The cliffs of Kutsukku roared with chaos, the air thick with the stench of gunpowder, blood, and splintered wood. Bullets screamed through the dusk, tearing into the ship's deck as Olbap crouched behind a shattered barrel, his Mosquete burning hot in his grip.
The sharp crack of gunfire echoed off the rocks, mingling with the cries of the wounded and the dull thuds of bodies hitting the ground. Above, Popeye scaled the cliff like a force of nature, his massive frame a blur of violence as he smashed through enemies. Bullets sparked off his iron-like skin, leaving welts but no blood, his grin wild as he dove into the fray. Olbap's pulse hammered, not from fear but from the electric thrill of battle, his mind racing to turn the ambush into victory. Now's the moment, he thought, we break them here.
The baby Den Den Mushi crackled in his hand, its tiny eyes glowing. "Boss, right side's going quiet—shots are slowing!" a soldier shouted, his voice raw with adrenaline. "We're pushing up!"
"Left side's the same!" another barked. "Something's happening up there—Popeye is tearing them apart!"
Olbap's lips twitched into a grim smile, his eyes locked on Popeye's silhouette against the blood-red sky. "Keep climbing!" he ordered into the snail. "Popeye's got them rattled. Kill anything that moves, but leave one alive—we need intel!" The cliff above was a maelstrom of sound—grunts, screams, the sickening crunch of bone as Popeye's fists connected. Olbap could feel the tide turning, the enemy's resolve cracking under his friend's relentless assault.
On the cliff, Popeye was a beast unchained. He'd ditched the sleek suits he once wore to match Olbap's style, trading them for gear built for war. A sleeveless black shirt hugged his massive frame, his corded arms gleaming with sweat and blood—not his own. Metal-studded gloves turned his punches into sledgehammers, and steel bracers above his wrists deflected blades with a flick, their clangs ringing out like a blacksmith's forge. Black cargo pants moved with him, loose but practical, while steel-tipped boots crushed stone with every step.
His platinum-white hair, long enough to brush his neck, was streaked with crimson, his dark eyes blazing with battle-lust. Olbap had laughed when he saw the outfit, saying it made him look like a war god, and Popeye had grinned, agreeing.
An enemy lunged with a curved sword, its edge glinting in the fading light. Popeye's bracer met it, the clash of steel sparking as he grabbed the man's arm and twisted until it snapped, the scream cut short by a brutal slam into the rock. Another attacker charged from the right, his dagger aimed for Popeye's ribs.
A quick elbow smashed the man's nose, blood spraying as cartilage crumpled. A third swung a machete at his back; Popeye spun, dodging by inches, the blade slicing his shirt but missing flesh. Olbap's right—pirates are snakes, he thought, recalling his friend's warning about poisoned blades. His tough skin could take bullets, but venom was another story. He dodged when he could, his instincts razor-sharp, every move a dance of controlled chaos.
The shore teams hit the cliff's edge, their Mosquetes blazing as they flanked the enemy from left and right. The attackers, caught between Popeye's rampage and the soldiers' gunfire, were trapped. Bullets tore through the air, splintering trees and shattering rocks, the cliffside a haze of smoke and dust. Some enemies fought to the death, their blades flashing in desperation, their Flintlocks spitting lead until their ammo ran dry.
Others, seeing no escape, leaped into the sea below, their bodies crashing into the waves with sickening thuds. Those who survived the fall met a worse fate—Olbap and the deck crew opened fire, bullets ripping through the water, turning it into a churning red froth. The crack of Mosquetes was deafening, the smoke so thick it stung the eyes, as bodies sank beneath the surface, claimed by the tide.
The battle ended as fast as it began. Popeye stood atop the cliff, chest heaving, blood dripping from his knuckles, his grin unbroken despite the bruises blooming on his skin. The soldiers scoured the ground, gathering a haul of enemy weapons—rusted Flintlocks, chipped swords, a few daggers with notched blades.
Four survivors, barely alive, were dragged to the ship, their hands bound with coarse rope, their faces pale and trembling. Olbap waited on the deck, his Mosquete still warm, the air heavy with the stench of blood, powder, and sea salt. He counted the losses: 15 soldiers dead, their bodies slumped among the wreckage; 20 wounded, groaning as comrades bandaged their wounds. That left 65 able to fight. Could've been worse, he thought, but the cost burned in his chest.
He approached the captives, his boots crunching on the splintered deck, the wood slick with blood and littered with bullet casings. "Good work, boys—and you, Popeye," he said, nodding to his friend, who loomed behind like a storm ready to break. His eyes locked on the prisoners, cold as the steel in his hand. "Now, you pieces of shit, what gang are you with?"
One spat blood at Olbap's feet, his sneer defiant. "Go to hell, kid."
Olbap glanced at his stained boots, his face a mask of calm. Without a word, he raised his Flintlock and fired, the shot echoing like thunder as the man's head snapped back, blood pooling beneath him. The other three froze, their eyes wide with terror, the air thick with the coppery scent of death. "Who's next?" Olbap asked, his voice low, a blade's edge in his tone.
"Please, spare us!" one begged, his voice cracking, tears streaming down his dirt-streaked face. "I'll talk!"
Another tried to protest—"Eijin, you traitor, you'll—" A second shot cut him off, his body slumping beside the first, blood seeping into the deck's cracks.
Olbap holstered his Flintlock, stepping closer to the talker. "You want to live? Spill it. What gang? Why's this war happening? Everything you know."
The man nodded frantically, his voice trembling. "I'm with the Gray Sharks. This is our territory. The war—it's because of the Salt Dogs' deal. They're getting a big shipment—something worth killing for. We were told to guard this cliff, stop anyone coming through. That's all I know about the cargo."
Olbap's eyes narrowed, his mind filing away every word. "The gangs—who's who on this island?"
"Gray Sharks, us—west coast. Red Rhinos to the east, Black Bulls further west, Salt Dogs in the north-south. We usually respect borders, but when word got out about the Salt Dogs' shipment, it was chaos. Everyone wants it."
Olbap leaned in, his voice a low growl. "Anything else I need to know?"
The man swallowed hard, his tears mixing with the blood on his face. "The bosses—they're monsters. Nothing moves on Kutsukku without them knowing. They're stronger than any army. You won't get past them."
Olbap straightened, his mind a steel trap locking in the intel. "Thanks for cooperating." He turned, his boots echoing on the deck.
The silent captive spoke, his voice shaking. "You'll let us go now, right? We told you everything!"
Olbap paused, a cold smile curling his lips. "Let you go? Why would I do that?"
"You said we'd live if we talked!" the man pleaded. "Don't you have honor?"
Olbap's laugh cut through the sea breeze, sharp and merciless. "You assumed I'd let you walk. I never promised that. My word is never a lie, right?, Popeye?"
Popeye's grin was feral, his blood-streaked hair glinting in the fading light. "Damn right. You said they could talk to survive—never said they'd leave." He snatched two Flintlocks from nearby soldiers, aimed, and fired. Two shots rang out, two bodies hit the deck, blood pooling in dark, spreading stains. The captives didn't even have time to scream.
"Feed them to the fish," Popeye ordered, his voice booming over the deck. "The rest of you, ready the sails. This place isn't safe."
The soldiers moved fast, heaving the bodies overboard with heavy splashes, the sea swallowing them as if they'd never existed. Olbap retreated to the captain's cabin, his shoulders heavy with the weight of the fight. This world's a blessing without rockets launcher or Missile, he thought. One missile, and we'd be ash. The ambush had been brutal, but they'd survived—barely. He grabbed the baby Den Den Mushi, his voice steady despite the adrenaline still burning in his veins.
"Move to open water," he ordered. "We'll see them coming out there. The cannon's our edge—use it if we're attacked." The soldiers relayed the command, the ship groaning as the anchor rose, the sails catching the wind. Olbap knew the crew might question exposing themselves in open water, but staying in the cove was suicide—an ambush waiting to happen. The whole island knew they were here; someone, maybe even the Salt Dogs, had leaked the shipment. Without Jerry's call, they couldn't head to the drop point, so the sea was their only play—visibility and the ship's lone cannon their best defense.
Inside Kutsukku: Gray Sharks' Base
In a cavern carved into the cliffs, the Gray Sharks' base hummed with tension. The report of the battle had spread—gunfire, screams, and a ship now drifting in open water. No bodies were found, only blood and bullet casings staining the cliff. Thrown to the sharks, they assumed, a common end for enemies on Kutsukku.
Skar, a wiry man with a patch over his right eye and scars crisscrossing his face, stood before Drax, the Gray Sharks' boss. "Boss, the ship's in open water, near the main Canyon. My men are watching—if it moves, we'll know."
Drax's voice rumbled like a storm, his pale skin stark against his long gray ponytail and silver-gray coat. Shark-tooth necklaces clinked around his neck, and his steel-tipped boots gleamed faintly in the torchlight. "Good, Skar. That ship's got the cargo we need. Don't lose it. Any survivors from the cliff?"
Skar shook his head. "None. All dead, likely tossed to the sharks. The fish are feasting."
Drax's eyes glinted with hunger. "Then we move. That cargo's ours."
East of the Island: Red Rhinos' Base
In a jungle camp fortified with spiked logs, the Red Rhinos gathered. A woman with a shaved head and a jagged scar across her cheek spoke up. "Boss Rogar, we heard fighting in Gray Shark territory—gunshots, screams, the works."
Rogar, a towering figure with skin like burnt oak and legs thick as cannons, laughed, his voice booming. His leather vest, studded with rusted rhino-horn shoulder plates, creaked as he moved. His steel-tipped boots could crush skulls with a step. "So, the sharks got the cargo? Send scouts. If they've got it, we take it."
West of the Island: Black Bulls' Base
In a fortress of scrap metal and driftwood, the Black Bulls roared with laughter. A burly man, his shirt straining over his muscles, spoke to Bront, their leader. "Boss, there's action in Gray Shark land. Bet it's the cargo."
Bront, his dark skin gleaming under a battered helmet with massive horns, grinned through his wild beard. His armor, forged from sunken ships, bore scars of countless battles, and a chipped axe rested beside him, its blade thirsty. "Hah! The sharks got first blood? Send 100 men. We're not missing this."
North of the Island: Salt Dogs' Base
In a salt-crusted bunker, Barkos, the Salt Dogs' leader, spoke to Jerry via Den Den Mushi. His bronzed skin and wild brown hair gave him a feral edge, his oversized canines glinting like daggers. His faded captain's coat hung loose, a rusted hook gleaming on his left hand, adorned with necklaces of dog teeth and bone. "Barkos, my people are there already? Where's the drop?"
Barkos voice crackled, impatient. "North side, big port. Torches at night—can't miss it." Barkos scowled, cutting the call. "Who does that bastard think he is, giving orders after we paid 60 million beli for that Red Tide?"
A young Salt Dog, his face pocked with scars, spoke up. "Boss, you let him talk like that?"
Barkos's hook glinted as he snarled. "We spent our fortune on this. They don't own us." He stood, shouting to his crew. "Light the torches! We're taking that cargo, and no one's stealing what's ours!"
With Olbap
The sun sank, the sky bleeding red as the main Den Den Mushi rang. Olbap grabbed it, his voice sharp. "Yeah?"
"Jerry," came the reply. "Drop's set—north side, big port. Look for torches at night."
Olbap's jaw tightened. "We got hit by the Gray Sharks. This war's because everyone knows about the cargo. Someone leaked it."
"No losses on the Red Tide?" Jerry asked, his tone clipped.
"None. It's secure," Olbap said, his patience thin. "I'm ending this fast." He hung up, grabbing the baby Den Den Mushi. "Raise the anchor. Head north along the coast—big port, torches. That's the drop."
The soldiers moved, the ship creaking as it turned, sails snapping in the wind. Olbap stood at the bow, staring at the darkening horizon, the weight of the fight and the deal pressing on him like a storm. This island's a deathtrap, he thought, but I'll outplay them all.
End of the chapter.