One Piece : Bullet Tide

The Tavern reeked of blood, gunpowder, and burning wood. Bodies lay scattered across the floor, some chunks of flesh, others gurgling their last breaths.

Dez rolled his shoulders, twirling his revolvers, eyes locked on Declan "Red Fang"O'Malley.

The 25-million-berry captain stood tall, his scarred hands gripping twin cutlasses. His coat, dyed red at the hem, fluttered slightly as he stepped forward. 

His bloodshot green eyes gleamed with fury.

"You've got some balls, bounty hunter," Declan snarled, licking his lips like a rabid dog." Ain't ni man ever crossed me and lived to tell the tale"

Dez smirked, blowing a stray lock of hair out of his face.

"Funny. Ain't no man ever pointed a blade at me and lived either."

Declan moved first. One moment he was standing, the next he was in front of Dez, cutlasses swinging in a brutal cross slash. 

Dez barely ducked. The wind from the swing whistled over his head, slicing a few strands of his hair.

BANG! BANG!

Dez fired point-blank only for Declan to twist his cutlass, deflecting both bullets mid-air. 

Ting! Ting! The shots ricocheted into the wooden beams. Dez raised an eyebrow.

Declan grinned like a mad dog. "Ain't just any cutlasses, boy. These beauties are Sea-Prism Stone laced."

Dez's eyes narrowed. That was a problem. If they could deflect bullets and nullify Devil Fruit powers...

This just got interesting. 

Declan pressed the attack. He slashed in a brutal arc, Dez jumped onto a fallen chair, flipping backward over a table. The pirate captain pursued, swinging wildly, cutting deep gashes into the wooden furniture as Dez danced around him.

Dez fire, Decaln parried. Dez kicked a bottle at him, and Declan sliced it in half mid-air.

BANG!

Dez curved a bullet toward Declan's exposed side. But the bastard was fast, he spun, letting the bullet graze his coat instead of his flesh.

"Tch," Dez muttered. "Slippery son of a bitch."

Declan lunged, aiming to take Dez's head clean off. Dez dropped low, and pivoted on one hand, while firing three quick shots.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

One bullet clipped Decaln's shoulder, drawing blood. Another ripped through his thigh. The last bounced off his cutlass. Declan growled but didn't slow.

The pirate captain barreled forward, crashing into Dez like a human cannonball. Dez was slammed against the bar, breath forced from his lungs. Declan's fist smashed into Dez's jaw, blood sprayed from his mouth.

A knee drove into his ribs, and Dez grunted as pain exploded through his side. Declan grabbed him by the coat, yanking him forward.

"Not so cocky now, are ya?" the pirate sneered, raising a cutlass for the killing blow. But Dez smirked through the blood in his mouth. He jammed the barrel of his revolver into Declan's stomach-

BANG!

Declan staggered back, cursing. The bullet didn't pierce deep, it grazed off his ribs. But it was enough. Dez used the opening, he grabbed an d empty bottle from the bar and smashed it into Declan's face.

Glass shattered. Blood dripped down the pirate's forehead. Dez kicked off the bar, flipping over Declan, and landed behind him. The second his boots hit the floor-

BANG! BANG!

Two shots slammed into Declan's lower back. The pirate captain roared in pain, spinning wildly his cutlass cleaved through a wooden beam, nearly splitting it in half. Dez sidestepped already reloading, but Declan wasn't done.

Declan breathed hard, spat blood, and grinned. 

"You think that's enough to take me down boy?"

Dez tilted his head."Nah, but this is."

Click! He spun the chamber on Ebony, the bullet inside glowed faintly. Declan rushed him on last time, cutlasses raised high-

Dez snapped his gun up and fired.

BANG!

The bullet hit Declan square in the chest. At first, nothing happens then, Declan's arms locked up. His fingers seized. His muscles spasmed from sheer strain.

The Weight Shot was taking effect.

Declan collapsed to his knee, his own body now a hundred times heavier. His cutlasses dropped from his hands with a loud clang.

The pirate gritted his teeth, veins building, struggling to move.

"Y-you bastard-"

Dez stepped forward and pressed Ivory against Declan's forehead.

"Say hi to hell for me."

BANG!

Blood, bone, and brain splattered the floor. Declan "Red Fang" O'Malley, 25-million bounty, was dead.

The tavern was silent. Only the drip, drip of blood remained.

Dez, breathing a little harder than before, holstered his revolvers and walked to the bar. He reached over, grabbed a half-full bottle of rum, and took a swig.

Dez took another swig of whiskey as he stepped over the bodies littering the tavern floor. The room was eerily silent, the celebration of the Shamrock Pirates cut short.

As he made his way to the door, he reached over the bar and grabbed a fresh bottle, tossing a glance at the barkeep slumped behind the counter.

"Consider this part of my payment," he muttered, tucking the bottle into his belt.

Pushing the saloon doors open, he stepped onto the quiet streets. The townsfolk, who had been hiding during the fight, now peeked out cautiously. Their eyes were filled with a mix of fear and relief.

Dez adjusted his hat and smirked. "No need to thank me. Just keep outta trouble."

With that, he strolled off toward the Marine outpost.

The Marine outpost wasn't much—just a small fort on the town's edge, manned by a handful of officers. When Dez walked in, dragging a heavy sack behind him, the Marines stiffened.

He dropped the bag onto the counter with a dull thump. "That's Declan 'Red Fang' O'Malley and his crew. Should total about 32 million berries."

The Marine lieutenant hesitated before checking the bounty posters. After a few moments, he gave a slow nod. "Yeah… That matches up. Give us a minute."

A short while later, Dez was counting out stacks of Beli, stuffing them into his saddlebag with a satisfied smirk.

"Pleasure doin' business," he said, tipping his hat.

Just as he turned to leave, the lieutenant spoke up.

"Wait. You might want to see this."

Dez turned back as the officer slid a newly issued bounty poster across the counter.

His eyes scanned the page.

DON KRIEG

Bounty: 17,000,000 berries

Dez raised an eyebrow. "Didn't he go into the Grand Line?"

The lieutenant nodded. "That's what we thought. But sightings of him in the East Blue have been confirmed. He's back."

Dez's smirk widened as he twirled the poster between his fingers.

"So he survived."

Most pirates who entered the Grand Line never came back. If Krieg did, then that meant he'd seen what was out there—and lived to tell the tale. Maybe he'd even gotten stronger.

And that?

That made things interesting.

Taking another sip of whiskey, Dez tucked the poster away and turned toward the docks.

"Looks like I got a new target."

The Phantom Gunman was far from done.

Dez stood at the docks, rolling his shoulders as he took one last look at the sleepy little town behind him. The Marines had been quick to take the Shamrock Pirates off his hands, even quicker to count out his hard-earned Beli, and even quicker still to look uncomfortable in his presence.

He smirked. Always the same.

His eyes shifted to the only thing in this world he trusted—The Dustback.

A lone hunter didn't need a hulking warship or some flashy, oversized galleon weighed down by drunken crewmates. No, Dez needed speed, stealth, and just enough bite to keep the sharks at bay. The Dustback was built for just that.

A single-masted schooner with a reinforced hull, it was as quick as it was deceptive. The dusty brown sails made it blend in with sea mist, almost like a mirage on the waves. The swivel gun mounted near the stern was a last resort, but Dez rarely had to use it—his pistols did all the talking.

As he untied the mooring ropes, the ocean breeze carried the scent of salt and adventure. He took a deep breath, lit a fresh cigar, and gave a low chuckle.

"Alright, Krieg, let's see if you really crawled back from hell."

With practiced ease, he kicked off from the dock, the Dustback catching the wind like a ghost slipping through the cracks of the world.

Sailing alone meant one thing—time. And Dez didn't believe in wasting it.

He settled in on deck, rolling his shoulders before laying out his tools. First on the list? Gun maintenance.

His revolvers were his lifeline, his partners, and the only things in this world more reliable than whiskey. Keeping them in top shape wasn't a chore—it was a ritual.

He started with Eclipse (Changed from Ebony), the pistol that had somehow managed to eat a Devil Fruit. With careful hands, he popped open the chamber, examining the mechanisms. Unlike a normal firearm, Eclipse's chamber had a strange organic pulse, almost as if it was alive.

"Still weird," he muttered, shaking his head. He wiped the barrel clean, running his fingers along the etchings in the metal—little scratches from countless battles, each one a story.

Next was Dusk (Changed from Ivory), his other revolver. Not cursed, not alive, just pure, mechanical perfection. Dez disassembled it with quick, fluid motions, checking the springs, the hammer, the rifling inside the barrel. Every piece had to be flawless.

Once satisfied, he loaded each chamber with handcrafted bullets, spinning them with a smooth flick of his wrist. The familiar click-clack of steel settling into place was music to his ears.

With the Dustback gliding along the waves, Dez moved on to the second part of his routine—gunfu practice.

His fighting style wasn't just about aiming and shooting; it was about movement, momentum, and flow.

He placed empty rum bottles on the railings of the ship, stepping back to draw blindfolded.

The moment his fingers touched his holsters, he moved—a step, a pivot, a twist—BANG! The first bottle shattered, glass catching the sunlight like tiny stars.

He didn't stop. A roll, a spin, a jump off the mast—BANG-BANG! Two more bottles exploded midair.

Landing smoothly, he spun his pistols on his fingers, reloaded without looking, and holstered them in a single motion.

Not good enough. Faster. Smoother.

He repeated the drill, swapping out bottles for wooden planks tossed in the air—shooting them before they hit the deck.

He kept going until his muscles burned, his reflexes were sharper than ever, and the Dustback's deck was littered with splinters and glass.

Finally, as the sun began to set, he sat against the mast, pulling out a stack of bounty posters.

Don Krieg's face stared back at him—smug, arrogant, like a man who still believed he was King of the East Blue.

Dez snorted. "Last I checked, kings don't come crawling home with their tail between their legs."

He flipped through a few more posters, memorizing faces, names, habits. A good bounty hunter didn't just know how to fight—he knew how to think. Every target had patterns, weaknesses, tells.

He smirked as he ran a finger over Krieg's 17 million bounty.

"Let's see if you still got that fire in you, Krieg… or if you're just another washed-up fool waiting to be put down."

With that, he took a slow sip of whiskey, kicked his feet up, and let the sea carry him toward Baratie.

TO BE CONTINUED…