The sloop sailed back towards the port, the wind at its back, the sun now fully risen, casting a bright, golden light across the water. The atmosphere on board was tense, the two thugs moving with a quiet, efficient terror, their eyes constantly darting towards Arima, who stood at the helm, a grim, determined look on his face.
"I'm not doing it for him," Arima replied, his mental voice sharp. "I'm doing it for me. I didn't like that auction house. It was a rot in this town, a weakness. And I don't tolerate weakness."
He was a Yakuza. He understood the importance of strength, of respect, of maintaining order, even if it was a brutal, criminal order. Slavery was not a business; it was a sickness. It was the kind of thing that attracted the wrong kind of attention, the kind of attention he couldn't afford right now, not with the treasure he was carrying.
"Besides," he added, a cold glint in his eyes, "I need to establish my reputation on this island. What better way to do that than by taking out the slavers and freeing their 'merchandise'? It sends a message."
"I'm aware," Arima said, turning the wheel and bringing the sloop into the bustling port. "We'll find the auction house. We'll get the information. And then we'll burn it to the ground."
He found a secluded spot to anchor the sloop, away from the main docks, and turned to the two thugs. "You two, stay here. Guard the ship. If anyone comes near, you know what to do."
The men nodded, their faces pale but resolute. They were scared of him, but they were also starting to see a kind of brutal logic in his actions, a path to survival in this new, terrifying world.
Arima went below deck and found Gills Malone huddled in a corner, his face a mask of terror. "Please," he whimpered as soon as he saw Arima. "I've told you everything. Everything I know."
"Not quite," Arima said, his voice a low growl. "You're going to tell me about the slavers. The auction house. Who runs it? How many men do they have? What's their security like?"
"I... I don't know much," Gills stammered. "They're a separate operation. Powerful. They keep to themselves. Their leader... they call him 'The Collector'."
"The Collector," Arima repeated, the name leaving a bad taste in his mouth. "Where can I find him?"
"He's always at the auction house," Gills said, his eyes darting around the cabin, looking for an escape. "It's the big building on the east side of town. The one with the iron gates. But you can't just walk in there! They'll kill you!"
"I'll take my chances," Arima said, a cold glint in his eyes. "Now, you're going to be a good little bird and sing me a song about the layout of that place. Every guard post, every secret passage, every weakness. And if I find out you're holding back, I'll personally feed your entrails to the crabs."
The threat worked. Gills, a man whose entire existence was built on cowardice and self-preservation, broke down completely. He told Arima everything he knew, which was quite a lot for a man in his line of business. The auction house was a fortress, a converted warehouse with high walls, reinforced doors, and a contingent of at least twenty well-armed men. The Collector, a man with a penchant for exotic and unusual "specimens," rarely left the building, preferring to conduct his business from the safety of his heavily guarded office on the top floor. The slaves were kept in the basement, in a series of barred cells, and were only brought up for the auctions, which were held twice a week.
It was a daunting target, a seemingly impregnable fortress. But Arima had faced worse odds. He was a Yakuza, a man who built his life on a foundation of calculated risk and brutal efficiency. He had a plan. It was a simple plan, but simplicity was often the most effective tool in his arsenal.
He left Gills Malone locked in the cabin, a whimpering, broken man, and went back on deck. The two thugs were waiting for him, their faces pale with fear. "Get the small boat ready," he ordered. "We're going for a walk."
He gathered his new weapons from the inventory, the cold, heavy weight of the repeating crossbow a familiar comfort in his hands. He loaded it with a dozen bolts, the wickedly sharp points glinting in the sunlight. He also took the two flintlock pistols, tucking them into his belt. He was a walking arsenal, a one-man army, and he was ready for war.
"I'm not going in through the front door," Arima replied, a grim smile on his face. "I'm going in through the roof."
He had noticed a weakness in Gills' description, a flaw in the otherwise perfect security of the auction house. The office on the top floor, the Collector's sanctum sanctorum, had a large skylight window, a concession to the Collector's ego, a way for him to look down on his domain. It was a vulnerability, a chink in the armour, and Arima was going to exploit it.
He left the two thugs on the sloop, their faces a mixture of relief and apprehension, and headed towards the east side of town, the crossbow slung over his shoulder, the Sword of Triton a reassuring weight at his hip. He moved through the crowded streets, a ghost in the throng, his mind a calm, focused centre in the chaos of the port. The Observation Haki was a constant, low-level hum, painting the town in shades of life and intent. He could feel the nervous energy of the street vendors, the avarice of the merchants, the simmering violence of the off-duty pirates. It was a symphony of human emotion, and he was the conductor.
The auction house was just as Gills had described it, a monolithic fortress of brick and iron, a stain on the face of the town. The high walls were topped with razor wire, the heavy iron gates were guarded by two hulking brutes with blunderbusses, and the windows were all barred. It was a place of despair, a monument to human cruelty, and a cold, hard rage began to build in Arima's chest, a familiar fire he hadn't felt since his Yakuza days.
He didn't approach the front gate. He circled the building, sticking to the shadows, looking for a way in. He found it in the form of a narrow alleyway that ran alongside the auction house, a filthy, forgotten space choked with garbage and reeking of decay. The alley ended in a sheer brick wall, but for a man with Arima's strength, it was no obstacle.
He looked up, the sun glinting off the glass of the skylight, a hundred feet above him. It was a daunting climb, a sheer vertical surface with few handholds, but he was no ordinary man. He took a deep breath, focusing his will, and began to climb.
His fingers found purchase in the tiniest of cracks, the toes of his boots gripping the rough brick. He moved with a quiet, practised economy of motion, a spider scaling a wall. The wind tugged at his clothes, the sounds of the town fading away as he ascended, the world shrinking to the simple, focused task of climbing. His enhanced strength made it easier than he had expected, the muscles in his arms and legs burning with a familiar, satisfying ache.
He reached the top, hauling himself onto the flat, tar-papered roof. The skylight was just ahead, a large, rectangular pane of glass set in a metal frame. He crept towards it, his movements silent and deliberate. He could hear the faint, muffled sounds from below, the rumble of voices, the clatter of chains, the dull thud of a hammer on wood.
He peered through the glass. The office was spacious and opulently furnished, a testament to the Collector's wealth and taste. The walls were lined with shelves filled with strange and exotic artefacts: shrunken heads, ancient scrolls, intricately carved ivory tusks. A large, mahogany desk sat in the centre of the room, and behind it, in a high-backed leather chair, sat a man.
He was a tall, gaunt figure, with long, spindly fingers and a face that was a mask of cold, intellectual cruelty. His hair was a shock of silver, pulled back into a tight ponytail, and his eyes, a pale, piercing blue, were fixed on a large, leather-bound book that lay open on his desk. This was The Collector.
Arima could also see two hulking brutes standing guard on either side of the door, their faces impassive, their hands resting on the butts of their pistols. They were big, but they were just muscle, not a real threat. The real threat was the man in the chair.
"He's a dead man," Arima thought, a cold, hard resolve settling over him. He unslung the repeating crossbow, the smooth, cool wood a familiar comfort in his hands. He loaded a bolt, the sharp, wicked point catching the light. He was a predator, and this was his prey.
He took a deep breath, focusing his will, and then he struck. He smashed the butt of the crossbow into the glass, the sound of shattering glass a deafening crash in the quiet of the roof. He didn't wait for the echoes to fade. He jumped through the opening, landing on the plush carpet in a crouch, the crossbow raised and ready.
The two guards were slow to react, their faces a mask of surprise and confusion. They were used to threats coming from the ground floor, not from the ceiling. Arima didn't give them a chance to recover. He fired. The bolt flew through the air, a blur of motion, and buried itself in the throat of the guard on the left. The man gurgled, clutching at the shaft, blood pouring from the wound, then collapsed in a heap.
The other guard fumbled for his pistol, his movements clumsy and panicked. Arima fired again. The bolt caught him in the chest, the impact knocking him backwards, a splash of red staining the pristine white of his shirt. He slumped against the wall, a dead look in his eyes.
The Collector didn't even flinch. He simply looked up from his book, his pale, blue eyes a mask of cold, intellectual curiosity. "Fascinating," he said, his voice a calm, measured baritone. "A rooftop entry. Unorthodox. And quite effective. You must be the man who has been causing such a stir on my island."
Arima stood up, the crossbow still raised, the third bolt aimed at the Collector's heart. "I'm here for the shipwright," he said, his voice a low growl. "A woman named Kairi. Where is she?"
The Collector's lips curved into a thin, humourless smile. "A rescue mission. How... heroic. I'm afraid I can't help you. She is not here."
"I don't believe you," Arima said, his finger tightening on the trigger.
"Believe what you wish," the Collector said, a dismissive wave of his long, spindly fingers. "It changes nothing. The woman is not on the premises. I sold her two days ago. A rather... interesting specimen. A master shipwright with a unique Devil Fruit ability. She fetched a very high price."
A cold, hard anger began to build in Arima's chest, a familiar fire he hadn't felt since his Yakuza days. "Who bought her?"
"That," the Collector said, a smug look on his face, "is privileged information. But I will tell you this. She is on a ship. A very large, very well-armed ship. Headed for the Sabaody Archipelago. She is scheduled to be delivered to a very... discerning client."
Sabaody Archipelago. The name was new to him, but he committed it to memory. It was a lead, a thread he could follow. But for now, he had another problem. The Collector.
"You're a dead man," Arima said, his voice a low growl.
"Am I?" the Collector replied, a flicker of amusement in his pale, blue eyes. "You seem to forget your position. You are a lone man, in a fortress, surrounded by my men."
"You're right," Arima said, a grim smile on his face. "I am a lone man. In a fortress. Surrounded by your men."
With that, he fired the crossbow. The bolt flew through the air, a blur of motion, and went straight through the Collector's shoulder and struck the window behind him, leaving no wound on him. The man, unfazed by the shot, wore a look of calm mockery.
"What the fuck?" was all that came out of the confused Arima's mind. He was so sure the bolt should've struck the collector; he was sure he was aiming correctly, but the bolt passed straight through him as if he were made of smoke.
Before he could process this, the sound of shouting and heavy footsteps erupted from the hallway outside the office. The door burst open, and a dozen of the Collector's guards poured in, their weapons drawn. They were better armed and better trained than the thugs he had dispatched in the cave, their faces a mask of grim determination. They were professionals.
Arima didn't hesitate. He dropped the crossbow and drew the Sword of Triton, the blade humming with a dark, malevolent energy. He moved with a fluid, deadly grace, a whirlwind of steel and fury. The first two guards went down before they could even raise their weapons, the mythical blade slicing through their flesh and bone with an ease that was both terrifying and beautiful. He parried a sword thrust from a third guard, the clang of steel on steel a deafening roar in the small office, then riposted, the point of his sword piercing the man's heart.
He was a force of nature, a one-man army, but he was also trapped. The guards were pouring into the office, a seemingly endless tide of violence, and he was quickly being overwhelmed. He was strong, he was fast, but he was not invincible. A sword slash caught him on the arm, the pain a sharp, white-hot flash, and a bullet grazed his cheek.
Arima grunted, a flicker of understanding cutting through the pain and the chaos. A Logia. He'd read about them in the fragmented data from the Codex. Men who could transform their bodies into the elements, who were immune to conventional attacks. It was a power that defied logic, a power that made a mockery of all his training and experience.
He had to adapt. He had to think. He dodged another sword thrust, the blade whistling past his ear, then kicked the attacker in the chest, sending him flying backwards into the path of his oncoming comrades. He was a master of close-quarters combat, a genius in his field, but he was out of his depth. He was a swordsman in a world of wizards.
The lead-lined box. The priceless, seemingly useless rocks. He had to get to them. He fought with a desperate, renewed ferocity, the Sword of Triton a blur of silver in the dim light of the office. He was a whirlwind of destruction, a force of nature, but he was also a target, a magnet for the guards' attacks. Another sword slash caught him on the back, the pain a sharp, white-hot flash, and a bullet grazed his thigh.
He ignored the pain, the adrenaline surging through his veins, a familiar, welcome rush. He fought his way towards the door, his movements a fluid, deadly dance of parries and thrusts. He was a one-man army, but he was also a man on a mission. He had to get out of this office, had to find a moment to breathe, to think, to access his inventory.
He reached the door and burst out into the hallway, the guards close behind him. The hallway was a long, narrow corridor, lined with more guards, their weapons drawn. He was trapped, a cornered rat in a maze of steel and fury.
He looked up and saw it. A chandelier. A large, ornate monstrosity of crystal and brass, hanging from the ceiling. It was a desperate, reckless idea, but it was the only one he had.
He took a deep breath, focusing his will, and then he jumped. He kicked off the wall, launching himself into the air, the Sword of Triton a blur of motion. He sliced through the chain that held the chandelier, the heavy fixture crashing to the floor with a deafening roar, a shower of crystal and brass raining down on the guards.
He landed in a crouch, the impact sending a jolt through his body, the wounds on his arm, back, and thigh screaming in protest. He was a mess, a bloody, broken thing, but he was still alive. And he was still fighting.
He took advantage of the chaos, the guards' confusion and panic, and ran. He ran down the hallway, the sounds of shouting and gunfire echoing behind him. He ran for the stairs, the only way out, the only way to find a moment of peace, a moment to access the inventory.
He found the stairs and took them two at a time, his movements a clumsy, desperate lurch. He was a wounded animal, but he was a predator, and he was not going to die in this place, not like this, not without a fight.