Somewhere in Krakenport
A cluster of men could be seen hauling crates toward a warehouse, the air buzzing with activity—shouts echoing from within and the relentless churn of machines grinding away at full throttle.
Upstairs, in a dimly lit room overlooking the warehouse floor, three figures stood watching the scene below. Workers clad in head-to-toe black suits and masks operated the machines, while others meticulously sliced and cleaned Crimson Blooms. On another side, a group dumped Shadow Corals into grinders that pulverized the massive formations into fine, inky powder. It was a symphony of production, each station feeding into the next, churning without pause.
"As you always say, Silco, look at this—we're cranking out Red Tide nonstop, hahaha!" Marlon crowed, his eyes wide with awe at the seamless operation.
"Was bound to happen," Silco replied, puffing on a cigarette, his gaze sweeping over the workers. "With this output and the crew raking in cash, we won't ever run dry on Red Tide again."
"Yeah, though we lost damn near half the newbies, we still pulled in some capable hands," Jerry said, scribbling in a notebook that seemed to track headcounts.
"What killed off the most?" Silco asked, curiosity sharpening his tone.
"The Crimson Blooms. Looks like Tom and Mot botched the briefing on the hazards—80% of that group got wiped out. Our side? Only 18% losses. But our profits were miles better, and since coral's the backbone of Red Tide, we can keep production humming even with fewer flower crates," Jerry said, snapping his notebook shut.
"Sounds solid. If we hold this resource stream, I can lock in bigger deals. The contact's already got his hands on Red Tide and didn't hesitate to use it—he's ordered another shipment," Silco said, easing into a chair and propping his boots on the desk, smoke curling lazily from his lips.
"Another shipment? Like the last one? That's another five million beri—lets us hire more hands, set up more labs," Jerry calculated, flipping his notebook open again to jot down figures.
"Boss, sorry to switch gears," Marlon cut in, "but among the coral runners, two stood out. They hauled in nearly half the take by themselves."
"Interesting. Who are these two? Gotta toss them a bone to keep that hustle going," Silco said, exhaling a perfect smoke ring that hung in the air like a crown.
"Oh, yeah, forgot to mention—thanks, Marlon. Names are Olbap and the other one, newly dubbed Popeye. Young blood: Olbap's just 10, Popeye's 15 but built like a damn 20-year-old tank," Jerry replied.
"Jerry, keep eyes on them. We need more than just workers for the organization—more control. To push Red Tide into uncharted waters, we need power and a grip on this island," Silco said, his voice low and deliberate. Jerry and Marlon nodded in unison.
"Right now, the core's just you, boss Silco, Tom, Mot, Marlon, me, and—though he's rarely around—Rane, who's one of our heavy hitters," Jerry said, ticking off names with his fingers.
"Talking about me, Jerry?" a calm voice slithered from the shadows, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.
"Rane, you're back. How'd the client take to the effects?" Silco asked without turning, his focus still on the warehouse floor.
"Impressed. Wants two tons—aiming to beef up his crew for the Grand Line. By month's end, if we can swing it," Rane replied, slipping a folded paper to Silco. The boss scanned it, a grin splitting his face like a crack in stone.
"Hahaha, fifteen million for two tons! Rane, you're a damn genius. Jerry, crank everyone to max—two tons won't make themselves!" Silco barked, surging from his chair with fresh fire, already plotting the next move with Rane at his side.
One week later
Can't lie—this has been the best week since I washed up in this bizarre world. Clean clothes, the finest grub Krakenport's got to offer, and proper beds? No complaints here. Me and Popeye burned through most of the beri, though—down to just 500 split between us. Popeye decided to hand over his cut for me to manage, which suits me fine. Less hassle, more control.
Last night, though, something shifted. A knock at the door woke us. Popeye, my self-appointed bodyguard now, cracked it open. Tom and Mot stood there, stone-faced, telling us to show up at the warehouse tomorrow where they split us into work groups. Before leaving, they slid an envelope across. Popeye handed it to me, and when I tore it open, my grin could've lit the room: 1,000 beri bonus for our haul. Not exactly swimming in riches, but we're a far cry from broke.
Now, geared up and ready, we left the tavern after scarfing down one last hearty spread. No corals for me this time—I'm done with blind dives and sea monsters for now. I want the full picture of this operation. If I'm gonna topple Silco and claim the Red Tide racket, I need to know every gear in the machine: how it runs, where it breaks, who's expendable. Crimson Blooms are my next target. Never heard of them before, so they've gotta be a pain to harvest. How they're turning corals and flowers into Red Tide? No clue, but that mystery's exactly why I'm hooked. They say curiosity killed the cat, but this cat's got nine lives and a knife.
The warehouse loomed ahead, and we didn't dawdle. Inside, new faces mixed with a few familiar ones from the last run, though the crowd was thinner—death had culled the herd.
"Olbap, looks like the flower crew got hit hard," Popeye muttered, leaning down so only I could hear. I nodded, scanning the room. Bandaged limbs, grim faces—veterans of the last job carried scars the newbies hadn't earned yet.
"Doesn't change the plan. We're going for flowers this time," I told him, firm. Death's been chasing me my whole life—past and present—so why not dodge it while stacking cash?
We waited a few minutes, the greenhorns shifting nervously under the weight of the veterans' silent stares. My wounds had healed faster than most—maybe this kid's body was tougher than it looked, or maybe I was just too stubborn to stay down.
"Alright, looks like everyone's here. Anyone missing missed their shot at coin. Same drill as before: split up," Jerry called from the warehouse door, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
Tom and Mot started picking out folks for the flower run, their eyes skimming over me like I was invisible. No surprise—they weren't about to poach the coral crew's top earners. So I sidled up to Jerry, who was rubbing his eyes like he'd just rolled out of bed, yawning between swipes.
"Hey, boss, got a question," I said, catching his attention. He squinted down, curious.
"If I'm not mistaken, you're Olbap, and that's Popeye, right?" Jerry asked, glancing at us both. We nodded. "What's up? Hope that gift I sent with Tom reached you."
We confirmed it had, and I got to the point. "Thanks for the bonus, boss. My question: can we switch to flowers this time?"
Jerry's brow arched, his sleepy demeanor sharpening. "Hmm. Why'd I let you do that? You and Popeye outpull everyone else combined on corals. Give me one good reason to let you chase flowers."
"Simple: 500 beri a crate ain't cutting it anymore. I want bigger money," I said, keeping it blunt. No way I'm spilling the real reason—that I'm sniffing out every angle to hijack their cash cow. Plus, money's the universal lever: wave it, and people jump.
"If it's about money, why not just haul more corals?" Jerry shot back, his tone shifting, colder now, eyes narrowing like he smelled a con.
I flicked a subtle hand signal—Popeye caught it, tensing just enough to be ready if things went south. But then, to my shock, Jerry's face split into a howling laugh, like I'd told the punchline of the century. He doubled over, gasping.
"Hahaha, that was good! Even Popeye braced for a fight—sharp instincts! No worries, kid, go for the flowers. If Tom or Mot give you grief, tell 'em I greenlit it," Jerry wheezed, wiping a tear from his eye, still chuckling at his own amusement.
I nodded, satisfied, and we turned to join the flower group, but Jerry's voice cut through again, sharper this time. "Hold up. I expect you to break the record for flower crates. Fall short, don't come asking for favors again—you'll go where I say. Deal?"
"What's the record?" I asked, cool and calculated. Always get the numbers before you shake on anything.
"Mine. Three full crates. You in or out?" he pressed, a glint in his eye.
"Deal, boss Jerry. If I top it, I expect a little something extra. See you next run," I said, sealing it with a nod before merging into the flower crew, trailing Tom and Mot as they led the march.
Hours later, the forest shifted underfoot, the ground turning soft and treacherous, sinking into a swampy mire. The air thickened, heavy with a wrongness that screamed danger—every rustle in the reeds a promise of teeth or worse. Another warehouse squatted just outside the bog, its weathered planks blending into the twisted trees.
"Alright, we're here," Tom barked, his voice all business. "Gear's inside. Do exactly as we say, or I'll kill you myself."
Mot swung the doors wide, revealing rows of what looked like cheap hazmat suits—flimsy, patched-together things barely holding up. Nearby, crates stood stacked, smaller than the coral boxes but long, about my height, built for precision over bulk. Tools glinted in a corner: curved sickles, pruning shears, and gloves thick enough to stop a thorn but not much else.
"As my brother said, grab a suit each, one crate, and your tools are over there. Lose a tool, you lose your life—so don't," Mot snapped, stepping back to let the group swarm the supplies.
End of the chapter.