The warehouse door clicked shut behind me, sealing away the metallic tang of blood and the stunned silence of the four survivors inside. I holstered my Flintlock pistol, blowing a lazy puff of smoke from the barrel, the acrid scent.
My eyes, however, were already shifting to the shadows on my right, where two figures huddled like startled deer—women, by the curves of their silhouettes and the faint rustle of their tattered suits. Both with crimson red hair, one with her hair in a roll and the other with a long braid Anna and Vanessa,
If memory served me correctly, from her I caught during the payment, their names fit: sharp, unyielding, like the thorns of the very flowers we'd been harvesting.
Their expressions were priceless: wide eyes reflecting the dying light of the lanterns, mouths slightly agape, frozen in that split-second horror of witnessing raw scene. It wasn't every day a ten-year-old kid—or what looked like one—dropped a man with a single shot and walked away like it was just another chore. I couldn't suppress the grin creeping across my face; it was the kind of smile that said I knew exactly what they were thinking, and it amused me to no end.
"I asked you if you enjoyed the show," I repeated, my voice low and casual, laced with just enough edge to remind them who held the cards. The words hung in the thick air, and I watched as they blinked, shaking off the shock like swimmers surfacing from deep water.
"Boss, I wouldn't exactly call that a show," Anna—replied first, her voice steadying quicker than her sister's. She straightened up, though her hands trembled slightly at her sides, betraying the fear she was trying to bury. Smart girl; she knew better than to show weakness in front of someone like me.
"Oh? Then what would you call it? You're Anna, right?" I asked, stepping closer, my boots crunching softly on the gravel-strewn ground outside the warehouse. The swamp's chorus—frogs croaking in the distance, the occasional splash of some unseen creature—provided a eerie backdrop, making the moment feel even more isolated.
"That's right, boss. I'm Anna, and this is my sister, Vanessa," she said, gesturing toward her left side who finally found her voice but kept it muted, her eyes darting between me and the door. "I'd call it... showing who's in charge."
I nodded slowly, letting the words sink in. She had fire, that one—enough to survive the swamp and whatever else Krakenport threw at her. "Good answer, Anna. You two can head out now. We'll call if there's more work." My tone was dismissive, but not unkind; allies were useful, and these two had potential. Witnesses could be liabilities, but something told me they'd keep their mouths shut after this little demonstration.
The warehouse door groaned open again, spilling a sliver of lantern light onto the path. Popeye emerged, his colossal frame blocking most of the glow, wiping fresh blood from his massive hands with a stained rag. He didn't say a word at first, just gave the women a once-over that made them flinch. Anna and Vanessa exchanged a quick glance—panic flickering in their eyes—before they bolted, skirts of their suits swishing as they hurried away into the gathering dusk. They didn't look back, but I caught the subtle dip of their heads in my direction.
"Everything handled inside, Olbap" Popeye said, crumpling the rag and tossing it into the underbrush. His voice was calm, almost bored, as if cleaning up a mess like that was just another day's labor.
"Nice work as always," I replied, clapping him lightly on the arm—though it felt like slapping a tree trunk. "Let's dump the bodies near the swamp. The wildlife will erase any trace by morning."
We moved efficiently, hauling the heavy sacks containing Dare and his unfortunate accomplice out into the night. The swamp welcomed us with its usual symphony of dangers: the gurgle of bubbling mud, the distant roar of some unseen beast, and the constant buzz of insects that seemed drawn to our heat like moths to flame.
We didn't go far—just deep enough into the reeds where the crocs and who-knows-what prowled. Dropping the sacks with a wet thud, we watched for a moment as ripples spread across the dark water, a fin slicing the surface in the distance. Nature's cleanup workers was on the job. Satisfied, we turned back, the weight of the deed already fading into the background noise of survival.
Back at the warehouse, we double-checked the crates of Crimson Blooms. Fifty-two in total—a damn good haul. Most workers had scraped by with one each, their faces gaunt and suits shredded from close calls with thorns or teeth. A handful, like Kael's group, had pushed for two or three, their determination paying off in extra coin. That meant 52,000 beli disbursed, with 8,000 beli leftover from Popeye's last delivery burning a hole in my pocket.
It wasn't a fortune, but it was progress. Three months of these runs, and the death toll had been brutal—swamp beasts claiming half the Workers each time. But Popeye and I? We'd mapped the dangers, turned the odds. Four crates per run, five on our best days, though the sheer bulk always left Popeye wheezing and sprawled like a felled oak at the end. The big guy never complained, but I saw the toll it took, his muscles quivering under the strain.
As we organized the final tallies, hours slipped away unnoticed. The monotony of counting petals and stems lulled me into a light doze in the creaky chair we'd salvaged, my mind drifting to bigger schemes. A rumble outside jolted me awake—hooves pounding the dirt path, wheels groaning under load. I cracked the door, peering out to see four carts rumbling in, each hitched to horses that looked like they'd seen better days, their coats matted with sweat and flies buzzing around their flanks.
"Looks like your first official gig went better than planned, Olbap," Jerry bellowed from the lead cart, leaping down with the grace of a man half his age. His grin was wide, cigarette already clamped between his teeth, the ember glowing like a tiny challenge in the early morning haze.
"Always a pleasure to exceed expectations, Jerry," I shot back, stepping out to meet him, my own smile mirroring his but sharper, more calculated. "You know me—when I'm on the job, I don't half-ass it."
"Hahaha, damn right I do," he laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that echoed off the warehouse walls. He pulled out a fresh cigarette, lighting it with a flick of flint that sparked brighter than my pistol's mechanism. "Everything squared away in there?"
"Right here for you," I said, thrusting a neatly folded sheet into his hand—the full ledger of crates, payouts, and yields—along with the bulging sack of surplus beli. "Breakdown's all there, plus the 8,000 left over from the worker funds."
Jerry snatched them up, his eyes scanning the numbers with a predatory gleam. "Hell, this makes my life too easy. Here—bonus for the top-notch haul, boys. Keep crushing it." He lobbed a smaller pouch our way, heavy with promise, then spun to his workers. "Alright, you lot—move like you mean it! Fifty-two crates to load. Thirteen per cart, no more, or these horses drop dead before we hit the road!"
The workers—hardened men with callused hands and wary eyes—sprang into action, their movements practiced and swift. In less than ten minutes, the warehouse stood empty, crates stacked secure on the carts, ropes cinched tight against the sway. The air filled with the creak of wood and the snort of exhausted horses. Jerry gave it all a final once-over, nodding approval before swinging up onto his perch.
"Olbap, Popeye—you know the routine. Sit tight for the boss's call on that Den Den Mushi he hooked you up with. Pay's en route. Till then, enjoy the downtime." With a sharp whistle, he cracked the reins, and the caravan lurched forward, vanishing into the misty path like ghosts in the fog.
I drew in a deep breath, the swamp's cloying humidity filling my lungs with the scent of salt and decay, and set off toward Krakenport's ramshackle town center. Popeye matched my pace effortlessly, his shadow stretching long in the rising sun.
"Went smoother than I figured," he rumbled, kicking a pebble that skittered into the underbrush. "Thought we'd be the ones carrying all that back ourselves."
"Probably how it used to roll," I mused, my mind already whirring through the logistics. "But look at the volume now—they're swimming in belis, enough to spring for carts, beasts of burden, the whole setup. Must've set them back a pretty penny, sourcing that gear."
"Yeah, but horses? Guns like those guards were packing?" Popeye scratched his chin, puzzled. "Been on this rock my whole life—no sign of that kind flash."
"Outside ties, no doubt," I said, fingering the Den Den Mushi in my pocket, its shell cool and ridged under my fingers. "This little snail's their lifeline—snapping deals across the seas. That's why the island's perking up lately; trade's trickling in, shaking off the dust."
Popeye grunted in agreement, but he had a point. Krakenport was a forgotten speck, a humid purgatory where the year I'd spent here had shown me nothing but rickety fishing skiffs bobbing in the harbor—the bare minimum to keep folks from keeling over from hunger.
The "rich" ones? Transient merchants docking with crates of spices or cloth, hawking their goods to a crowd too starved to haggle. No one lingered; the locals were ghosts of themselves, scraping by on fish guts and rainwater, their eyes hollow with the grind of just surviving. Even the well-off ate like kings on scraps—better portions, maybe a rare fruit, but not by much. Desperation hung over the place like fog.
That sparked a fresh scheme in my head: snag the tavern we'd been holing up in. It was the crown jewel of the dives—decent beds, hotdish meals, and a steady flow of drunks to fleece. Owning it meant cutting out the middleman—no more nightly tabs eating into my cut—and turning it into a cash fountain for bigger plays.
My arsenal was laughable: just this Flintlock, a relic from some bygone era, spitting iron marbles with a puff of black powder. Reliable enough for soft targets, but against Popeye's fortress of a body? Useless. I'd tested it earlier; the shot bruised, but didn't pierce. Flintlocks were basically portable cannons—clunky, smoky, firing lead balls that punched through flesh but fizzled on real muscle.
It paled next to my old ride-or-die, the Smith & Wesson Model 10—smooth, precise, a whisper of death that left no mess. That nostalgia fueled a vision: seize Red Tide, then pivot to guns. I didn't know forging from smithing, but I could blueprint the classics—revolvers, automatics, even grenades if the engineers bit. Describe the mechanisms, the calibers, let local tinkerers hammer it out. But freaks like Popeye? Standard lead wouldn't scratch 'em. I'd need artillery—bazookas, explosives—to level the field.
"Popeye, there's more out there built like you?" I asked, curiosity piqued as we trudged along.
He halted mid-step, brow furrowing. "Eh? What kinda weird question is that? Like my body? Olbap, you batting for the other team or what?"
The pause that followed was deafening, the winds fading into awkward silence. Before he could double down on that nonsense, I whipped out the Flintlock. Bang. The crack shattered the quiet, the marble slamming into his thigh with a dull thwack. Fabric tore, but his skin held firm, the projectile plinking harmlessly to the dirt.
"That clear it up?" I snapped, holstering the gun with a scowl, irritation bubbling at his dumb assumption.
"Ohhh, that's what you meant," Popeye chuckled, prodding the hole in his pants. "Had me thinking you were going soft on me. Stung like hell, though—no blood, but damn."
"Moron," I grumbled, shaking my head. "You've got moments of genius, then your brain checks out. Proves the point—these peashooters are junk against your kind. We'll stock up on real boom-sticks later."
"Fair enough. But that hurt a little . You owe me two extra plates at the tavern for guinea-pigging me," he said, wincing dramatically.
"You barely felt it, big guy."
"Felt enough. Two plates."
"Nope."
"One, then?"
"Deal."
We pressed on, the banter dissolving into companionable quiet as the sun climbed higher, baking the path dry. The day wore on, the swamp's grip loosening with every step.
Elsewhere on the Island, Before Nightfall
Ten carts rumbled to a halt outside a colossal warehouse, dwarfing anything in Krakenport's squalor. The structure loomed like a fortress, its walls weathered but sturdy, alive with the clamor of labor—shouts, clanging metal, the hiss of steam from unseen machines. Lanterns blazed within, casting golden pools on the dirt yard, where workers swarmed like bees around a hive.
At the threshold stood a solitary figure, exuding quiet menace. Thirty-one years old, give or take, standing a solid 185 cm, lean as a blade but coiled with lethal promise. His skin was ghostly pale, as if the sun shunned him, and his ashen-gray hair hung lank, aging him prematurely. Dark eyes, sharp as obsidian, tracked the arrivals over the rim of a smoldering cigarette. A long coat swept to his knees over a crisp white shirt, black canvas pants tucked into rugged boots, fingerless gloves completing the ensemble. He was the boss incarnate—no crown needed.
"Jerry, you made it," the man drawled, exhaling a plume of smoke that curled like a serpent. "Things went better than ever, I take it."
"Hahaha, you clocking the new threads, boss? Gotta look the part when the beli's flowing," Jerry quipped, dismounting with a flourish, his own cigarette mirroring the boss's.
"I see it clear. Get it all inside—Red Tide waits for no one," the man commanded, his tone velvet over steel.
"You got it. Resources are stacked this run. Here's the ledger for your math—Olbap and Popeye are primed for orders, pay included," Jerry said, slapping a paper into his palm before barking at the workers. The workers, sharper-dressed and tooled-up better than the swamp rats, unloaded with efficiency born of fear and fat paychecks.
"Not bad at all, Olbap and Popeye," Silco murmured to himself, igniting another cigarette. "Time for a proper chat."
He pivoted and melted into the warehouse's glow, the cigarette's ember his only light in the encroaching night.
End of the chapter.