Chapter Three: The Legion of the Undead

At night, Buffon went to check the morgue where the corpses were stored.

He remembered clearly that Moria’s zombie army had numbers only up to 900. If this was true, it meant that over the past ten years, the ship had produced no more than 900 zombie puppets. At his current pace, not even counting the ones already finished, he could outstrip that in less than a year of sewing. If that really was the case, he’d need to consider other options.

But upon seeing the storerooms, Buffon was reassured—twelve ice chambers, all packed full of corpses! Only the general-class corpses were still off-limits; Moria refused to let anyone touch those for now.

He suspected that the fact the numbering stopped at 900 had everything to do with Hogback, that money-grubbing doctor. If Hogback had been even a little more diligent, this situation would never have arisen.

Hogback was known as a genius surgeon. He’d once miraculously saved many patients through his operations and had earned the reputation and status befitting a doctor. In reality, though, he was a terrible physician who valued money above saving lives.

Years ago, the actress he adored, Victoria Cindry, fell to her death from the stage. Afterward, he became despondent. Later, Moria invited him to join forces, promising to revive Cindry as the condition. So Hogback stole Cindry’s body, modified it for battle, and had Moria revive her by implanting a shadow.

A zombie infused with a shadow by Moria inherits the personality and fighting skills of the shadow’s owner. If a contract is signed to sever the shadow from its original self, the shadow loses its former memories. The longer the shadow is fused with the corpse, the more the zombie shifts from initial rebellion to complete obedience.

Thinking of this, Buffon realized a problem: most of the people whose shadows had been stolen were probably still living on this pirate ship—a ship as vast as an island, where sunlight never reached.

Just then, his transponder snail rang. He pressed the button, and Hogback’s voice came through the web-covered device.

“Hello, Buffon. Take some puppets to Warehouse No. 4—those people are trying to snatch shadows again.”

Buffon replied, “Which number are they after this time?”

“Number 833! Just bring a few with you and help split their forces. That’ll be enough.”

With that, Buffon hung up and strolled unhurriedly toward the fourth finished-goods warehouse.

Along the way, he mused that if the “bodyguard” Ryuma had been completed by now, it wouldn’t be his job to command the zombie army in battle. Perona was still young, and as for Absalom, perhaps the opponents weren’t strong enough yet to warrant his intervention.

Passing the laboratory, Buffon summoned zombie puppets 403, 523, and 518 to follow him.

He’d never worried about whether they could win. The only reason these people were still alive on the island was because Moria had left them for the zombie army to practice on. His presence was more that of a battle overseer.

When he arrived and looked around,

He saw No. 833, nearly three meters tall, both hands clad in metal gauntlets that clanged together with each movement. By Buffon’s estimation, this one’s rank in the “Character Compendium” would be at least T5—otherwise, it wouldn’t deserve such a high number.

In Moria’s zombie army, the higher the number, the stronger the zombie.

Animal zombies: Numbers 0–199, tasked with guard and patrol duties, under Perona, one of the three weirdos.

Fright zombies: Numbers 200–399, also under Perona, usually hiding in paintings or photos, or disguised as specimens and decorations.

Soldier zombies: Numbers 400–799, under Absalom, another of the three weirdos—the largest group, with varying strength.

General zombies: Numbers 800–899, the most powerful puppets.

Special zombie: Number 900, the demon Oz.

But the army wasn’t yet so vast; many numbers were still vacant. As for the demon Oz’s body, Moria had yet to retrieve it.

Among the attackers, there was a muscle-bound man in a tank top and boxing gloves, whose moves mirrored 833’s. However, the size difference was too great—the muscular man stood barely two meters, both his reach and strength utterly outmatched by the nearly three-meter-tall 833.

“That must be the owner of 833’s shadow,” Buffon thought.

At his command, the three zombie puppets with him charged into the fray to support 833. Though unarmed, their fighting styles suggested their shadows’ owners were martial artists. They couldn’t dominate, but they could hold their own.

And zombies like these feared no blades or weapons; if they were damaged, Hogback could always stitch them back together. No—now it was Buffon’s job to patch them up.

They weren’t without weaknesses, though. Their greatest vulnerability was salt. Zombies animated by the power of a Devil Fruit could be purified if enough sea-powered salt was stuffed into their mouths.

If the original owner of the shadow died, the shadow would vanish, and the zombie with it.

Seeing new zombies join the battle, the attackers cursed, “Buffon, you dog of Moria! You’re alive yet act less than human—give us back our shadows!”

Buffon watched with a blank expression, sighing inwardly, “Fools. Even if I gave your shadows back, do you stand any chance of escaping this tomb-like pirate ship? You can’t even defeat a single general-class puppet, yet you dream of rebellion. Why not just live quietly until I finish these ten years and set you free?”

As Buffon ignored them, they charged at him, knives raised, hoping to seize him and force the zombies to stand down.

Buffon sneered, his gaze turning even colder. Where once he was a strategist directing the war from behind the lines, now he was a general who killed without hesitation.

With his enhanced vision, every move seemed to play out before his eyes like storyboards; not even the smallest muscle twitch escaped his piercing blue gaze.

If he mastered this, it would be a simplified version of Observation Haki.

A blade slashed toward him—Buffon dodged with instinctive reflex, then drove his readied right fist into the man’s abdomen.

He’d wanted to test his strength, so he’d used only a tenth of his power.

Yet the burly man, nearly his size, was sent flying by that probing punch.

Buffon withdrew his hand, judging that by “Body Index” standards, his own strength might barely qualify as T8.

With that, he lost all interest, folding his arms and watching the battle from the sidelines. If the attackers fled, he’d simply order the zombies to stop.

His display of force unsettled the enemies; today’s Buffon was not hiding in the back as usual. A sense of dread crept into their hearts.

One shouted, “Salt—quick! Wake up Kuiis’s shadow for a moment and have it attack Buffon!”

The boxer caught on, seized an opportunity, and hurled one of his gloves—no, not just any glove, but a glove straight at 833’s face.

Seeing only an ordinary boxing glove, 833 didn’t dodge. But the glove concealed salt, and upon impact, the salt scattered into 833’s eyes.

Though not enough to restore the shadow completely, it was sufficient for a brief resurgence of the original owner’s will.

For an instant, 833’s shadow regained consciousness, and the T5-level zombie puppet charged straight at Buffon, metal gauntlets poised to crush his skull.

Caught off guard, Buffon had no time to evade; he instinctively raised his fist to meet the blow.

The moment flesh met metal, a crisp crack rang out—not Buffon’s arm breaking, but 833’s gauntlets shattering.

Seeing this, the attackers lost all will to fight and immediately fled.

Buffon, his fist stinging, grew slightly annoyed. He bent his knees, gathered strength, and drove an uppercut into 833’s jaw.

Though 833 did not fly as the previous man had, his nearly three-meter frame was lifted half a meter off the ground before crashing down, losing consciousness.

Buffon rubbed his knuckles, murmuring with a hint of regret, “I should have hit harder—if I’d given you an external wound, I could have stitched you up again.”

With that, he grabbed the unconscious 833 with one hand and dragged him back toward the laboratory.

“No matter. Even without new wounds, those unsightly old stitches of yours need a bit of tidying up!”