So, it's been a year already. Just like Olbap, it's time to head back to work to put food on the table. Ever since I got here, I don't even know what part of the world this is. I've only heard things like South Blue, Grand Line, Marines, pirates, and islands. Where the hell am I in the world anyway?
If it weren't for the fact that I have no money and I'm just a 10-year-old kid, I could travel, buy a ticket, and go back to the United States. Yeah, it exists, because from what I've seen, this place feels like another world altogether.
That son of a bitch Jacob, the traitor. If the boss had listened to me, we wouldn't have fallen into his trap, and everyone wouldn't have ended up dead while he walked away with everything. You could see it on his face—a simple position as the right-hand man wasn't enough for him. He wanted more. Even though the boss always trusted him because of the huge benefits he brought to the group.
Not that I was all that attached to the group, mind you. In the end, everyone was just doing what they could to survive. Living in Florida in our time, the 1970s, was tough. With all the drugs running rampant through the state, it was normal for people like us—folks with no future—to get into the business.
That's where I met the boss, who already had the operation off the ground. With my help, we leveled up, started making more money. But in the end, you always have to know where to place your trust. Otherwise, the last person you expect stabs you in the back.
Now, I'm doing whatever jobs I can to earn scraps of bread—just enough to keep from starving. My life sucks, but I don't want to waste this second chance I have to live again. This time, I'm the one who's going to call the shots. Respect is earned, sure—the boss had things about him I didn't like—but I've always been someone who puts loyalty above everything. And anyone who breaks it? There's only one punishment: death.
Grabbing my clothes—the only ones I have—I headed to the seaside near a port where the locals make their living fishing. I crouched down to wash them. Even if it's seawater, I'd rather they smell like salt than shit. The little clean water I have, I'm saving it to drink, not to waste on laundry.
Looking at all this, it seems pretty ancient. The structures, everything feels like it's from the 1500s or something, all old and worn. But then there are things from my era that I've spotted, like televisions. Yeah, those didn't exist back then.
It's weird. But anyway, once I finished tidying up, I made my way to the tavern. By helping clean, haul stuff out, and get everything ready for the night, I earned a little money. And thanks to the owner, she tossed me scraps of bread that were worth their weight in gold.
When I got there, I did my usual routine: started inside with the tables, chairs, beer mugs—anything that wasn't in its place. Time flew by like that, and by the time I finished, the smell of food and people was starting to fill the air, just as the sun began to dip below the horizon.
Normally, once I was done, I'd head back to my humble little shack to sleep and save on hunger pangs. But I'd saved up enough coin to treat myself to a small luxury and fish for some info on where the hell I was. So, I decided to stick around at one of the tables in the corner.
Time passed, and the tavern started filling up. The drunks didn't waste time blowing their cash. Back in my old life, I handled booze like a pro, but this body? Not so much. I'd probably end up face-down on the floor. These kinds of spots were my daily grind back then—I missed it, in a weird way.
Lost in thought, my sharp eyes caught some pretty sneaky movement—stuff that normal folks wouldn't notice. I saw a group slip in quietly, without a sound. If the door hadn't creaked so loud, I wouldn't have spotted them that fast. They sat at a table where three other guys seemed to be waiting for them. And in a quick, hidden motion...
A normal-sized black box—not too big—wrapped in red cloth.
"Looks like even in this place, shady deals for folks with no future exist. Guess it's time to slide back into my old life," I muttered under my breath to myself before getting up and slipping out the door, tailing the three guys who stood and left the tavern.
The night was dark, lit only by the faint flicker of candles in houses and shops. The streets were pitch black—you couldn't see a damn thing. My small body made me nearly invisible, so I followed from a safe distance. They seemed pros at this—no looking back to check for tails. After a few minutes weaving through the alleys, we reached a warehouse down by the ports.
I knew charging in would be the dumbest move possible, so I hung back to scout for a window or something to peek or eavesdrop through. In the criminal world, there's a ton of important shit, but the one thing I consider essential? Information.
It's always better to know what you're up against before diving headfirst and losing your life—or whatever you've built. Spotting a small gap in the wooden wall, I could just make out a bit inside, thanks to an oil lamp flickering for light.
I watched the three guys kneel in front of a man and place the boxes wrapped in red cloth into a larger crate. I held still, waiting for them to start talking.
"Boss, with this, we've finished this month's order. Sales aren't moving much lately—folks have been griping about the price," said one of the thugs, who seemed like the leader of the trio.
"I think the same. We got lucky scoring this stuff. Almost nobody wants to hit the sea to hunt for the corals we need, let alone go after the key ingredient for the Red Tide," added the other thug.
The boss, lounging on a crate and puffing on a cigarette, just sighed.
"Things are getting out of hand, but I saw it coming. The price is high because of the quality, but I landed a solid deal. That's why I had to ramp up production this time," he said, taking another drag.
"If it's like you say, boss, and that deal pans out, we'll need more hands to speed things up," chimed in another thug.
"That's the least of our worries. This island's crawling with people who'd work for peanuts. The real issue's always been the pay. But with money, anything's possible. And this deal? It's five million beri we can throw at wages," the boss replied.
"Five million? That's insane, boss. Who'd you cut a deal with? We usually pull in around 100,000 beri," said another thug.
"Jerry, you've been with us from the start, and I told you—the Red Tide is our ticket out. The client wants his identity under wraps, but I trust you. Tomorrow, start rounding up folks. Tell 'em 500 beri per crate of Shadow Coral, and 1,000 for Crimson Bloom per crate. Go for mostly young blood—no old timers who might not last. I don't wanna waste pay on dead weight," the boss instructed Jerry, who nodded.
"You got it, Silco-sama. I'll start hunting for workers tomorrow. Come on, Tom, the beri's calling us," Jerry said as he headed out of the warehouse, leaving Silco alone.
Olbap had overheard the whole conversation. With the idea already brewing in his head, he didn't wait—he slipped away quietly to scheme. 500 beri and 1,000 per crate? That's big money—way more than the 100 beri he scraped together cleaning at the tavern.
From the sound of it, though, Jerry, Tom, and Mot made it clear: gathering the materials for this Red Tide stuff is dangerous. Pretty name for the product—I like it. He had to land a gig with them. It was his only shot at real cash and, for the first time in a year, a proper meal.
The next day...
When I woke up, I stuck to my routine: washed my clothes and brushed my teeth. Gotta keep hygiene on point. This time, though, screw the tavern—that old hag paying me peanuts at 100 beri a day. I was a fool for sticking with it because I didn't know what other jobs paid.
Once I was ready, in my off-white shirt that used to be white, black cargo pants, and high black boots I'd swiped when I first stumbled into town, I set out looking for Jerry, Tom, or Mot. I had to snag that job, no matter what.
Time ticked by as I wandered, not spotting them anywhere. Then I heard a crowd buzzing—that's when I found it. To recruit, they'd set up like a job fair stall, with people lining up to apply.
Without hesitation, I joined the queue. It was a long one: all sorts—women, kids, girls, old folks, adults. Anyone who could work. But like I remembered, most of the geezers got turned away, storming off pissed.
After about two hours, it was my turn.
"Name, age, and why you're after this job?" Jerry asked.
"Name's Olbap, age 10. For the money," I said flatly. Why spin a yarn? In the end, it's all about the cash.
"Ten years old and chasing money? Alright. We don't usually take kids, but things are tight right now—you're in. Move to the right with the others waiting for wrap-up," Jerry said, waving me over where more workers were milling about till it all ended.
End of the chapter.