One Piece: Pirate Code

Note: Hayreddin = Hajrudin

Hajrudin slumped against the wall as Edmond's fierce face loomed closer. "Remember me?" he growled.

Hajrudin's gaze was blank, struggling to recall the young man's face, which seemed vaguely familiar. But he couldn't piece together any memory. The Redbeard Pirates had raided countless ships under Arcadio's orders. Encounters like Edmond's and Wallon's weren't uncommon, nor were they particularly memorable. Hajrudin had seen Edmond briefly once months ago, and there was no reason for him to remember the young man clearly.

Seeing this, Edmond's nostrils flared. He grabbed Hajrudin's head and smashed it against the wall. The impact left Hajrudin dazed, his eyes rolling back as blood trickled from his nose. Only Alamis stepping in stopped Edmond from doing more.

"He can't die yet," Alamis said through gritted teeth, pulling Edmond back.

Edmond glared at Hajrudin's limp body for a long moment, his bloodshot eyes filled with murderous intent. Finally, he reluctantly averted his gaze and pulled out a transponder snail from his pocket.

Clough stumbled drunkenly into the alley, his flushed face and unsteady gait reflecting his inebriation. After a few paces, his foot splashed into a puddle, souring his mood further. He cursed the slum, the pirates, Barbarossa, Arcadio, and even Stort—better known as William.

Mumbling curses and steadying himself against the wall, Clough suddenly caught a whiff of something familiar. The smell, mingled with the stench of garbage, made him uneasy. A shiver ran down his spine as he spotted what looked like a person lying against the wall not far away.

Approaching cautiously, Clough leaned down and turned the figure over. His face went pale. Before him lay a corpse, its throat slit cleanly, blood drained long ago. How long it had been dead, Clough couldn't tell.

A window in the nearby two-story building suddenly creaked open. Clough instinctively looked up, just in time to see a white powder cascading down toward him. Reacting on instinct, he shut his eyes and tried to back away, but his drunkenness betrayed him. His legs buckled, and he stumbled directly into the falling dust.

The powder landed on his sweaty skin, and a searing sensation spread across it.

Quicklime!? Clough panicked. His ears caught approaching footsteps, then the sound of something slicing through the air. He barely cracked his eyes open, the night's darkness and the lime blurring his vision. All he could make out was a vague figure rushing toward him.

Clough flinched to the side, but pain exploded in his shoulder as something hard, like a metal rod, struck him. Losing his balance, he crumpled to the ground.

Half-prone, Clough's hand discreetly slipped into his jacket, fingers curling around his concealed pistol and knife. He prided himself on being both clever and bold. In his mind, even a merchant needed some strength to handle mutinous crew members. Though he had been lax in training before, joining the Redbeard Pirates as a quartermaster under the Buendía family's orders had forced him to sharpen his skills and always keep weapons close, even on shore.

As he lay there, Clough noticed the large, bulky figure charging at him. Without hesitation, he aimed his pistol and pulled the trigger.

A deafening bang rang out, and the bullet struck the figure squarely in the stomach. The man collapsed with a thud, narrowly missing Clough, and let out an ear-piercing scream.

Clough wasted no time, slipping his strange knife—designed without a traditional handle but with a finger loop—onto his index finger. Flipping himself upright into a crouch, he resembled a feline ready to pounce, his body tense and alert.

The alley fell silent except for the agonized wails of the man he had shot. Confused, Clough wiped at the lime stinging his eyes. Squinting, he noticed something unnervingly familiar about the injured man's figure.

The moonlight broke through the clouds, illuminating the scene. There, on the ground, was a scarred, bald, and burly man. Hajrudin.

Why is it Hajrudin?! Clough's mind reeled. His limbs went cold, and a fear even greater than his panic during the attack gripped him.

Questions raced through his mind. Why is Hajrudin here? Did Barbarossa send him to kill me? Or did I, drunk and out of my senses, mistakenly kill him?

But all his doubts crystallized into one horrifying realization: If Barbarossa finds out I killed Hajrudin, what will he do to me?

Trembling like a leaf, Clough's legs gave way, and he collapsed to the ground. He was certain of one thing—his life was as good as over. Hajrudin wasn't just any crew member; he was one of Barbarossa's oldest and closest allies. Their bond was forged through countless battles and even blood ties. If it weren't for their relationship, someone with Hajrudin's volatile temper would have been thrown overboard long ago.

Behind him, a noise broke his spiraling thoughts. Turning slowly, Clough saw a dark-skinned man in a white sailor's uniform and blue neckerchief standing over him, gazing down coldly.

A Marine!

Clough's eyes widened, and his heart sank further as the Marine barked, "Scram!" before delivering a brutal kick to Clough's chest. The blow sent him sprawling, rolling across the ground like a ragdoll.

Dazed, Clough abandoned his pistol and scrambled to his feet, fleeing the alley in terror.

The Marine crouched beside the wheezing Hajrudin, his expression unreadable. From his jacket, he pulled a black headscarf embroidered with a pirate insignia. Tearing it apart, he pried open Hajrudin's hand, stuffed the fabric into his palm, and clenched the lifeless fingers around it.

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