Inside the Swamp
"How long do I have to lug this cart full of crates?" Popeye grumbled, shirtless and dripping sweat, pushing a creaking wheelbarrow through the swamp's clinging muck.
"We're almost there—look, that's the spot," I said, pointing ahead.
This was the key location, a place I'd noticed never sprouted Crimson Blooms. At first, I thought the flowers popped up randomly, but they only thrived in the swamp's wettest patches. Here, the sun blazed down, making it a perfect basking ground for cold-blooded crocs that needed heat to thrive.
I'd also figured out the Crimson Blooms were invasive, spreading like wildfire. That's why they never ran out, no matter how many crates we filled.
"Now what?" Popeye asked, gulping from his canteen.
"We're setting up a lure to draw every carnivore in the swamp—or damn near all of 'em. That'll clear the way for the workers to harvest more flowers with less risk, which means more crates, more coin," I told him. Popeye, looking less winded now, nodded.
"So that's why we blew all our savings on rotten meat and barrels of blood? To pull the crocs here?" he asked, piecing it together.
"Exactly. See? You're starting to use that head for more than just taking up space," I said with a grin. "Might not work, but I'm betting those crocs won't pass up a juicy meal."
We got to work, spreading chunks of rancid meat around the clearing and dumping blood from the barrels. By the time we were done, the place looked like a slaughterhouse—gory scraps strewn everywhere, crimson pools soaking into the dirt. Perfect.
Last time a croc chased us, we were ready. We'd dropped chunks of meat along our path, and it took the bait, giving us ten minutes to lose it. Now, from a safe distance, we watched through a spyglass. Sure enough, minutes later, crocs the size of small houses slunk in, their camouflaged scales blending with the swamp as they tore into the meat, then sprawled out to sunbathe, bellies full.
Checking my watch, I figured this gave the workers today and tomorrow until nightfall to harvest safely. After that, they'd need luck. I didn't have the cash to keep the crocs distracted for weeks.
"Let's go. We've helped enough," I said, and we headed out.
Swamp, Crimson Bloom Zone
Perched in the trees, two women scanned for flowers. Their suits were slashed in places, but both seemed unharmed, their movements cautious but practiced.
"Anna, why'd we take this job? We could be back at the tavern, fleecing drunks with our looks—easy money," said the red-haired woman, her sharp eyes glinting with a wild edge that only made her more striking.
"Vanessa, you really want to keep living off drunks who might kill us—or worse—one bad night?" Anna shot back, her gaze fixed on the swamp ahead. If it was that easy, you know how many girls vanish on this island? How many have to sell themselves just to eat? We've been lucky so far, and you know why we need this money," Anna said, spotting a group of workers trudging through the distance.
Vanessa sighed, shoulders slumping. "You're right. But I hate this place."
Anna nodded but stayed silent. When the workers vanished into the trees, the women dropped down, landing lightly in the mud. They moved carefully, eyes peeled for carnivorous plants or hidden snakes, and soon found a patch of Crimson Blooms, their blood-red petals glowing under the sun. Each slung a crate onto their back and started harvesting, slicing stems with precision.
A loud crack echoed through the swamp. Both froze, Vanessa drawing a small knife from her waist. "What was that?" she whispered.
"No idea. Stay sharp," Anna replied, crouching to scan the nearby water. A flash of silver darted through the reeds—a water snake, not an immediate threat, but a reminder the swamp never slept.
"Keep going. We can't waste time," Anna said, resuming work. But a plan was forming in her mind. She'd seen that kid—Olbap, no older than ten by his size and features. If she could earn his trust, maybe they'd pull in bigger money, stay safer. The giant at his side screamed bodyguard, but a kid? Couldn't be that dangerous.
The women kept harvesting, focused but wary.
Three Days Later, with Olbap and Popeye
The old warehouse, grimy and half-abandoned, buzzed with new life. Outside, it looked like a wreck, but inside, Popeye and I had spent our downtime organizing. We'd dragged a decent desk from the junk pile, setting it up for me to run things smoother, like a proper boss.
Dawn was breaking, and Tom and Mot had swung by yesterday, dropping off 35,000 beri with a promise of more if we needed it. Can't lie—holding that much cash had me itching to charter a ship and sail to a new island. But then I snapped back to my real goal. What's 35,000 beri when I could be raking in millions, building an empire?
"Popeye, what do you make of this workers?" I asked, kicking back in my surprisingly comfy chair.
He took a moment, sipping water before answering. "Half of 'em have potential, but they need to understand something. That you're the boss of the flower runs now."
"Same thought. Lucky for us, they'll hand me the chance to show why my rules stick," I said, glancing at the door as footsteps crunched outside.
Three workers approached, each hauling a crate, looking like they'd been through hell—torn suits, faces etched with exhaustion.
"Welcome back. Looks like you found some goodies in the swamp," I said, flashing a half-smile.
"Goodies is an understatement, but we made it. Three crates—3,000 beri, right, boss?" the oldest of the trio asked, hope in his eyes after three days of suffering.
"No need to worry. I make sure my workers gets paid. Nobody works for free," I said, pulling three pouches, each with 1,000 beri, and handing them to Popeye to distribute.
The trio's eyes lit up as they opened the pouches, grins breaking out. In Krakenport, 1,000 beri wasn't pocket change—most have to slaved weeks for that kind of haul.
"Thanks, boss! Got more work, we're in," the older man said, beaming.
"Names?" I asked.
"I'm Kael. This is Liro on my left, Toro on my right," he replied.
"Pleasure, Kael, Liro, Toro. You'll hear about more jobs soon," I said. They nodded, practically bouncing as they left.
More workers trickled in, more than I'd expected. I sent Popeye to tell Tom and Mot we'd need extra cash to cover the payouts. While waiting, I counted heads—40 out of 60 made it back. The other 20? Dead or deserted, probably after failing to snag any flowers.
Popeye returned with the money, and we paid out quick. I'd prepped pouches in advance, so it was simple: hand over a crate, get your beri. Smooth. But, as i said earlier, trouble had to come for it self.
A group of five workers lingered, their intent clear as day. The guy in the middle stepped forward, smirking.
"Me and my buddies were thinking—1,000 per crate ain't enough for what we went through," he said, voice dripping with bravado.
I leaned back in my chair, giving him a half-smile. "Oh? And what do you think you deserve?"
"Hahaha, smarter than you look, Olbap—that's your name, right? I think we deserved the double what what you think." he said, confidence swelling.
I nodded, standing and strolling toward him until I was right in front of him. "That's right. Rabocse Olbap, to you and your pals. Normally, I'd ask your name, but you know what they say—names don't matter to the dead."
Bang.
The warehouse rang with the gunshot. The man crumpled, blood pooling beneath him as his crew froze, eyes wide with terror.
"First bullet I've used, Dare. That was your name, right?" I said coolly. "Popeye, you know what to do. I'll be outside i be waiting for you" I said
I walked toward the door, the remaining four parting like the sea, too stunned to move. As the door swung shut, I blew the smoke from my pistol's barrel and holstered it, catching sight of two women to my right—Vanessa and Anna, by their looks—frozen, clearly spooked at being spotted.
"Enjoy the show?" I asked, voice sharp as a blade.
End of the chapter.