The Next Day
Waking up to the sight of the sea was a balm after yesterday's grind. We'd trudged back to Krakenport under the cover of night, our boots heavy with swamp muck, and collapsed into the tavern's creaky beds. A good rest was owed, and we took it. Now, standing on the balcony of my room, the ocean stretched out like a promise—endless, glittering, and indifferent. The salty breeze carried a faint fishy tang, mingling with the distant cries of gulls and the rhythmic crash of waves against the pier.
I cradled a chipped mug of coffee, steam curling into the cool morning air, and tore a chunk from a slab of bread slathered with butter. It wasn't fancy, but it hit the spot, the warmth spreading through my chest as I chewed. "Goes down nice," I muttered to myself, voice barely above a whisper, savoring the moment's quiet.
Knock knock. The sharp rap on the door snapped me out of my thoughts, the sound cutting through the dawn's calm like a blade.
"Come in," I called, not bothering to turn.
The door creaked open, and Popeye lumbered in, a steaming mug of tea dwarfed in his massive hand. He looked annoyingly awake, like he'd been up for hours, his broad frame filling the doorway as he stepped onto the balcony. His shirt was rumpled, hair a mess, but his eyes were sharp—no trace of the exhaustion I'd expected after yesterday's haul.
"You look like you didn't sleep a wink. Something eating you?" I asked, eyeing him over the rim of my mug.
"Nah, just feels like my body's not in the mood for sleep today," Popeye said, easing his bulk into the other chair with a groan of wood. He took a long sip, the mug looking like a child's toy in his grip. "Too wired, I guess."
"What'd you get up to after we got back?" I asked, leaning back, the chair creaking under me.
"Went to eat. Starving after that trip. Might've overdone it a bit," he admitted, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish grin, his fingers raking through his tangled hair.
I snorted. "There's the culprit. Any news while I was out?"
"Nothing. No one's come sniffing around," he said, settling deeper into the chair, which groaned in protest. "Did what you asked, though—talked to Diego, the tavern boss."
"Oh, yeah? What'd my old pal Diego say?" I asked, leaning forward, the conversation pulling me in like a good deal.
Popeye set his mug down, the clink loud in the morning quiet. "At first, he flat-out refused to sell. Said the tavern's his lifeline, his way to survive in this shithole. If he sold, he'd have nothing to live on. But he let slip there's one way he'd part with it."
I raised an eyebrow, taking another bite of bread. "And that is?"
"Demanded 100,000 belis, plus a ship to get him off this rock so he can start fresh somewhere else. Says he doesn't wanna die here," Popeye said, his tone flat but his eyes searching mine for a reaction.
I let out a low whistle, setting the mug down with a thud. "A hundred grand? That old bastard looked at me and saw a walking vault. I'm barely scraping by, eating decent and sleeping soft. Go back and tell him 75,000, tops—and remind him a ship to another island ain't cheap. Call it 50,000, all-in, passage included. Non-negotiable."
Popeye frowned, rubbing his chin, the bristles rasping under his calloused fingers. "You think he'll bite? You slashed his price in half. And we've only got 20,000 saved, plus the 8,000 bonus from yesterday. Where's the other 22,000 coming from?"
I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, the coffee's warmth forgotten. "He'll balk at first, no doubt—probably cuss me out for insulting him. But he's already spilled the truth: he's desperate to leave Krakenport, which means he's been planning this for a while. Wants to squeeze every last belis so he can sail off fat and happy. But think about it, Popeye—who on this starved-out island's got 100,000 belis? Or even 50,000? Or hell, 25,000? Nobody. Except maybe Silco, but he's neck-deep in Red Tide, holed up in his fortress. Jerry might have the coin, but he's got his own setups—doesn't need a rundown tavern. Diego's got no buyers but us, and he knows it. We've got him cornered."
I paused, letting the words sink in, then grinned. "This deal's as good as done. It's so easy, I'm sending you to close it solo—no need for me to hold your hand. Lay it out clean: 50,000 belis, plus a ship, for his safety. Tell him it's to make sure he reaches his new life without pirates gutting him for his stash. Old man's heard enough sailor yarns to know a fat purse makes him chum in the water. If he still pushes back, then you call me, and I'll handle it. Got it?"
Popeye nodded, his face set with that rare focus he got when he knew I was scheming big. "Got it, Olbap. Don't think I'll need to call you—this one's mine."
Before he could say more, a sharp Puru Puru Puru cut through the air, the Den Den Mushi on the table vibrating with its telltale gurgle. I exchanged a glance with Popeye, who leaned over and pressed the button. The snail's mouth opened, and a familiar voice crackled through, smooth as oil but sharp as a blade.
"Am I speaking to Olbap and Popeye?" Silco voice asked, cool and commanding.
"The one and only, boss," I replied, setting my coffee down with a clink. "What can we do for you?"
"Perfect. I got the haul you sent yesterday—damn fine work. As Jerry probably told you, I handle the payouts personally."
"Appreciate the consideration, boss," I said, grabbing a scrap of paper and a quill, ready to jot notes. "How's the pay work? By percentage of the haul, or some other way?"
Silco chuckle was low, approving. "Straight to business, just like Jerry said you'd be. Since it's your first official run, here's the breakdown: 52 crates came in, and you paid out 52,000 beri to your workers. That's your take too."
I blinked, processing. "So, whatever we pay the workers, that's what we earn?"
"Exactly," Silco said. "Fifty-two thousand, split even—26,000 each for you and Popeye. Fair?"
"More than fair, boss. No complaints here," I said, scribbling the numbers, my pulse quickening at the thought of that kind of coin.
"Good. Jerry will drop off your cut once he wraps up a job I sent him on. One more thing—keep this up, Olbap. You're young, but I see heights in your future. Any questions before I sign off?"
I leaned closer to the snail, choosing my words carefully. "Yeah, one thing, boss. I need a ship—one that can make it to another island—for a side job. Can you hook me up? I'll cover whatever it costs."
"A ship, huh? Not hard to arrange. What's it for?" Silco tone was curious, probing.
I spun the lie quick, keeping it smooth. "Personal matter, boss. My grandfather—he's old, wants to spend his last years off this rock, blowing his savings somewhere sunny. Just trying to grant his wish."
Silco laugh crackled through the snail, warm but edged with skepticism. "What a dutiful grandson. Alright, Olbap, I'll make it happen. Jerry will let you know when the ship's ready. We'll talk soon—you and Popeye stay sharp."
The snail's mouth closed, the call cutting off with a faint click. Silence settled over the balcony, heavy with possibility.
"Fifty-two thousand, Popeye," I said, turning to him, a grin splitting my face. "You hear that?"
"Loud and clear, Olbap. Nothing less," he replied, his own smile mirroring mine, wide and hungry.
"We're out of the dirt now," I said, standing, excitement buzzing through me like a live wire. I clapped Popeye's shoulder, hard enough to make him grunt. "Time to buy that old bastard's tavern and send him packing to his grave. For one day, Popeye, you eat whatever you want—my treat."
The next day, Jerry swung by the tavern, dropping off a sack heavy with 52,000 belis and a note: the ship for Diego would arrive in two days. Popeye, meanwhile, had gone toe-to-toe with the old man in negotiations. Diego held firm at first, but after some back-and-forth, he caved at 60,000 belis for the tavern—ship included. We didn't waste time; papers were signed, ink still wet, and the tavern was mine, lock, stock, and barrel.
Two days later, the ship docked, and Diego was gone, whisked off to whatever fate awaited him. I dove into running the tavern, learning its pulse: the drunks who poured their wages into ale every night, the dancers who worked the back rooms for extra coin, the real money-spinner—a fight ring in the rear, where bets flowed like liquor, all controlled by the house. Then there were the rooms upstairs, rented to travelers and locals too sloshed to stumble home. On a good week, the place pulled in 25,000 belis. Slower weeks dipped, but never disastrously.
The catch? Supplies—beer, food, upkeep—ate up most of the take, plus paying the staff. After all that, I pocketed about 7,500 beri a week. Not riches, but steady, and I barely had to lift a finger. Diego had left his supplier contacts, a goldmine of names and routes, which I took over since Popeye's head wasn't built for paperwork. My new office, carved out of a spacious upstairs room, was my command center: a sturdy desk, a view of the sea, and space to plot. The bigger bedroom and better meals were just perks. Every belis spent—on the tavern, upgrades, supplies—drained us dry, but with food, shelter, and a base of operations, we weren't hurting and plus the things we need for the swamp.
Jerry's next call came a week later, pulling us back to the swamp. Vacation over. We hit the warehouse, its emptiness a stark contrast to the bustle of payout day. I sank into my chair, the familiar creak grounding me as I mulled the next move. Silco payout system was clear: crates equaled coin. More crates, more belis. To max that out, I needed the workers sharper, faster, safer. My week off had sparked an idea—one I was itching to test.
Mot and Tom rolled in with the crew—60 strong, 25 new faces, the rest swamp veterans from last time. Some didn't make it back; they never do. The swamp doesn't play favorites.
I stood, raising my voice to cut through the chatter. "Good Morning, and welcome back. Good to see the old hands return. Things will be different this time—better. Newbies, don't sweat it; I'll break it down later."
Sixty pairs of eyes locked onto me, a mix of hope and wariness. I paced, letting the weight of their attention settle. "We're splitting into 12 groups, five per team. Raises your odds of surviving and boosts your haul, which means more belis for you. Start picking your groups. If you don't have a group, step to the side—I'll sort you."
Minutes later, groups formed, but a handful stood alone, shifting awkwardly. I scanned them, quick and decisive. "Alright, you two—redheads, Anna and Vanessa—join that group with Kael, Liro, and Toro. You lot over there, merge with them. That's 12 groups, full up."
I clapped my hands, drawing their focus. "New info: Crimson Blooms grow in the wettest zones—deep swamp, not sunny clearings. Crocs, your biggest threat, start moving around midday on day two, so stay sharp or you're lunch. Newbies, watch for carnivorous plants—they blend in, and they'll take an arm if you're sloppy. Got it?"
Nods rippled through the crowd, some firmer than others. "Three days to get back, or no pay. Grab your shovels, machetes, and suits. Good luck."
They geared up, the clatter of tools and rustle of chemical suits filling the air. My eyes lingered on one group—Anna, Vanessa, Kael, Liro, Toro. Tough bunch. I hoped they'd make it.
End of the chapter.