A week had passed since the blood-soaked chaos at Kutsukku's northern port, and the journey back to Brackmor Island was mercifully uneventful. The South Blue's azure waves were calm, no storms threatening Olbap's battered ship as it cut through the sea,
its sails taut under a cloudless sky. The air carried the briny tang of salt, mingled with the faint stench of sweat and dried blood from the crew. Of the 100 soldiers who'd set out, only 47 remained—53 had fallen in the brutal clash with the Salt Dogs, Black Bulls, Gray Sharks, and Red Rhinos.
Most survivors were wounded, their bodies wrapped in bandages, their faces gaunt from pain and exhaustion. Popeye, the worst off, had taken a savage beating from the Devil Fruit-powered gang leaders. His massive frame, usually unyielding, had collapsed into a day-long coma, his wounds stitched and bandaged, his platinum-white hair still crusted with blood when he finally awoke.
His first demand was food. Ravenous, he devoured the ship's entire reserve of dried fish, bread, and fruit, leaving the crew staring at empty barrels. Olbap, ever pragmatic, turned it into a punishment. "You ate our supplies, so you're fishing," he said, his voice calm but firm, his sharp eyes glinting with a hint of amusement.
Popeye, still aching, was tethered to the ship's side like a human fishing rod, tasked with hauling in small Sea Kings and other marine beasts. His metal-studded gloves gripped the makeshift net, pulling in writhing creatures, their scales glinting in the sun, their thrashing splashing seawater across the deck. The crew cheered each catch, their spirits lifting as fresh meat roasted over makeshift fires, the smoky aroma mixing with the sea air, restoring strength to the weary men.
Olbap hadn't escaped unscathed either. His suit, once crisp, was torn and bloodied, his body marked by shallow cuts and bruises from close-quarters scuffles in Kutsukku. Compared to Popeye's near-fatal wounds, though, his injuries were minor—stinging reminders of the chaos but not enough to slow him down. At 11 years old, his mind was sharper than ever, already turning over plans for Brackmor's defense, his encounter with the Devil Fruits and Barkos's intel about Silco burning in his thoughts.
The ship docked at Brackmor's hidden cove, where jagged cliffs and dense mangroves concealed the organization's main laboratory and shipyard. The crew disembarked, their boots squelching in the muddy shore, the air thick with the swamp's fetid stench and the distant hum of machinery.
Workers bustled in the lab, their silhouettes moving through clouds of crimson steam as they processed the Red Tide, its acrid scent stinging the nose. Olbap and Popeye, the latter limping but defiant, made their way to Silco's office as ordered. The stone underground building loomed ahead, its walls weathered by dust and earth, its heavy door creaking as they pushed it open.
Inside, they notice. The entire organization sat around a massive wooden table, their faces grim under the flickering light of oil lamps. The air was heavy, charged with tension, as if a storm loomed within the room itself.
Silco sat at the head, his scarred face unreadable, his dark eyes locking onto Olbap and Popeye. The others—Rane, Jerry, Marlon, Tom, Mot, Graves, and Vex—sat in silence, their expressions a mix of fatigue and resolve. Two new faces, Anna and Vanessa, sat at the table's edge, their presence unexpected. Olbap's mind raced: A full meeting? This is about the intel. He and Popeye took their seats without a word, the creak of chairs the only sound in the stifling room.
Silco's voice broke the silence, deep and commanding. "Now that we're all here, let's begin. First, Olbap, Popeye—outstanding work delivering the shipment to Kutsukku. That haul brought in a fortune, enough to keep this organization growing." He nodded at them, a rare gesture of approval. Olbap returned a curt nod, while Popeye, still bruised, managed a faint grin. "Next, our new members," Silco continued, gesturing to the two women. "Anna and Vanessa, now overseeing Crimson Flower collection. Their work's been flawless, boosting our Red Tide production. Welcome them."
Anna, her crimson red hair tied back, gave a small nod, her eyes sharp but guarded. Vanessa, crimson hair like her sister, mirrored her, her fingers tapping nervously on the table. Olbap noted their low rank but clear competence—Silco didn't promote lightly.
"Now, the serious matter," Silco said, his tone darkening, the room's tension spiking. "Olbap and Popeye's mission uncovered a threat. Our location—Brackmor Island—has been exposed in the black market, along with my name and our Red Tide operation. This island's perfect for our work—hidden, defensible, with the swamp as a natural barrier. Losing it would cripple us. We need to prepare for whoever's coming. Ideas?"
Rane, his lean frame tense, raised a hand, his voice steady but laced with urgency. "We expand our surveillance zone. Patrol the seas around Brackmor to spot anyone approaching. Red Tide's profits are soaring—everyone wants a piece. We make it clear this is our territory."
Jerry, his eyes gleaming under the lamplight, nodded. "Agreed. We could set traps—mines, spiked nets, anything to slow invaders. And we hire more men. Plenty of locals need work; they'll fight for us if the beli's good."
Tom, broad-shouldered and grizzled, leaned forward, his voice gruff. "Mot and I can handle recruitment. The island's people are desperate—work's scarce. They won't turn down a chance to earn." Mot, silent as always, nodded, his scarred hands folded on the table.
Marlon, the lab's overseer and shipwright, spoke next, his voice calm but authoritative. "I can train recruits to man patrol boats. Give me enough ships, and we'll keep the seas locked down, buying time to fortify the island."
Graves, a former fisherman with weathered skin, chimed in. "Vex and I know the seas better than most. We'll help Marlon set up patrols, map currents, and spot weak points. No one's sneaking past us."
Silco listened, his fingers drumming on the table, his mind weighing each proposal. Sea patrols for early warnings, traps to slow enemies, and more men to hold the line. The organization's armory was well-stocked—Flintlocks, Mosquetes, and blades for hundreds—but cannons were scarce. "Solid plans," he said, his voice measured. "But you're all stretched thin. Tom, Mot, you're tied up with the Crimson Flower and the Coral collectors. Graves, Vex, you manage the workers, but one of you can assist Marlon. Anna, Vanessa, your focus is the swamp—keep production steady. No one's hitting the lab directly, not through that death trap. Other ideas?"
The room fell silent, the weight of the threat sinking in. Losing the Red Tide meant death—not just for the organization but for everyone in this room. Olbap cleared his throat, drawing all eyes. "You're on the right track," he said, his young voice steady, cutting through the tension. "But we're short on ship cannons. I can count ours on one hand. If we're patrolling the seas, we need more firepower to stop invaders before they reach shore. That's priority one."
He paused, his sharp eyes scanning the table. "You're also forgetting what happens if they land. Sea patrols won't stop a determined enemy forever—they'll find us eventually. We need defenses on the island: traps, guard posts with Den Den Mushi for instant reports, and snipers in the cliffs. The swamp's our best weapon. We play it off as harmless, but outsiders don't know its quicksand pits, venomous snakes, or choking vines. Most intruders will die before they reach the lab, especially in groups. It's a natural fortress."
Jerry nodded, scribbling notes, his pen scratching loudly. "Smart, Olbap. The swamp's a deathtrap—perfect defense."
Silco's eyes narrowed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "That's not all you've got, is it, Olbap?"
"No, sir," Olbap said, leaning forward, his voice steady but brimming with conviction. "Since Kutsukku, I've been thinking. We pay the island's citizens for intel on outsiders. Turn Brackmor into our eyes and ears. Anyone suspicious—merchants, drifters, spies—the locals will report them for beli. We control the island completely. And we boost the economy. More jobs, more trade—fishermen, farmers, merchants—they'll work harder if they've got beli to spend. That gives us more allies, more intel, and more power to expand to other islands."
Silence fell again, the room buzzing with the weight of Olbap's words. Paying locals sounded costly, but the advantages were undeniable. Red Tide's profits could cover it, and a loyal population meant an unbreachable network. The economic boost wasn't impossible either—Silco's operations had already sparked growth. Fishermen hauled bigger catches, farmers expanded their plots, and shops buzzed with new coin. The island was primed for Olbap's vision.
Silco leaned back, his scarred hands folded. "Olbap, that mind of yours is working today. Paying locals is a long-term investment—costly but worth it. I'll handle the cannons; we'll buy what we need. Rane, you take over Jerry's contacts for new business. Jerry, you're back on deliveries. Olbap, you're in charge of improving the island—economy, defenses, all of it. Your plan's the best shot we've got. Tom, Mot, recruit and train soldiers. Graves, join Marlon to prep the patrol ships—tell me how many we need and what else you require. Vex, find a new collector to replace Graves so you can focus on the on helping Marlon and graves and leave the collection to the new guy. Anna, Vanessa, keep the Crimson Flowers flowing. You've got Den Den Mushi—use them if you need Tom or Mot."
The room nodded, the plan crystallizing. The organization was done hiding in the shadows. This was a new era—open, aggressive, ready to dominate. Olbap's mind churned, a quiet thrill in his chest. This is how empires start.
He'd learned from stories of cartels in his old life—south America syndicates that ruled through money and fear, paying informants to control entire regions. Brackmor's people were poor, hungry for beli. They'd sell out strangers for a handful of coins, no questions asked. With the island as his eyes, no enemy could move unseen. His plans were already forming: a network of taverns, markets, and informants, all feeding him intel. The swamp's natural defenses, the sea patrols, the armed locals—this was the foundation of his future empire.
As the meeting ended, Olbap stood, his suit still torn from Kutsukku, his young face set with determination. He'd head to his tavern, a rundown spot in the island's main village, and start building. If everything went right, Brackmor would be his first step toward something greater—a throne he'd claim when the time was ripe.
End of the chapter.