One Piece: Dungeon Shop. Scamming Garp, Reward: Eight-Tails Jinchuriki-Chapter 242: The Purge

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Chapter 242: The Purge

The atmosphere in Pangaea Castle Plaza was taut enough to snap.

Saint Charlos’s gold-encrusted pistol was currently pointed directly at the space between Figarland Garling’s eyebrows. Snot hung from Charlos’s nose, and his fat face had turned the color of pig liver from rage. Usually, whenever he lost his temper, even CP0 agents would kneel and beg for mercy. This had given him the illusion that, aside from those five old men, no one here dared to touch him.

"Garling! You old dog!" Charlos kept his finger on the trigger, spittle flying. "I am a descendant of the Creators! A God! You dare speak to me in that tone? I’ll have your head chopped off and fed to my piranhas!"

Behind him, Saint Rosward did not stop his son’s madness. Instead, he slammed his cane onto the ground, his face grim. "Saint Garling, although you are the Supreme Commander of the God’s Knights, do not forget your identity. We are fellow Celestial Dragons. You have no right to order us. Move to the East Blue? Even the Five Elders cannot force us to execute such an absurd order!"

The surrounding Celestial Dragons seemed to find their backbone and began to clamor.

"That’s right! We aren’t leaving!"

"I’d rather die than go to that dirty place!"

The crowd rioted. Some of the younger, arrogant Celestial Dragons even mimicked Charlos, pulling out their own firearms.

atop the steps, the Five Elders watched this scene indifferently. It was the gaze one directs at livestock awaiting slaughter. Saint Jaygarcia Saturn didn’t even lift his eyelids; he merely waved his hand gently. The movement was slight, like the descent of a reaper’s scythe.

Figarland Garling looked up, his aged eyes undisturbed. "It seems a life of comfort has made you forget the true rules of Mary Geoise."

Garling’s voice wasn’t loud, yet it pierced the noise clearly. "Gods? Without Lord Imu’s grace, you are nothing but manure-producing machines that breathe."

Saint Charlos paused, seemingly unable to comprehend the words. "What did you sa—"

A cold light flashed.

No one saw when Garling drew his sword. All they heard was the sharp tearing sound in the air.

Thud.

A hand gripping a golden gun, along with half a forearm, fell neatly onto the white jade floor. Blood sprayed like a fountain, instantly staining Charlos’s expensive protective suit red.

"Aaaaaahhhhh!"

The delayed pain finally hit, and Charlos let out a squeal like a butchered pig. He clutched his severed limb, rolling frantically on the ground, snot and tears mixing with blood to smear across his face. "My hand! My hand! Kill him! Father! Call an Admiral to kill him!"

Dead silence.

The Celestial Dragons who had been shouting about dignity were instantly choked off, like ducks grabbed by the neck. They stared wide-eyed at the severed arm on the ground, their minds blank.

A God... was bleeding?

In this sacred plaza, someone dared to draw a blade against a Celestial Dragon?

Saint Rosward looked at his son’s severed arm, trembling all over—not just from anger, but from a fear rising from the depths of his soul. "Garling... have you gone mad? This is a capital offense! Even the Five Elders can’t protect you!"

Garling flicked the blood beads from his blade and walked slowly toward the wailing Charlos. His leather boots made a sticky sound as they stepped in the pool of blood.

"A capital offense?" Garling’s lips curled into a cruel arc. "In this world, the only capital offense is defying Lord Imu’s will."

He lifted his foot and stomped heavily onto Charlos’s spurting wound.

"AAAAHHH!" The scream became even more shrill; Charlos’s eyes bulged as if they would pop out of his skull.

"Shut up," Garling ground his heel into the flesh. "Too noisy."

He turned his head, his gaze sweeping over the terrified Celestial Dragons. "The current World Government does not need so much waste that only knows how to consume food. Lord Imu only requires obedient dogs. Since you don’t want to move, you can stay here on the Red Line forever."

As his words fell, the members of the God’s Knights who had been waiting in the shadows erupted into action.

This was not suppression. This was a cleansing.

Dozens of sword lights wove a net of death across the plaza. The Celestial Dragons who had just been clamoring for dignity fell in droves. They were not killed outright; instead, hamstrings were precision-cut, or limbs were disabled. Blood spread across the pristine plaza, the air filling with a nauseating metallic scent.

"No! I am Saint Mjosgard! I agree to move! Don’t kill me!"

"I agree too! I’ll leave right now!"

"Help! These people are lunatics!"

The "Gods" who had been insufferably arrogant moments ago were now crying for their parents, kneeling to lick the boots of the Knights just to survive.

Saint Rosward collapsed on the ground, staring at the hellish scene before him. He understood. This wasn’t a negotiation. It was a selection process. The Five Elders were using the relocation as a pretext to purge the family branches of useless idiots and dissenters.

"Enough."

On the steps, Saint Nusjuro spoke faintly.

Garling’s sword stopped at the neck of a young female Celestial Dragon, the edge already breaking her skin.

"The survivors should have learned how to listen," Nusjuro said, pushing up his glasses, the lenses reflecting a cold light. "You have three hours. In three hours, anyone not on a warship will remain on this Red Line forever as fertilizer for Mary Geoise. Now, get out."

At the word "out," the surviving Celestial Dragons felt as if they had been granted amnesty. Ignoring the wounded, ignoring even their own kin, they scrambled and crawled toward their respective palaces.

The plaza, once packed with people, was instantly empty, leaving only the wailing wounded and glaring bloodstains. several black-suited CP0 agents appeared silently and began to expertly clean the scene. They dragged the heavily injured and unconscious Celestial Dragons away, their movements rough, as if dragging dead dogs.

Garling sheathed his sword, turned to the Five Elders, and bowed slightly. "Trash disposal complete. The rest are smart people who understand fear."

Warcury nodded in satisfaction. "Well done, Garling. Fear is the best collar."

Saint Ju Peter checked the mechanical watch on his wrist. "Notify Sengoku. The Marine escort fleet must arrive at the Red Port before evening. If there is a delay, he can bring us his head."

.....

Marine Headquarters, Marineford.

The massive Fleet Admiral’s office had been half-emptied. Files that once piled up like mountains were being packed into iron crates as busy Marines moved in and out. The air was filled with the restless anxiety of imminent departure.

Sengoku stood before his bare desk, clutching a Den Den Mushi he had just hung up. His face was terribly dark, like the sea before a storm.

Beside him, Garp sat cross-legged on the sofa, as heartless as ever. He held a bag of senbei he had swiped from somewhere, crunching loudly.

"Sengoku, stop making that sour face." Garp tossed the last cracker into his mouth and clapped the crumbs from his hands. "We’re going to the East Blue! That’s my turf! And we can enter the Dungeon anytime—isn’t that a good thing?"

Sengoku turned and glared fiercely at his old comrade. "Shut up, Garp. You have no idea what just happened."

At that moment, the office door was pushed open. Vice Admiral Tsuru, the Great Staff Officer, walked in quickly. Her usually unflappable face actually held a trace of unconcealed shock. She clutched a freshly printed urgent intelligence report.

"Sengoku, it seems you’ve received the news too." Tsuru slapped the report onto the desk, her voice tight. "The Holy Land... they actually did it."

Sengoku took a deep breath, his gaze falling on the shocking headline.

Bloodbath at Pangaea Castle Plaza.

Although he had guessed the Five Elders would use strong measures, Sengoku had never imagined the methods would be so bloody, so final.

"Not only did they do it, they went for the throat." Sengoku picked up the report, his fingers tightening until the paper crinkled. "Saint Charlos lost an arm. The Rosward family was publicly humiliated. Of the nineteen families present, more than thirty individuals had their tendons severed by the God’s Knights. The remaining Celestial Dragons have all been forcibly escorted onto ships."

Hearing this, Garp, who was picking his teeth, paused. A sharp light flashed through his usually clouded old eyes.

"Pfft—"

The next second, Garp burst into laughter. "Bwahahaha! Those pieces of trash finally got what was coming to them?"

═════ To Be Continued ═════

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