Chapter Thirteen: The Navy of Unknown Identity

The next morning, as usual, Buffon basked in the sunlight atop the lookout tower. The three-ton dumbbell in his hands was tossed back and forth like a juggler’s toy, without the slightest sign of strain. Overhead, a news bird preparing to land spotted this scene, dropped the newspaper midair, and turned to fly off, but Buffon flicked a 100 Beli coin directly into the money box on the bird’s chest. In his mind, an old, familiar voice sounded again: “Goalkeeper’s Special Move: Precision Throw!” “Exquisite!” Buffon praised, then lowered his head to read the paper.

The headline read: “A Navy supply ship recently disappeared near the Devil’s Triangle!” Buffon smiled faintly. “Disappeared? More like a delivery for Moria. The only question is whether it’s supplies or the corpses of marines.” The Pirate King’s newspaper was published weekly, and from the outer edge of the Devil’s Triangle to Thriller Bark typically took five or six days by sea. He could thus infer that, in all likelihood, the ship would appear before him in the next few days.

Sure enough, before Buffon had finished the paper, the transponder snail rang: “Hello! Buffon, the treasure ship’s hauling a navy vessel back—come quickly! Absalom is gravely injured!” Buffon was briefly taken aback. Was it really a raid? He hung up and leaped from the lookout, hurrying to the harbor, where Hogback was already attaching an IV drip to Absalom, who lay limp in Moria’s arms.

At this point, Absalom looked on the verge of collapse. Summoning his last ounce of strength, he turned his head and managed a stiff smile at Buffon. “I’m counting on you, Buffon…” And with that, he lost consciousness. The hand that had been clenched relaxed, something slipped out, but only Buffon seemed to notice. Without a word, Buffon took Absalom from Moria and strode toward his own laboratory.

Along the way, Buffon used his Observation Haki to scan Absalom’s injuries with perfect clarity. By his estimation, these wounds had to be at least half a day old. Three ribs on the left side were broken, internal organs damaged, and the bones of the right leg were utterly shattered. Had this been an ordinary person left untreated for so long, there’d be little hope of survival. Even with Buffon’s encyclopedic medical knowledge, he couldn’t fathom how this three-hundred-kilogram cyborg had dragged himself back on sheer willpower.

Inside the lab, Buffon laid him on the operating table and began at once, without consulting Hogback in the slightest. First, he stripped away the elephant skin previously grafted by Hogback, then opened the chest muscles and repaired the internal organs with remarkable speed. Next, he addressed the ribs and finally the muscle tissue.

Hogback’s hand, holding the hemostat, hovered uselessly in the air. Watching Buffon stitch at such speed and precision, it was clear there was hardly any need for the tool. Hogback, once hailed as a genius surgeon, now found his understanding of “genius” shaken by Buffon’s work.

Buffon didn’t bother reattaching the elephant skin yet; he moved on to the injuries in the right leg. Slicing the muscle open revealed many bone fragments embedded deep within. Buffon sighed inwardly, “What on that ship required firepower strong enough to nearly annihilate Absalom?” Even as he mulled it over, his hands never paused.

Hogback’s eyes could barely keep up with Buffon’s movements, and he was left shaking and nodding his head repeatedly. Twenty minutes later, the lower leg bone was restored. An hour after that, the entire body was stitched up. Yet, due to massive blood loss, Absalom remained unconscious, dependent on transfusions for recovery. Buffon, after all, was no blood generator.

Leaving the lab, he found only Perona waiting outside. Buffon asked coldly, “Why are you the only one here?” In his mind, loyal subordinates ought to wait for news during surgery, out of duty if nothing else.

“Master Moria said that with you here, there’s nothing to worry about—no outcome beyond your powers. So he’s gone off to follow up the lead!” Perona replied.

Buffon was left speechless. Once Perona entered to check on Absalom, Buffon headed down to the dock, curious about what was aboard the navy vessel. Moria had already left to investigate, and only a few zombie puppets remained, unloading supplies from the ship.

A quick glance confirmed his suspicions—the cargo was nothing but coffins. Ignoring them for now, Buffon swept the dock with Observation Haki, his senses razor-sharp, missing nothing. Not far from where he and Moria had stood, he found something amiss. He walked over, picked up a handful of dust, and let it sift gently down. The powder outlined the shape of two small discs.

Buffon picked up the invisible objects and rolled them between his fingers. After a moment, he determined they were buttons. He’d made the discovery because, like Absalom, he possessed the powers of the Clear-Clear Fruit. This Devil Fruit allowed not only the user’s body to turn invisible, but also any object they touched. However, current restrictions prevented Buffon from using it himself.

He slipped the two buttons into his pocket and entered the navy ship’s hold. The cavernous cargo bay, aside from the coffins, contained the massive carcass of a sea king, its shape reminiscent of an enormous eel. Buffon surmised that the navy had caught it for a celebratory meal, but to take down such a beast, the ship’s officer must have been at least a vice admiral.

Finding nothing else of note, Buffon hefted the sea king’s remains onto his shoulder and turned to leave. At that moment, a coffin in the hold suddenly burst open, and a shadow shot out, attacking him with blinding speed.

Buffon used the sea king’s body on his shoulder as a shield, then delivered an elbow strike. He hit his mark, but it seemed to have little effect. In his mind, the familiar voice commented, “Goalkeeper’s Special Move: Foul Elbow!” “That’s just unsporting,” Buffon thought wryly.

A tingling sensation in his elbow brought a word to mind: “Iron Body!” The attacker, startled that their explosive Navy Six Powers “Soru” assault had been neutralized so easily, realized that only the proper use of “Iron Body” had saved Buffon from immediate defeat.

The shadow darted three meters ahead, pivoted on its left foot, and came at him again. With the momentum of the charge, the attacker extended their right middle finger. “Finger Pistol,” Buffon murmured.

He didn’t move at all, standing stock-still. The reason was clear: as the shadow extended its finger, he caught the glint of a vivid red reflection on the tip. “Such a careless detail… Are you CP9, or a Navy Vice Admiral?” he wondered, instantly coating himself in Armament Haki and Iron Body.

When the Finger Pistol struck his chest, Buffon felt a faint tingling—perhaps psychosomatic, for the blow should have had no effect. The shadow, having failed to penetrate his defense, hesitated for half a second, preparing to change tactics. But Buffon reached out with his left hand and grabbed the attacker’s mask.

As the mask slipped off, a cascade of pink hair tumbled free. “So it’s you,” Buffon thought with a wry smile.