A day had passed since Rabocse Olbap claimed his throne as the undisputed leader of the Red Tide empire, his authority cemented in blood and fire. The laboratory's main office, a cold stone chamber buried in Brackmor Island's heart, hummed with the faint whir of machinery and the sharp tang of chemicals.
Olbap sat at a heavy oak desk, the Red Tide formula clutched in his hand, its parchment worn but precious, the ink detailing the corals, crimson flowers, and the elusive Sea King blood. The room was dim, lit by flickering lanterns that cast long shadows across the walls, their light glinting off glass vials and steel instruments.
Outside, the wind howled, carrying the salty bite of the sea and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs. Olbap's amethyst eyes scanned the formula, his mind racing—not with doubt, but with the weight of what lay ahead. He had the prize, but victory was only the beginning.
His first act as chief was ruthless and calculated: eliminate Silco's remaining loyalists. He had dispatched Popeye and Liro to hunt down any stragglers who might still cling to their fallen leader's cause. "No matter how small they seem, a single cockroach can infest a house," Olbap had said, his voice cold as the steel of his flintlock.
Most of Silco's followers were insignificant, easily crushed, but three posed a real threat: Marlon, Graves, and Vex. These were men hardened by years in the underworld, their loyalty to Silco forged in battles and profits. Olbap didn't underestimate them, but he trusted Popeye's brute strength and Liro's precision to handle the job. They were his blades, sharp and unwavering, ready to carve out any resistance.
To secure his rule, Olbap's vision extended beyond the present. Brackmor's isolation made it vulnerable, a prize ripe for the taking if rival families—like the Bartolos—sensed weakness. He sent Popeye and Liro to patrol the seas around the island, a defensive wall against any who dared approach. The two were unmatched in combat, their presence a deterrent to pirates or mercenaries sniffing for opportunity.
This move bought Olbap time to rebuild, to seek out new blood for the Rabocse Family—not just workers, but elite members worthy of his inner circle. He envisioned a tight-knit core of ten, each a pillar of skill and loyalty, bound not just by blood but by shared ambition. The rest would be laborers or sworn brothers, useful but expendable, never touching the family's true power.
The organization's structure was clear in Olbap's mind: he, the mastermind, at the helm; Popeye, his right hand, enforcer of his will, a titan; Liro, the guardian of defense and offense, his cutlass a whisper of death; Anna, the crimson-haired overseer of the family's finances, her ledgers as sharp as any blade; and Vanessa, her sister, the medic and Anna's right hand, her knowledge of healing matched only by her ruthlessness.
The laboratory's sterile air, heavy with the scent of Red Tide's chemical residue, grounded Olbap as he planned. His immediate task was to find the right recruits—not cannon fodder, but specialists who could elevate the Rabocse name. Yet, as he stared at the formula, a nagging truth gnawed at him: he didn't know how to recreate Red Tide.
The formula was a map, but it lacked the details Silco had kept locked in his mind—temperatures, mixing techniques, the precise instruments needed. The lab's machines were rudimentary: mechanical grinders for corals, extractors for crimson flower venom, all stored in the warehouse's shadowed depths.
Silco had been the alchemist, blending the components with a genius Olbap couldn't replicate. Olbap knew the drug trade—transport, deals, power plays—but creation was foreign to him. Low-quality Red Tide was within his grasp if he studied, but he demanded perfection, a drug so pure it would amplify its healing, strength, and addictive properties, as Rane had once boasted to Popeye. For that, he needed a master alchemist or scientist, someone extraordinary, not a common chemist who'd churn out inferior product. Quality was the Rabocse Family's future, and Olbap would settle for nothing less.
His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp puru-puru of the Den Den Mushi on his desk, its white suit like Olbap glinting under the lantern light. Without hesitation, Olbap snatched it up. "Olbap here," he said, his voice calm but edged with authority, the weight of his new role settling into his tone.
"Its Odoho. I've got movement," came the reply, steady but serious, the voice of a man who thrived in shadows. Odoho was Olbap's eyes beyond Brackmor, a scout whose loyalty was proven in whispers and secrets.
Olbap leaned back, his fingers tightening around the snail. "Go on," he said, his tone sharp, giving Odoho the green light to continue.
"Marlon, Graves, and Vex are heading back to the island. They've been trying to contact Silco but got no response. They suspect something's wrong and are coming for answers," Odoho reported, his words precise, each one a piece of the puzzle Olbap needed.
A faint smile curled Olbap's lips, his eyes glinting with anticipation. "Perfect. They must've seen the explosion last night and put it together. Good work, Odoho. Are they coming through the usual route?" He unfolded a map of Brackmor, its edges worn, tracing the northern port with a finger.
"North port, midday," Odoho confirmed, his voice unwavering.
"Excellent. Take a break when you're back—you've earned a vacation," Olbap said, ending the call with a click. He turned to the door, raising his voice. "Popeye!"
The door swung open, and Popeye strode in, his presence filling the room like a storm. Gone was his battle-worn suit; he wore a heavy black coat lined with platinum-white fur, matching his tied-back platinum hair. His double-headed hammer rested across his back, its steel catching the light, a silent promise of violence. "News?" he asked, his voice a low rumble, his black eyes scanning Olbap.
"You've been up since yesterday. Sure you don't need sleep?" Olbap asked, a faint smirk playing on his lips, though his eyes held concern.
Popeye grinned, shaking his head. "I'm fine. I'll sleep when the island's secure. What's the job?"
"Marlon, Graves, and Vex hit the north port at midday. You and Liro handle them. No surprises like Rane—stay sharp," Olbap said, his tone firm, his gaze unwavering.
Popeye's grin widened, his blood heating at the prospect of a fight. "Any special orders, or do I get to have fun?"
"Do it your way," Olbap replied, his voice cool but trusting. Popeye nodded and stepped out, finding Liro lounging in a chair, a bottle of rum in one hand, his cutlass propped beside him.
"Time to play, Liro," Popeye said, his voice thick with anticipation. Liro smirked, setting the bottle down, and followed, his steps light but deadly.
By midday, the north port buzzed with the sea's restless energy, the sun blazing overhead, its light glinting off the waves. The air was thick with salt and the faint rot of seaweed, the wind carrying the creak of distant ships. Popeye and Liro stood on the dock, calm but alert, each with a small glass of rum. Liro held the bottle, taking a slow sip, his eyes scanning the horizon.
Three ships approached, their sails taut, anchors dropping with heavy splashes as they docked. Crews disembarked, weary from weeks at sea, but three figures stood out, descending last with deliberate steps: Marlon, Graves, and Vex. Their hands hovered near their weapons, their postures tense, sensing the danger in Popeye and Liro's presence.
Marlon, his weathered face etched with suspicion, spoke first. "Popeye, and if I'm not mistaken, you're Liro. What are you doing here?" His hand rested on his sword's hilt, his eyes narrowing.
Popeye drained his rum, tossing the glass aside with a clink. "Marlon, welcome back. You too, Graves, Vex. This is Liro, my good friend. We're here to greet you," he said, his tone deceptively light, his grin sharp as a blade.
"Greet us?" Graves growled, his voice rough, his brow furrowed in confusion.
"Never got a welcome before," Vex added, his tone wary, his hand inching toward his flintlock.
Marlon's gaze darkened, his hand tightening on his sword. "What's this about Silco and that explosion on the west side last night? I haven't reached the boss. What do you know?" His voice was steady but edged with urgency, his instincts screaming of betrayal.
Liro set his bottle and glass down, his movements slow, deliberate. "Oh, the explosion? Silco? That's a fun story. Go on, Popeye, tell them." His voice was calm, but his eyes gleamed with menace.
Popeye's grin widened, his hammer now in hand, its weight grounding him. "Yesterday, Silco, Jerry, Tom, and Mot died. Olbap's the new boss, and his orders are clear: you three don't leave this dock alive." His words were a thunderclap, the air crackling with tension.
Graves scoffed, his voice thick with disbelief. "Olbap? That runt's the boss? Who gave him the crown?"
Vex's eyes narrowed. "Yeah, what makes that kid think he runs things?"
Marlon, older and wiser, didn't need to ask. Silco's last warning echoed in his mind—a traitor in their ranks, a plan unraveled. The explosion, the silence, Olbap's rise—it all pointed to one truth: Silco was dead, betrayed by Olbap's cunning. Facing Popeye and Liro, Marlon knew escape was unlikely, but he'd fight to avenge his boss, to take at least one of them down. His hand drew his sword, the steel glinting under the sun.
Seeing no move from Marlon's group, Popeye and Liro struck first. Popeye charged Graves and Vex, his hammer swinging like a meteor, the air howling in its wake. Liro lunged at Marlon, his cutlass flashing, aiming for the heart. Marlon parried, his sword meeting Liro's with a screech of steel, the impact sending sparks flying. Graves and Vex dodged Popeye's hammer, its blow cratering the dock, splintering wood. Graves drew a short sword, Vex his flintlock, both scrambling to avoid being crushed.
The battle erupted, a whirlwind of steel and gunpowder. Onlookers—dockhands and islanders—fled, knowing the clash was no mere brawl. Information was currency on Brackmor, and they'd watch from a safe distance, ready to sell the tale for a week's wages. The Rabocse Olbap name commanded respect, and this fight would only burnish its legend.
For nearly an hour, the battle raged. Popeye and Liro pursued relentlessly, cutting off escape routes. Popeye toyed with Graves and Vex, his hammer strikes precise but playful, forcing them to run rather than fight. They knew they couldn't win, their movements desperate, their breaths ragged. Liro and Marlon's duel was a dance of blades, Marlon's experience giving him an early edge, his strikes swift and calculated. But Liro adapted, his youth and agility evening the score, their swords clashing in a symphony of steel, the dock trembling under their footwork.
The fight spilled from the port to the island's heart, ending outside the main laboratory. Marlon, Graves, and Vex, battered and cornered, fell one by one. Marlon's sword clattered to the ground, his body crumpling under Liro's final strike. Graves and Vex, exhausted, couldn't outrun Popeye's hammer, its blows ending their flight in blood and dust.
hours after the fight in the laboratory
Olbap sitting in a comfable in a sofa, his suit pristine, his eyes scanning the aftermath. "All dead?" he asked, his voice calm but expectant.
Popeye nodded, wiping blood from his hammer. "Done. Your orders?"
"You and Liro know your roles—defend the seas, keep Brackmor untouchable. Anna, Vanessa, you're no longer workers. You're family, leaders. Find the right people for coral and flower collection, not just anyone—only the best." Olbap's voice was firm, his gaze sweeping over his crew.
Anna nodded, her crimson hair catching the fading light. "I'll check the worker logs. We'll find the right ones."
Vanessa smirked, her hand on her glasses. "I know the swamps better than anyone. I've got someone in mind—top-notch, perfect for the flowers."
"And you, Olbap?" Popeye asked, his tone curious but respectful, echoing the question in everyone's minds.
Olbap's eyes glinted, the formula still in his hand. "I'll find the alchemist we need. I have the formula, but Silco left out the details—temperatures, techniques. I need someone extraordinary to make Red Tide perfect, not some hack churning out garbage. You all have your tasks. We're not workers anymore—we're the Rabocse Family, each a leader. Act like it." His words were a call to arms, igniting their resolve.
Liro clutched a pendant with the letters K and T, his fist tightening. "No one gets through, Olbap. The seas are ours."
"We'll have the island running smoother than ever," Vanessa added, her voice brimming with confidence.
The meeting ended, each member departing with purpose. Popeye's loyalty to Olbap burned fierce, his hammer ready to crush any threat. Liro, driven by the pendant's weight, vowed to prove himself. Anna and Vanessa, their roles clear, set out to rebuild the workforce, their minds already on the task.
Alone in the office, Olbap picked up the Den Den Mushi, dialing a frequency known to few. The snail buzzed, and a voice answered, smooth and curious. "Well, well, Rabocse Olbap. Seems you pulled off what you promised."
Olbap's lips curved into a smile. "More curious than usual, aren't you? I don't have your usual gossip, but I have a request."
"A request, and nothing juicy in return? You know I'm a busy man," the voice teased, its tone sharp with intrigue.
"I know how busy you are, but I need information, and you're the only one who'd have it. Besides, doesn't it pique your interest that a 15-year-old from a forgotten South Blue island like Brackmor got your frequency?" Olbap's voice was calm, but the challenge was clear, a spark in the dark.
The voice laughed, a sound like rustling papers. "You've got me there, Rabocse Olbap. A nobody from Brackmor reaching me? Fine, I'll give you what you want, but you owe me. Stir up the seas, give me the chaos I crave."
"Deal," Olbap said, his voice steady, envisioning the grin on the other end. "Morgans of Big News, you'll get your show."
End of the chapter.