Days had blurred into a whirlwind of snow and shadows since Olbap and Odoho arrived on Chark Island, the frozen heart of the Kingdom of Roshwan. The island was a marvel of resilience, its people thriving amid the relentless cold, their daily lives a dance of warmth and survival. Even pirate crews docking at the ports behaved, masking their colors to avoid Marine scrutiny, a stark contrast to Brackmor's lawless past.
Olbap's mind drifted to his island as he gazed from the inn's frosted window, the snow falling in thick sheets outside. Brackmor had been a pit of poverty and desperation, its citizens clawing for survival. But under his rule, change had taken root. Fair wages for coral and flower harvesting, opportunities for the willing—those who resisted met a swift end, their bodies strung up in Krakenport's square, their crimes carved into placards as warnings. The message was clear: work, prosper, or perish. The island was healing, its people loyal, but Olbap knew defense was lacking. Future plans brewed in his mind—tourism, trade, a facade of legitimacy to draw visitors and bolster numbers. For now, though, his focus was singular: the alchemist.
In their rented room above the tavern, the air warm with the crackle of a stove, Olbap and Odoho pored over their findings. The chamber was modest, its walls draped with bear pelts, a single lantern casting golden light across a scarred table strewn with notes and empty Montaña del Norte bottles. The scent of vodka lingered, sharp and biting, mingling with the faint chemical tang Olbap carried from Brackmor. Odoho, ever the ghost, stood by the window, his dark eyes scanning the snowy streets below, his presence barely registering even to Olbap.
"We've got a trail," Odoho said, his voice low, sliding a crumpled flyer across the table. "The genius alchemist-slash-conman, known across the South Blue. Twenty to twenty-five years old, based on descriptions. Always wears a long purple coat and glasses. Comes once a month to buy materials for his 'projects.' That date's approaching."
Olbap's lips curled into a smile, his amethyst eyes glinting as he lit his pipe, the tobacco's sweet smoke curling toward the ceiling. "And we're not the only ones hunting him. You overheard those bounty hunters in the alley, didn't you? Selling the same intel to anyone with Berries." His voice was calm, but a dangerous edge underscored his words, the weight of competition sharpening his focus.
Odoho nodded, his expression unreadable. "They're not subtle. Three of them, armed, moving tonight. We let them make the first move, follow, and swoop in to 'save' him. Gives us leverage—he'll know we're not here to harm him."
"Exactly," Olbap said, exhaling a plume of smoke. "We play the heroes, earn his trust, and make our pitch. He's our ticket to perfecting Red Tide." The plan was simple but elegant, a chess move in a game where every player wanted the alchemist's mind. Olbap donned his heavy black overcoat, its fur-lined collar brushing his jaw, and checked his flintlock, its steel cold against his palm. Odoho mirrored him, his pinstriped suit hidden beneath an identical coat, his movements silent as a whisper.
They slipped out the window, the night air slicing through them like a blade, the snow crunching faintly under their boots as they scaled the inn's wall. The streets below glowed with torchlight, their flames flickering against the black sky, snowflakes drifting like ash.
Olbap and Odoho moved across the rooftops, leaping from one snow-dusted dome to another, their steps light but sure. To any onlooker, only Olbap was visible—Odoho vanished, a shadow among shadows, his presence erased by his uncanny gift. The cold bit at Olbap's skin, each breath a cloud of frost, the rooftops slick with ice. From their vantage, the central plaza pulsed with life, merchants hawking furs and spirits under canvas awnings, their voices muffled by the storm.
"He's supposed to hit the plaza, right?" Olbap murmured, crouching on a rooftop's edge, his eyes locked on a small shop with a red lantern swaying above its door.
Odoho's voice drifted from nowhere, a ghost's whisper. "Yes. He's inside, buying materials. But we've got company—those hunters are closing in."
Olbap's smile widened, his pipe clenched between his teeth. "Greedy bastards. Information's a commodity here, and they're selling to anyone with coin." Below, three figures in long coats stalked toward the shop, their rifles and swords glinting under the torchlight. Not Marines—their movements were too loose, their glances too predatory. Bounty hunters, hungry for the alchemist's price.
Inside the shop, the target matched the description perfectly: young, dark hair cropped short, a long purple coat draping his lean frame, glasses perched on a sharp nose. He bantered with the shopkeeper, his voice animated, oblivious to the danger—or perhaps not. His calm was unnerving, a man who danced with death and laughed. Olbap's pulse quickened, his mind racing. This was no ordinary conman; this was the genius he needed.
"Intervene yet?" Odoho's voice ghosted from the shadows, his form a flicker even to Olbap's trained eye.
"Not yet," Olbap replied, his voice low, the pipe's warmth grounding him. "Let's see how he handles himself. If he's as clever as they say, he'll slip their grasp without a scratch." The hunters pushed open the door, a bell's chime cutting the night. Silence followed, thick and heavy, the shop's murmur swallowed by tension.
Then—boom. A fiery explosion erupted from the shop, flames licking the air, a roar that shook the snow from nearby roofs. Olbap and Odoho darted to a better angle, their boots skidding on ice. Windows shattered, glass raining like diamonds, and a plume of purple smoke billowed out, thick and acrid, stinging even from a distance. From the haze, a figure leaped to the opposite rooftop, a smoking vial in hand—the alchemist, moving like a specter.
"Smart bastard," Olbap muttered, a grin splitting his face as he and Odoho gave chase. The hunters stumbled out, coughing, their coats singed, their skin red and blistered. The smoke wasn't just a screen—it burned, itched, a chemical torment. They staggered toward the harbor, desperate to plunge into the icy sea to ease the pain, their hunt forgotten.
Olbap and Odoho raced across the rooftops, the snow muffling their steps, the alchemist's trail clear in the fresh powder. He was agile, vaulting gaps with ease, his purple coat a beacon against the white. But he was clever, too—tossing small vials behind him, each one bursting on impact, erasing his footprints in a hiss of steam, leaving the snow pristine. "He's covering his tracks," Olbap said, his breath clouding as he leaped to the next roof. "Brilliant."
"What's the play?" Odoho asked, his voice trailing Olbap, his form a blur in the storm.
"Keep following. He knows we're here—let's see where he leads us. Then we talk." Olbap's eyes burned with focus, the chase a thrill that sharpened his senses. The alchemist darted toward the forest beyond the town, the snowstorm intensifying, visibility dropping to a white haze. The trees loomed, their branches heavy with ice, the air thick with the scent of pine and frost.
Despite the blizzard, Olbap and Odoho tracked him, their training under Popeye's brutal regimens honing their endurance. The alchemist's pace never faltered, leading them to a secluded cabin nestled in a clearing, its wooden walls weathered, a faint glow spilling from its windows. He stood at the door, a vial raised like a weapon, his glasses glinting under the moonlight, his eyes sharp and unafraid.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, his voice steady but edged with suspicion. "Another hunter? You've been tailing me since I ditched those idiots."
Olbap stepped forward slowly, hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed but calculated, the snow crunching under his boots. "No hunters here. Let's just say I'm an admirer of your work." He stopped at a distance where they could see each other clearly, the cold air sharp between them.
The alchemist's appearance was striking: lean but athletic, built for movement, his posture confident yet coiled, ready to spring. His face was young, serious, framed by short, dark hair swept back, his pale skin contrasting with his dark attire. The purple coat hung to his knees, its high collar turned up against the cold, crafted from durable material suited for travel or lab work. Beneath, a bone-colored shirt hung loose at the collar, its long sleeves billowing slightly. Black pants tucked into high brown leather boots, buckled and sturdy. A thick leather belt cinched his waist, adorned with pouches, vials, and a circular medallion—tools of his trade, glinting faintly.
"My work?" The alchemist smirked, irony dripping from his voice. "You mean scamming half the South Blue with fake formulas?" His grin was wide, unapologetic, a challenge in his eyes.
"Exactly," Olbap said, his pipe glowing as he took a drag, the smoke curling into the night. "Anyone can steal Berries, but doing it with style, without blood on your hands? That takes brains—and guts. That's what I'm after." His words were a hook, baited with respect, drawing the alchemist in.
The young man's eyes narrowed, weighing Olbap's intent. "And what do you want from me?"
Before Olbap could answer, a shadow loomed on the cabin's roof. A burst of searing flame roared toward the alchemist, who dove instinctively toward Olbap and Odoho. They reacted in unison, ducking behind a fallen log, the heat scorching the air, the snow hissing into steam. The forest lit up, flames licking the trees, the crackle deafening.
"Ga ga ga! Bu bu bu! You scurried like chickens! Nice chat, but I need the alchemist alive!" A manic laugh echoed from the roof, the attacker clutching a flamethrower in one hand, a beer jug in the other, his voice slurred but gleeful.
Olbap and the alchemist exchanged a glance, both stunned by the man's recklessness. Alive? He'd nearly roasted them all. "He's not with you, right?" the alchemist asked, his tone suspicious, his hand gripping a vial.
"If he was, I'd put a bullet in him for nearly cooking me," Olbap growled, drawing his flintlock and firing at the figure. The bullet melted mid-air, consumed by another blast from the flamethrower, the heat forcing them to scramble deeper into the trees.
"Ga ga ga! Bullets? My pal here burns 'em all! How many times have I been shot, huh?" the man bellowed, his voice thick with drink. The moonlight revealed an older man, his face weathered, his eyes wild with drunken glee.
Seeing no movement, he raised his flamethrower, flames dancing at its nozzle. "Enough warnings! Hic! Name's Wibbles—pleased to meet ya! Hic!" A torrent of fire surged forward, a tsunami of flame engulfing the trees, the forest roaring in protest.
Olbap grabbed the alchemist's arm, his grip iron, and bolted, his legs pumping with the speed Popeye's training had forged. To ordinary eyes, he was a blur, the alchemist struggling to keep up as they outran the inferno. Trees blazed behind them, the air thick with smoke and the stench of burning pine. Olbap skidded to a stop in a clearing, releasing the alchemist, who shook snow from his coat, catching his breath.
"That was fast," the alchemist panted, brushing ash from his sleeves. "You're young—what's your name?"
"Rabocse Olbap," he said, extending a hand, his eyes steady. "A pleasure."
"Rabocse Olbap, huh?" the alchemist said, his grin returning. "Never heard it, but it's got weight. I'm Marcus Cotton." He clasped Olbap's hand, his grip firm.
Olbap's smile was sharp, his pipe glowing in the firelight. "Pleasure's mine, Marcus Cotton. How about we deal with this lunatic, then I'll tell you my offer?" He extended his hand again, a pact forged in the heat of danger.
Marcus's eyes gleamed, and he shook it without hesitation, sealing the truce to face their common foe.
End of the chapter.