Oboro led Dom through the winding back alleys of Sabaody Archipelago, away from the main thoroughfares where Marine patrols still maintained their vigilant watch. Their destination lay tucked away in one of the more remote corners of the island—a place where secrets were traded as readily as rum, and where the most dangerous conversations took place behind closed doors.
The bar perched on a small hill like a weathered crow's nest, its modest facade deliberately unremarkable. No flashy neon signs or elaborate decorations marked its presence—just weathered wood and faded paint that spoke of countless stories whispered within its walls. The lack of visible customers only added to its air of mystery, suggesting this wasn't the kind of establishment that catered to ordinary pirates seeking a simple drink.
With a soft creak of protest from aging hinges, Oboro pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside. Dom followed close behind, catching only a glimpse of the establishment's name as they entered—something about "Rip-off Bar" painted in barely legible letters above the entrance.
Despite being a Sabaody native, Dom had never heard of this particular tavern. That fact alone should have raised questions, but his transformed senses picked up something else entirely—an undercurrent of danger that made his newly enhanced instincts prickle with warning.
"Welcome."
The greeting came from behind the counter, delivered in a tone that managed to be both welcoming and subtly threatening. A tall woman with shoulder-length hair leaned against the bar, cigarette dangling from her lips as smoke curled lazily around her face. Her posture seemed casual, almost bored, but Dom noticed how her eyes tracked their movement with the precision of a predator evaluating potential threats.
The wall behind her told its own story—wanted posters and newspaper clippings created a patchwork gallery of the sea's most notorious criminals. Names and faces that had made headlines across the Grand Line stared down at visitors, a not-so-subtle reminder of the kind of clientele this establishment served.
Oboro selected a table without ceremony, settling into his chair with the easy confidence of someone who belonged in such places. Dom positioned himself nearby, still trying to understand why his mysterious boss had chosen this particular venue for whatever business they had in mind.
"What'll it be, gentlemen?" The woman's voice carried a lazy drawl that suggested she'd rather be anywhere else, though her eyes remained sharp and attentive. She didn't move from her position at the counter—no eager rush to serve customers or artificial pleasantries designed to encourage larger orders.
There was something refreshingly honest about her complete lack of business enthusiasm.
When Oboro remained silent, apparently content to study their hostess with the same intensity she was applying to him, Dom felt compelled to fill the silence. "Just bring us something decent," he said with forced casualness. "And don't try to pass off rotgut as premium liquor."
"Hehehe..."
The woman's soft laugh held notes of genuine amusement as she turned to retrieve glasses from the shelf behind her. Her movements were economical and practiced—the fluid grace of someone who had performed these motions thousands of times before. She poured their drinks with professional efficiency and slid the glasses across the bar's polished surface.
Shakuyaku—though most knew her simply as Shakky—had worn many faces throughout her long life. Former captain of the Kuja Pirates, information broker, proprietor of this establishment that existed in the gray spaces between legal and criminal enterprise. Her youthful appearance belied decades of experience navigating the most dangerous waters in the world, and her survival instincts had been honed to supernatural sharpness through encounters that would have destroyed lesser individuals.
"You boys look unfamiliar around here," Shakky observed, taking a long drag from her cigarette before offering it in Oboro's direction. "Just arrived on the island, have you?"
Dom had been raising his glass when the question hit him like a splash of cold water. His enhanced senses immediately went on high alert—there was something about the woman's tone that suggested this wasn't casual small talk. The nervous tension that had been building throughout their journey to this place suddenly crystallized into genuine fear.
"What kind of question is that?" Dom forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to his own ears. "Thousands of people come and go from Sabaody every day. You can't possibly know them all."
It was a reasonable deflection, but something in Shakky's eyes suggested she wasn't buying it for a second.
"You're definitely local," she said with calm certainty, her gaze shifting between the two men. "Your friend here, though... he's something else entirely. Those clothes don't fit quite right, do they? Borrowed? Or perhaps... taken from someone who no longer needs them?"
The observation was delivered with such casual precision that Dom felt his blood turn to ice. This woman hadn't just noticed details—she'd assembled them into a complete picture with frightening accuracy.
Oboro reached up and removed both his hood and the mask that had concealed his distinctive scars. The action was performed with deliberate slowness, like a magician revealing the final element of an elaborate trick.
"Boss!" Dom's voice cracked with alarm. Exposing their identities in front of a stranger seemed like suicide, especially after everything they'd endured to reach this point.
"It's fine," Oboro said simply, his tone suggesting the matter had already been decided.
Shakky's eyebrows rose slightly as she took in the network of scars that marked her customer's face. Recognition flickered in her expression—not surprise, exactly, but confirmation of suspicions that had been building since their arrival.
"Well, well," she murmured with satisfaction. "The famous escaped slave who's been causing such a stir these past few days. I have to admit, your handiwork has been impressive. The Marines are still running around in circles trying to figure out how you vanished into thin air."
Dom's hand instinctively moved toward the weapon at his side, murder flickering in his transformed eyes. One word from this woman could bring a Marine squadron crashing through the door within minutes. They were trapped, surrounded by potential enemies, with nowhere to run.
"Show some respect to your elders," Oboro said mildly, accepting the cigarette Shakky offered and allowing her to light it for him. "And relax. She's not going to turn us in."
The casual confidence in his voice made Dom hesitate, though every instinct screamed that they should eliminate this threat immediately. His transformation had granted him enhanced physical capabilities, but something about the woman behind the counter suggested that attacking her would be a fatal mistake.
Years of surviving in the criminal underworld had taught Shakky to recognize genuine danger, and despite Dom's obvious supernatural enhancements, she wasn't particularly impressed. Amazon warriors learned Haki from childhood, and someone of her experience and former position would have mastered all three forms decades ago.
"My, my," Shakky purred, lighting Oboro's cigarette with practiced intimacy. "I don't recall meeting you before, handsome. Are you sure we haven't crossed paths somewhere? Perhaps under more... intimate circumstances?"
The flirtation was delivered with theatrical exaggeration, designed more to unsettle than seduce.
"Information has a way of traveling through certain channels," Oboro replied, exhaling smoke with the easy familiarity of a habitual smoker. "Someone in your profession would understand that better than most."
His smoking habit had developed during his time on the Dark Continent, where Fant's impossibly strong cigarettes had provided one of the few reliable comforts in that hellish environment. The addiction had followed him across dimensional boundaries, a small but persistent reminder of experiences that most people couldn't begin to imagine.
"So," Shakky leaned forward with renewed interest, "what can I do for you boys?"
The shift in her demeanor was subtle but unmistakable. The casual banter had given way to business mode—the transformation of a woman who had built her reputation on providing services that others couldn't or wouldn't offer.
"Help me remove this," Oboro said without preamble, pulling aside his collar to reveal the explosive device locked around his throat.
The slave collar gleamed dully in the bar's subdued lighting, its design speaking to the Celestial Dragons' casual cruelty and advanced technology. One wrong move, one attempt at unauthorized removal, and the device would detonate with enough force to separate head from shoulders.
"I can't do that," Shakky replied without hesitation.
"You can't," Oboro agreed with a slight smile. "But someone else can."
Understanding passed between them like an electric current. Shakky's expression shifted from professional interest to genuine curiosity as she reevaluated her customer's true nature and connections.
"It seems you know more than you're letting on," she observed, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray beside her. "I can arrange an introduction. Of course, I can't guarantee he'll agree to help you. And there's the matter of my consultation fee."
"How much?" Dom asked, though he suspected the answer would be painful.
"One million berries," Shakky announced with cheerful ruthlessness. "Plus the cost of your drinks—let's call it 1.5 million total. Consider it a friends and family discount."
"You're robbing us!" Dom's voice rose in disbelief. This was extortion on a scale that made most pirates look reasonable by comparison.
An intermediary fee that exceeded the bounties of most first-half pirates? For two drinks that should have cost pocket change? The woman's audacity was breathtaking.
Without comment, Oboro reached into his jacket and began emptying his pockets onto the table. Money, jewelry, and other valuables that had recently belonged to a crew of unfortunate pirates formed a small mountain of ill-gotten gains. His systematic theft during their journey to the auction house had been more thorough than Dom had realized.
"This is everything I have," Oboro said with calm finality.
The amount fell short of Shakky's quoted price, but she studied the collection with the practiced eye of someone who understood the true value of flexibility in business relationships.
"I suppose that'll do," she said after a moment's consideration, sweeping the money off the table with casual efficiency. "I'll make the call. Whether he actually shows up... well, that's not something I can control."
"Why can't you just contact him directly?" Dom demanded, frustration bleeding through his voice. "Use a Den Den Mushi or something instead of this ridiculous charade!"
Shakky settled back in her chair with another cigarette, clearly enjoying his confusion. "It's still early evening," she said with maddening calm. "Maybe he'll drop by later, maybe he won't. I don't actually have his contact information—the man values his privacy. For all I know, he's lying dead in some alley right now, attracting flies."
The casual cruelty of the observation left Dom speechless. They had just paid an astronomical fee for services that might not even be possible to provide. It was highway robbery disguised as legitimate business.
But Oboro's continued composure suggested this was all proceeding according to some plan Dom couldn't yet understand. His mysterious boss had demonstrated an unsettling ability to navigate complex situations, so perhaps this apparent extortion was actually a calculated investment.
The evening progressed with a steady trickle of customers—pirates seeking drinks, information, or simply a place to conduct business away from Marine surveillance. Shakky's method of operation became clear as Dom watched her interactions with each group.
Every transaction involved some form of creative pricing that bore no resemblance to the actual cost of goods or services provided. A simple beer might cost ten times its normal price, justified by vague references to "information premiums" or "location fees." Customers who objected too strenuously found themselves facing a woman whose combat capabilities far exceeded her civilian appearance.
One particularly aggressive crew made the mistake of threatening violence when presented with their bill. Shakky's response was swift and comprehensive—within moments, all three pirates were unconscious on the floor, their wallets considerably lighter than when they had arrived. They departed with threats of revenge and promises to return with reinforcements, threats that seemed to amuse rather than concern their target.
"Regular customers," Shakky explained with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "They'll be back next week with the same complaints and the same empty threats."
As darkness settled over Sabaody Archipelago and most legitimate businesses began closing their doors, the bar's atmosphere grew more relaxed. The day's tension gradually faded as Shakky settled into what appeared to be her preferred routine—smoking, reading newspaper clippings, and exchanging casual conversation with her remaining patrons.
It was then that the door opened to admit a figure that immediately changed the room's entire dynamic.
The old man who entered moved with the careful precision of someone who had consumed just enough alcohol to feel relaxed without losing control. His white hair caught the light from the bar's lamps, and he carried a small, elegant bottle that suggested refined tastes and expensive habits. Despite his casual appearance, there was something about his presence that made the air itself feel heavier.
Oboro didn't turn around, but Dom noticed the subtle shift in his posture—a predator recognizing another apex predator in its territory.
"Lost everything again?" Shakky asked with the fond exasperation of someone who had witnessed this scene many times before.
"Terrible luck lately," the old man replied, scratching the back of his head with rueful embarrassment. "I'm afraid I'll have to put tonight's drinks on my tab as well."
His tone carried genuine contrition, but his body language suggested someone perfectly comfortable making such requests. This was clearly a regular arrangement between old friends.
"No worries," Shakky said with unusual generosity. "Your drinks are paid for tonight. Our friend here has already covered your tab."
She indicated Oboro's table with a subtle gesture, drawing the old man's attention to his mysterious benefactors.
"Customers at this hour?" the newcomer asked with mild surprise, studying the two figures with eyes that seemed far sharper than his casual demeanor suggested. "How unusual."
In that moment, Dom felt the true weight of whatever game they had become part of. The old man's apparent harmlessness was a facade as thin as paper—beneath the friendly exterior lurked something that made his enhanced senses scream warnings about imminent danger.
This was no ordinary drunkard seeking a nightcap. This was the person they had come to find—the only individual on Sabaody Archipelago capable of safely removing a Celestial Dragon's slave collar.
The Dark King had finally arrived, and the real negotiations were about to begin.