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Rubber Island sat on the far eastern edge of the East Blue. The island was blanketed with rubber trees, and most of its population earned their livelihood from harvesting and selling raw rubber.
At its center lay Graytown, a bustling settlement home to several large lumber and rubber processing factories.
Naturally, with so much commerce passing through, especially along the crowded East Market, entertainment flourished most notably, the local casino.
After Scar's pirate crew was wiped out, the remaining thugs on the island couldn't hold onto the casino. Especially not with the vaults full and security weakened, making it a target for opportunists drunk on greed.
Two days after Scar disappeared, the casino shut its iron gates. The three-story establishment, usually booming with noise, fell silent. Closed. Still.
But that didn't stop the crowds from gathering.
Some loitered outside hoping to win big the moment it reopened. Others eyed the place like hungry wolves, waiting for a chance to rob it blind.
For two full days, nothing happened. Just rumors.
Then, on the third day, the doors opened.
Gamblers flooded in, some desperate, others thrilled, convinced today would be their lucky break. Most left broke, escorted out by security with a bruised ego and lighter pockets.
"I almost had it," muttered one, staggering out. "Tomorrow… I'll win it all back."
That was how it always began.
The casino lets you taste a bit of luck just enough to hook you. Then, you start betting more. Losing more. Chasing losses until you're ruined.
Some gamblers were smart. A few knew when to quit.
Most weren't.
For many, this wasn't just a casino. It was their last hope. And when they couldn't pay their debts?
They sold whatever they had.
Weapons. Information. Women. Even their lives.
Scar had used this place as a recruiting ground. People who lost everything here were easy to convert into loyal pirates.
He gave them fake hope in their misery.
That night, the casino was back in full swing.
The first and second floors were packed shoulder to shoulder with desperate men, dice-throwers, card sharks, and shouting dealers. Only the third floor remained closed off and reserved for VIPs.
Smoke clouded the air. Shouts rose with every roll of the dice. Security patrolled the floors, weapons visible, eyes sharp.
Some guards even wore bandages fresh wounds from recent fights.
Outside, four burly men stood watch with flintlock pistols holstered openly at their sides.
Why didn't the Navy crackdown on illegal firearms?
Simple: they didn't care.
The Marines were there to fight pirates not enforce local laws.
Rubber Island fell under the control of the Kingdom of Gregor, one of the World Government's member nations. With a population of over seven million spread across four islands, the kingdom was ruled by an aging king, Gregor Mance a sixty-year-old monarch without an heir.
He had other priorities.
Like making one.
As long as taxes were paid to the World Government, King Gregor didn't care what happened on his islands. Firearms, crime, corruption it wasn't his problem.
The World Government didn't mind either. As long as heavenly tribute gold paid to the Celestial Dragons kept flowing, they wouldn't interfere.
If things ever did go too far?
The Navy would step in.
Eventually.
That's how the world worked.
As long as order was maintained on paper, no one cared who controlled the streets.
Even if the casino was run by pirates.
Unless someone powerful enough to topple a kingdom came along and silently replaced the king, no one would touch them.
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Midnight.
The casino began closing up.
Guards ushered out drunk gamblers, and the floor emptied.
That's when they struck.
A gang of armed robbers, eyes gleaming with hunger, burst from the alleys.
Dozens of them, wielding long blades, surged toward the front door.
The guards tensed, startled. One immediately pulled a mini Den Den Mushi from his pocket.
Brrrrrring…
"Boss! We've got a problem. Armed attackers outside!"
"Where?"
"Front entrance. At least twenty of them!"
"Got it."
Within seconds, backup spilled out of the building, and fifteen more fighters lined up at the entrance, facing down the attackers.
At the front stood a squat man with a wild, mocking grin Bugsy.
He sneered at the defenders.
"Scar's dead. You really think the rest of you can stop us now?" he called. "Step aside, and we'll walk in, take what's ours, and leave. Easy."
The lead guard, Dylan, growled.
"I thought I smelled something short and stupid. Bugsy, you little rat. Forget what happened last time? You were crawling out from under the captain's boot like a beaten dog."
Bugsy's face flushed with rage.
A year ago, he'd tried this stunt only to be personally beaten down by Scar. His entire crew was flattened. He alone had survived, crawling away in disgrace.
That humiliation had cost him everything. His reputation. His crew.
But tonight?
He was back.
And ready.
He tossed his blade to the ground.
Behind him, two thugs stepped forward, carrying a massive warhammer.
It took both of them just to lift it.
Bugsy stepped forward, one hand extended.
And slowly, almost casually…
He lifted the Warhammer over his head.
Alone.
Muscles rippling under his shirt.
Veins bulging.
His goons stepped back.
The crowd fell silent.
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