"What's this fool thinking?" Piercro fumed, slamming the newspaper. "He could be a VIP anywhere, but he wastes time on lowlifes. Where'd Feld find such a mule-headed guy?"
Orlan's work didn't just irk Piercro—it threatened him. Prosthetics weren't new; the Grand Line's diverse islands birthed varied tech, from primitive to industrial. With enough coin, high-tech limbs were attainable. But Orlan slashed prices, making prosthetics affordable for common folk, undercutting Piercro's organ trafficking empire.
Piercro's business—killing, harvesting, storing, and shipping—couldn't compete with Orlan's effortless, high-performance assemblies, free of rejection risks. Worse, Orlan's artificial limbs carried no moral stain. He could hawk them openly, even leaflet Navy branches, while Piercro's dealings thrived in shadows. If Orlan's tech spread, Piercro's trade would collapse.
"Feld's spending big," Piercro growled. "Bribing Umit to whitewash his name."
Umit's shipping and Feld's usury could masquerade as legitimate business. Piercro's murder and organ rackets couldn't. The World Government, guarding its image, cloaked its actions in "justice." Piercro lacked the clout to secure their blessing, unlike Germa's peak. Time wasn't on his side.
"Sidilir Orlan, you're begging for death," he snarled, plotting to lead the hunt himself. His base wasn't far from Orlan's island, a secret Feld didn't know. In the underworld, hideouts stayed hidden.
As Piercro mobilized assassins, Orlan prepped a public surgery, broadcast live via reporters. Prosthetics needed a face—a sympathetic figure with fame. Feld chose Mitt, a small-town sheriff who lost his right arm and suffered lung wounds shielding townsfolk from pirates months ago. The story, briefly celebrated by the World Government for propaganda, faded when his pension vanished into bureaucratic voids.
Feld wove Mitt's tale into Orlan's campaign. The MADS operating room hummed with disinfectant and cold metal, tension thick. Mitt lay pale, sweat beading, eyes shadowed by exhaustion and nerves. His bandaged stump, freshly uncovered, revealed raw scars from his brutal fight.
"Mitt, relax," Orlan said, calm. "We've gone over the plan. I'll replace your lungs and fit a mechanical arm. You're in good shape—post-recovery, you'll move like before."
"Free surgery," Orlan added. "What's to worry about?"
"Metal for flesh… never imagined it," Mitt murmured. "My future's in your hands, doctor."
"No patient dies on my table. Start anesthesia."
Unlike Kate's complex heart surgery, this was routine for Orlan. Assistants handled minor tasks. The anesthesiologist, done with the injection, manned the live-feed Den Den Mushi, ensuring Mitt stayed under.
"Arm first," Orlan instructed. "Clear the healed tissue, prep for neural connection."
He wielded a ring, the core of his prosthetic tech, linking nerves for full mobility. If needed, a chip could enhance control. The room fell silent, save for Orlan's commands and equipment hums, all broadcast via Den Den Mushi to screens worldwide.
In a West Sea medical school, a professor addressed students: "Watch closely! This is the Iber Medical Prize nominee, advancing medicine epically! Hogback, you're not the only genius out there!"
Hogback, a chubby 12-year-old who'd performed surgeries solo, scoffed inwardly. He saw profit in Orlan's tech, not superiority, already calculating its wealth potential.
But the Navy watched closest. Spanning all seas and the Grand Line, their troops faced high disability rates. Their own scientists prioritized elite needs, not common soldiers. Pensions, new recruits, and reassigning veterans were cheaper than custom prosthetics. Now, Orlan's tech offered a new path, catching their keen interest.
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