Thousands had gathered on Whiteland. James was sure it was the same all over the world.
The town center couldn't hold everyone. The event had outgrown it. So the king and his men had dragged logs down from the ridge and built a temporary site at the edge of town.
It was spring. Still cold for this time of year. Most of the snow had melted, but you could still find it along fences and in the shade. The air had a bite to it, but not the kind that froze skin. People wore lighter coats—nothing fancy, just enough to stay warm if you kept moving.
Most stood packed in the center. But a handful of raised viewing boxes had been built for influential people—James's grandfather included.
James was standing in one now. It wasn't huge—about the size of a sports box from his last life. Enough room for a few people, but not the whole family. Just rails, a little space, and a clear view.
There were several like it around the edge of the square. The king's was the biggest and tallest.
The Den Den Mushi was up front. Huge, even for a snail. About James's size, and he was three. Its shell was strapped with a camera rig and blinked slowly, unmoving.
James leaned on the rail. The wood was damp in spots and sticky with sap. His cousins stood behind him, whispering and poking at each other.
James was bored. That morning, he'd done sprints carrying a branch that was just a little too heavy to be a play sword. He would charge, try to complete a devastating strike… or at least, that was the goal. Really, it just looked like an energetic kid running around yelling and swinging a stick. But for James, it was training.
Now, standing still, he was starting to feel hungry. The wind shifted, and something smelled good.
He looked to the left. Vendors were set up along the edge of the square, calling out over the noise. Some sold hot food—sticks of smoked fish, fried dough, boiled nuts. Others had little trinkets and flags with the World Government's emblem stitched in red. A few kids waved them without thinking.
Still, his thoughts turned back to what really had him excited.
Roger was going to do it. The thing that made him a legend. One of the most famous moments from the anime.
James had always wondered why they let him talk. Why they gave him a platform at all. But now, standing there, it made more sense. Roger wasn't a Devil Fruit user, and his Haki was different. Beyond anything they could deal with.
It was probably part of the deal—let him speak, let him face the world the way he wanted. In exchange, they got to say they captured and executed him.
The snail still hadn't turned on. But it would soon.
James kept sniffing the air getting the hunts of deliciousness coming from the food vendors. His stomach rumbled.
James was wondering if he should ask for some Berries. He'd never had money before, but maybe this once, someone would give him enough to grab food. The smells were making his stomach twist.
That's when he spotted one of his aunts—Belinda.
She looked like a downgraded version of his mother. Especially in the chest area. She actually seemed to enjoy being rich—not in a mean way, just in that casual, obvious way some people did. She wasn't bad, just very entitled.
"Do you really think the kids should see this?" she asked, leaning in toward his grandmother. "I think we should—I don't know—send the kids home or something?"
His grandmother didn't say anything, but her mouth twitched a little—small movements that looked like agreement.
His aunt Belinda was being a Karen.
He wasn't going to miss this.
Fuck no.
He looked at his parents. They were distracted.
His mother was catching up with old friends, a few women she hadn't seen since last spring. His dad was standing with a group of men, laughing loud and telling stories—probably the one about chasing a wounded whale through broken ice.
James had always been a well-behaved kid, even with all his energy. He didn't cry much, didn't throw tantrums, and usually stayed where he was told. So it made sense they weren't hovering.
He looked down at the stairs. Time to move.
As James slipped out and made his way into the crowd, he grabbed a hat from the back pocket of a large coat slung over a bench. It felt soft and worn, probably belonged to a fisherman. He pulled it down over his red hair, covering the bright strands that would've drawn too much attention in the sea of darker tones around him. Someone would figure out he was gone soon, but not yet.
About ten minutes later, the youngest kids—mostly under five—were led away. Belinda made the call, rounding them up and waving over staff from the estate. She pointed, directed, and organized like she was hosting a formal dinner, not watching a world-shaking broadcast. The kids were marched back toward the estate under adult supervision.
James had made the perfect escape.
Or so he thought.
One man in the crowd kept his eyes locked on the viewing boxes.
Tall, lean, with sunken eyes and a stretched-out jaw, he stood still while the crowd shifted around him. His name was Grack the Gullet. Old pelts hung from his shoulders, stained and stitched at the seams. They gave off a greasy mix of smoke, seal fat, and sweat. A few people caught the smell and gave him a glance as they moved past, but Grack stood in place.
He watched the gold rings. The polished boots. The coats trimmed with fox and mink. The smiles. The raised cups. The careless way the rich leaned on railings like they owned the air.
Next to him stood Storn, broad-chested, flat-nosed, a chunk of ear gone from some old brawl. A short club rested under his arm, and a rusted blade hung from a piece of rope at his belt, whose finger was currently in his nose digging for treasure.
They hadn't come for Roger.
They had other plans.
Their plans started to take shape as a small boy came down the stairs from one of the viewing boxes.
He moved with that loose balance kids had—focused but still figuring out his body. One hand skimmed the railing as he stepped down, boots thudding lightly on the damp planks. His coat and trousers were made from soft brown hides, patched and rubbed smooth from use.
Grack barely glanced at him at first. Just a kid. "Nice skins," he muttered. Decent quality. Meant to last, not impress.
Then the boy slowed near a bench where someone had left a heavy coat draped over the it. Without hesitating, the boy snatched a cap from one of the pocket, the pulled it down over his red hair, and kept moving.
That's when he turned his head slightly.
Emerald green eyes. Clear, bright, and unmistakable. That color only came from blood.
The rich bastard's grandchild.
Grack grinned wide. He elbowed Storn.
Storn blinked, finger still in his nose. He followed his brother's gaze, locked eyes on the boy, and gave a short nod.
They had found their target.