Faced with such overwhelming confusion, Carlos gave a subtle, steady nod. "That's right. I am."
Upon hearing this, the pirate imdiately snapped into a clumsy, non-regulation Marine salute. "Greetings, Officer! I am the Vice Captain of the Great Crocodile Pirates. You can just call Dawson."
After the introduction, Dawson's grin widened even further. He continued eagerly.
"Reporting, sir! Our crew is all here—two hundred and seventy-two n in total. Not a single soul has tried to run. Now, should we move over to your warship for lock-up, or would you prefer to tie us up on our own ship and tow us back?"
Carlos was familiar with Dawson; the man had a bounty of 6.9 million Berris. However, Dawson's attitude left the Colonel completely floored.
Two hundred and seventy-two cold-blooded pirates, just... sitting there, politely waiting to be taken captive? In his decades as a Marine, he had never witnessed anything so absurd.
Then, he recalled Dawson's earlier term: "Senior Rowan."
With a forced calm, Carlos said, "I have my own arrangents for your crew. For now, you will give a full, honest report of exactly what happened on this ship."
"You bet, Officer! It went like this..."
And so, Dawson, the Vice Captain of the Great Crocodile Pirates, began to describe the sequence of events with the theatrical flair of a storyteller. He gesticulated wildly, his face full of animation. It started off reasonably enough, but as the details—embellished by Dawson's own terror—poured out, the three Colonels' expressions grew increasingly strained.
"You're saying your Captain was taken out in a single move?"
"And Simms only lasted two punches?"
Looking at the gap-toothed Dawson, who was nodding frantically with a sycophantic smile, Carlos felt his ntal processing power reach its limit. He didn't even notice the stout woman by the railing, who was subtly signaling her subordinates to move the pirates' treasure chests.
At this mont, his mind—and the minds of the other two Colonels—was filled with nothing but pure disbelief.
A pirate worth over ten million, neutralized without a chance to fight back? Taken out in one blow?
Simms, a man worth nearly forty million, lasted only two punches?!
Was this level of combat prowess truly sothing a hundred-year-old man could possess?
It wasn't just Carlos from the 197th. Even the young, promising Guens from the 142nd Branch was dazed. Having recently graduated from the Marine Headquarters Officer Training Camp, he had a very clear understanding of power scaling. A bounty head worth nearly forty million who had survived the Grand Line for eight years was soone he currently had no business challenging. In fact, very few graduates from his year would be a match for a criminal of that caliber.
One must rember: those qualified for the Headquarters training camp were the absolute elite from every branch worldwide. When the Marines had originally tried to dismantle the Black Hand Pirates, the Headquarters had deployed two Rear Admirals. Even then, Simms the Executioner had managed to slip through their fingers.
And yet, this man—as cunning as he was powerful—had been beaten into unconsciousness by a centenarian in two punches?
If they hadn't seen "Mad Croc" Jakes embedded so deeply in the mast that he looked like a permanent fixture, and Simms lying beneath him barely drawing breath, alongside a deck full of submissive goons, Guens would have thought he was hallucinating.
Only the veteran Shuka rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Out of the three, he was the only one who had lived through Rowan's era. The title "The Godfather of the Marines" had once resonated through every corner of the Navy.
To the Colonels' surprise, the Great Crocodile's flagship was actually equipped with a Surveillance Den Den Mushi. Upon learning this, the three officers didn't hesitate; they demanded Dawson lead them straight to the monitoring room in the cabin.
As the projection snail activated, the scene played out before them.
The first thing they saw was Rowan's robust figure descending from the sky like a bolt of lightning. The three Colonels widened their eyes, determined not to miss a single detail.
"You lot are scum—burning, killing, and looting. You are an affront to justice, and your very existence is a cri!"
The voice was resonant, full of righteous power, making the three Marines feel a surge of spirit. Behind them, Dawson gave an involuntary shiver at the mory.
"Gahahaha! Who am I? I am nobody but an anonymous Marine carrying the weight of Justice!"
"I want you to understand one thing: the East Blue is called the 'Weakest Sea' not because its people lack strength, but because the East Blue is more stable and peaceful than any other sea on this planet!"
With every word, Rowan threw a punch. Each blow was solid, heavy, and utterly devoid of rcy.
The first punch: "Mad Croc" Jakes, a man worth 13.5 million Berris, didn't even have ti to react before he was sent flying. He hit the mainmast like a cannonball, his body embedding into the wood as his eyes rolled back, and he lost consciousness instantly.
"So strong!"
The Colonels were shaken to their core. Was this level of destructive force truly possible for a man of his age? Even through a screen, the pressure of that strike was palpable. To these East Blue branch officers, ten-million-Berri pirates were rare "boss-level" threats that required their absolute best. To see such a man discarded like trash was staggering.
However, the real shock was yet to co.
"Who are you?!"
In the footage, seeing Jakes neutralized, Simms the Executioner looked as if he were facing a mortal enemy. He scread the question in a panic.
But the silver-haired Rowan simply laughed, repeating that he was just a naless Marine, and threw his next punch.
That single blow sent Simms reeling backward. Before the pirate could regain his footing, Rowan's second strike arrived.
As the words "Peaceful" and "Stable" left the old man's lips, Simms looked as if he had been struck by a high-speed locomotive. He was sent flying through the air. Judging by his trembling arms in the video, he had been completely unable to parry the force. The pirate was already looking for an escape route.
But before he could make a move, Old Man Rowan took a single step forward.
"That... that's a flawless Soru!"
Guens was floored. Having trained at Headquarters, he knew exactly how difficult it was to master the Rokushiki. During his months there, even with Vice Admirals as instructors and his own tireless practice, he had only grasped the basics. Yet here was an old man using it as naturally as breathing, as if it were nothing more than a casual stroll.
Guens knew that experts capable of using Rokushiki were common at Headquarters. But he had to consider the context: the man was nearly a hundred years old. To maintain such fluid mastery of Soru at that age ant that even after decades of retirent, he had never once slacked in his training.
Comparing himself to the old man, Guens felt a sudden wave of sha. He had only been in the East Blue for a short ti and was already beginning to feel complacent.
However, there was no ti for self-reflection. In the footage, Old Man Rowan was moving again.
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