The forest burned like a hellish funeral, flames roaring upwards in violent spirals, devouring ancient pines and turning the snow into hissing steam. The air was thick with smoke and the stench of scorched wood, the ground a treacherous mix of ash and slush. Olbap moved with lethal precision, his white suit flapping as he darted between trees, eyes narrowed against the blinding heat. Beside him, Marcus Cotton—purple coat singed, glasses fogged—frantically mixed chemicals in a vial, his hands trembling not from fear, but from the electric rush of creation under fire.
"That lunatic won't stop!" Marcus shouted, coughing as a wave of superheated air slammed into them. His voice cracked with frustration, but his eyes burned with focus.
"He's enjoying it," Olbap replied, his tone ice-calm despite the inferno. He fired three rapid shots—bang! bang! bang!—the bullets glowing red before melting mid-air, swallowed by a wall of flame. Popeye's brutal training had forged him for moments like this: chaos was just another battlefield.
High above, on the sagging roof of a half-collapsed cabin, Wibbles stood like a drunken god of destruction. His flamethrower—crude, patched with rust and tape—hummed with unholy pressure, its nozzle glowing cherry-red. "GA GA GA! BU BU BU!" he roared, voice slurred and manic. "Look at it dance! The fire sings for me!" Another torrent erupted, a liquid sun that scorched the earth and turned snow into instant fog.
Olbap and Marcus dove behind a fallen log, the wood groaning as flames licked its surface. Embers rained like hellfire, sizzling against their coats. Marcus unbuckled his leather belt with frantic speed, pulling three glass vials from its pouches—each glowing faintly with different hues. "I need three seconds to finish this," he hissed, his fingers dancing over stoppers and powders. "Can you buy me time?"
Olbap's lips curled into a wolfish grin. "Four it is." He peeked over the log. Wibbles was torching everything in sight—if this kept up, Marines would swarm the island within the hour, drawn by the smoke plume visible for miles. To his left, in the flickering shadows between burning trees, Odoho moved like a phantom, seeking an angle. The old man's area attacks were wild, unpredictable, but Olbap trusted his shadow to find the gap.
"Odoho," he called, voice low but sharp, "I'll keep his eyes on me. You know the play. Don't make me explain to Popeye how I got barbecued." A dark chuckle escaped him as he vaulted from cover, firing twice more—bang! bang!—drawing Wibbles' full attention.
The old man's eyes lit up like kindling. "GA GA GA! The little rat runs!" He swung the flamethrower with drunken glee, a roaring river of fire chasing Olbap through the trees. "My baby here burned three pirate ships in one day! You'll tire, boy! You'll crisp!"
Olbap sprinted, boots crunching through snow and ash, using every boulder, trunk, and dip in the terrain as cover. He silently thanked the Roshwan merchant who'd sold them the heavy overcoats—their thick bear-fur lining had saved his skin during Wibbles' opening ambush. The heat was brutal, singeing his hair, but he stayed ahead, a blur of black and fury.
"Old man!" he shouted, ducking a blast that turned a pine into a torch. "You really think the Marines won't come for this? You're lighting up half the island!"
"Marines? Hic!" Wibbles bellowed, swigging from his jug mid-spray. "They love me! I'm cleaning up their trash! That swindler's worth 8 million alive—and you? Hic! You're just kindling!" Another blast roared past, close enough to blister Olbap's cheek.
Olbap's mind raced. He'd never seen corrupt marines before: officers who would turn a blind eye if the bounty was collected and he did the job for them. They were like the cops in his old life—not all of them were good. Hiding behind titles to avoid doing his job and earn more than everyone else, he caught his breath; the sweat froze on his forehead. This angle… perfect. Odoho wouldn't fail.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Three shots cracked through the chaos, precise and lethal. Olbap peered out—Wibbles staggered, blood blooming on his shoulder and thigh. The flamethrower sputtered, then fell silent as the old man dove behind a burning stump, clutching his jug like a lifeline. The forest exhaled. Steam and smoke thickened, snow hissing into ash, and for a moment, silence reigned—broken only by the crackle of dying flames and Wibbles' ragged breathing.
Marcus rose slowly, hands still trembling, but his eyes gleamed with predatory curiosity. He stared at Wibbles like a biologist dissecting a new species. Olbap stepped forward, flintlock loose in his hand, approaching with the calm of a man who'd already won.
"What do you have planned?" Olbap asked in a low, threatening voice, his amethyst eyes piercing the old man's bloodshot gaze.
Wibbles hacked a laugh, then spat—a thick stream of clear liquid that reeked of high-proof alcohol. It hit the snow and sizzled. Marcus froze. His mind, trained to see patterns in chaos, clicked into overdrive.
He moved fast—kicking the flamethrower away, yanking the fuel hose free. At its end: a crude metal mask, stained with residue. Marcus's eyes widened. He shook his head, a grin of pure admiration splitting his face.
"You clever old bastard," he whispered, voice trembling with excitement. "This isn't fuel. It's you." He turned to Olbap, eyes blazing. "Olbap—listen. This isn't just alcohol. It's a cocktail—high-proof spirits, mixed in his gut. And that hose? Connected to a mask he wore inside his coat. He's not burning fuel. He's burning what alchohol he have inside him."
Olbap's brow furrowed. Odoho materialized beside him, silent as death, his dark eyes narrowed.
Marcus continued, voice rising with fervor: "He's a Devil Fruit user. Paramecia type. I'd bet my lab his power turns his body into a living distillery—fermentation, storage, ignition. That's why no tank on the flamethrower. That's why he drinks constantly. He's refueling."
Olbap's pipe paused mid-air. Devil Fruit. He'd seen four users years ago, all animalistic, snarling beasts with claws and fangs. This drunk? No horns, no fur, no tail. "I've only seen people that looks like animals," he said slowly. "Animal forms. This guy's just… a drunk."
Marcus laughed, a sharp, delighted sound. "That's the beauty! Devil Fruits come in three classes." He raised a finger for each, pacing like a professor in a burning lecture hall:
Zoan: Animal transformation. What you saw. Logia: Elemental body fire, lightning. Paramecia: Anything else. Body modification. Object control. Or…" He gestured at Wibbles. "Internal brewery."
Odoho spoke for the first time, voice a whisper: "So… he is the fuel? Or can he make it?"
Marcus shook his head. "He's the tank. If he could generate it, why the flamethrower? Why not just puke it on us? No—this is storage. He drinks, ferments, stores, ignites. A walking still." His grin was feral. "Brilliant."
Olbap's mind spun. A power like that in the wrong hands was a weapon. In his hands? A goldmine. I need to learn more about these fruits. If one of ours ate one… He filed it away, pipe clenched tight.
Wibbles, blood pooling beneath him, glared up with drunken defiance. "GA GA GA! BU BU BU! You brats think you've won? They paid me ten million to bring that swindler in alive! I'll burn this whole island before I—" His hand twitched toward the flamethrower.
Marcus moved like lightning. A single, precise strike to the temple—crack!—and Wibbles slumped, unconscious, jug rolling into the snow. "Sleep tight, old man," Marcus muttered. "You've got years left to rot in a cell."
Olbap watched, impressed. Marcus wasn't just smart—he was ruthless. The perfect blend of brain and blade. "What's the plan?" he asked.
Marcus wiped his hands in the snow, standing. "We move. This fire's a beacon—Marines will be here soon. You said you had a deal for me. We talk far from here." Without waiting, he hoisted Wibbles' limp body over one shoulder, grabbed the flamethrower with the other, and started walking. Olbap and Odoho followed, the snow crunching under their boots, the forest's dying glow fading behind them.
They trekked for nearly an hour, the blizzard swallowing the fire's light. The cold was brutal, but it worked in their favor—snow smothered the flames, erasing their trail. By the time Marine patrols arrived, drawn by smoke and rumor, the trio was long gone.
They reached a second cabin, smaller, half-buried in a snowdrift near the island's eastern shore. Far from the forest, far from prying eyes. The door creaked open to reveal a spartan interior: a wood stove, a table, a single cot. The air smelled of pine resin and old chemicals—Marcus's scent. He dumped Wibbles in a corner, binding his wrists and ankles with alchemical wire that hissed faintly, then gagged him to prevent biting. Satisfied, he sat across from Olbap at the table, exhaling deeply.
"Alright," Marcus said, pushing up his glasses. "Time to talk. Sorry for the delay."
Olbap lit his pipe, the flame briefly illuminating his sharp features. "No apologies needed. Watching you work was… educational." He exhaled a plume of sweet smoke, eyes locked on Marcus. "You're exactly what I've been looking for."
Marcus leaned forward, intrigued. "Flattering. But why me? You didn't track me across the South Blue for my charming personality."
Olbap reached into his inner suit pocket. After a moment, he tossed a small leather pouch onto the table. It landed with a soft thump, a faint red dust visible through the seams. Odoho's eyes narrowed—he knew that powder. Marcus caught it, curiosity sparking.
"Gloves and mask," Olbap warned, voice low. "That's highly addictive. I don't want you sampling the merchandise."
Marcus raised an eyebrow but complied, rising to a cabinet stocked with lab gear. He donned thick gloves and a filtered mask, then carefully opened the pouch. The red powder gleamed like crushed rubies. "The creator called it Red Tide," Olbap said. "Ring any bells?"
Marcus's eyes widened behind his glasses. "Red Tide? I've heard whispers. A new drug—hits like a tsunami, they say. Addictive as hell. You're the source?"
Olbap nodded. "The creator's dead. I have the formula. But it's complex—unstable, inefficient. I need someone who can master it. That's you, Marcus. Join the Rabocse Family. Be my Red Tide alchemist."
Marcus set the pouch down carefully, mind racing. "And what do I get? I don't make drugs. I make art. Scams. Inventions. This…" He gestured at the powder. "This is crude compared to my work."
Olbap leaned in, voice like steel wrapped in velvet. "I offer:
A state-of-the-art laboratory—anything you need. Unlimited funding—Berries, rare ingredients, whatever. Full security—my family protects its own. And in your spare time? Anything. Build your scams. Invent your miracles. I don't care—as long as Red Tide flows."
Marcus was silent, weighing. The offer was tempting—too tempting. "Joining you means painting a target on my back. Bigger than now. Is it worth it?"
Olbap said nothing. He didn't need to. Odoho—forgotten by Marcus, thanks to his gift—stood like a statue in the shadows, hand on his gun. One wrong move, and Marcus would be dead before he blinked.
Finally, Marcus met Olbap's gaze, eyes cold and calculating. "I'll accept. But one condition: I take orders only from you. If anyone—anyone—interferes with my work, or I don't like how things are run, I walk out. No questions. No hunt. Deal?"
Olbap extended his hand, a slow smile spreading. "Deal."
They shook—firm, deliberate, the crackle of the stove the only sound. The pact was sealed in fire and snow.
"Welcome to the Rabocse Family, Marcus Cotton."
End of the chapter.