The underground world hasn't yet formed the six-king structure of the original timeline.
Morgans is still a regular reporter, far from founding the World Economic News. The Queen of Pleasure Street, Stussy, exists only as a cloned embryo.
But some territories are already carved up, and Piecro, mentioned by Oran, is one such player.
Big Hand Mortician Piecro runs Big Hand Funeral Parlor, primarily in the funeral business.
Yet their "funeral" scope far exceeds the norm—assassination, organ harvesting, corpse smuggling. They do it all.
In the chaotic Grand Line, their business thrives. While it doesn't clash with Feld's operations, no one would pass up a chance to swallow a rival.
"You know what you're saying?" Feld asked.
"My grammar's fine. But this hinges on the first plan succeeding. I've no interest in organ trafficking," Oran replied.
The underground's giants aren't saints. Operating between pirates and the World Government, they'd be devoured if they were. This sea's a race to the bottom, and Piecro's trade is the bloodiest, dirtiest.
In Oran's plan, even if he didn't strike Piecro, Piecro would come for him.
"Hold on. Everyone else, out," Feld interrupted, signaling his bodyguards to leave.
"Boss, that's—"
"Out. Don't make me repeat myself."
"Yes!"
Feld wasn't a fighter but had the guts to become the loan shark king. Though he trusted his guards, he didn't want sensitive details leaking.
"Is this room secure?" Feld asked.
"Of course. I know an eavesdropping expert who modified my private Den Den Mushi. With my tech, no signals escape this room. Your guards can confirm no one's nearby," Oran said, his spinning top halting with a click. He sat up, hands clasped on the table.
"I'm intrigued. Lay it out. Double the funds isn't an issue if you make it worth my while," Feld said.
"The Ibel Awards' value speaks for itself. Your 'charity' group winning both Medicine and Peace Prizes signals results," Oran explained.
The Ibel Awards, held every few years, are a scientific gala with global renown, honoring those who've made the greatest contributions to humanity in physics, chemistry, peace, medicine, and literature.
For a charity, Medicine and Peace are paramount.
"I can't rig the awards, or I wouldn't need to fund you," Feld countered.
"Mr. Feld, you're mistaken. We're confident in our work. You just need to ensure the judges know. They'll award us. All you do is build the hype. Here's Punk's latest—call it a Flower Bullet. No direct harm, but it renders enemy guns useless."
Oran kept it simple, explaining the effect. Underground players value efficiency, not the meddling nonsense of eccentric clients.
"This invention… it could work. It's enough to sway the judges. But the Medicine Prize?" Feld pressed.
Clang.
Oran tossed a metallic arm onto the table.
Skeletal metal, with transparent material mimicking muscles, revealed vein-like circuits.
"A prosthetic?" Feld asked.
"A cybernetic limb. Not just for show—it integrates with the body via minor surgery. How many in these seas have lost limbs? Breadwinners turned helpless by accidents. This gives them new life. Arms, eyes, legs, organs—all replaceable. A second chance for countless people."
These weren't Kate's Hextech-grade cybernetics but basic versions, lacking enhancements, merely replacing what's lost.
"Not enough for the Medicine Prize," Feld said.
"I know. Plenty can make similar things—even Queen or Judge could. But their tech isn't universal; the cost is prohibitive for most."
The seas have many geniuses crafting high-tech prosthetics, but their prices exclude the common folk.
"Guess the cost of this arm, Mr. Feld."
Eyeing the lifelike limb with metallic muscle contours, Feld frowned but didn't answer.
"I don't know tech. Just tell me," he said.
"Five hundred thousand beri. The priciest part is the neural interface. Skip aesthetics, and it's even cheaper. Isn't that enough for the Medicine Prize?"
That price is affordable. In the original timeline, Arlong's protection fee in Nami's village was 100,000 beri monthly per adult—a rural East Blue sum most could scrape together. A family in crisis could save enough for a limb.
"If doctors learn the surgery, I'll teach them. Still not enough?"
Many can craft prosthetics, but Oran slashed costs, turning an elite luxury into something anyone could afford.
He didn't mind sharing the surgery method—its technical barrier was low, not his main profit source.
In the Source Project universe, machinery is so advanced even amateurs can assemble arms from scrap. This cybernetic tech came from there.
Rather than let others crack it, Oran would teach it, earning training fees and reputation, then dominate the untapped low-end market with a high-volume, low-margin strategy.
In his plan, this was codenamed MiXue Ice City.
(End of Chapter)
---------------------------------------------------------
🚀 Want more?
📖 Unlock 10+ early chapters on my Patreon!
💖 Support me here: patreon.com/DaoistRoeoNQ
🔓 Get ahead of the story today!