At Sea
Out on the open water, two ships floated side by side under a bruised sky, their hulls creaking in the gentle sway of the tide. No pirate flags flapped in the wind, nor did the crisp white of Marine banners gleam. To a passing glance, they might've been merchant vessels, their decks piled with crates and canvas tarps. But the sharp-eyed would've caught the truth: these were business ships, and the deal brewing aboard was anything but honest trade.
On the larger ship, a meeting was in full swing, the air thick with cigar smoke and the undercurrent of high-stakes haggling. A long table stretched across the deck, its surface scarred from years of deals and spilled rum. At one end sat Silco, his pale face unreadable, dark eyes glinting like polished obsidian under the brim of his hat. Across from him was Jack, a bald man with a barrel chest and a laugh that boomed like cannon fire. Three of Jack's men flanked him, their postures rigid, hands resting near the hilts of cutlasses or the grips of Flintlocks tucked into belts.
"So, Silco," Jack began, leaning forward, his voice carrying the gravel of a man who'd shouted orders through too many storms. "Word's been drifting across the seas—you're the one pushing the Surprise of the South Blue. That true?"
Silco's lips twitched, not quite a smile, as he lit a cigarette, the match flaring briefly in the dim light. "Could be, Jack. The Surprise of the South Blue, huh? Sounds like you're curious. But why the interest? Your business is weapons dealing, isn't it?" He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching Jack through the haze.
Jack nodded, his bald scalp gleaming under the sun. "Right you are, Barrakuda Silco—hell of a name, by the way, rolls off the tongue like a good curse. My business is weapons, sure, but you haven't heard? Missing out can fatten your wallet. I'm always sniffing for something new to sell." He ended with a laugh, loud and brash, slapping the table for emphasis.
Silco leaned back, his chair creaking, and flicked ash into the wind. "So you're chasing the Red Tide. Personal use, or you planning to peddle it?"
Jack's grin widened, showing teeth yellowed by years of tobacco. "Personal use? Maybe a taste. But I'm in it to sell. Got a friend who says it fetches a high price—worth every beli. I want in."
Silco's eyes narrowed, his cigarette glowing as he took a slow drag. "Selling, huh? Trying to muscle in on my business, Jack? That's a bit greedy, don't you think?"
Jack chuckled, unfazed, spreading his hands wide. "Greedy? Sure, I'll wear that badge. But listen, Silco—you're a new fish in these waters. Gotta learn there's always a bigger shark out there. I'm not one to take without giving, though. I like deals where everyone walks away richer. That's why my name carries weight."
Silco's jaw tightened, his expression souring for a moment, like he'd bitten into something bitter. "That leaves a bad taste, Jack, but I'm listening. You want a deal where we all win? Lay it out—I'm all ears."
Jack leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble. "You've got my attention, Silco. How's this: you give me 100 bricks of Red Tide to start. I test the waters, see how it sells, count the beli. In return, I'll hook you up with arms and ammo. Deal?"
Silco tilted his head, considering. "A hundred bricks. Curious how much you think one's worth?"
Jack scratched his chin, eyes gleaming with calculation. "What's your usual price for a single brick?"
"I move in bulk, but if I had to pin it down, I'd say 50,000 beli a brick," Silco replied, his tone even, though his fingers tapped lightly on the table, betraying a flicker of anticipation.
Jack's eyebrows shot up, and he let out a low whistle. "Fifty grand a brick? So 100 bricks is... 5 million beli if I sell 'em all, yeah?"
"Exactly," Silco said, crushing his cigarette against the table's edge, the ember hissing out. "And I'm telling you, it's worth every beli. To kick things off, I'll front you the 100 bricks. You sell, see the profit for yourself. In exchange, I want a down payment in weapons upfront. If it pans out, we keep the trade flowing—mutual profit. Sound good?"
Jack didn't answer right away. He glanced at his three companions, their faces unreadable but their eyes locked in a silent exchange, as if weighing the deal in their minds. After a moment, Jack stood, his chair scraping against the deck. "I'm interested, Silco, but I need a quick word with my crew before I sign off. You don't mind, do you?"
Silco gave a curt nod, watching as Jack and his men crossed the narrow plank bridging their ships, disappearing into the shadowed hold of Jack's vessel. He turned to his own crew—Marlon and Jerry, standing close, their postures tense—and gestured toward the cabin. "Let's talk."
Inside the cramped cabin, Silco sank into a worn chair behind his desk, the wood scarred from years of maps and spilled ink. The air was heavy with the scent of old tobacco and sea salt, the ship's timbers groaning faintly as it rocked. Marlon and Jerry stood before him, their faces a mix of skepticism and calculation, while Silco's mind wandered, tugged back to a memory he'd buried deep.
Twenty-Two Years Ago
An eight-year-old Silco sat hunched on a filthy street corner, his bony frame shivering under a tattered shirt. His skin was ghostly pale, tinged almost green from hunger, his ribs jutting like the bars of a cage. He looked like death's understudy, a kid one bad day from the grave. That was his life: scrounging through trash for scraps, fighting off other street rats for a moldy crust, sleeping in alleys where the damp seeped into his bones. But Silco wasn't just surviving—he was scheming.
He'd spotted a ship docked at the harbor, its crew bustling with crates of cargo. It was his ticket out. Krakenport would kill him if he stayed; he'd seen it claim his mother at five, starvation hollowing her out until she was gone. His father? A ghost, maybe a drunk, maybe dead—Silco didn't care to know. All he knew was the gnawing void in his gut and his mother's last words: Fill it, whatever it takes.
The ship was his chance. Silco had a knack he hadn't fully grasped then—a presence so faint he was practically invisible, a wraith in a dying boy's body. As the crew loaded crates, he crept closer, heart pounding but steps silent. He slipped into an empty crate, curling into a ball, knees tucked to his chest, barely breathing to avoid notice. The crate was light, his weight negligible, and the sailors didn't blink as they hoisted it aboard, stowing it in the hold.
Hours passed, the ship's motion rocking him in the dark. The hunger clawed harder, a beast that wouldn't quiet. He waited, expecting discovery, but when he finally crawled out, driven by desperation, he found a man in his thirties rearranging crates in the hold. The man jumped at the sight of him, grabbing a wooden staff and pointing it like a spear.
"Kid, what the hell are you doing on this ship? I don't remember seeing you," the man barked, his grip tight on the staff.
Silco froze, knowing a hit from that would hurt—maybe break something—but the pain in his stomach was louder. "I'm hungry," he whispered, voice frail, barely carrying over the ship's creaks.
The man squinted, lowering the staff slightly. "What'd you say?"
"I'm hungry," Silco repeated, louder this time, his eyes locked on the man's, unyielding despite his trembling frame.
The man's expression shifted, confusion softening to something else. "Hungry, huh? Food ain't free, kid. You want to eat, you work for it."
"I'll work," Silco said, voice cracking but resolute. "Anything. I'm hungry."
Back to the Present
Silco snapped out of the memory as Marlon's voice cut through, sharp and urgent. "Boss, is this deal worth it? Why not just buy the weapons outright instead of handing over Red Tide?"
Jerry nodded, leaning against the cabin wall, arms crossed. "Yeah, boss. We've got the monopoly on Red Tide—everyone comes to us. Keep it that way, we rake in more beli."
Silco's fingers drummed on the desk, his cigarette smoldering in an ashtray. Their logic was sound—Red Tide's exclusivity was their edge, and flooding the market could dilute it. But a cough from the corner drew their eyes. Rane lounged in a chair, one leg slung over the armrest, a newspaper in one hand, a glass of wine in the other, his relaxed posture belying the sharpness in his gaze.
"Rane, what's your take?" Silco asked, his tone neutral but expectant.
Rane swirled his wine, the liquid catching the lantern light. "Marlon and Jerry aren't wrong—keeping Red Tide tight maximizes profit. But Silco's playing the long game. Handing over 100 bricks gets us three things: first, we get weapons upfront, no questions asked. Second, we build ties with Jack's network—big players, wide reach. Third, Red Tide spreads through the South Blue like wildfire. Who do they come to when they want more? The source. Us."
Silco's lips curled into a faint smile. "Exactly."
Marlon and Jerry exchanged glances, then nodded, the tension easing. Silco stood, signaling the end of the discussion. They filed out to the deck, where Jack was already returning, his heavy boots thudding across the plank. He dropped into his chair with a grunt, wasting no time.
"Silco, you're an interesting bastard to haggle with," Jack said, grinning. "We're in. How's this: 100 weapons, plus ammo, for your 100 bricks of Red Tide."
Silco leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "A hundred weapons and ammo? That's light, Jack. You know it doesn't touch the 5 million beli those bricks are worth."
Jack laughed, undeterred. "I know, I know. But I gotta test the goods first—see if your Red Tide's as hot as you claim. The weapons are a down payment, a show of good faith. If it sells like you say, I'll come back with 5 million in arms, as planned. Deal?"
Silco made a show of mulling it over, letting the silence stretch, then stood, extending his hand. Jack's grip was firm, the handshake sealing the pact with a weight both men felt. "Next week, same spot, same time. We swap," Jack said, his grin sharp.
"Works for me," Silco replied, handing over a slip with his Den Den Mushi frequency. "In case anything comes up. See you then, Jack."
Jerry and Marlon set to raising the sails, the ship groaning as it pulled away, the gap between the vessels widening as they parted ways.
One Week Later
The same stretch of sea, the same ships, but no fanfare this time. The exchange was brisk—a handshake, a nod, and the goods changed hands. Silco handed over 100 bricks of Red Tide, their wrappings glinting faintly in the midday sun. Jack's crew delivered the weapons: 100 Flintlocks, sleek and deadly; 50 Mosquetes, heavy but precise; 4 swivel guns, small cannons that could tear through a crowd; 133 incendiary bombs, volatile and vicious; 30 close-combat blades, their edges honed to a whisper; 30 powder kits for reloading; and 20 bullet molds with lead ingots to keep the guns fed.
The math was straightforward, and Silco ran it in his head as the crates were stowed. Once Jack's crew sold the Red Tide and confirmed its value, they'd owe:
250 Flintlocks (100 now + 150 after) × 4,000 beli = 1,000,000 beli
90 Mosquetes (50 now + 40 after) × 8,000 beli = 720,000 beli
4 Swivel Guns (4 now + 4 after) × 250,000 beli = 2,000,000 beli
366 Incendiary Bombs (133 now + 233 after) × 1,500 beli = 549,000 beli
30 Close-Combat Blades × 1,000 beli = 30,000 beli
30 Powder Kits × 20,000 beli = 600,000 beli
20 Bullet Molds × 5,000 beli = 100,000 beli
Total: 5,000,000 beli in weapons, exactly as agreed.
With a final nod, the ships parted, neither crew looking back. The deal was done, but the game was just beginning.
End of the chapter.