The port town, once a place of anonymity and confusion, was now a map of assets and liabilities in Arima's mind. The sloop, now docked at a less frequented pier, was their temporary base. The two thugs, whom he'd started calling 'Lefty' and 'Stumps' in the privacy of his own thoughts after their unfortunate encounters, were a nervous but effective presence. They handled the grunt work—hauling supplies, guarding the ship, and most importantly, ferrying messages.
Arima stood in the cramped cabin, the Collector's ledger open before him. The lamplight flickered, casting long shadows across the pages, which were filled with the cold, neat script of a meticulous sociopath. Each entry was a human life reduced to a line item, a commodity to be bought and sold. It made the Yakuza's business dealings look like charity work.
"Show me," Arima thought, focusing on the book.
A new overlay appeared in his mind, names and locations from the ledger highlighted and linked to information from the Codex. He scanned the list, ignoring the small fry, looking for the big fish. His target wasn't just money; it was liquid, untraceable power. And the ledger pointed him directly at it.
"Malone," he said, not looking up from the book.
The snivelling man, who had been trying to make himself invisible in the corner, flinched. "Y-yes, boss?"
"This 'Black Market Den' you mentioned," Arima said, tapping a page. "The one run by a 'Feng'. Where is it?"
Gills' face went even paler. "F-Feng? Boss, that's... that's not a place. That's a person. Madame Feng. She runs the island's underworld. Not the street gangs, not the smugglers. The real stuff. Information, contraband, assassinations. She's... she doesn't have a shop. She has a network. She operates out of the 'Golden Lily' teahouse in the upper district."
Arima looked at the ledger entry Madame Feng. It listed the purchase of several rare poisons and a large quantity of uncut diamonds. "She pays well, I see."
"She deals with the kind of people who can afford her services," Gills whispered, as if afraid Feng herself could hear him. "She's untouchable. Even the Marines leave her alone. Her teahouse is neutral ground. A place where pirates can sit with bounty hunters, and no one draws a weapon."
A perfect place to get information and sell priceless, government-only contraband, Arima thought. He closed the ledger with a snap that made Gills jump. "Stumps!" he yelled towards the deck. "Get in here!"
The door creaked open and Stumps, the man with the bandaged hand, shuffled in, his face a picture of abject terror. "Boss?"
"You and Lefty are going on a shopping trip," Arima said, tossing him a small, heavy pouch from the inventory. It contained a hundred thousand Berry, a pittance compared to the wealth he now held, but more than enough to buy some new clothes and blend in. "Go to the market. Buy some clothes that don't scream 'failed pirate.' Find a clothier who knows how to keep his mouth shut. I want two sets. One for me, one for Takeshi. Something respectable but practical. Dark colors. Good quality."
He then picked up one of the lead-lined boxes from the inventory. The weight was substantial. He opened it, revealing the milky-white stones within. He selected a single, fist-sized Sea Prism Stone, its cool, light-absorbing surface an almost tangible void. He tossed it to Gills, who fumbled it with a yelp, the rock clattering to the floorboards.
"Your life depends on this," Arima said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. "You will go to the Golden Lily teahouse. You will not talk to anyone but Madame Feng. You will offer her this as a gift. A token of respect. Then you will inquire about her rates for appraising and... liquidating... certain unique assets. Do not mention my name. Do not mention the Collector. Tell her you are representing a new, private investor who is looking to enter the market. Do you understand?"
Gills stared at the stone on the floor, then at Arima, his piggy eyes wide with a mixture of greed and sheer, unadulterated terror. "Yes... yes, boss. I understand."
"Good," Arima said. "Stumps, go with him. Make sure he doesn't get any stupid ideas. If he tries to run, or sell that rock, or say the wrong word... kill him. Bring the stone back to me. I'll be waiting."
He turned and left the cabin, leaving Gills and Stumps in a stew of fear and ambition. Takeshi was standing on the pier, looking out at the dark water, the lean lines of his silhouette a stark contrast to the hulking, ghostly form of the Queen Anne's Revenge in the dry dock behind him. The setting sun painted the sky in shades of orange and purple, a beautiful, bloody canvas.
"I've sent our errand boy to make contact," Arima said, coming to stand beside him. "He'll be back."
"Madame Feng is not a woman to be trifled with," Takeshi said, not looking at him. "She is the spider at the center of this island's web. She will see through Gills Malone in an instant. But she will also see the stone. And her curiosity will outweigh her caution. She will agree to a meeting."
"I'm counting on it," Arima said. "I need to turn that rock into a crew, and this ledger," he tapped his head, "into a fleet. What do you know about 'Iron-Fist' Rorkaan?"
Takeshi was silent for a moment, the only sound the distant cry of gulls and the gentle lapping of the water against the pier. "He is a captain of the 'Dreadwake' pirates. A small but infamous crew operating out of the Grand Line. He is a brute, as you said. A Goru-Goru no Mi user. A Mythical Zoan. He can turn parts, or all, of his body into living rock, granting him immense strength and durability. He is not a swordsman. He is a brawler. A hammer. He will smash what he cannot break."
"A Zoan," Arima mused, the term familiar from the Codex. Another type of Devil Fruit power. Another monster. It seemed this world was full of them. "Good. I prefer a challenge."
"He also has a crew of hardened veterans," Takeshi continued, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "Men loyal to him out of fear, not respect. They are not the rabble you faced in the cave. They are Grand Line veterans. They will be a significant threat, even for you."
"They are a problem for another day," Arima said, his mind already on the task at hand. "First, we get the ship. Then we get the woman. Then we deal with the hammer."
As the last light of day bled from the sky, the new clothes arrived. Lefty returned, breathless and pale, dropping the packages on the deck before scurrying back to the sloop like a mouse fleeing a hawk. The clothes were simple but well-made, just as he'd ordered. Dark, high-collared coat, sturdy trousers, and a pair of black leather boots that fit as if they'd been made for him. He changed, the rough fabric of the pirate's clothes a stark contrast to the smooth, tailored feel of the new ones. He looked at himself in a piece of polished metal he'd found in the sloop's cabin. The reflection was of a different man. No longer a lost, desperate castaway, but a predator in his prime, the dark coat a stark frame for the intricate, snaking patterns of the Yakuza tattoos that covered his muscular arms and chest.
Takeshi also changed, the simple, dark garments fitting him like a second skin, accentuating the lean, dangerous lines of his body. He looked less like a wandering ronin and more like the enforcer he was, a coiled spring of lethal potential.
An hour later, as the town settled into the quiet of the night, a lone figure emerged from the alleyway near the pier. It was Stumps. He moved with a stiff, nervous gait, his face a mask of exhaustion and relief. He was carrying a small, lacquered box and a sealed envelope.
"She... she agreed to a meeting," Stumps stammered, holding out the items to Arima. "Tomorrow. An hour after noon. The Golden Lily. Just you. No weapons."
Arima took the box and the envelope. The box was empty. The stone had been accepted as a down payment. The envelope contained an invitation, written on fine, perfumed paper. The script was elegant, a delicate, feminine hand that was at odds with the brutal business it represented.
"She also sends a message," Stumps added, his voice trembling. "She said, 'A gift is a conversation. Be prepared to speak plainly when you arrive.'"
Arima grunted. A warning and a test. He liked this Madame Feng already. She was a professional. "You did well, Stumps. Get some rest. You and Lefty will be on call tomorrow."
He gave the invitation to Takeshi, who read it with a neutral expression. "A meeting on neutral ground, alone. She is testing you. She wants to see the man behind the stone."
"I'll give her a show," Arima said, a cold glint in his eyes.
The next day, he walked through the upper district of the port town, a world away from the grimy docks and the rowdy taverns. The air was cleaner, the streets wider, and the houses were grand, with well-tended gardens and ornate gates. The Observation Haki was a constant, low-level hum, a chorus of calm, confident auras. The people here were not desperate or afraid. They were comfortable, secure in their wealth and power, and oblivious to the violence that churned in the darker corners of their world.
The Golden Lily teahouse was a masterpiece of understated elegance. It was a traditional-style building, with a tiled roof, wooden lattice windows, and a small, meticulously raked gravel garden. A simple wooden sign, with the teahouse's name written in elegant calligraphy, hung over the entrance. There were no guards, no visible security. The threat was implied, a silent, suffocating pressure that was more intimidating than any dozen armed thugs.
Arima pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air was thick with the smell of expensive tea and incense, a delicate, calming aroma that did little to soothe the predatory energy that thrummed through him. The main room was a serene, harmonious space, with polished wooden floors, paper screens, and low tables where patrons sat in quiet conversation. They were an eclectic mix: grizzled pirate captains with bounties on their heads, impeccably dressed brokers with cold, calculating eyes, and even a few Marines in plain clothes, their auras a tense, nervous hum of duty and desire.
He felt their eyes on him as he entered, a silent, curious scrutiny that was more piercing than any physical glare. They were sizing him up, trying to place him, to understand the nature of the new beast that had entered their territory. He met their gazes with a calm, unreadable expression, a predator moving through a pack of wary jackals.
A young woman, dressed in a simple, elegant kimono, approached him and bowed. "Welcome to the Golden Lily. Madame Feng is expecting you. Please, follow me."
She led him through a series of sliding paper doors, down a narrow hallway, and into a small, private room. It was sparsely furnished, with a single, low table and two silk cushions. A woman was sitting on one of the cushions, her back to the door. She was playing a koto, the strings emitting a series of melancholic, haunting notes that seemed to resonate with the soul.
She was slender, with a long, graceful neck and delicate, aristocratic hands. Her hair was a cascade of black silk, pinned up with a single, jade hairpin. She did not turn around as he entered, but he could feel her awareness of him, a cool, analytical touch of her Haki that was a subtle probe, a feather-light caress compared to Takeshi's needle point. He let it wash over him, revealing nothing but the calm, centered confidence of a man who knew his own worth.
The song ended, the last note hanging in the air like a ghost. She placed her hands in her lap and slowly turned around. Her face was a masterpiece of cold, classical beauty, with high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that were a pale, startling grey, like a winter sky before a storm. She was older than she appeared, her beauty a mask of perfect, ageless control. This was Madame Feng.
"Arima Koujiro," she said, her voice a low, musical purr that was as dangerous as it was alluring. "Please, sit."
Arima sat opposite her, the Sword of Triton a reassuring, heavy absence at his hip. He had come unarmed, as requested, but he was never truly without a weapon. The Sea Prism stone, cool and solid in an inner pocket of his new coat, was a silent promise of retribution.
"The stone you sent was a conversation starter," Feng continued, pouring him a cup of tea from a small, earthenware pot. The steam rose in a delicate, fragrant cloud. "It speaks of a certain... audacity. A willingness to acquire assets that are not for sale. I find that... intriguing."
"I'm a man of action, not words," Arima replied, accepting the cup. He didn't drink. He simply held it, feeling the warmth seep into his hands. "I have assets. I need capital. And I need a crew. You're the one who provides such services."
Feng's lips curved into a small, humorless smile. "I provide a great many things. Information is my primary trade. Liquidation is a... sideline. One I reserve for special clients. Your little errand boy, Malone, is a rat. But even rats can occasionally lead one to cheese. The question is, are you the cheese, or are you just the trap?"
"I'm the one who sets the traps," Arima said, his voice a low growl. He slid the Collector's ledger across the table. It was a calculated risk, showing her this much, but he was betting on her greed outweighing her caution. "This is the cheese."
Feng's eyes, those pale, winter-sky eyes, flickered down at the ledger. She made no move to touch it. "I am familiar with the Collector's... hobbies. His death, or rather, the dismantling of his operation, has caused a significant power vacuum on this island. A vacuum that I am currently in the process of... filling. This ledger is a piece of a larger puzzle. A valuable piece, I admit."
She picked up her own cup, her movements fluid and graceful. "You claim to have assets. Beyond a single stone. Show me."
Arima didn't hesitate. He reached into an inner pocket of his coat, but instead of a weapon, he withdrew a single, perfectly formed Sea Prism bullet. He had commissioned it from the shop this morning, using some of the smaller stones and a hefty sum of Berry. It was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, a sliver of anti-magic wrapped in lead. He placed it on the table, the polished surface gleaming in the soft light of the room.
Feng's gaze sharpened. She didn't touch it, but she leaned forward slightly, a flicker of something—genuine interest, perhaps even surprise—in her otherwise placid expression. "A bullet. An expensive one. You are not just a scavenger. You are a producer."
"I have a box full of these," Arima stated flatly. "And the raw material to make more. I also have other… curiosities." He didn't mention the lead-lined box in his inventory, the one containing the bulk of the stones, or the other treasures from Teach's cache. He was showing her the tip of the iceberg, enough to whet her appetite without giving away the entire prize.
"And you want to turn these rocks into a warship and a crew," Feng concluded, her lips curving into that same, enigmatic smile. "Ambitious. Foolish, perhaps. But ambition is a currency I understand." She finally picked up the ledger, her fingers tracing the lines of script with a delicate, almost reverent touch. "This book is a list of the island's debts. Every name in here owes someone something. Many of them owe me."
She closed the book and pushed it back towards him. "I will liquidate your assets for you. My fee is twenty percent. I will also provide you with a crew. Not Gills Malone's cowardly refuse. I have contacts. Former Marines dishonorably discharged, disgraced bounty hunters, skilled mercenaries who need to disappear. Men who are loyal to a paycheck, and nothing more. They will follow you as long as you pay them, and they will die for you if the price is right. They are expensive, but they are effective."
As for the ship," she continued, her gaze shifting towards the general direction of the shipyard. "Silas is a craftsman, but he is an old dog who can only learn new tricks if you beat him with a stick of Adam Wood. For that, you need to go to the source. My network can source it for you, but the price is... prohibitive. However," she paused, taking a delicate sip of her tea, "I have an alternative proposition. A job. A high-risk, high-reward endeavor. If you succeed, not only will I source your Adam Wood at a… significant discount, but I will also provide you with the names of three buyers for your Sea Prism Stones. Buyers who operate on a level far beyond this backwater island."
Arima leaned forward, his interest piqued. "I'm listening."
"The Marine fortress on the neighboring island, 'G-8'," she said, her tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It is a supply depot for this entire region. They are expecting a shipment next week. A shipment of 'rehabilitation supplies'. A coded term for Sea Prism Stone restraints. Not raw material, but finished, high-grade shackles and chains. The kind used to transport high-profile Devil Fruit users to Impel Down. The entire shipment is valued at over three hundred million Berry. It is heavily guarded, but it is a convoy, not a fortress. It is a target."
She slid a small, rolled-up piece of parchment across the table. "This is the estimated route, the convoy composition, and the patrol schedule. The information is solid, but it is also expensive. Consider it an investment. Steal that convoy, and you will have enough capital to fund your ambitions for a long, long time. And you will have my undivided attention as a business partner."
Arima unrolled the parchment. It was a detailed naval chart, with the convoy's path marked in red ink. The notes in the margins were precise and concise, detailing the number of ships, the types of guards, and the timings of the patrol shifts. It was a professional's work, a blueprint for a heist.
"Why me?" he asked, looking up at her. "You have an army of skilled men. You could do this yourself."
Feng's lips curved into a genuine, appreciative smile. "Because I have a reputation to maintain. A certain... deniability. You, on the other hand, are a ghost. A new player with no history, no allegiances. If you succeed, it's a windfall for me with no risk. If you fail, you are a dead outlaw who overreached. My hands remain clean. It is the perfect arrangement."
A cold, hard respect began to form in Arima's gut. She was a true master of the game, a queen who moved her pieces on a board that spanned the entire world. He was her knight, a piece to be used and discarded, but a powerful one, and for now, their goals aligned.
"I'll need a ship," he said, his mind already racing, the gears of his Yakuza-trained strategic mind turning, calculating odds, exploiting weaknesses. "The sloop is a bathtub. It won't survive a single cannon volley."
"The sloop is for rats," Feng said dismissively. "For this job, you will need a proper wolf. I have just the thing. A brigantine, fast and well-armed. The Sea Serpent. It was a pirate vessel, but the captain and his crew had an... unfortunate accident. It is currently moored at a private dock on the south side of the island, under my protection. The keys will be waiting for you, as will a small, advance crew. Former Marines, as I promised. Competent. And expendable."
She stood up, the koto forgotten, the interview over. "My commission is thirty percent of the convoy's total value. Non-negotiable. The rest is yours to do with as you please. Bring me the shackles, and our business partnership will truly begin." She glided towards the paper screen door, her movement as silent as a falling leaf. "I would advise you to leave town immediately. The Collector's... former associates are still looking for the man who burned their house down. And they are not as discerning as I am."
With that, she slid the door shut, leaving him alone in the room with the scent of tea, the silent koto, and the chillingly detailed naval chart. He had three hundred million Berry on the table, a prize that could solve all his problems, and a ticking clock attached to it. He took one last, silent look around the room, then picked up the chart, rolled it up, and walked out.
He found Takeshi waiting for him in a small, quiet park a few blocks from the teahouse. The swordsman was sitting on a stone bench, sharpening his katana with a smooth, rhythmic stroke of a whetstone, the sound a meditative rasp in the peaceful afternoon air. He didn't look up as Arima approached.
"You are alive," Takeshi stated, the words not a question, but a simple observation. "Feng does not grant meetings unless she sees profit or threat. You must have presented her with both."
"She presented me with a job," Arima said, sitting down beside him. He recounted the conversation, the offer, the target: the G-8 convoy. Takeshi listened intently, his strokes never faltering, the silver line of the blade becoming sharper, more lethal with each pass.
"A Marine convoy," Takeshi said, finally looking up, his grey eyes as sharp as the blade he held. "A bold move. A foolish one, if done without preparation. The Marines are not pirates. They are disciplined. They follow orders. They do not break easily."
"They bleed just like anyone else," Arima replied, his gaze fixed on the distant, shimmering sea. "And I have a new toy to test. A way to level the playing field against their Devil Fruit users."
Takeshi's lips quirked into a thin smile. "The Sea Prism Stone. A wise investment. But a stone is only as good as the man who wields it. This 'Sea Serpent'... Feng's gift. It is a test. The crew, her 'former Marines'. They will be her eyes and ears. They will report on you as much as they will fight for you."
"I know," Arima said. "I'll deal with them if they become a problem. For now, they're a means to an end. A way to get to Sabaody. A way to get to Rorkaan."
Takeshi was silent for a long moment, the only sound the gentle rustle of leaves in the park. "You have a plan," he said. It was not a question.
"I have the beginning of one," Arima admitted. "Feng gave me the 'what' and the 'where'. I need to figure out the 'how'. I need to see the ship. I need to see the crew. I need to know what I'm working with."
"Then we should not keep her waiting," Takeshi said, rising to his feet in a single, fluid motion. He sheathed his katana with a soft click, the sound a final, decisive note.