The vast, endless sea stretched to the horizon.
A massive ship, missing its mast and sails, riddled with holes, sailed at an unnaturally high speed across the water—an eerie sight that would surely spawn ghost ship legends if seen at night.
"What? You're saying that Moria might have been fake?"
Rorschach turned to Sella in disbelief.
"Mhm."
She nodded but didn't answer immediately. Instead, she asked, "Do you know what Vice-President Grelle's epithet is?"
Rorschach shook his head.
He'd heard of Gulliver's Travels, but "Vice-President Grelle"? No clue.
Frankly, before the mess with Jean Ango, William Hanks, and Shimoda Ichirou, he hadn't even known the Bounty Hunter Guild had a so-called "Hunter King."
The world was simply too vast.
Over 170 World Government-affiliated nations. Dozens more non-affiliated ones. The four blues, the Grand Line, the Calm Belts, the Red Line encircling the globe, and who knew how many sky islands floating above.
For every famous figure, there were countless hidden powerhouses lurking in obscurity.
If Conqueror's Haki was a one-in-a-million trait, then with a global population in the billions, there had to be at least a thousand Conquerors out there.
Hell, even Fujitora had been pretending to be a blind gambler getting bullied by thugs before he made his name.
Seeing Rorschach's blank expression, Sella smirked.
"'The Thousand Faces'—that's Grelle's epithet."
"Thousand Faces? So that Moria was Grelle in disguise?"
The first things that came to Rorschach's mind were Bentham and Catarina Devon—both capable of flawless impersonation.
Bentham needed to touch a face to copy it, while Devon's Mythical Zoan: Nine-Tailed Fox required no such step.
Was Grelle another mimic-type Devil Fruit user?
"But wait… that doesn't make sense. If 'Moria' was Grelle, how did he use shadow manipulation? That's Moria's exclusive ability."
Sella crossed her arms, tilting her chin up proudly.
"Grelle's epithet comes from his Devil Fruit. He ate the Copy-Copy Fruit, a Paramecia that lets him replicate others—not just their appearance, but their race, talents, martial arts, swordsmanship… even their Devil Fruit powers."
"Hold up!"
Rorschach's eyes widened.
"If he can copy abilities, doesn't that mean he can replicate any power in the world? How is this guy not ruling the seas?!"
If the Copy-Copy Fruit worked as described, Grelle could be Akainu today, Kizaru tomorrow, Kaido the day after.
Send Aokiji after him? He'd just turn into Akainu and melt you.
But if the fruit was that broken, Grelle wouldn't still be a mere vice-president. He'd be an Emperor by now.
Sure enough, Sella continued:
"Grelle can copy any normal person flawlessly, but Devil Fruit users come with restrictions."
"What restrictions?"
"First, the target's strength can't exceed his own. Second, he must personally defeat the ability user to copy their power. Third, there's a limit to how many abilities he can store—I don't know the exact number, but it's definitely more than three. And it grows as he gets stronger. Fourth…"
She leaned in.
"There's a cooldown. He can't spam copied abilities. For example, if he copied Moria's shadow powers and Crocodile's sand powers, he could use them back-to-back… but not cycle them repeatedly without a long gap in between. And he can't use multiple copied abilities simultaneously."
"Still… even with limits, that fruit's terrifying."
Rorschach exhaled sharply.
"What about non-ability users? Like Garp?"
"Same rule—he has to beat them first. But non-ability copies can be cycled instantly, no cooldown."
"So if he grinds hard enough, defeats dozens of strong fighters… he basically becomes a one-man army with all their skills?"
"Pretty much."
Rorschach whistled.
What a broken ability.
Another powerhouse who never appeared in the manga.
This Grelle guy wouldn't be an easy opponent.
Never underestimate anyone.
And here he was, barely a week out of Marineford, already running into all these bizarre powers.
"How do you know all this? Doesn't Grelle keep his ability secret?"
Rorschach glanced at Andre—the six-meter-tall giant he'd punched into the horizon, now lying broken and pale on the deck like a discarded toy.
Served him right.
"He used to be a pirate. Then Grandpa beat him, and he 'reformed' into a bounty hunter."
"A pirate?"
"Yep. Rumor has it his bounty topped 700 million Beri over a decade ago."
Rorschach nearly choked.
"How much?!"
Meanwhile, Elsewhere at Sea…
A thin shadow, like a serpent slithering through darkness, darted across the water's surface beneath drifting clouds.
It approached a massive triple-masted ship anchored silently on the waves.
The shadow flowed up the hull, onto the deck, where hundreds of black-suited men stood guard, weapons at the ready.
As the shadow expanded, morphing into a bloated giant, every guard dropped to one knee in unison.
A curvaceous woman in a skin-tight leather suit stepped forward, offering a cigar as thick as her thigh.
"President… did you find Shimoda?"
The giant—Moria's exact double—plucked the cigar from her hands…
Then his body shifted.
Seven meters tall became twelve.
Muscles swelled, features rearranged—until the spitting image of Dorry, captain of the Giant Warrior Pirates, stood on deck.
But this was no giant.
This was Grelle.
The man with no true face.
He took a long drag from the cigar, exhaling smoke like a dragon's breath.
"Set sail. We're heading back."
"Yes, President!"
The woman, Hathaway, purred as Grelle's massive hand engulfed her waist, squeezing like she was made of clay.
"Where's that gloomy bastard Wagner?"
"He… went to the capital. Said he'd test how much life the old man has left… nngh… and bring you his head if he's weak…"
Grelle's roar shook the ship.
"That idiot! Did none of Pizarro's men inherit a brain?!"
Minutes later, Hathaway staggered out, clothes disheveled, followed by a three-meter-tall man with sallow skin—Grelle in another form.
He snatched a Den Den Mushi from her and dialed.
"Purupurupuru…"
A gruff voice answered.
"Who is it?"
"Long time no see, Chinjao."
The snail's face morphed into an elderly man with a white beard and the number "12" tattooed above his left eye.
"You? Hmph. Which poor sap did you copy this time? Your brother's dead, but you're still kicking, huh?"
Grelle chuckled.
"Still as sharp-tongued as ever. How about joining my new assassin guild? I'll make you vice-president."
"Jonathan's dead?" Chinjao sounded surprised.
"Not yet."
"Then you're breaking your oath? Remember what you swore when he caught you?"
Grelle's voice turned icy.
"He broke his first—promised me the guild, then went back on his word. Why should I keep mine?"
He leaned in, grinning.
"Be honest, Chinjao. Help me crush the Bounty Hunter Guild. Decades of treasures, billions in bounty fees… I know your Happo Navy's strapped for cash."
The line went silent.
Then Chinjao's voice dropped to a dangerous growl.
"Are you mocking me, Grelle?"
Once, Chinjao had been rich.
The Happo Navy's ice vault in the Kingdom of Flowers held centuries of plunder.
One headbutt used to crack it open.
But then Garp happened.
His legendary "Fist of Love" flattened Chinjao's prized drill-shaped skull.
No drill, no vault. No vault, no money.
The Happo Navy had been in decline ever since.
"I wouldn't waste my time."
Grelle smirked.
"But there's something else you'll want."
A pause.
Then three words:
"The Dragon Slayer Halberd."
(End of Chapter)
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