"Oh, look at you," a high-pitched, mocking voice drifted through the gloom. "A big, scary swordsman reduced to a heap of trash."

The villagers of Namakura were desperate. They were being terrorized by the Longarm Tribe, who raided their lands and stole their people. They didn't care if Brook was a pirate or a skeleton; they saw a demon who could bring them vengeance. Brook , ever the gentleman, couldn't find the heart to leave them in distress, even if he was currently more interested in finding a pair of silk panties than fighting a war.

Zoro woke up later, his wounds wrapped in bandages that smelled of lavender and old lace. He tried to reach for his swords, but his arms were pinned. Perona had dressed him in a ridiculous, frilly pink outfit, treating him more like a giant doll than a warrior. "Let me go, ghost girl," he growled, his voice cracking.