He closed the journal and pushed the chair back, standing up. He'd read enough for one night. His stomach rumbled, reminding him of Mai's offer of dinner. "Time to eat, Kuro."
The cat simply blinked at him.
Downstairs, the common room was a little livelier. A few more patrons had trickled in, their rough voices mingling with the clatter of tankards and the low thrum of a sea shanty being sung off-key in the corner. The fishermen were still at their table, now joined by a couple of weathered sailors. Mai was behind the bar, serving a stew that smelled surprisingly good, rich with spices and seafood.
Arima took a seat at an empty table near the wall, a habit from his old life that always gave him a clear view of both the entrance and the rest of the room. Kuro leapt silently from his shoulder and curled up on the floor beside his chair, a small, black shadow that most of the patrons seemed to ignore.
Mai brought him a bowl of the stew and a hunk of bread. "Here you go," she said, her expression unreadable. "It's clam chowder. Best on the island."
Arima nodded his thanks. The stew was good, hot and filling. As he ate, he let his new, passive sense of awareness wash over the room. The fishermen were tired, their auras a dull grey of exhaustion and cheap alcohol. The sailors were a bit sharper, their thoughts tinged with the nervous energy of men about to ship out. Then his attention snagged on a figure sitting alone in the darkest corner of the room.
The man was nursing a drink, but he wasn't drinking it. His posture was too tense, too coiled. His aura wasn't tired or nervous. It was sharp, focused, and radiated a low, predatory hum that was distinctly different from the boisterous pirates he'd fought earlier. This was a professional. The kind of man who didn't start fights, he finished them.
Arima watched him, chewing slowly. The man's clothes were simple and nondescript, but well-made and practical. He had a lean, wiry build, and his hands, resting on the table, were calloused and scarred. There was a sword at his hip, but it wasn't the flashy cutlass most pirates favoured. It was a simple, straight-bladed katana, the kind of weapon a serious duelist would carry. The hilt was plain, wrapped in a dark, weathered cord.
The man suddenly looked up, his eyes cutting through the dim light and locking directly with Arima's. For a split second, Arima felt a prickle of something, a sharp, focused point of pressure aimed right at him. It was different from the cat's deep ocean; this was a needle point, testing, probing. The man's gaze flickered down to the Sword of Triton at Arima's hip, then back to his face. A flicker of recognition, or perhaps surprise, crossed the man's features before his expression returned to its usual neutral mask. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, then looked back down at his drink.
Arima finished his stew in silence, his mind working. He recognised that look. It was the same look Gunpei had given him when he saw the sword. A look of professional curiosity, mixed with a hint of caution. This man knew what he was looking at. Or at least, he knew it was something out of the ordinary.
Arima's respect for the man in the corner ticked up another notch. He wasn't just a swordsman; he was one of the enlightened few, a wielder of this world's true power. This was the kind of knowledge he needed.
He pushed his empty bowl away and stood up. Kuro stirred at his feet, looking up at him. Instead of heading for the stairs, Arima walked deliberately toward the corner table. The man didn't look up as he approached, but Arima could feel his focus sharpen, his entire being coiling like a spring.
Arima stopped a few feet from the table. "That seat taken?" he asked, his voice low and even.
The man finally lifted his head, his eyes a cool, analytical grey. They were the kind of eyes that missed nothing. He gestured to the empty chair opposite him with a slight tilt of his head. "It is now."
Arima sat down, placing his hands flat on the table. The Sword of Triton felt heavy at his hip, a silent promise of violence. "You looked like you might have an interesting story."
The man's lips curved into a thin, humourless smile. "Everyone has a story. Few of them are worth telling." His gaze dropped to Arima's sword again. "That thing, on the other hand... that might have a few chapters worth listening to."
"A family heirloom," Arima repeated the lie, testing the waters.
The man let out a short, quiet breath that might have been a laugh. "Family heirlooms don't hum with that kind of spite. And they don't make the hairs on a man's arms stand up from across the room. I'm Takeshi. Just a humble swordsman, passing through."
"Arima Koujiro," he replied, leaving out the Yakuza connection. It was a different life, a different world. "And this humble swordsman wouldn't happen to know where a man could get a decent ship around here, would he?"
Takeshi's eyes narrowed slightly. "A ship is a big investment. And a big responsibility. Most men who ask for one are either running from something, or running toward a fool's death. Which are you?"
"Maybe both," Arima admitted, a flicker of genuine candour in his voice. "I'm new to these waters. I'm looking to make a name for myself. See what's out there." He leaned forward slightly. "You mentioned a hum. What do you know about it?"
Takeshi took a slow sip of his drink, setting the glass down with deliberate care. "I know that there are forces in this world beyond the swing of a blade. Haki. Devil Fruits. Ancient, forgotten things." He paused, his gaze intense. "Your sword feels like the last one. A thing that doesn't belong. It's a dangerous thing to carry, friend. It paints a target on your back for people who hunt for such curiosities."
"People like the World Government?" Arima probed, remembering the captain's journal.
A flicker of something, surprise or maybe caution, crossed Takeshi's face. "You know more than you let on. Yes. People like them. And worse. The kind of men who would see the world burn just to study the ashes." He fell silent for a moment, studying Arima. "You said you want a ship. What for? The Grand Line is not a place for a tourist."
"I'm not a tourist," Arima stated flatly. The words of the dead captain echoed in his mind. I wonder, sometimes, if I am her master, or if I am simply the most recent rider, destined to be consumed. He met Takeshi's gaze. "I have a debt to settle. An old one. And I need a ship to find the man who owes it."
It was a half-truth, but it felt real enough. The debt was to himself. The thrill he'd been denied. The man who'd denied him was long dead, but the principle remained.
Takeshi considered this for a long moment, the ambient noise of the tavern fading into the background. "There's a small shipyard on the west side of the island," he finally said. "Run by a grizzled old coot named Silas. He's got a few decent vessels for sale, nothing too fancy. But they're sturdy. He'll sell to anyone with the coin, and he doesn't ask questions."
He stood up and placed a few coins on the table. "My advice is free, but my time is not. Be careful with that sword, Arima Koujiro. Some treasures are better left lost." With that, he turned and walked out of the tavern, disappearing into the night.
Arima sat for a while longer, finishing his drink. He watched the sailors in the corner, their voices growing louder as they drank. He could feel their loose, rowdy emotions, a stark contrast to Takeshi's tightly coiled focus. The world was a different place when you could see the unseen strings.
Back in the room, he locked the door and sat on the bed, Kuro jumping up to join him.
"More like a walking encyclopedia with a sword," Arima muttered, pulling out the remaining money. 300,000 left. Barely enough for a "sturdy" ship, let alone the crew and supplies to run it. He needed a bigger score.
"Wait, since we're talking about that guy. As far as I can remember, since I got here, he's the only Japanese looking person on this island."
"A land of samurai..." The words ignited a spark in Arima's chest. A collector's dream. A place of real, living swordsmen, not the nostalgic stories of the Yakuza. He added it to a mental list of destinations that was growing longer by the hour.
He spent the rest of the night practising, not with the Sword of Triton, but with the new sense Takeshi had inadvertently helped him identify. He would close his eyes and focus, trying to differentiate between the faint life force of the wood grain in the door and the deeper, more complex energy of the person walking down the street outside. It was like learning to hear a specific instrument in a chaotic orchestra. Difficult, but fascinating.
Whilst thinking about getting a ship, the Sword of Triton vibrated for a second, then energy surged from it towards his head. Before he could react, a window popped up in his mind.
[Ship Upgrade Available: Queen Anne's Revenge - 60%]
[Current State: Severely Damaged, Reef-bound]
[Upgrade Path 1: Basic Repairs]
- Cost: 2,000,000 Berry
- Description: Restore structural integrity. Patch hull breaches, repair masts, make seaworthy. Requires additional resources and a competent crew.
- Additional Materials Required: 500 units of high-quality lumber, 200 units of canvas, 100 units of tar.
[Upgrade Path 2: Full Restoration]
- Cost: N/A
- Description: Restore to former glory and beyond. Reinforce the hull with ancient techniques, and integrate a mystical sail-weave. Ship's resilience and speed significantly enhanced. Masterfully crafted.
- Additional Materials Required: 1,000 units of Adam Wood, 500 units of special canvas, 300 units of refined tar, and one shipwright with "incredible" skill.
Arima stared at the ethereal menu, his mind reeling. The Queen Anne's Revenge. The name clicked into place. The "Queen's... something" on the nameplate. It wasn't the Queen's Dawn or the Queen's Vessel. It was this. The ship of the captain he'd been reading about. And the system... the system was offering him a chance to own it. To restore it.
"Incredible," Arima breathed, his heart pounding with a ferocity that had nothing to do with fear. This was it. This was the jackpot. The ship of a powerful captain, a vessel that could be commanded by his will. He looked at the requirements. Basic Repairs. Two million Berry. He had three hundred thousand. He was short by a factor of seven. The materials would cost even more. And the Full Restoration... Adam Wood. The name was unfamiliar, but the "rare" designation and the blank cost screamed astronomical.
Sysara noted.
A cold knot of reality began to form in his gut. He was broke. Worse, he was in debt to the tune of millions. The thrill of discovery was immediately replaced by the familiar, grinding pressure of acquisition. It was a feeling he understood well from his Yakuza days: the gap between what you wanted and what you could afford.
"Where do I get this kind of money?" he muttered, running a hand through his hair. "This island's a backwater. The biggest bounty I saw was thirty million."
Arima's eyes widened. He'd been so focused on the shipwreck, he'd forgotten about the men's initial conversation. They weren't just random thugs; they were treasure hunters with a specific target.
"This 'Serpent's Maw'... what is it?"
Arima stood up, a familiar fire returning to his eyes. This was what he understood. A lead. A target. A calculated risk. "Where is it?"
The map in his mind sharpened, showing a jagged coastline on the island's southern tip. The cave's entrance was marked, nearly invisible unless you knew what to look for.
"Good," Arima grunted, a predatory smile spreading across his face. He checked the Sword of Triton at his hip, the weight a comforting reassurance. He then looked down at the cat, who was now meticulously cleaning a paw. "Stay here. Don't get into any trouble."
Arima slipped out of the inn, the cool night air a welcome shock to his system. He moved through the now-quiet streets, his steps silent and practised. The Observation Haki was a constant, low-level hum at the edge of his perception, painting the town in shades of life. A snoozing dock guard was a dull ember. A pair of drunken men stumbling down an alley were fuzzy, chaotic sparks. It was like having a second pair of eyes, ones that saw the world not in light, but in intent.
The path to the southern coast led him out of the town and into a rugged, windswept landscape of rocky hills and stunted trees. The moon was high and bright, casting long, skeletal shadows that danced across the ground. He kept to the high ground, scanning the terrain below, the system's map overlaying perfectly with the real world. He was no longer a lost man in a strange land; he was a predator moving through a defined territory with a clear objective.
As he neared the coast, he slowed his pace, extending the range of his Haki. The roar of the waves grew louder, a constant, booming crash against the cliffs. He could feel the raw, untamed power of the ocean, a vast, dark presence stretching out to the horizon. And then, he felt something else. A cluster of faint, distinct auras, clustered near the water's edge. They were sharp, alert, and definitely not sleeping.
Arima found a concealed vantage point behind a cluster of boulders and peered down. Below him was a narrow, treacherous path that snaked down the cliff face to a small, rocky beach. At the base of the cliff was a dark, gaping hole in the rock face, partially obscured by the churning sea spray. The Serpent's Maw. Standing guard at the entrance were four men, similar in appearance to the ones he'd fought on the beach. They were dressed in rough, mismatched clothing, armed with rusty cutlasses and a couple of antiquated pistols. They kept glancing nervously at the moon, then at the dark water, their conversation lost to the wind.
He could have taken them. A silent descent, a few swift strikes, and the entrance would be his. But that felt too easy, too brutish. He was a Yakuza officer, not a common thug. Strategy was his trade. He observed the cave entrance, the timing of the waves, the patrols of the guards. He was a predator, and patience was the sharpest tool in his arsenal. He waited, watching the rhythm of the sea and the men, looking for a weakness, an opportunity.
He noticed it in the way the largest guard kept glancing back toward a narrow fissure in the cliff wall, about twenty meters from the cave entrance. It was almost invisible, a mere crack in the rock, but it was there. And every few minutes, the guard would stare at it, as if expecting something to emerge.
Making his decision, he began a slow, careful retreat from the overlook, moving silently back into the hills. He circled around, tracing the path of the fissure from above. The terrain was even more treacherous here, loose scree and sharp rocks threatening to give way with every step. He moved with a practised economy of motion, a ghost in the moonlight. After a gruelling twenty minutes of climbing and crawling, he found it. The fissure opened into a narrow, horizontal tunnel, just wide enough for a man to shimmy through. It was dark, smelling of damp earth and salt, but it was a way in.
He squeezed into the tunnel, the rough stone scraping against his back. It was a tight fit, and for a moment, a flicker of claustrophobia tried to take hold. He pushed it down, focusing on the goal. He inched forward, the darkness absolute, the only sound the scraping of his clothes against the rock and the muffled roar of the ocean outside. Then, a new sound reached him. Faint voices. The echoes of the guards' conversation, bouncing off the walls.
"The tide's coming in. They'll be here soon," one voice said, nervously.
"Relax. The boss said they'd be here with the equipment at moonset. We just have to hold the fort 'til then," another replied, trying for bravado and failing.
Moonset. That gave him a timeline. He continued worming his way through the tunnel, the voices growing clearer. He could see a faint light ahead. The tunnel opened into a small, dark cavity, and through a crack in the rock, he could see into the main chamber of the cave. It was larger than he expected, a natural cavern with a high ceiling that dripped with moisture. The floor was a mix of sand and rock, and in the centre, a small, natural pool of seawater reflected the moonlight filtering in from the main entrance.
The four guards were gathered near the pool, their backs mostly to him. They were still anxious, their auras a jagged mess of nerves. But they were the only ones here. The cache was unguarded beyond this paltry force. He could drop down, end it in seconds, and claim the prize. But he waited. The mention of 'equipment' and 'the boss' bothered him. He needed information.
He watched them for a few more minutes, then made his move. He didn't drop down. He reached out with his Haki, a focused tendril of will, and nudged a loose rock on the far side of the chamber. It clattered down the cliff face, the sound loud in the relative quiet of the cave.
"What was that?" one of the guards yelped, spinning around.
"Go check it out," the largest one ordered, pointing a shaky finger. "You and you."
Two of the men reluctantly moved toward the cave entrance, their pistols drawn, peering out into the night. That was the opening he needed. He moved through the crack in the rock, silent as a shadow, and dropped to the floor behind the remaining two guards. They didn't even hear him land.
The first guard died without a sound. Arima's arm wrapped around his throat, cutting off his air and crushing his larynx in one smooth, practised motion. He lowered the body to the ground as the second guard turned, a question on his lips that was silenced by the point of Arima's sword punching through his eye socket. He was dead before he hit the sand.
Arima melted back into the shadows just as the other two guards returned. "Nothing out there," one of them reported, then stopped short. "Hey... where's Marco and Jiro?"
The large guard's eyes widened as he saw the bodies on the sand. "Ambush!" he roared, fumbling for his pistol.
It was too late. The other guard was the one who caught the full force of Arima's next attack. He charged out of the darkness, the Sword of Triton a blur of silver in the dim light. The guard's cutlass was barely out of its scabbard before the mythical blade sheared through his chest, carving him open from shoulder to hip. He collapsed in a heap, blood staining the dark sand black.
The last guard, the leader, finally got his pistol raised. He fired wildly, the bullet ricocheting off the cave wall with a deafening whang. Arima didn't flinch. He closed the distance in two long strides, the gun now useless. He swatted the man's arm aside, the pistol flying from his grasp, and slammed the pommel of his sword into the man's temple. The guard crumpled like a ragdoll, unconscious but not dead. Arima knelt, pressing the tip of his blade against the man's throat.
"Talk," he said, his voice a low growl that was swallowed by the cave's acoustics. "Who is your boss? What equipment?"
The man's eyes were wide with terror, the smell of urine filling the air as he lost control of his bladder. "Please! Don't kill me! It's... it's 'Gills' Malone! He runs the docks! He's got... he's got diving gear! The cave floods with high tide! There's a... a lower chamber!"
Arima pressed the blade a fraction deeper, a bead of blood welling up. "How much is he paying you?"
"F-fifty thousand! Each! Just to watch the entrance until he got here!"
Fifty thousand. Pocket change. The boss, Gills Malone, was the real prize. He was the one with the information and, more importantly, the equipment to access the main cache. "When is he coming?"
"Soon! Any minute! The tide's at its peak! He'll be here!" the guard babbled, tears and snot streaming down his face.
Arima considered it. He could wait, ambush this Gills Malone and his men, take the equipment, and explore the flooded chamber himself. Or he could take what was here and leave. But the mention of a lower chamber, protected by a tidal trap, reeked of Teach's paranoid genius. That's where the real loot would be.
"Where will they land?" Arima demanded.
"A small cove! Just east! Hidden by the rocks! They've got a boat!" the guard stammered, pointing a trembling finger toward the main cave entrance.
It was a choice. A calculated risk. He could let this snivelling worm live and risk him raising an alarm, or kill him and lose a potential, if unreliable, source of information. He chose a third option. He brought the pommel of the Sword of Triton down on the man's head again, harder this time. The guard's eyes rolled back, and he slumped into unconsciousness, joining his deceased comrades on the sand.
Arima quickly searched the bodies. Another few thousand Berry in total, some cheap jewellery, and a handful of poorly maintained firearms. He tucked it all away and then turned his attention to the cave itself. He moved cautiously, the Sword of Triton leading the way. The cave was just a cavern, damp and unremarkable. The only feature of interest was the pool of seawater in the centre. He knelt at its edge, the water clear and surprisingly still. He could feel a faint, cool draft coming from it.
He focused, letting the Observation Haki wash over the pool. He could sense the water, the stone, but deeper down, there was a void. A space. A passage. The guard was telling the truth. He checked the moon's position. The tide had turned. The water level in the pool was already starting to recede, a slow, inexorable trickle back toward the sea. He had a window.
Sysara's thought echoed his own assessment.
"I'll take my chances," Arima muttered, taking a deep breath. He stripped off his outer jacket and tied it, along with the scabbarded Sword of Triton, securely to his back. The water was shockingly cold as he slipped in, the initial chill stealing his breath. He submerged himself, the world dissolving into a muffled, blue-green silence. He opened his eyes, the salt stinging, and saw it. A dark, rectangular opening in the floor of the pool, a perfect, man-made doorway leading down into the blackness.
He kicked downward, following the passage. It was a tight, stone-lined shaft, clearly constructed, not a natural formation. The pressure built in his ears as he descended. He'd been a strong swimmer in his old life, but this was different. He pushed forward, his lungs beginning to burn, a primal panic starting to prickle at the edges of his resolve. He forced it down, focusing on the Haki, on the sense of the space ahead. The passage levelled out, then began to slope upwards. He could see a faint, shimmering light above him, the surface of another body of water. He kicked harder, his lungs screaming for air, and broke the surface with a desperate gasp.
He was in another chamber, this one smaller, drier, and completely enclosed. A single, guttering lantern cast a dancing, orange glow across the scene. The light reflected off a pile of wooden crates and a handful of large, sea-worn chests stacked against one wall. This was it. Teach's fallback. He pulled himself out of the water onto a stone ledge, dripping onto the dusty floor.
He approached the chests, his movements slow and deliberate. There were no traps that he could see, no magical alarms that his Haki could detect. The locks on the chests were heavy and rusty, but they were no match for the strength he now possessed. He gripped the hasp of the first one and wrenched. The metal groaned, then snapped with a loud crack that echoed in the small chamber.
He lifted the lid. The scent of old paper and preserved spices wafted out. Inside were not mountains of gold, but carefully wrapped logs of a rare, dark wood, stacks of sealed vellum maps, and several lead-lined boxes. He opened one of the boxes. Inside, nestled in velvet lining, were dozens of pristine, perfectly preserved Sea Prism Stones, their milky white surfaces seeming to absorb the lantern light. He had no idea what they were, but the system provided a basic identification.
[Item: Sea Prism Stone (x24)]
Description: A substance said to be as hard as diamond. Emits the energy of the sea, making it a potent weakness for Devil Fruit users. Used by the Marines for restraints and ship hull reinforcement.
Estimated Value: 72,000,000,000 Berry.
Arima's breath caught in his throat. Seventy two billion for a single box of these strange rocks. There were five boxes. Three hundred and sixty billion Berry, right here. He felt a dizzying surge of elation. This was more than enough. He could afford the repairs to the Queen Anne's Revenge. He could buy a crew, supplies, anything he wanted.
He opened the other chests. One was filled with more Berry than he had ever seen, stacks of paper notes and pouches of high-denomination coins that amounted to a tidy fifteen million. Another contained weapons, but not the rusty junk the island's pirates carried. These were masterworks. A pair of flintlock pistols with silver inlay and exquisitely balanced mechanics. A brace of throwing knives whose edges seemed to drink the light. And in the center, a crossbow. It was a heavy, brutal-looking weapon made of dark, polished wood and steel. A repeating crossbow, with a magazine that looked like it could hold a dozen bolts. It was a weapon of pure, mechanical lethality, a design that was both archaic and terrifyingly advanced. He picked it up, the weight a perfect balance in his hands. A masterwork.
[Item: Masterwork Repeating Crossbow]
Description: A rare and complex weapon capable of firing twelve bolts before needing to be reloaded. Designed for rapid, sustained firepower. In pristine condition.
Estimated Value: 1,500,000 Berry.
He was a collector, and this was a piece of art. He slung it over his shoulder, along with a quiver of bolts. He found a leather satchel and loaded the pistols and the Sea Prism Stones into it. The value was astronomical, but the weight was manageable. He left the maps and the rare wood for now; they were valuable, but bulky and less immediately useful. He grabbed the cash. He had to move. The tide wouldn't wait forever, and neither would Gills Malone.
Before he went back outside, Sysara said something in his mind.
Arima blinked, then a slow grin spread across his face. He looked at the heavy satchel of priceless rocks, the crossbow, and the bag of cash. He mentally selected the satchel and the crossbow and focused on the [Deposit] command. They vanished from his hands, reappearing as simple icons in the inventory grid in his mind. The physical weight disappeared. It was a trick he'd seen in games and stories, but feeling it happen, the sudden lightness, was surreal. He slung the now-empty satchel over his shoulder. This changed everything. He wasn't just rich; he was a walking vault.
He took everything valuable from the chamber, then plunged back into the water. The return journey was quicker, driven by the burning need for air. He exploded back into the main cavern, gasping, the cold water a shock to his system. The pool had receded significantly, the entrance to the lower chamber now a dark, gaping maw at the bottom. He pulled himself out, water streaming from his clothes.
That's when he felt it. A shift in the ambient energy of the cave. The faint, nervous hum of the guards he had dispatched was gone, replaced by something else. A new presence, approaching from the main entrance. Not one. Five. Six. And their auras were sharper than the dead men. More disciplined. The boss had arrived.
He didn't have time to get back up the tunnel. He had one way out. The main entrance. He moved to the shadows behind a large stalagmite near the cave wall, the Sword of Triton now in his hand, its grip cold and familiar. He slowed his breathing, calming the adrenaline surge, and focused. The Observation Haki flared to life, painting the incoming force in his mind's eye.
Five men. They moved with a professional's caution, fanning out as they entered the cave, their weapons raised. In the centre was a man who had to be Gills Malone. He was a portly, unimpressive-looking man with a greasy beard and small, piggy eyes, but he carried himself with an air of authority. He wasn't a fighter. He was an organiser. The kind of parasite who profited from the courage of others.
"Find them, you idiots!" Gills squeaked, his voice echoing. "They should be here! Check the tunnel!"
Two of the men moved cautiously toward the passage where Arima had emerged, their pistols held at the ready. The other three, including Gills, started to inspect the bodies near the pool.
"Dead," one of them grunted, kicking the corpse of the guard whose throat Arima had crushed. "Throat's crushed. Clean. Professional."
"The one with the hole in his head... that was a sword thrust," another added. "Whoever did this was fast."
Arima held his position. He was a predator in a den. He had the element of surprise, the terrain, and the high ground. He let them come to him. The two men investigating the tunnel reached a dead end. They were confused, turning back.
"It's a dead end, boss! Nothing there!"
This was the moment. While their attention was divided, he struck. He burst from the shadows, not with a war cry, but with the silent, deadly speed of a striking snake. His target was the nearest guard, the one who had identified the cause of death. The Sword of Triton, an extension of his will, sliced through the air in a horizontal arc, a whisper of death. The guard barely had time to register the motion before the blade severed his head from his shoulders.
Chaos erupted. The remaining men spun around, their eyes widening in shock and fear. Gills Malone let out a high-pitched squeal and scrambled for cover behind a rock formation. The two guards from the tunnel raised their pistols and fired wildly. Arima was already moving. He didn't dodge. He flowed.
He kicked off a rock wall, launching himself over the two guards. In mid-air, he drew one of the flintlock pistols from the inventory with a mere thought. The gun materialised in his free hand, the familiar grip settling into his palm. He landed softly behind them and fired. The shot was deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet tore through the back of one guard's skull, painting the cavern wall red. Before the other guard could turn, Arima reversed the pistol and slammed the heavy butt into the base of his neck. The man crumpled, his spine severed.
Three down. Two to go. The last two hired thugs were more cautious, now that they understood the nature of the threat. They spread out, trying to flank him, their swords held in a high guard. They were better than the cannon fodder from the beach, but they were still a far cry from the disciplined swordsman, Takeshi. He could feel their fear, a bitter tang in the Haki-fueled air, but it was tempered with a desperate resolve.
"Get him! Just get him! He's alone!" Gills shrieked from his hiding spot, a pathetic reminder of the cowardice at the heart of this operation.
Arima ignored the shrieking. He focused on the two swordsmen. He let them come. The one on the left charged, a high overhand swing meant to cleave him in two. Arima parried with the Sword of Triton, the metallic clang sharp and clear. The force of the impact made the other man stumble, his shock evident on his face. He hadn't expected to be stopped so easily. While he was off-balance, Arima kicked him square in the chest. The crunch of breaking ribs was audible as the man flew backwards and slammed into the cave wall, slumping to the ground, his sword clattering uselessly beside him.
The last swordsman, seeing the fight was lost, decided on a different tactic. He turned and bolted, not for the entrance, but for the tunnel leading to the upper passage. He was trying to escape. A foolish mistake. Arima didn't give chase. He simply raised the flintlock pistol he still held and fired. The bullet caught the fleeing man in the back of the knee. He screamed and went down, his leg useless.
Silence descended upon the cavern, broken only by the panicked whimpering of Gills Malone and the gurgling moans of the man with the broken ribs. Arima walked over to the wounded swordsman and dispatched him with a quick, merciful thrust of the Sword of Triton. He then turned his attention to the main prize.
He found Gills Malone cowering behind the rocks, his face pale and slick with sweat. He was a pathetic creature, but he was a creature with connections and, more importantly, assets. "Please," Gills stammered, holding up his hands. "Please, don't kill me! I have money! I can get you more! Anything you want!"
"I have your money," Arima said, his voice flat. He nudged the heavy chest of Berry with his foot. "I also have your men. What I want is information and assets. You run the docks. You have ships. You have connections."
"I do! I do! I can get you a ship! A good one!" Gills babbled, seeing a glimmer of hope.
"I don't want just a ship," Arima said, a cold, calculating glint in his eyes. "I want your operation. The docks, the smuggling routes, the contacts. Everything."
Gills stared at him, his piggy eyes wide with disbelief. "You... you want to take over? But... who are you?"
"I'm the new owner," Arima stated, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He could feel Gills' aura, a swirling vortex of fear, greed, and a desperate will to survive. It was the aura of a cornered rat, and cornered rats were unpredictable.
"It's... it's a good business," Gills stammered, trying to negotiate. "We move goods, avoid the Marines... we make a tidy profit. We could be partners!"
Arima let out a short, harsh laugh. "I don't do partners. I do acquisitions. And I'm acquiring you." He pressed the tip of the Sword of Triton against Gills' throat, the point pricking the skin. "You have two choices. You can work for me, and you might live to enjoy a small percentage of the profits. Or you can die here, in this cave, and I'll take everything anyway."
Gills' resolve, already paper-thin, disintegrated completely. "I'll work for you! I'll work for you! Anything! Just... please, don't kill me!"
Arima lowered the sword, a gesture of dismissal that made Gills flinch. "Good. Now, get up. We're leaving."
He forced the snivelling man to gather the surviving crew members and the chests. They loaded the loot onto a small, sturdy sloop hidden in the cove, the one Gills' men had arrived on. The two remaining thugs, their faces pale with fear, moved with a desperate speed, clearly understanding that their lives depended on their new boss's mood.
Once everything was secured, Arima addressed them. "We sail at dawn. We're taking the ship and the cargo to the west side of the island, to Silas's shipyard." He then looked at Gills, a cold, calculating glint in his eyes. "You and I are going to have a long talk about your entire operation. Every contact, every route, every dirty little secret. If I find out you're holding back, I'll feed you to the sharks."