As dawn gave way to the full bloom of morning, the silhouette Orion had first spotted during the night steadily lost its ghostly mystique. Shadows fell away like peeling theater curtains, unveiling something far more outrageous than anyone aboard the Royal Fortune had anticipated. With every heartbeat, the vessel swelled on the horizon, like some colossal sea-bound leviathan rising from the deep.

"Well, that's… something," Achilles muttered, eyes narrowing. His arms crossed, his voice teetered between disbelief and reluctant amusement.

He wasn't alone. Nearly every Servant gathered at the railing wore a similar expression of startled awe, brows raised and lips pursed. Only Paris and Orion, both Archers with eyes much sharper than the rest, seemed unfazed—each wearing a knowing, mischievous grin that suggested they had already witnessed the absurdity unfolding on the sea and all they wanted was to watch how everyone else would react.

The ship in question was, in a word, enormous—easily three times the size of the Royal Fortune, and that was being conservative. It towered over the waves like a gilded fortress of impracticality, a grotesque display of opulence so excessive it bordered on surreal.

Its hull was coated in blinding, lacquered gold, gleaming so fiercely in the sun that the Servants would have to squint or shield their eyes if not for their enhanced eyesight. Its surface was a chaotic canvas of extravagance: carved mermaids, leering sea monsters, indecipherable mythological scenes—all adorned with precious stones, enamel, and ivory inlays. The artistry ranged from questionably skilled to comically crude, as though the sculptors had been drunk, blindfolded, or both.

Snaking trails of molded gold coiled along the sides like serpents cursed by a particularly touchy King Midas. Some ended in dragon heads, others in fish tails—none in anything remotely tasteful. The vessel radiated wealth, yes, but the sort of wealth that had long since detached from taste and now bordered on the theatrical.

At the prow stood a figurehead that immediately divided the crew: Charlotte looked away in embarrassed shock, while Orion leaned in with an intrigued hum.

The sculpture depicted a voluptuous woman frozen mid-wink, lips puckered in a kiss. Her attire—or lack thereof—was a lesson in minimalism, though not everyone would appreciate such a lesson. The exaggerated curves and impossible proportions made it look less like a work of art and more like a bawdy tavern sign come to life. And naturally, she was cast in solid gold.

"Okay, but… why is she doing the splits?" Paris asked curiously, tilting his head in innocent confusion. His question sent a wave of dread through the deck, as no one wanted to be the one to explain it.

"The sight is unworthy of your princely attention, Paris." Fortunately, Chiyome chose that moment to suddenly appear behind Paris, gently covering the boy's eyes with one hand and using the other one to cast a silencing ninjutsu, stopping Apollo from providing a very descriptive answer.

But more important than the ship's tasteless décor was its flag.

Fluttering high on the main mast, the sail bore a variation of the infamous Jolly Roger. But instead of the traditional crossbones beneath the grinning skull, there were two glass bottles clinking in mid-toast, foam splashing into the skull's jaw like it was chugging both at once.

"What the hell is that supposed to be?" Mandricardo muttered, squinting upward at the absurd design.

"A skeleton with a drinking problem," Achilles replied without missing a beat, his tone bone-dry as he traced the lines of the odd symbol with his eyes. "Don't recognize it though. Bartholomew?"

At the helm, Bartholomew shaded his eyes with a gloved hand, the other casually resting on the wheel. He studied the oncoming ship for a long moment before shrugging. "Never seen a flag like that. But it's still a Jolly Roger, no question. Which means we've probably landed somewhere near the Golden Age of Piracy. Or close enough, at any rate."

"You sure?" came a groggy voice from behind.

Jason emerged from below deck with all the grace of a man recently dragged from bed. His hair looked like it had lost a war with the pillow, and his toga hung from one shoulder in an undignified slump, like he'd thrown it on halfway through falling out of bed.

On a normal ship, the captain's appearance would elicit a salute or at least a formal greeting. Here, only Corday reacted to Jason's presence. With a bemused smile, the woman quickly rushed to his side, producing a handkerchief from seemingly nowhere and fussing over his hair, adjusting his clothing with practiced grace and unshakable insistence. Jason grumbled under his breath, but didn't resist—perhaps resigned, perhaps too tired to fight.

Bartholomew, smothering a smirk, continued, "The Jolly Roger rose to prominence in the late 17th century and fell out of use at the beginning of the 19th. We still don't know the exact date, but it gives us a rough timeframe. About the location…could be the Caribbean, could be the Indian Ocean—hard to say without more context. But that design? Completely new to me."

Jason, after freeing himself from Corday's violent care, looked up and saw the ship for the first time, visibly recoiling at the sight.

"Ugh. Why are they so flashy?" he groaned, scrubbing at his eyes like he hoped it was a mirage. "It looks like a floating circus. Gods, this is just another reason I miss the Argo. That ship had class."

Mandricardo, previously watching the flag with suspicion, looked at Jason with a look of pure disbelief. " Wait—you're the one complaining about too much gold? You?"

Jason spun on him, hands thrown wide.

"Of course! Why would I need gold?! I can summon the Golden Fleece! Literal legendary treasure at the palm of my hand! Why would I care about a bunch of glittery ornaments hot-glued to a boat?! Wealth is temporary! The only thing that matters is the respect I rightfully deserve!" Jason declared, puffing out his chest like an indignant peacock, which made Corday sigh and try to fix his toga again.

"Regardless of our captain's pathological narcissism…" Orion drawled, lazily draping himself along the railing and ignoring Jason's angry screech. "…I have agree with his sentiment. That's an unreasonable amount of gold. Like, offensively unreasonable. I'm surprised the thing floats. It's less a ship and more a portable ego trip. I'm 90% sure it's some megalomaniac Servant on a power trip."

"I think it's pretty!" Paris chirped, perched atop two divine sheep clones to see above the railing. The woolly duo gave approving bleats as Paris pointed at the ship, his eyes sparkling. The Troian royalty's eyes were once again free, Chiyome's constant interventions at critical moments keeping his vision child-friendly.

Apollo, standing on his head like a shoulder devil, clapped his metaphorical hands with glee. "Look at those colors, Paris! A triumph! A declaration! What say you—should we give this ship a little glitz? Wrap her in gold? I can conjure paint!"

Paris giggled, kicking his feet. "Bart would hate that."

"Exactly!" Apollo crowed with chaotic amusement.

Bartholomew sighed. "Please don't. I like this ship the way it is. Functional and floatable."

Still, he tugged his coat into place and stepped toward Jason, adopting a professional tone despite the glittering madness approaching.

"Jason, I suggest I handle first contact. I'm familiar with pirate customs—hell, I helped write them. Not to mention, your diplomatic style is… a touch more..." he paused, clearly sifting through his vocabulary, "...brazen than what's customary in the Age of Men."

Jason shot him a flat look. "Don't try to flatter me if you can't even pretend to mean it."

Bartholomew raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, yeah," Jason waved him off. "You're a pirate, they're pirates. You do the pirate talk. I didn't want to waste my time with some filthy sea bandits anyway. Knock yourself out."

Bartholomew's lips twitched, as though biting back a retort, but he let it go with the dignity of a man picking his battles. Instead, he turned his eyes back to the golden leviathan, now close enough to spot individual details on its gaudy hull.

The massive ship made a wide, lazy arc, circling once like a predator playing with its prey. Then, with a grace that belied its gaudy exterior, it drew up alongside the Royal Fortune, the two ships now close enough that the gangplanks could nearly meet if not for their difference in size.

There was no cannon fire. No war drums. No shouted threats. Only a suffocating air of smug superiority rolling off the glimmering vessel like heatwaves.

And finally—finally—figures began to appear on the deck, their silhouettes clearly visible from the Royal Fortune.

Mandricardo leaned on the railing, eyeing the approaching crew. "Yup. They definitely look like pirates alright."

The deck of the massive golden ship was manned by a bizarre crew that defied mundane explanation. At first glance, they all appeared human, but some of them were very much not. The longer one looked, the stranger the details became. Near the helm stood a man whose skin shimmered with the sheen of fish scales, gills flexing at his neck, and translucent fins flaring from his arms. Another could've passed for human if not for his absurdly long arms, dangling well past his knees. Others had teeth like sharks, noses as long as fingers, or forms that blurred the line between man and beast.

They were all dressed like pirates—though not in any historical sense. Their attire was theatrical, almost parodic: tricorn hats topped with monstrous feathers, coats glittering with gaudy thread, and sashes in colors that clashed like dueling banners. Cutlasses and flintlocks dangled from every belt, alongside stranger weapons whose purpose required some guesswork. They looked like illustrations from a child's storybook come to life—if the child had a fondness for chaos and exaggeration.

But all of them revolved around the man at the center.

He stood tall—almost unnaturally so—with a lean, commanding build. One hand rested casually on the railing, the other gripped a bottle filled with something red and undoubtedly potent. His golden hair spilled down his back in a wild mane, catching the sunlight in an unfairly cinematic way. His grin was vast and carnivorous, arrogant in a way that suggested violence wasn't just possible—it was inevitable. The way he eyed the Royal Fortune left little doubt: he already considered it his.

Achilles squinted, his eyes tracking the mysterious man. "So...you recognize him, Bartholomew?"

Bartholomew studied the figure, frowning. Unfortunately, his appearance told him nothing. "No. But that doesn't mean much. There were a lot of pirates. I didn't meet most of them."

Mandricardo leaned in. "Are we sure he's even a Servant? If this is like the Atlantic Lostbelt…"

Bartholomew scratched his head in thought, before simply shrugging his shoulders. "No Casters with us to confirm, I'm afraid. Looks like we will have to check the old-fashioned way."

He stepped forward, raising a hand in greeting. The man on the other ship returned the gesture, lifting his bottle with an exaggerated flourish.

"Well, well!" he called out, his voice dripping with false warmth. He sounded just as he looked: Confident and vicious. "Fresh faces in these waters! You lot lost or just rookies bold enough to go swimming where the sharks play?"

Bartholomew offered a polite smile, though he already suspected how this would all end. Still, it wouldn't hurt to at least try diplomacy. "If those are my only options, I suppose I'll own up to the second. We've just arrived on these waters."

The man barked a laugh, sharp and mocking. "Hah! Of course you have. The corpse of the Pirate King isn't even cold, and already the gnats start buzzing in."

Bartholomew stiffened, the words catching him off guard. Pirate King?

He schooled his expression, trying to keep his voice even. "The Pirate King is dead?"

His mind immediately turned to Henry Every, the only pirate in history to bear that moniker.

Also known as The Arch Pirate, he was one of the most infamous men to ever sail under the black flag—fabled for pulling off the biggest heist in pirate history and vanishing without a trace with his treasure. Every had raided a convoy bound for Mecca, stealing what today would amount to over a hundred million pounds and triggering the first worldwide manhunt in recorded history. And yet, despite all that, he managed to escape with his loot and disappear, his treasure never recovered.

If this man was saying Every had died, then this was a clear divergence from Proper Human History. And if not…maybe that version of Every was a Servant, just like them.

"Of course he's dead!" the man crowed, his voice full of chaotic glee. "Public execution and everything! Bastard spilled his guts about his treasure and kicked the bucket not even a week ago! Wahahaha!" He tossed back his head and laughed—a sound manic and disturbing to hear. When he finally stopped, he leaned forward over the railing and grinned. "Isn't that why you're here in the New World, rookies? I would have praised you if that was the case. You would be the first ones to get this far."

Bartholomew's brow furrowed. The New World? He muttered the words under his breath, thoughts swirling.

That was the term for the Americas during the Age of Discovery. And with the mention of Henry Every and the unmistakable pirate presence, everything pointed to the Golden Age of Piracy—an era Bartholomew had once helped end with his own death. That's where they were. Somewhere near the Caribbean.

Probably.

But if Every had been executed—publicly, no less—that meant the deviation from Proper Human History was already in motion. Maybe it had started just recently. Maybe—

"Wahahahaha! Don't tell me you don't even know where you are!" The golden-haired man's laughter snapped Bartholomew out of his thoughts. He took a casual swig from his bottle mid-laugh, not spilling a single drop, then leaned on the railing like a cat toying with a mouse. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter. Tell me—are you the captain of this sorry little ship?"

Bartholomew's smile thinned as his captain's pride bristled. "It's customary to offer your own name before insulting someone's vessel."

"Oh, touchy, are we?" the man replied, his voice dripping with mock politeness. He gave a theatrical bow and pointed to himself. "Captain John. Future King of the Pirates. Not that I give a damn about the title—I just want the old man's treasure. Only fair, I think, after he smashed up my last crew."

Bartholomew raised an eyebrow. "John? John Rackham, perhaps?"

There were countless pirate Johns, but that one—Calico Jack—was the only with enough notoriety to be summoned as a Servant.

The man's grin only stretched wider.

"Just John." he said without even a flicker of recognition. Then, tilting his head, he repeated the question. "So? Are you the captain or not?"

"Actually—" Bartholomew began, ready to throw Jason under the bus—but then he paused as a thought clicked into place. Jason was the one who summoned them with his Noble Phantasm. If he were identified as captain and killed, the entire crew might vanish along with him.

That wasn't a risk he was willing to take, especially as he still didn't know what was wrong with this time period.

He straightened, slipping easily into a posture of arrogant poise, one he ironically borrowed from Jason himself. "Yes!" he said smoothly. "I am Captain Bartholomew Roberts, and this"—he gestured grandly toward the ship behind him—"is the Royal Fortune."

"What?!" Jason's voice came from behind—shrill, indignant, and unmistakably offended. "What the fuck do you mean?! I'm the captain! And this is the Ar—!"

Corday moved before Jason could finish the sentence. She stepped in front of him and clamped a delicate, deceptively strong hand over his mouth, shutting him up. Her expression was radiant—pure innocence wrapped in the softest smile imaginable.

Bartholomew met her eyes. No words were needed. Silent understanding passed between them.

Corday turned her attention to the golden ship, tilting her head with a sisterly warmth. "My apologies for our jester," she said sweetly, her tone light as air, like she was explaining away a child's tantrum. "Poor Jason gets so passionate about his role. Ever since the... accident."

Jason thrashed behind her, his muffled rage growing louder, but Corday held her composure with practiced serenity. At the mention of the 'accident,' she lifted her free hand to her eyes in a subtle, graceful motion, as if wiping a tear. Her performance was heartbreakingly believable.

Several pirates across the water melted on the spot, visibly taken by the delicate maiden's plight. A frail waif tending to her tragic brother. A porcelain figure caught in a cruel world.

Captain John, however, remained unaffected. His gaze flicked to the scene for barely a heartbeat before settling back on Bartholomew.

"Well, whatever," he said with a shrug, his voice flattening. "Captain Bartholomew, I regret to inform you that we'll be plundering your vessel, taking anything worth a damn, and tossing the rest of you into the sea's loving embrace."

Bartholomew's smile narrowed into something cold and precise, like the edge of a well-honed blade. The smile didn't reach his eyes.

"I see…" he said, his voice as calm and deep as the sea before a storm. "No chance of a diplomatic solution, then?"

Captain John let out a sharp, cruel laugh. "Diplomacy?" His grin turned wolfish. "Where's the fun in that?"

Bartholomew glanced over his shoulder.

The others were already moving. Mandricardo and Achilles had reached for their weapons. Paris was summoning his weapon, the telltale shimmer forming in front of him. Orion had shifted into a combat stance, muscles coiled like a spring. Chiyome had already vanished to strike at the best moment. Corday

was dragging a furious Jason away from the edge of the deck, her fingers still over his mouth.

They were ready—as ready as they were going to be.

Bartholomew exhaled slowly and took a step forward, voice rising above the tension like a declaration of war. "Before we begin…"

He raised an arm and pointed—straight across the water to a woman standing not far from Captain John.

"You! The one with the bangs!"

"E-eh?! Me?!" The woman jolted, pointing to herself in disbelief. She was tall and striking, dressed in a green longcoat over a white shirt and black trousers, a cutlass hanging at her hip. Her strawberry-blonde hair cascaded in thick locks, completely hiding her eyes from view.

"Yes, you! I have just one question!"

The tension on the golden ship shifted. Confusion rippled across the enemy crew as all eyes turned to the woman in question. Even the battle-hardened pirates leaned in, waiting to hear what the enemy captain would say.

Bartholomew's gaze locked onto her, his face lit with conviction and impossible earnestness. In that instant, he was a legend—no, a hero, born from the romanticized dreams of an age long past.

He extended a hand toward her, palm open.

"Will you marry me?!" he declared, voice thundering with heartfelt passion.

"W-WHAT?!" she shrieked, going beet red as her entire body recoiled like she'd been struck. Her arms flailed, her face practically steaming.

"It's the bangs!" Bartholomew pressed on without mercy, a passionate hurricane of words pouring from his mouth. "There's just something about them—the way they fall like a curtain of mystery! The promise of hidden eyes! The drama! The tension! The sheer elegance! Ah!"

A long pause followed.

The Servants were looking away in second-hand embarrassment, their eyes suddenly glued to the various ornaments and carvings on the golden ship. The pirates on the ship in question, on the other hand, were utterly baffled, trying to comprehend the flamboyant man's words. The confessed woman looked ready to burst into flame from sheer humiliation.

And then—Captain John threw back his head and howled with laughter.

"Wahahaha! That was worth the wait!" he bellowed, wiping a tear from his eye and taking another gulp of his drink. After he was done, he looked back at Bartholomew, grin still sharp. "You done now, Captain Bartholomew?"

Bartholomew gave a firm nod, his voice earnest. "Yes. The rest is up to fate."

"Great," John said, placing a boot on the railing. "Then let's get started!"

Everything happened at once.

Mandricardo twisted to intercept a lightning-quick strike from a woman in sleeveless shirt and shorts. Unexpectedly, her legs compressed and sprung like coiled metal, launching her across the gap with impossible speed. Her spring-loaded punch collided with Mandricardo's wooden blade in a bone-rattling clash.

A middle-aged pirate with an eyepatch raised a long rifle from the golden ship's deck and fired at Bartholomew—but the shot was intercepted mid-air by a shot from Paris's summoned sniper rifle, which rested elegantly atop his summoned sheep constructs.

Bartholomew, with a flourish, drew his sword just in time to parry a fierce blow from the very woman he'd just proposed to. Her face was still bright red, but her movements were vicious, cutlass striking in a furious rhythm.

And then—Captain John appeared in a blur of motion, landing with a crash on the Royal Fortune's deck, twin cutlasses raised to cleave through Bartholomew's head.

But Achilles was already there.

The Hero of the Trojan War spun into the clash, blocking the blades with the shaft of his spear, golden sparks flying as steel met divine metal.

Captain John's brows lifted in surprise—then he grinned wider.

"Well, well," he said, eyes glittering. "Looks like you're not total rookies after all."

His laugh rang out across the deck, sharp and wild.

"Wahahaha! Come on then! Let's see what you've got!"

With that, the rest of the enemy crew surged forward, ropes swinging, weapons gleaming, boots thudding onto the Royal Fortune.

The first true battle of the Argonauts on the Grand Line had begun.