Chapter Fifteen: Setting Sail

Buffon, regaining his composure, turned toward the source of the voice—Absalom. He saw that Absalom had regained consciousness and was mumbling, “Na... Navy... Six... Six Powers...” Buffon nodded, signaling him not to speak further, and had a zombie puppet help him with a sip of water.

Only then did Absalom’s speech become smoother. “Thank you, Buffon!” Though his voice still carried a hint of weakness, the gratitude on his face was utterly sincere.

“It’s nothing,” Buffon replied, completely unbothered, his tone as casual as if he were discussing daily meals.

“When we were taking over the warship, a female navy officer suddenly appeared. She wounded me severely, then disappeared. I don’t know...”

He hadn’t finished when heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor. Moria’s voice grew louder as he approached: “Damn navy, always playing these double-faced games!”

Moria entered and, seeing Absalom awake, allowed himself a trace of a smile. “Absalom, how are you feeling?”

Prompted by the question, Absalom tried moving his broken leg. Astonishingly, he felt no pain at all. He punched his left chest—no issues whatsoever. Only the lingering weakness in his body reminded him that half a day ago, he was gravely wounded.

Moria looked at Buffon with joy, eyes filled with disbelief. “Buffon, I always thought your talent was limited to stitching corpses like an artist. Who would have guessed your medical skills are equally superb? Tell me, how should I thank you for this?”

Even with his carefree nature, Moria knew the difference between the living and the dead was more than trivial—there was a chasm between the two.

Buffon nodded, saying nothing, as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world.

Yet, thinking of Shanks’ severed hand, Buffon wondered if he should first find a suitable zombie to fit the hand, for it belonged to an Emperor and its power was not to be underestimated.

“I’d like to conduct a test—I need a zombie that was powerful in life,” Buffon said calmly.

Moria was troubled by this request. Buffon knew the zombies on the island better than anyone; his words meant none of them met his criteria.

Moria pondered for a while before speaking slowly. “Since Absalom is injured, perhaps you could handle returning the warship. The navy might have what you’re looking for.”

Hearing this, Buffon began calculating. Perhaps a journey outside wouldn’t be such a bad thing; his current strength could handle most conflicts.

When Buffon didn’t respond, Moria assumed he was worried about his own safety and said, “Take anyone you want from the zombie legion. Just remember—outside the Devil’s Triangle, keep the zombies out of the sunlight as much as possible.”

Buffon nodded and asked, “Where am I delivering it?”

“Punk Hazard.”

The name triggered Buffon’s memories—the island Caesar had poisoned, now a navy research base. At this moment, it should still be peaceful and tranquil.

As Buffon considered this, Moria’s voice came again, “Absalom’s injury was just an accident, don’t dwell on it.”

To Buffon, Moria’s words implied that his absence for most of the day was not spent chasing clues but meeting someone to strike some sort of deal. Yet, in that time, he couldn’t even leave the Devil’s Triangle.

Who had he met? Were there other powers lurking in this sea?

“Interesting,” Buffon mused, but aloud he said, “Alright, Ryuma will suffice,” wasting not a single word.

Moria added, “That’s navy territory. Keep things low-key when you arrive.”

Buffon nodded again, saying nothing more.

Three days later, the first batch of navy zombies—stitched by Buffon and shadowed by Moria—had all boarded the warship.

Buffon, with Ryuma, boarded his own vessel. At Moria’s insistence, he brought along twenty ordinary zombies and two general-level ones for safety.

As the ship left the port, Buffon saw Moria’s towering figure waving to him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be back. I haven’t had enough of this dreadful triple-masted ship,” Buffon thought, though he showed no sign outwardly.

Watching the ship recede, Moria patted Perona’s shoulder. “Heeheeheehee! With Buffon gone, I wonder if Hogback will finally step up and polish his skills that have grown so rusty.”

Perona shook her head, replying earnestly, “I doubt it. But without Buffon around, life will certainly feel less familiar.”

Inside the castle’s laboratory, Hogback looked troubled, staring at a pile of zombies freshly taken from the ice vault.

“Miss Sindri, why do I feel no strength in my hands for stitching now that Buffon’s gone?”

Miss Sindri responded coldly, “Even when Buffon was here, you barely touched a needle.”

Hogback put down his needle and prayed to the fog-shrouded sky outside the window. “Buffon, please hurry back. Without you in the lab, I truly don’t know how to carry on.”

Indeed, as Miss Sindri said, during Buffon’s years here, Hogback had left most corpse stitching to him, focusing only on research. Not only was Buffon’s technique superior, his speed was worlds apart.

Buffon had single-handedly shouldered all the zombie stitching work.

Soon after leaving the dock, Buffon dialed Brook’s Transponder Snail.

“Yohohoho! Buffon, what brings you to call today?”

“Meet at the usual place—time to let you bask in moonlight.”

“Alright, thank you, Buffon!”

Once Brook was aboard, Buffon set sail at full speed, guided by the Log Pose.

Five days later, the two ships exited the Devil’s Triangle.

Buffon, savoring the long-missed sunlight, treated his body to the utmost care—exposing ninety percent of his skin to the sun, wildly absorbing nature’s gift.

He had specially woven cloaks for Brook and Ryuma to allow them to move freely by day; the other zombies weren’t so lucky and had to stay below deck in daylight, only coming out at night to bask in the moonlight and avoid exposure.

Half a month later, Punk Hazard was within sight.

Navy warships could be seen patrolling the sea.

Before long, a navy ship came to inspect them. Buffon had already replaced the pirate flag with a merchant vessel’s.

After exchanging the passphrase, both ships followed the patrolling warship, slowly approaching the shores of Punk Hazard.