Chapter 24: Conqueror’s Haki Infusion—Mastered!

Year 1498 of the Sea Calendar.

At the heart of a remote, uninhabited island stood a man stripped to the waist, training alone.

His deep-set eyes carried a natural edge of disdain, his handsome features etched with concentration. Loose black hair was tied carelessly at the back, swaying slightly as he moved.

With a grunt, Ozz gently set down an enormous boulder—one that could be mistaken for a small mountain—and wiped the fine sweat from his brow.

Lately, he'd been spending his days tossing mountains.

Literally.

The routine was simple in concept, brutal in execution: he would hurl a mountain-sized rock from one end of the island to the other, then teleport to catch it and throw it back.

Not too far, not too close—perfect control was key.

If his Conqueror's Haki infusion—the legendary "Haoshoku Coating"—was even slightly off, the boulder would explode into rubble, forcing him to start over from scratch.

Through this relentless, punishing method, Ozz aimed to master both his monstrous innate strength and the evolving storm of Conqueror's Haki growing stronger with his body.

And the results spoke for themselves.

He could feel it—his grip on his own power growing firmer, surer, cleaner.

One more time.

Wiping the sweat from his jaw, Ozz took a long breath. His aura surged around him like a rising tide.

As the pressure of his Conqueror's Haki poured forth, Ozz braced his stance, preparing a blow in the style of Fishman Karate – Karakusa Cross Punch—a move he had learned from his fishman crewmate, Sunbell.

His focus intensified.

The field of chaotic, storming Haki began to draw inward, slowly compressing, refining.

The once-diffuse waves of raw willpower coiled in toward his fist, and then—

Black and crimson lightning crackled along his knuckles, snaking outwards in jagged bolts of raw power. It wasn't just aura now—it was tangible.

By the time it was done, his fist glowed with a wrathful sheen of red-black lightning—like thunder forged into form.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK—

Only when it could be condensed no further did Ozz unleash the punch.

From the center of the island, the last and largest mountain—the lone peak still standing—shattered instantly under the blow.

It didn't fall.

It disintegrated—crumbling into dust and fragments like paper in a storm.

When the smoke cleared, all that remained was a massive crater, ten meters wide, gouged deep into the earth.

What kind of force was that?!

A grin broke across Ozz's face. The thrill of that blow—it sent shivers down his spine. Honestly, it was even better than a massage.

After months of relentless training, the technique was finally his.

Conqueror's Infusion—mastered.

In high spirits, Ozz turned to the next goal: mastering the full potential of his Teleport-Teleport Fruit.

That meant blending teleportation into his combat instincts, experimenting with teleporting objects, and expanding the range and reflexive use of his ability.

He didn't stop until he was completely spent. Only then would he occasionally take a break to fish or flip through a newspaper.

These quiet pastimes—simple, grounding things—had been with him since childhood.

"If I had to guess… we're almost there."

He meant the day of Captain Roger's execution.

There was no way he'd miss that.

That evening, riding the high of his breakthrough, Ozz ate more than usual—his appetite matching his mood.

As he stuffed his mouth, he flipped through the latest newspapers, scanning for any news on the Roger Pirates.

"Now that the captain's officially Pirate King, his bounty better have gone up…"

Brrr-brrr-brrr—

Just then, the sharp ring of a Den Den Mushi snapped him out of his thoughts.

It was Sami calling.

Sabaody Archipelago —

Illegal Zone, Grove 17.

In a raucous, crowded tavern, pirates from all corners of the seas were gathered—boasting, brawling, gambling, and trading information.

As the final stop before the New World, Sabaody had always been a chaotic crossroads.

Hopeful rookies dreaming of paradise, shady traffickers looking to exploit the current, bounty hunters chasing profit…

And, of course, the broken ones—those chewed up and spit out by the New World, now slinking back to the lower tiers in search of easier prey.

People like Torrebol and his gang were prime examples—beaten down, confidence shattered, now back to licking their wounds.

At that moment, in one of the tavern's richly decorated private rooms, tensions were boiling.

Across from the guests sat a hulking man clad in golden armor, and beside him a snot-nosed, ugly man in dark sunglasses, twirling his cane with a greasy smile.

"Beh-heh-heh-heh… Miss Sami, don't worry. We've got your cargo—no question."

"The ship's just... still en route. Surely you don't mind a little delay?"

"Excuse me?"

"You took the money and now you're telling me the goods aren't even here?"