Sorry for the delay enjoy it ;)
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The dawn broke over the South Blue, a blaze of gold and crimson spilling across the waves as Olbap leaned against the ship's bow, the salt air sharp in his lungs. A faint smile played on his lips, born of the sea's strange gift: time. Out here, with nothing but water stretching to the horizon, a man could think, plan, dream—or brood.
In his short time sailing, Olbap had faced only one real fight, a pirate ambush days ago, and he'd walked away with his heart still beating. That was something to hold onto. But the quiet gnawed at him, the endless creak of the ship and the crew's chatter filling the void. Most passed the hours with cards, their shouts and curses rising over the deck, but Olbap had patience for it. Chess, he thought, that's my game. He'd always been sharp at it, outmaneuvering opponents move by move, even if he played alone in his head. Popeye, for all his loyalty, wasn't the type to sit for a board. Lately, he'd been consumed with training, his fists pounding crates below deck like a man possessed.
Popeye had pulled Olbap aside the other day, sweat glistening on his brow. "I'm your right hand, your guard," he'd said, voice low with conviction. "I gotta be strong enough so you never have to fight." Olbap respected the fire in him, but he wasn't naive.
One day, he'd send Popeye or the others on jobs, leaving him alone. He wasn't helpless—his mind was his weapon, sharper than any Flintlock or Mosquete. I may not have Popeye's iron skin, but I'll outthink anyone who comes for me, he swore, the sea's rhythm steadying his pulse. Still, he needed to be ready to fight, to stand alone if it came to it.
Last night, as the ship rocked gently, Olbap had lain awake, turning the job over in his mind. Pirates were only half the problem. Rival gangs, rogue crews, even Marines could spell trouble. A Marine patrol would board them in a heartbeat, sniffing for contraband. Hiding 1,200 Red Tide bricks was a nightmare.
He'd scoured every inch of the ship—cargo holds, cabins, false panels—all too obvious. Then it hit him: the keel. The ship's underbelly was hard to reach, cramped and dark, but spacious enough for the bricks. The catch was balance. Too much weight on one side, and the ship would list, screaming "suspicious" to any patrol—or worse, sinking them in a storm. With a few trusted soldiers, he'd spent hours packing the bricks into the keel's hollows, balancing the load and sealing it against water or impact. A leak could ruin the cargo—saltwater and Red Tide didn't mix—but it was a risk they'd have to take.
Olbap had ordered the crew to sail slow, letting the wind and tide carry them, keeping noise low to avoid drawing eyes. Hide it well, but don't lose it, he thought. If they sank, the bricks were gone, and so were they.
Now, with the sea calm and the crew idle, Olbap stood at the railing, the salt air clearing his thoughts. There was nothing to do but wait, the horizon endless and unyielding.
Four Days Later
The shrill ring of the Den Den Mushi pierced the quiet, snapping Olbap from his reverie. He'd been staring at the sea, the waves blurring into his thoughts, when the snail's eyes glowed. He snatched it up, voice sharp. "Who's this?"
"Olbap, it's Jerry," came the reply, heavy with tension. "Bad news."
Olbap's grip tightened, his jaw clenching. "What now?"
"Kutsukku island is a warzone. The four gangs are at each other's throats—full chaos. You'll need to be ready for anything that may come."
Olbap's blood ran hot, his mind racing. "You're sending us into a gang war with 1,200 bricks? Why not wait till they're done killing each other?" Olbap asked trying to figure out why they couldn't wait for the war to end
Jerry's voice turned cold, no trace of his usual smirk. "You don't get it, kid. I'm the boss. When I say go, you go. Got a problem with that?"
Olbap swallowed a curse, his anger flaring like a lit fuse. "No problem, boss," he said, voice flat as steel. "I'll deliver as promised."
"Good. Get to the island and let me know so i can call them and tell you the delivery place and hand off the cargo. Don't screw it up." The Den Den Mushi went dead.
Olbap stared at the snail, his rage boiling. Who the hell does he think he is, barking at me like that? This job was a deathtrap, and Jerry knew it. Loyalty was one thing, but following a fool's orders blindly? That was how you ended up dead—or betrayed. If they can't run this right, I'll take it from them, he thought, the spark of betraying growing closer to the day. He stormed to the mast, his voice cutting through the crew's murmurs like a blade.
"Listen up!" he roared. "Kutsukku's in a full-blown gang war. We're delivering the Red Tide, but expect a fight. Guard every angle, protect the cargo, and get it to the place. That's your job. Understood?"
The soldiers nodded, their faces grim as they checked their Flintlocks and Mosquetes, the clatter of metal filling the deck. Three days to Kutsukku, and with the gangs likely patrolling the waters, they'd be spotted long before docking. Popeye stood nearby, his eyes alight with the promise of a brawl. Olbap caught the tension in his friend's frame, mirroring his own fury at Jerry. Popeye didn't speak, but he knew Olbap was pissed. He gave him a nod and headed below to train, his footsteps shaking the planks.
Three Days Later
Kutsukku rose on the horizon, a beast of an island compared to Brackmor. Its dense tropical jungle spilled over jagged mountains, a perfect maze for gangs to hide and strike. Yesterday, a soldier had spotted a small boat fleeing after sighting them, its wake cutting through the waves like a warning. They know we're here, Olbap thought, his gut twisting. The crew was on edge, weapons clutched tight, eyes scanning the sea for threats.
The plan was to dock in a hidden cove, its high rock walls shielding them from prying eyes, and contact Jerry to set up the handoff with the Salt Dogs. Why no meeting point was arranged beforehand, Olbap couldn't guess—another of Jerry's half-assed calls. They found the cove, its stone cliffs towering like sentinels, and dropped anchor. Olbap called Jerry via Den Den Mushi, who told them to hold tight and wait for his signal.
The crew's nervous glances darted to the cliffs, the air thick with unease. This screams ambush, Olbap thought. He raised his voice, sharp and commanding. "Form two groups, 25 each. One takes the left shore, the other the right. Stay hidden, watch for anyone coming. Those are the only ways they'll hit us. Move!"
The soldiers split off, vanishing into the cove's shadows, their boots crunching on loose stones. Olbap turned to the remaining crew. "Fifty of you stay here. Twenty-five, start moving the Red Tide from the keel to the hold—slow and careful. The rest, guard the ship and keep contact with the shore teams."
They had five baby Den Den Mushi, small as walkie-talkies from his old world, perfect for quick comms. Two went with the shore teams, one stayed with the ship's guards, and Olbap and Popeye each kept one. As the soldiers moved, Popeye approached, his voice low. "Olbap, let me scout the shore. I'm tough enough to handle anything out there."
Olbap shook his head. "Not yet. We don't know the terrain or what's waiting. If it gets bad, you go, but for now, stay."
Popeye frowned but nodded. "Alright, but if—" His words were drowned by a deafening crack of gunfire from the cliffs. Bullets tore through the air, splintering the deck into a storm of wood chips and dust. Screams erupted as soldiers dove for cover, the sharp tang of gunpowder choking the air. Popeye reacted first, tackling Olbap behind a crate as bullets pinged off his iron-like skin, sparking like fireflies in the chaos.
"Take cover!" Olbap bellowed, scrambling to a stack of barrels, Popeye shielding him like a human wall. The deck was a battlefield—wood groaned under the barrage, crates exploded into shards, and blood pooled where two soldiers lay still, their eyes wide in death. Three others clutched wounds, their groans lost in the gunfire's roar. "They're in the northern cliffs—too many to count!" Olbap shouted, grabbing his spyglass. Through the lens, he saw figures darting between rocks, their rifles flashing like vipers' tongues. Damn it, we're blind out here, he cursed, his lack of intel a knife in his gut.
"They're dug in up there!" he barked into the baby Den Den Mushi. "Shore teams, flank them from the cliffs' base. Watch for traps—move fast!" The soldiers obeyed, their boots pounding as they climbed, dodging rocks and vines. The Red Tide in the keel was safe for now—only a few bricks had been moved before the attack. A stray shot could've pierced a brick, ruining thousands in beli, but luck held.
Popeye, crouched beside him, growled through the chaos, his voice barely audible over the gunfire. "I'm going up, Olbap. Bullets don't hurt me—I'll rip those bastards apart. Stay safe." Before Olbap could stop him, Popeye sprinted for the cliff, scaling it like a beast, his massive hands clawing into stone. Bullets sparked off his skin, leaving purple welts but no blood, his grin feral as he climbed through the storm.
The attackers froze, stunned by the giant charging their line. Their rifles turned on him, a hail of lead that would've shredded anyone else. Olbap seized the moment, shouting into the Den Den Mushi. "Cover Popeye! Fire at anything that moves up there—keep their heads down!"
The soldiers unleashed a barrage, Mosquetes roaring like thunder, the air thick with smoke and the acrid bite of powder. Bullets screamed past, some pinging off the cliffs, others tearing into trees, sending splinters flying. The enemy, caught in the crossfire, ducked behind rocks, their shots faltering as Popeye gained ground.
Olbap fired his own Mosquete, the recoil jarring his bruised shoulder, heart pounding as he shouted into the Den Den Mushi. "Left shore team, report!"
"We're pinned on the left!" a soldier gasped, his voice crackling through static. "Too many—they've got us locked down!"
"Same on the right!" another called, panting. "Orders, boss?"
"Hold your ground, keep them busy," Olbap said, his mind a whirlwind of tactics. "Popeye's almost up. When he hits, they'll break—then we strike together." He ducked as a bullet whizzed past, grazing the barrel above him, the wood splintering in his face. The deck was a warzone—planks groaned under stray shots, the mast creaked as a bullet lodged in its base, and the wounded soldiers' cries mixed with the relentless crack of gunfire. The air was heavy, smoke and blood mingling, the sea's salt now a faint afterthought.
Popeye reached the cliff's edge, hauling himself over with a roar. The enemy scrambled, their shouts audible even from the ship as he tore into them. A man screamed as Popeye's fist connected, the sound of bone crunching cutting through the gunfire. Another tried to flee, only to be yanked back and slammed into a rock. The attackers' line wavered, their focus split between Popeye's rampage and the soldiers' covering fire. Olbap grinned, his pulse racing. That's it, you bastard—break them.
"Left team, right team, push now!" Olbap ordered. "They're cracking—hit them from the sides!" The shore teams surged, their Mosquetes blazing as they climbed, dodging traps—hidden pits and tripwires set to slow them. One soldier stumbled, a spiked branch snapping into his leg, but he dragged himself up, firing through gritted teeth. The enemy's fire grew frantic, less precise, as Popeye's chaos and the flanking teams squeezed them.
From a hidden perch in the boat, Rane watched, his black Den Den Mushi relaying every order, every scream. His sharp eyes tracked Popeye's rampage, the giant's fists leaving bodies crumpled in his wake. Rane's lips curled into a smirk, his wine glass glinting in the dappled light. "Hell of a show, kid," he muttered, impressed by Olbap's quick strategies and Popeye's raw power. The boy's mind was a blade, cutting through chaos with precision, while Popeye was a hammer, smashing anything in his path. Rane sipped deeply, staying invisible, his mission clear: watch, listen, and report. Silco would want every detail of this bloodbath.
The gunfire raged on, the cliffs alive with flashes and smoke. Olbap ducked another stray shot, his mind racing. We're holding, but we need to end this fast. The Red Tide was safe for now, but every second in this fight risked a lucky bullet or more people showing up and ruining everything. He gripped his Mosquete, ready to join the fray if it came to it.
End of the chapter.