17- Kaido’s got an army. Big Mom’s got a fleet. Teach has his Impel Down freaks. And me?

The Marineford War had already shaken the world, but a revelation from Whitebeard uttered in his final moments—"The One Piece is real!"—acted like a spark on a powder keg. Those words, roared with the strength of a dying titan before thousands of witnesses and broadcast across the seas via Buggy's hijacked transponder snails, echoed far beyond the ravaged bay. They rekindled a dream buried deep in the hearts of adventurers, the ambitious, and the desperate: the ultimate treasure, Gol D. Roger's legacy, was real, tangible, attainable. Amplified by newspapers and rumors, this declaration unleashed an unprecedented wave of piracy—a human tide surging toward one specific point: the Sabaody Archipelago.

In the days following the war, Sabaody became a stage for organized chaos. The archipelago's docks, already notorious for their bustle, teemed with ships of every size—from rickety skiffs to heavily armed galleons. Rookie pirates, seasoned crews, and even fugitive criminals flooded in, their eyes gleaming with greed and defiance. Whitebeard's words had reignited a flame the Marines thought they'd snuffed out with Roger's execution decades ago. "If it's real, I'll find it!" became the rallying cry of this new generation, a mantra chanted in packed taverns and shadowy alleys across the archipelago.

The numbers were staggering. Within a week, local authorities estimated over five hundred new crews had gathered at Sabaody, each vying for a coating to dive into the depths of Fish-Man Island, the gateway to the New World. Shipwright workshops ran at full tilt, prices for materials and services skyrocketing under the demand. Sabaody's bubble trees, usually serene, thrummed with constant commotion, their roots creaking under the weight of the crowds. The residents, accustomed to pirate traffic, watched this invasion with a mix of unease and opportunism—business boomed, but the threat of riots loomed.

This wave of piracy wasn't confined to Sabaody. Across the first half of the Grand Line, dubbed "Paradise" by veterans, piracy levels soared. Islands like Alabasta, Drum, and Water Seven reported a spike in raids and looting. Novice crews, galvanized by the promise of the One Piece, launched daring, often ill-prepared attacks, driven by near-religious fervor. Marine bases, still reeling from Marineford's losses, struggled to contain this eruption of activity. Vice admirals, deployed in haste, found themselves overwhelmed, their ships hounded by flotillas of pirates racing to reach Sabaody before their rivals.

In the archipelago's taverns, talk swirled around legends—Roger, Whitebeard, and now Mihawk, whose 4-billion-Berry bounty and cryptic claim about the One Piece fueled wild speculation. "If he's after it, he knows something!" a drunken captain slurred, waving a crumpled wanted poster. The superstitious saw Whitebeard's words as a divine sign, a posthumous blessing for a new age of piracy. The pragmatic calculated their odds: with one Emperor down and the Marines in disarray, the path to the New World seemed wider open than ever.

But this chaos came with consequences. Small-time pirates' bounties shot up fast as the Marines cracked down with heightened brutality to stem the tide. Bounty hunters, drawn by the windfall, flocked to Sabaody too, turning the archipelago into a battleground where clashes erupted on every corner. Locals, caught in the crossfire, saw their lives upended—some fled, others cashed in by selling weapons, supplies, and intel to the highest bidders.

This new wave of piracy, born from Marineford's ashes and Whitebeard's dying words, was reshaping the Grand Line. The dream of the One Piece, once a distant legend, had become a collective obsession, an irresistible call driving thousands to risk their lives on the seas. And as Sabaody sank deeper into anarchy, the New World, beyond the abyss, waited—ready to swallow the reckless and crown the bold.

Waves lapped gently against Kuraigana's jagged cliffs, the dark, isolated island where Dracule Mihawk had made his home. The mansion, a gothic edifice with towering spires and dusty stained glass, stood like a silent sentinel amid the ruins of a forgotten war. Inside, in a room lit by the flickering glow of a chandelier, Mihawk sat at a massive blackwood desk, quill in hand. But this wasn't the stoic, solitary Mihawk of canon—it was Leo, a soul from another world trapped in the greatest swordsman's body, guiding his movements with feverish determination.

Before him lay a leather-bound journal, its blank pages now scrawled with frantic writing. Leo wrote in an alien tongue—his real-world blend of French and English, incomprehensible to anyone in this universe. The words marched in tight rows, a torrent of knowledge drawn from his *One Piece* fan memory: likely locations of the Road Poneglyphs, Laugh Tale's secrets, the Emperors' strengths and weaknesses, the mysteries of Haki and the Void Century. He recorded everything, methodically, aware these details were his greatest edge in the quest he'd set in motion: the One Piece.

I can't afford to forget, Leo thought, his quill scratching the paper with near-tangible urgency.

This world's alive, unpredictable… and my memory isn't flawless.

He knew every detail mattered—potential alliances, needed resources, enemies to anticipate. To claim the One Piece, Mihawk—or rather, he in this body—couldn't rely solely on his legendary blade. He needed a crew, an armada, followers willing to defy the seas and the powers that ruled them. A quest this vast demanded more than a lone wolf; it called for a collective force, a strategic vision he was hell-bent on forging.

He glanced up briefly, eyes settling on Yoru's black blade propped against the wall. Candlelight danced along its edge, a reminder of the power he already wielded—and its limits.

Kaido's got an army. Big Mom's got a fleet. Teach has his Impel Down freaks. And me?

He gritted his teeth, mind racing.

I need allies. Fighters. Navigators. Strategists. And I've got to start somewhere.

A faint sound broke his focus—a rustle of fabric followed by a high-pitched, mocking laugh. The door swung open, and Perona floated in, her boots barely brushing the floor. Her pink hair, framed by her ever-present umbrella, gleamed in the dimness, and her eyes sparkled with childish mischief. "Hihihi! Hey, Mihawk!" she chirped, her voice bouncing through the quiet room. "What're you doing, cooped up in here like some old owl again?"

TO BE CONTINUED...

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