layered pattern—thick manacles around his wrists, connected to a central collar by loops of steel. A second set coiled around his waist, trailing down behind his back in long, clinking links. Every step sent a dull rattle through the scaffold.
His clothes had once been fine. A deep crimson coat, the edges frayed and weather-faded, hung open over a dark, sweat-damp shirt that clung to his torso. The fabric had been expensive once—James could tell by the stitching, the gold thread still faintly visible on the seams—but now it was worn from sun, salt, and time. His pants were tucked into tall boots, cracked from use, the buckles tarnished but intact.
His hair was thick and wild, spilling over his shoulders in tangled waves. Jet black streaked with gray, it moved in the wind and with each motion, heavy and unkempt. A red bandana, faded to rust, held it back from his brow, though loose strands still drifted across his cheeks. His face looked carved from stone—square jaw, high cheekbones, dark eyes under heavy lids. The thick mustache curled upward in wide arcs, exactly as James remembered.
The sun lit them from behind, casting long shadows up the stairs. It hit Roger square in the shoulders, turning the edges of his coat a richer red and making the chains blaze for a moment in pale gold. Then a cloud rolled past overhead. The scene dimmed. Shadows shifted across the scaffold in soft, slanted bands as the small clouds floated overhead.
Roger stood tall at the top of the platform, chains across his chest, posture easy, like he was on a podium built for speeches rather than execution. He stood still, steady. Eyes forward. His presence dominated the space, arms bound but bearing the calm of a man who had chosen this path long ago. His coat hung loose over his shoulders, frayed at the edges, rising and falling gently with the breeze. Stains darkened the hem—dirt, salt, blood from years on the sea—but none of it dimmed the weight he carried. His smile remained wide and relaxed, touched with something deeper, as though he understood something the rest of them hadn't yet grasped.
The camera drew closer. The shimmer of the projection narrowed on his face until every line and crease stood in perfect detail. His jaw looked cut from stone, his weathered skin spoke of time spent under sun and salt, and the mustache curled upward like it had done so forever. A few strands of hair slipped across his brow, streaks of gray catching the light. That smile stayed fixed. Unshaken. It belonged there, like it had taken root in the bone.
The executioners stepped forward with halberds raised, one on either side. Each movement landed with measured certainty—boots tapping wood, shoulders squared, blades gleaming as they rose. Their coats held their shape, collars stiff, brass buttons polished. They took their places beside him with the weight of ceremony. The scaffold creaked beneath their boots, just a whisper under the weight of the moment.
The crowd quieted slowly, breath by breath. People eased their movements. A few turned their heads, others leaned forward. Somewhere above them all, flags shifted gently in the breeze. The square seemed to draw in its own breath, holding it tight, stretched between what had come before and what was about to happen.
James swallowed, shoulders braced. Heat pooled low in his back, pressure curling in his gut like a spring wound too tight. His tongue felt thick behind his teeth. Around him, people pressed closer. Boots shifted. Elbows grazed fabric. Still, no one spoke. The weight of what was coming settled like snowfall, soft but impossible to ignore.
The moment stretched. Everything in him waited.
And then someone in the crowd shouted it.
"Where's your treasure?!"
The quiet fractured. Voices spilled in from every direction—shouting, laughing, stretching over one another in a wild chorus. People surged forward, shoulders bumping, hands raised. The square swelled with noise, sharp and breathless. Questions burst through the air like flung stones, urgent and full of heat.
"Tell us, Roger!"
"Where is it?!"
"Where's all your gold?!"
Roger stood still.
His chin rose a little, head turning just enough to meet the weight of the crowd. A ribbon of smoke slipped from between his teeth, curling past his cheek, trailing off into the morning light. It rose easy, carried by the breeze, moving the way he did—unbothered, sure of its place.
The smile spread—wide, clean, full of teeth. His lips drew back with slow confidence. Sunlight struck the gold at the corner of his grin, and the curl of his mustache framed it like a flourish on a signed name. His eyes squinted slightly beneath the light, lids low, calm, almost amused. His shoulders stayed loose beneath the weight of the chains, chest lifted, coat shifting as the breeze passed over the scaffold.
Every inch of him looked at ease. The kind of ease that came from living by no one else's command.
James felt something settle in the pit of his stomach. Heat pooled behind his ribs. He stared, silent, as if blinking might let the moment slip past. The projection shimmered, clear and steady, holding the image of that smile—too big for the frame, too alive to belong to someone bound for death.
The smoke drifted. The light deepened. The platform stood quiet around him.
And still, Roger smiled.
Then, clear as anything, he said it:
"My treasure? If you want it, you can have it. Find it! I left everything I gathered in one place—now go, and claim it!"
The crowd exploded. A wave of motion surged outward, sweeping through the square like a shockwave. People roared with laughter and disbelief, voices stacking into a wall of sound. Dozens clapped or threw their arms up. Some grabbed whoever stood beside them—shaking shoulders, shouting into ears. Others stamped their feet or tossed hats into the sky, their joy spilling over in wild bursts. Flags whipped back and forth. Several kids clung to their parents' legs, wide-eyed as adults jumped and shouted around them.
The roar spread like rolling thunder across the square. The wooden rails of the viewing boxes groaned as people leaned forward. Boots scraped stone. Elbows jutted. Someone nearby let out a long whoop, echoed by others just seconds later.
James flinched as the force of it all hit him. The sound pressed against his chest, thick and alive. Every voice bled into the next, one endless flood of noise and motion. The air itself felt charged, as if the world had shifted and now waited for someone to chase it.
And in the center of it all, Roger stood smiling.
James's eyes stayed on the projection, though movement tugged at his attention. People were pushing out—young men, a few women—climbing through gaps, boots scraping the ground. Even up front, someone bumped into him, slipping past without pause.
Roger wasn't even dead yet, and some weren't going to finish watching, he thought.
This moment was playing out everywhere—just like in the anime. People running, crowds breaking for port.
James refocused on the screen.
Roger still smiled.
He knelt at the center of the scaffold, chains draped across his chest and wrapped around his arms. His back stayed straight, shoulders broad, head lifted toward the light. The morning sun caught the edge of his coat, faded red and tattered at the hem, hanging loose behind him like a mantle. A breeze brushed his hair across his brow. His face stayed open—unflinching, calm.
And that smile.
It rested wide across his mouth, curled just enough to show the line of his teeth. There was no tension in it. His lips sat easy, stretched into something that felt earned. His eyes didn't flicker. The grin carried weight, as though it belonged to someone who had lived a hundred lives and still welcomed the next.
The executioners stepped forward. Halberds rose above his shoulders, blades gleaming under full daylight. Their movements struck the timber in rhythm. Each man wore the blue coat of Marine justice, polished, pressed, shoulders squared. They moved with the certainty of men who understood their role. Their hands gripped the hafts tight, held high and ready.
The crowd behind James blurred. All focus narrowed.
Then came the strike.
Both halberds dropped together. A sharp crack split the air. Blades hit deep—one through the clavicle, the other into the ribs. Roger's body rocked slightly, blood spraying out across the scaffold in two arcs. He stayed upright for a moment, held by posture and chain. The grin on his face never wavered.
His teeth still showed. White, even. His mustache, thick and curled, framed the edges. Blood slipped down from the corner of his lips, trailing past his chin. Wind lifted a strand of hair from his cheek. His eyes half-lidded, still open, still facing the crowd.
Even as his chest sagged and his body leaned forward, the smile held firm. It stayed there through the pooling red, through the collapse of his weight against the timber. A final breath pushed through his lungs, and a thin thread of steam left his mouth.
And still, Roger smiled.
James stared, breath caught.
The sun lit the platform. Chains glinted. The breeze swept over the scaffold once more.
And in that single moment, with blood still fresh on the wood and Roger's smile carved into memory—
the world changed.
The Great Pirate Era had begun.