Shanks appeared at the hotel gate, his expression unreadable. Activating his Observation Haki, he quickly sensed the surroundings. To the left of the building, about six carriages and over ten horses were gathered—likely the hotel's stables.
"That must be where they keep the horses and carriages," he muttered. "Looks like the hotel maintains it themselves."
Without wasting a moment, he stepped through the main entrance.
The lobby was nearly empty—and eerily silent. Every person inside was slumped over, unconscious. Even the receptionist behind the front desk lay face-down on the counter, unmoving.
Shanks didn't rush to her. Instead, he made his way to the waiting area. On a nearby table, he spotted a half-full glass of water. He picked it up calmly, then strode to the reception desk.
Without hesitation, he poured the water over the receptionist's face.
"Wake up," Shanks said, his voice low but firm.
He repeated it again. "Wake up."
On the third attempt, the woman stirred. Her eyelids fluttered weakly, and a quiet groan escaped her lips as she began to regain consciousness.
Slowly, her vision cleared. The first thing she saw was a boy—no older than sixteen or seventeen—standing over her. He wore a black overcoat layered over a crisp white shirt, his dark red hair slightly tousled. At first glance, he looked almost noble, his youthful face marked by a quiet intensity. Handsome, even.
But the illusion of charm was quickly shattered.
A cold sensation pricked her neck.
Her eyes widened.
A sword—its razor-sharp edge resting against her skin—was drawn and leveled at her throat. She didn't need to move to feel the danger; the blade's presence alone was enough to send a jolt of fear through her chest.
The boy didn't appear angry. In fact, his expression remained calm, almost detached. But that only made the threat more chilling.
What kind of person greets someone like this? she thought, trying to still her trembling hands. He looks like a gentleman… but he acts like a predator.
The receptionist's voice trembled as she spoke, her eyes fixed on the gleaming blade at her throat.
"W-What do you want?" she asked, trying to keep calm. "There's no need for violence—we can talk this out peacefully."
But Shanks wasn't in the mood for negotiation. His expression didn't change, and his voice was cold, unwavering.
"Be quiet," he said. "I'll be the one asking questions."
He took a slight step forward, his presence growing more oppressive by the second.
"A full caravan arrived yesterday—a convoy of several carriages. According to my sources, they are currently staying in this hotel. I guess you now know which caravan I'm talking about. Take me to them. Now."
The receptionist hesitated, summoning what little courage she had left.
"S-Sorry, but we can't disclose guest information. It's against hotel po—"
She didn't get to finish.
The blade pressed harder against her neck. A thin line of blood welled where the edge kissed her skin, and her breath caught in her throat.
The pain was brief, but it was enough.
Her resolve crumbled in an instant.
"Y-Yes! Yes—there is such a caravan!" she stammered. "They checked in earlier today. All of them are staying on the first floor. If you want, I—I can take you there right away!"
Fear of death overrode any sense of duty or protocol. In that moment, policy meant nothing. Only survival did.
Shanks gave a curt nod and withdrew the sword from the receptionist's neck. His tone remained ice-cold.
"Move. Be quick."
The receptionist swallowed hard and nodded hastily. She reached under the counter, retrieved the master key, and turned on her heel. Without another word, she began leading him down the hallway at a brisk pace, her footsteps echoing in the eerie silence of the hotel.
Shanks followed close behind, his presence looming like a shadow.
As they moved through the corridors and up the staircase to the first floor, the receptionist's unease only grew. Everywhere she looked—along the hallways, slumped against the walls, even near the stairwell—hotel staff, waiters, and a few guests lay unconscious. Some were sprawled awkwardly, others resting as if in a deep sleep, but none stirred.
This couldn't be a coincidence, she realized. He was totally fine, but all of us had fainted.
Finally, they reached a room near the far end of the hallway. The receptionist hesitated only for a moment before knocking sharply on the door.
"Sir, there's an urgent matter," she called out. "Could you please open the door?"
From just behind her, Shanks spoke quietly, his voice edged with certainty.
"There's no need. Like the others, he is unconscious too."
The receptionist glanced back at him, her suspicions now all but confirmed. It's him, she thought. He's the reason everyone's out cold. This boy—this red-haired boy—he's not normal.
Without saying another word, she slipped the master key into the lock and turned it. The door clicked open.
As Shanks stepped into the room, his eyes quickly took in the scene.
A man sat slumped on a sofa, clearly unconscious. Around him, three other men were sprawled in various positions—one slumped over the arm of a chair, another lying back with an empty bottle still clutched in hand, and the third with his head resting on the table. Scattered across the low wooden table in the centre were plates of half-eaten food, empty glasses, and open bottles of alcohol.
They had been celebrating. That much was obvious. A party, interrupted only moments after Shanks arrived in the port town.
He turned toward the receptionist, his gaze sharp.
"Do you know which of them is the leader of the caravan?"
The woman shook her head quickly, still nervous in his presence.
"I—I'm not sure," she said. "All I know is that someone important from the caravan is staying in this room. Whether he's the leader or not, I couldn't say."
Shanks gave a small nod.
"Fine. Wake them. All of them."
Without hesitation, the receptionist moved to a nearby pitcher of water and began her task. One by one, she poured cold water over each man's face. The reactions were slow at first—groans, blinking, confused expressions—but eventually, all four began to stir.
As their eyes opened and their senses returned, they immediately noticed the woman standing beside them—familiar, the hotel receptionist.
But the boy next to her was a different story.
He stood silently, a sword in hand, eyes like steel. He didn't look like hotel staff. He didn't look like someone here to help.
He looked like trouble.
One of the men's eyes widened, alarmed.
"GUARDS!" he shouted, scrambling upright with panic in his voice.
----
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