Loguetown.
Musashi Noodle House.
The front door burst open with a loud bang as a group of punks with garishly dyed hair and ridiculous pompadours swaggered in.
"Hey, hey, hey~~~ Boss, time to pay up."
"Barto Club is here. Everyone sit real quiet and behave."
They kicked chairs aside, dropped themselves heavily at the tables, and slapped the wood so hard it rattled.
The middle-aged owner, a man with a white headband tied around his forehead, hurriedly lifted the curtain and came out. His hands rubbed nervously against the apron at his waist as he bowed with a forced smile.
"Mr. Arman, what brings you here today?"
"Hah?"
The leader slammed his palm on the table and leaned forward, spit flying.
"What do you think I'm here for? I'm here to collect. You borrowed money. You pay it back. Or are you planning to default?"
The owner—Mark—went pale. He waved his hands quickly, bowing even lower.
"N-No, of course not. Mr. Arman, I already paid back the loan in full…"
"What nonsense are you mumbling?"
Arman grinned slyly and slapped a sheet of paper onto the table.
"Take a good look."
"Yes, this is the note for one million Berries. I borrowed it when the shop was in trouble, but I've already repaid it."
"Check the interest clause."
"Right, ten percent interest, I already—"
Mark froze.
His eyes went wide.
Seeing his expression, Arman burst into laughter.
"Hahaha! You see it now, don't you? It's clearly written right there—ten percent per day. Black and white. What you've paid so far doesn't even cover the interest."
He tapped the paper.
"You still owe two million. It's overdue. You pay all of it, today."
"H-How can you twist it like this? You clearly said a year's interest when we agreed—"
"You trying to stiff us?"
Arman roared.
His underlings immediately stood up, flipping chairs and kicking over tables.
"N-no! Please…"
Mark's hands went ice-cold. His body trembled with suppressed rage, but he swallowed it back.
"Please, give me more time. I really can't gather that much money in one day…"
"No way. Today is the deadline. Either you pay the two million—" Arman smiled meaningfully. "Or…"
"I heard your daughter is quite the beauty. You can always pay with her instead."
"NO!"
Mark's face collapsed.
Now he understood. They'd had their eye on his daughter from the start.
Even if he somehow scraped together two million, they'd just find another excuse to come back.
Wasn't that exactly what happened to the grocery shop owner down the street?
Dragged under by debt.
Family torn apart.
Daughter sold into a brothel.
Wife hanging from a noose.
"I beg you, please. Show some mercy. Let my daughter go. Please… please."
He dropped to his knees and banged his head on the floor—
once, twice, again and again until blood appeared on his forehead.
He clung to Arman's leg, tears and snot flowing.
Arman kicked him away with a look of disgust and wiped his pants as if he'd stepped in something filthy.
"Don't say I never gave you a chance. I'll be back tomorrow. Either have the two million ready—or hand over your daughter. Your choice."
He delivered the ultimatum, then glanced at his excited underlings and waved lazily.
"Let's go, boys. Next stop."
"Got it, boss!"
Laughing and jeering, the punks kicked their way through more tables and chairs as they left.
Mark watched them go, fists clenched so tight his knuckles went white.
He couldn't possibly gather two million in a single day.
Handing over his daughter was out of the question.
If Dina fell into their hands…
He didn't even dare picture it.
The grocery shop owner's daughter was still wandering the red-light district in the next quarter—eyes empty, soul gone, body just an automaton for men to use.
Customers hurried out, afraid to get involved.
Mark didn't even try to chase them for payment.
He slumped to the floor, spirit shattered.
An empty shell.
…
Meanwhile, the punks were in excellent spirits.
"Hahaha, Boss Arman always gets it done. I've had my eye on that girl for a while. When you're done with her, boss, you gonna let us have a turn?"
"Of course. When have I ever shortchanged my boys?"
"Heheh, I just hope tonight comes fast…"
Hands in their pockets, they swaggered down the middle of the street, forcing pedestrians to scatter into doorways. No one dared even look them in the eye.
"Heh, Boss Barto's idea was genius. Ever since we spread those recordings of pirates being skewered and tortured, nobody's had the guts to go against us."
"That's right. This is Loguetown. Once the sun goes down, this town belongs to us."
"Hahahaha!"
Joking and laughing, the group turned into a dim alley.
Suddenly, one of the lackeys yelped.
"Where's Browning and Martin?"
"What the hell are you on about? They were just—"
Arman turned around and swept his gaze over the group in the flickering light—
His pupils shrank.
It wasn't just Browning and Martin.
Of the dozen men he'd brought, five were gone.
"Maybe they went to take a piss?"
"Or maybe they spotted some hottie and couldn't keep their legs from following, eh?"
The others still didn't take it seriously; a few snickered.
But Arman's face only grew darker.
"Idiots. You go take a piss and don't say a word? Five of them see a beauty and all forget about their boss?"
He smacked the closest one on the back of the head.
Only then did the rest start to sober up.
"Could it be… some rival gang?"
One of them tried to show initiative—
and got another smack for his trouble.
"Use your pig brain for once. What gang would dare make a move on us on our own turf?"
"Then… pirates?"
Another voice piped up—and took a slap right afterward.
"That… is actually possible," Arman muttered. "Maybe some pirate saw that video of us grilling and torturing their kind and came looking for payback."
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