The Crimson Vulture's corpse was long gone—offloaded to a Marine post under a fake name, bounty claim already processed. No one asked too many questions when the head came wrapped in sea-soaked cloth, eyes wide in fear, neck slit deep and clean.
Now, Eira stood in the heart of a cramped market alley on an island that had no name on most maps. Locals called it "Splinterpoint," a jagged landmass halfway buried in dried coral and rusting wreckage. If you wanted something illegal—guns, powder, devil fruit info, slave chains, or worse—this was where you came.
Eira had her coat drawn close and a long scarf wrapped around her face, only her pale eyes visible beneath the hood. The desert sun had given way to a salt-bitten haze. She moved fast, quiet, cutting between crowds of scoundrels and scavengers with her loot stashed in a hidden back compartment of her satchel.
Gold. So much of it.
Rings. Chains. Earrings. Etched talons dipped in precious metal, stripped from the Crimson Vulture's claws. Even his ridiculous ruby-studded nose ring. Every piece reeked of ego and blood.
It jingled softly as she walked—until she reached the back stall of a half-collapsed warehouse where no one dared speak above a whisper. The trader here was a long-faced woman with solid gold teeth and eyes like poisoned molasses.
Eira dumped the jewelry onto the table without a word.
The woman's jaw went slack. Then she smiled.
"That's either a grave robber's haul or someone's very bad decision. Where'd you get it?"
Eira stared at her. Not blinking.
"…Not my business," the woman said quickly. "You want coin or credit?"
"Half coin. Half contacts."
The woman raised a brow, but nodded. She sorted through the pile, weighing each item with fingers callused from years of theft and trade.
By the end of it, Eira walked away 30 million Berri richer—clean, untraceable— and with the names of two rare metal dealers, one ex-Marine engraver, and a code phrase to get her into a nearby engineer's guild with no questions asked.
But it still wasn't enough.
Not for the weapon she'd been dreaming of.
Not for Frostbite.
She still needed custom alloys, tuning materials, and someone who could forge components that wouldn't melt or warp under high energy compression. Something beyond mass-manufactured black market guns. She needed artistry.
And artistry was expensive.
And rare.
She was headed toward one of those names—the engineer's guild contact—when she heard it: shouting in the alley behind her. Not the usual bark of drunks or hustlers, but fear. Glass shattering. A scream.
Then metal on stone.
Eira froze. Then turned.
Three men in shredded navy jackets had cornered someone in a side alley. Tall, bald, and furious, they were kicking a smaller figure who lay half-curled behind a toppled toolbox, one hand shielding his face.
"I told you I don't make weapons for you bastards!" the smaller man yelled.
"Too bad. You will if you want to keep your spine."
One of the attackers raised a wrench the size of a crowbar.
Then the sound of compressed boots slamming into pavement rang out like thunder.
Eira moved fast. Too fast for any of them to track.
The first man spun, wrench half-raised, but caught her boot straight to the throat. He hit the wall, gagging. The second tried to pull a blade, but Eira was already behind him, elbow slamming into the base of his skull.
The third tried to run.
She whipped her scarf loose and looped it around his neck, pulling him back hard before slamming him to the ground.
Silence returned to the alley in seconds.
The only sound was the shallow breath of the figure behind the toolbox.
Eira crouched down.
He was a young man—maybe a bit older than her—with copper goggles pushed up over shaggy brown hair, grease on his cheek, and one bloodied lip. His clothes were workman's gear, worn and patched but built for heat and sparks.
"...You okay?" she asked.
He blinked at her.
"Was I just rescued by a scarf ninja?"
Eira tilted her head. "Is that what they're calling me now?"
He laughed. Then winced, rubbing his side. "Name's Ingot. I run a forge on the edge of the eastern cliffs. Normally I avoid these streets, but I needed some specialty powder and…" He looked at the unconscious thugs. "Guess they needed a scapegoat."
Eira helped him sit up. "They wanted weapons?"
"Always do. Problem is, I don't make garbage. If you want cheap and dirty, go to the Black Iron Syndicate. If you want something that won't explode in your face after three shots… come to me."
She stood slowly, wiping her hands on her coat. Her brain clicked.
"What about something more… intricate?"
Ingot squinted. "How intricate we talking?"
She pulled a folded parchment from her belt and handed it to him.
He opened it. Eyes widened.
"…Damn. This… this is a sniper cannon."
Eira nodded. "It will be. Frostbite."
He looked over the rough sketches—coil bracing, energy compression runes, a rail-guided chamber, variable recoil adjustments. Powered by her newly discovered electro powers.
"Where'd you even learn how to design this?"
"I didn't. I survived long enough to imagine it. And I've got enough to pay for it."
Ingot looked up.
"Even with what you've got, this build? It's worth close to 320 million Berri in material alone. Maybe more."
Eira didn't flinch. "I have 255 million."
He laughed bitterly. "Then we're both out of luck."
She turned to leave.
"…Wait."
He sighed, tapping the blueprints again. "You saved my life. These idiots were gonna break my ribs. Or worse. I'd be dead in an alley if you hadn't shown up."
"So?"
"So… I owe you one."
Eira arched an eyebrow.
Ingot grinned.
"I'll build it. All of it. At cost. You give me 240 million and I'll count that as full pay. You'll get something worth double that—easy."
She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"
"Because you've got a dream. And because now I've got one too. I want to see if I can make this monster work."
He stuck out a hand.
She stared at it for a long second. Then took it.
"Deal."