A week had passed since Olbap solidified his rule over Brackmor Island, the Red Tide empire now his to command. The sea stretched endlessly before him, a restless expanse of churning waves under a storm-gray sky, the wind howling like a beast as it whipped salt spray across the deck of their modest ship.
Olbap stood at the helm, his black suit protected by a heavy overcoat, its collar turned up against the biting cold. The vessel was stocked with supplies for a long voyage—barrels of fresh water, crates of dried fish, and coils of rope—enough to sustain him and his companion through the unpredictable South Blue. His amethyst eyes scanned the horizon, the Red Tide formula tucked safely in his inner pocket, its weight a constant reminder of his mission: find the alchemist capable of turning his vision into reality.
He had planned to sail alone, as he'd informed his crew, but Popeye, Liro, Anna, and Vanessa refused to let their chief venture into the unknown unprotected. "You're the head of the family now, Olbap. You don't go alone," Popeye had growled, his arms crossed on his chest, his platinum hair catching the lab's dim light.
Popeye going with Olbap would weaken Brackmor's defenses, a risk Olbap couldn't afford with the Bartolos and other predators circling. Then Odoho, silent until that moment, stepped forward from the shadows of the meeting room, his presence unnoticed by all but Olbap. "I'll go," he said, his voice calm but resolute. "I'll stay close, and if anything goes wrong, I'll signal Popeye. He'll be there before the storm breaks."
The crew relented, trusting Odoho's stealth and loyalty. His role was clear: shadow Olbap, protect him, and ensure no threat—pirate, Marine —caught them off guard. The ship cut through the waves, its timbers creaking under the strain, the air thick with the scent of brine and the faint smell of the tabacco lingering on Olbap's clothes.
His mind drifted to Morgans, the Big News mastermind whose information had set this journey in motion. The deal had been struck swiftly: Morgans provided a lead in exchange for future chaos to fuel his headlines. "Head to this Island," the newspaper had read, its ink still fresh in Olbap's memory. "You'll find who you're looking for there." Simple, direct, exactly what Olbap expected from a man who traded in secrets.
The connection with Morgans had been a stroke of luck, forged in the chaos of a pirate raid on a government-aligned island months earlier. Olbap, then still undercover and dont want to catch the attention, had been brokering arms deals to bolster Brackmor's economy when the attack struck.
Fleeing to avoid exposure, he and Popeye stumbled upon a peculiar ship—sleek, unassuming, but bristling with Den Den Mushi antennas. Inside, they found a treasure trove: newspapers from every sea, reports on bounties, and snails tuned to frequencies Olbap could only dream of. It was Morgans' mobile newsroom, a floating hub of information.
In the confusion, Olbap pocketed a Den Den Mushi and later dialed a frequency scrawled on a scrap of paper. To his surprise, Morgans himself answered, his voice dripping with curiosity. "Who's this calling Big News?" he'd asked, intrigued by the audacity.
Olbap played his cards well, hinting at Red Tide's potential without revealing too much. Morgans, sensing a story, dug into Olbap's background, unearthing his rise from a nobody to a player in Brackmor's underworld. They struck a partnership—Olbap would feed Morgans chaos, and Morgans would supply information.
The newspaper delivered to Brackmor was the first fruit of that alliance, its headline screaming of a fraudulent alchemist who turned wood into gold, only for the treasures to revert to worthless scraps, crashing island economies. The scam was brilliant, a trick that enriched the alchemist while duping entire populations. Olbap saw genius in the deception, the kind of mind that could perfect Red Tide's formula—pure, potent, unmatched.
This was no ordinary chemist; this was the key to his empire. Others would want this alchemist too—Marines, pirates, rival families. Olbap had to move fast.
"That's the intel on our target," Odoho said, his voice pulling Olbap from his thoughts. He stood by the cabin door, his lean frame steady despite the ship's sway, a folded newspaper in hand. His dark eyes were unreadable, his presence almost ghostly, as if he blended with the shadows.
Olbap nodded, leaning against the helm, the wood cool under his gloved hands. "This one's our new family member—if he earn it." His voice was firm, his gaze fixed on Odoho, who moved with practiced ease to a chair in the captain's cabin, pouring a glass of water from a pitcher. The cabin was sparse but functional, its walls lined with charts and a single lantern swaying with the ship's motion, casting flickering light across the maps.
Odoho took a sip, his movements deliberate. "Olbap, I've never asked—what's my role in the family? Everyone else has a clear job, but me? I'm not sure where I fit." His tone was neutral, but there was a weight to his words, a rare glimpse into the man who operated in silence.
Olbap's lips curled into a faint smile, his eyes glinting with calculation. "You don't see it, do you? I'm the only one who ever seems to notice you, Odoho." He stepped closer, the ship's creak punctuating the silence, the air heavy with the scent of salt and damp wood.
Odoho nodded, setting the glass down, his expression unreadable. "Go on."
"Your ability to fade into the background, to be forgotten—it's not just a trick. It's a weapon. You're the perfect spy, Odoho. I want you to be my shadow." Olbap's voice was low, intense, each word measured to convey the gravity of his offer.
Odoho tilted his head, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. "You mean cover your back? Popeye and Liro already do that."
"They do, and I'm grateful," Olbap said, leaning forward, his hands clasped. "But this is different. We're family, yes, but even in a family, your worst enemy can be the one closest to you. A betrayal you don't see coming can end everything. As the head of the Rabocse Family, I can't afford to distrust my own, but I can't be blind either." His voice hardened, the weight of leadership pressing down, the sea's roar outside mirroring the storm in his words.
Odoho's gaze sharpened, piecing it together. "You want me to spy on the family itself. To be your shadow within our ranks."
"Bingo," Olbap said, his smile sharp but not unkind. "It sounds cold, but you're different, Odoho. You surprise me—your decisions, your moves. I can't read you, and that's a rare blow to my intellect. That's why you're perfect for this. I trust our current family—Popeye, Liro, Anna, Vanessa—they're loyal to the bone. But as Red Tide grows, new faces will join. Some will be rats, hiding in plain sight. You're the only one who can spot them, root them out before they strike. Not even I can do that." His eyes locked onto Odoho's, a challenge and a plea woven together, the cabin's lantern casting stark shadows across their faces.
Odoho was silent, his expression a mask, his thoughts impenetrable. Olbap waited, the ship's sway and the distant crash of waves the only sounds. He knew Odoho's mind was a labyrinth, his actions unpredictable, which made him ideal for this role. The current family was solid, but expansion brought risks—ambition, greed, betrayal. Odoho's unique ability to vanish, to observe without being seen, was the shield Olbap needed.
Finally, Odoho stood, his movements fluid, and knelt before Olbap, his head bowed. "If you put it that way, it makes sense. I'll accept the role. I'll be your shadow, watching the family, guarding us from within." His voice was steady, his loyalty sealed in the gesture, the weight of the vow settling between them.
Two days later
the ship docked at Chark Island, its snowy peaks piercing the clouds, a stark contrast to Brackmor's humid swamps. Stepping onto solid ground was a relief, the crunch of snow under Olbap's shoes grounding him after days at sea. The air was crisp, biting, carrying the scent of pine and frost. The island, part of the World Government's domain, thrived under the name Kingdom of Roshwan, its original title lost to time under the king's decree.
High, white-capped mountains loomed, their slopes glistening under the sun, while the town below was a marvel of resilience: streets paved with clean, white stone, wooden houses with domed roofs reinforced against heavy snow, their chimneys puffing smoke into the frigid air. The citizens moved with purpose, clad in simple shirts but draped in fur-lined coats—wolf, bear, or fox—to ward off the cold. Hypothermia was a constant threat, but the people were hardy, their faces weathered but warm.
Olbap felt a strange familiarity. He'd never visited Russia in his past life, but dealings with Russian guns dealers had painted vivid pictures: onion-domed architecture, endless snow, men who wrestled bears for sport.
Roshwan was Russia answer to this world, a frozen kingdom where strength and survival went hand in hand. He hoped the locals weren't as mad as those old stories—fighting beasts half-naked in blizzards. His white suit was layered under a thick black overcoat, its weight comforting against the chill. Odoho, at his side, wore a sleek black suit with gray pinstripes, a matching gray tie, and an identical open-backed overcoat. They looked like men of means, their presence except Odoho drawing curious glances from passersby.
They found a tavern-inn, its wooden beams warm with the glow of a roaring fireplace, the air rich with the scent of fish stew and spiced ale. They rented a room for their stay, its walls lined with fur pelts, a small stove crackling in the corner.
Olbap knew information flowed freely at night, in taverns where loose tongues and strong drink loosened secrets. They settled at a table, the wood scarred from years of use, and a wiry waiter approached, offering the day's fare: fish soup and local beer. Olbap grimaced at the beer—too bitter for his taste—but flashed a wad of Berries, enough to make the man's eyes widen. "Bring me your best," Olbap said, his voice smooth but commanding.
The waiter returned with a bottle of Severnaya gora, the island's signature spirit, its clear liquid gleaming in a crystal decanter. Olbap poured a glass, the Severnaya gora sharp scent cutting through the tavern's smoky warmth. It reminded him of Vodka in his past life—vodka was potent, a burn he respected but rarely indulged. Wine was his preference, elegant and refined, but this would do. He and Odoho savored the hot soup, its broth rich with herbs and fish, the Severnaya gora warming their cores against the mountain chill. The tavern buzzed with conversation, locals trading stories of bounties and Marine patrols, the clink of mugs a steady rhythm.
As night fell, the snow outside thickened, muffling the world in white silence. Olbap and Odoho split up to cover more ground, each heading to a different tavern to gather intel. Olbap slipped into a livelier den, its air thick with pipe smoke and the tang of spilled spirits. The crowd was rowdy—sailors, merchants, off-duty Marines—their voices loud, their secrets ripe for the picking. He ordered another Montaña del Norte, nursing it slowly, his ears attuned to every word, his mind sifting for any mention of the alchemist.
Across the island, in a shadowed alley where the moon's light couldn't penetrate, two figures met under the faint glow of a cigarette's ember. The smoke curled upward, mixing with the frost in the air, the ground crunching under their boots.
"You're sure he's on the island, and you want more money for the job?" one figure asked, his voice low, cloaked in a heavy fur coat, his face hidden by a hat.
"I've sunk too much time tracking him," the other said, exhaling smoke, the cigarette's tip flaring red. "I could've turned in pirates with fat bounties and made more than your pay."
"Fine," the Hat man growled, his gloved hand tightening. "But I want him alive. I need to face him myself. Five million Berries for the whole job—deal?"
The smoker grinned, flicking ash into the snow. "I like it. Five million, and he's mine. This time, he doesn't slip away." He turned, melting into the darkness, his footsteps silent on the frozen ground.
End of the chapter.