Thank you very much for these 30,000 views and 111 people who have saved the story. I hope to continue growing and expanding my project. Don't forget to give powerstone to continue growing and leave your comment if you have an idea or opinion.
I never expected that my story, which I wrote because I couldn't find good One Piece stories without broken systems, and harem would become this great, and it's also something I'm putting my effort and love into creating.
Also from this chapter the action begins and we will see how Olbap takes control of the organization or fails in progress.
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Krakenport's heart pulsed with newfound life, its skyline pierced by a ten-story tower that loomed like a testament to impossible dreams made real. To Brackmor's natives, such a structure would have been unthinkable years ago, a cruel jest against their island's decay. Once, dirt paths snaked through the town, masquerading as streets, while homes teetered on the brink of collapse, battered by time, storms, and relentless disasters. Docks clung to existence, propped up by weathered timbers, their splintered planks groaning under the weight of neglect.
The air had carried the sour reek of rot and despair, the sea's salty breath a constant reminder of Brackmor's abandonment by the world. Yet, five years ago, a boy named Rabocse Olbap, barely 10, stepped onto these shores and rewrote the island's fate. Now, the scent of fresh earth, blooming crops, and polished wood filled the streets, wells gurgled with clean water, and fishing boats bobbed with pride, their hulls gleaming under the sun. Hunger, once a relentless specter, had faded, replaced by the chatter of markets and the hope of a thriving future.
Olbap's reforms began with the foundations: he paved roads where mud once trapped boots, rebuilt homes for the destitute, and gave purpose to abandoned children and despairing elders. He dug wells that sparkled with clean water, a luxury Brackmor had never known.
Farms sprouted across barren fields, offering work to the jobless, their harvests feeding families who'd forgotten the taste of plenty. Fishermen, once resigned to broken boats and empty nets, saw their vessels restored, their trade revived to sustain the island. No one could fathom why he did it or where his wealth flowed from—a fortune vast enough to transform a forsaken rock into a beacon of prosperity.
Questions lingered, but gratitude silenced them. The islanders, their stomachs no longer hollow, didn't pry; they were too thankful for a life free of want. Olbap's vision didn't stop at survival. He summoned builders from distant islands, their hammers and saws echoing through Krakenport, erecting markets that buzzed with the sharp tang of spices, the soft rustle of fabrics, and the metallic gleam of tools. Trade networks flourished, connecting Brackmor to the world, its economy stirring like a ship catching the wind. To the natives, Olbap was no mere leader—he was a miracle, a savior who'd pulled them from the abyss.
In gratitude, they built this tower for him, its stone walls rising ten stories, a monument to their faith. Olbap, humble at first, tried to refuse, but their insistence won him over. The building stood as Krakenport's crown, its windows catching the moon's silver glow, a symbol of what unity and vision could achieve.
His only request in return was simple yet profound: be his eyes and ears. The islanders agreed, their loyalty unwavering, for they knew his efforts shielded Brackmor from the chaos beyond. At sea, distant smoke and the faint boom of cannons hinted at battles that would have crushed their fragile progress without him. The ocean's restless churn, laced with the acrid bite of gunpowder, was a reminder of the world he held at bay.
On the ninth floor, a vast window framed the moonlit sea, its waves glinting like shattered glass, while Krakenport's lights twinkled below, a constellation of hope. Inside, a circular table dominated the room, its polished mahogany surface reflecting the lunar glow, casting soft shadows across the walls.
The Red Tide, reunited after five years of grueling work, gathered around it, their presence heavy with purpose. At the center, bathed in moonlight that sharpened his angular features, sat Barrakuda Silco, 35, his tall, bony frame radiating cold authority. His dark green hair, slicked back with meticulous care, framed high cheekbones and a burn scar over his left eye, partially veiled by a monocle on a delicate silver chain. His burgundy high-collared coat, rich and somber, draped over a tailored vest and a silk shirt with subtle lace cuffs, its elegance a stark contrast to Brackmor's rugged past. Black leather gloves encased his long hands, one bearing a ring with a vivid red gem, a mark of unity worn by all present. His presence was a blade—sharp, unyielding, silencing the room with a glance.
To his right sat Rane, his scarlet scarf catching the light as he sipped wine, his piercing scarlet eyes scanning the group with quiet vigilance. To Silco's left, Jerry pored over a newspaper, his calm patience a counterpoint to the room's tension, the rustle of pages barely audible.
Beside Jerry were Marlon, Graves, and Vex, three veterans whose matching red captain's coats—emblazoned with a crimson wave—marked their shared purpose, though their appearances set them apart. Marlon, 40, carried a serious air, his dark brown hair tucked under a bandana, his thick beard obscuring much of his weathered face, a testament to years at sea. Graves, 37, had messy blonde hair spilling over his brow, his neat goatee framing a sharp, calculating gaze. Vex, 36, appeared youngest, his brown hair tied in a tight bun, his trimmed beard polished, his vanity evident in every meticulous detail. Their coats, paired with crisp white shirts and dark pants, unified them, but their scars and weathered features told individual tales of survival.
Nearby, Tom and Mot, both 28, slouched in their chairs, their eyelids heavy with impatience, the wait lulling them toward sleep. Kael, 33, sat upright, his blonde hair tied in a neat ponytail, his formal suit—black jacket, white shirt, red tie—a nod to the meeting's gravity.
Anna and Vanessa, 21, their crimson hair glowing like embers under the moonlight, sat with poised ease, their beauty striking yet tempered by sharp awareness as they watched the group, waiting for the discussion to ignite. Popeye, 20, had traded his combat gear for a white suit with a red shirt, his massive frame relaxed but alert, his presence a quiet anchor. At his side was Rabocse Olbap, now 15, his boyish features hardened into those of a handsome young man. His blonde hair hung loose, vibrant as the sun, his amethyst eyes calm yet piercing, holding the room with an authority that belied his youth. His suit mirrored Popeye's but with purple accents to match his gaze, a subtle declaration of his rising power.
Silco tapped the table, the sharp sound slicing through the room's murmur, drawing every eye. "Thank you for coming," he said, his voice cold as steel, steady as the tide. "These past five years have kept us scattered, with no time for a gathering like this. Let's make it quick and simple."
The meeting began, each member delivering their report—battles won, deals secured, threats crushed under the Red Tide's crimson banner. Olbap, however, stood apart, his gaze fixed on the window, the moonlight glinting off his untouched glass of amber liquid.
The sea stretched endless before him, its waves whispering secrets only he seemed to hear. Five years of sleepless nights, pouring his soul into Brackmor's rebirth, weighed heavy on his shoulders. Every well, every farm, every paved road was a step toward his true goal: control of the Red Tide. Odoho's reports had confirmed the obstacle—Silco alone held the third ingredient, the final piece of the Red Tide's creation, performing the last step in secret, shrouded in shadow. No amount of loyalty or cunning had pried it from him, and Olbap's patience was fraying.
As the others spoke, their voices a dull hum, Olbap's mind churned with plans as intricate as the island's new trade networks. He was ready to seize the Red Tide, his foundation laid—Brackmor's economy, its loyal informants, all positioned him to climb. But barriers loomed, and Rane was the most formidable.
He and Jerry outranked Olbap, and Silco's trust in them was ironclad. Rane's suspicion, his relentless vigilance, marked him as the first to fall. Olbap had once considered sparing them, hoping they'd bend to his rule, but their ambition was too fierce, their loyalty to Silco too deep. They'd fight to reclaim power, leaving him no choice. Loyalty was a dream; death was the reality.
His plan was a closely guarded secret, shared only with Popeye and Odoho, his most trusted allies. Odoho's near-invisibility made him the perfect spy, slipping through shadows unnoticed, while Popeye's unwavering loyalty was a rock Olbap could build upon. The others—Marlon, Graves, Vex, Tom, and Mot—were vulnerable. Marlon, Graves, and Vex roamed the seas, their routines as predictable as the tides. A rival crew, fed their weaknesses, could end them in a skirmish, their deaths chalked up to the perils of the sea. Tom and Mot, patrolling Brackmor's streets, recruiting and resolving disputes, were exposed; Popeye could handle them alone, his strength unmatched. The plan was ruthless, a chessboard where each move was calculated to avoid suspicion, a path to power with no retreat.
Olbap snapped from his reverie as eyes turned to him, the room's silence expectant. "The economy's stable," he said, his voice smooth, betraying none of his inner fire. "Jobs are growing, and the islanders' loyalty as our eyes and ears has rooted out infiltrators. Time will only strengthen it." Silco and the others nodded, their approval a fleeting victory in Olbap's larger game.
"Good work, Olbap," Silco said, his monocle glinting as he leaned forward. "But I'll need you back on deliveries. Rane has a special assignment."
"No problem," Olbap replied, his tone neutral, masking the spark of opportunity. Deliveries would keep him close to the action, his hands clean while he moved his pieces.
The meeting dragged on, reports blending into the night's rhythm—the clink of glasses, the creak of chairs, the distant crash of waves against Krakenport's docks. When it ended, the group dispersed, their footsteps echoing down the tower's halls. Olbap and Popeye remained, the room's silence thick with unspoken plans. Popeye propped his legs on the table, his grin wide but knowing. "Care to share the next step, boss?"
"Wait an hour," Olbap said, rising, his purple-accented suit catching the moonlight. "Call everyone for another meeting." He strode out, his figure vanishing into the shadowed corridor. Popeye sighed, accustomed to Olbap's cryptic flair, and began making calls, his deep voice cutting through the quiet.
An hour later, the tenth floor gleamed with pristine elegance, its marble floors and crystal chandeliers a testament to Brackmor's rise. Olbap's inner circle gathered—no Silco, no Rane, just his trusted crew: Popeye, Kael, Anna, Vanessa, Toro, Liro, and Odoho, whose presence was a faint whisper even among allies. The room hummed with anticipation, the sea's murmur filtering through the windows, Krakenport's lights twinkling below like stars fallen to earth. Olbap stood at the window, his back to the group, the city's glow reflecting in his amethyst eyes. He turned, his gaze sweeping over them, commanding their attention.
"It's time to reveal my plan," he said, his voice low but resonant, each word heavy with intent. "The truth about what I've been building these five years."
"About damn time," Toro said, leaning back, his grin wide as he stretched. "Five years, and you've kept us in the dark, Olbap."
"I knew you were hiding something," Anna said, her crimson hair catching the chandelier's light, her eyes sharp with curiosity. "Your mind's too sharp for anything less."
The others chimed in, their voices a mix of excitement and impatience—Vanessa's soft but pointed questions, Kael's measured skepticism, Liro's eager lean forward, Odoho's quiet observation. Olbap's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "I'm surrounded by sharp minds," he said. "My goal from the start was to take the Red Tide. I couldn't act without the final ingredient, but Silco keeps it locked away, and only he knows it. I climbed the ranks, earned his trust, but he won't budge. There's only one way—force him to reveal it. First, we eliminate those who'd block us."
"You mean Jerry, Marlon, and the others?" Liro asked, his eyes narrowing, his mind already tracing the plan's edges.
"Exactly," Olbap said, his voice steady but laced with steel. "I value loyalty, but Silco's not fit to lead. This is the only path to growth and i am the only one capable of doing it."
"What if Silco doesn't talk?" Vanessa asked, her crimson hair framing a face both gentle and incisive, her question cutting to the core.
"He's not a fool," Olbap said. "He likely carries the formula, knowing betrayal hinges on it. He'll talk to save his skin."
"It sounds solid, but this is dangerous," Kael said, his brow furrowed, his voice heavy with the weight of their risk. "We could all die."
"I know," Olbap said, his amethyst eyes meeting Kael's. "That's why we do it smart. I'll be on deliveries with Popeye, keeping suspicion off me. We'll set traps—accidents that take out most without exposing us. Those we can't, we handle ourselves."
"So, we're the cleanup crew?" Odoho asked, his voice soft, his presence so faint it startled the room, a reminder of his ghostly gift.
"Initially, yes," Olbap said, his gaze softening briefly in acknowledgment. "But I've adjusted to minimize risk. Most will fall to 'accidents'—rival crews for the sea vultures, ambushes for the island runners. The rest, we take directly."
The group nodded, their faces a mix of resolve and unease. None relished bloodshed, but they understood the stakes—Brackmor's future, the Red Tide's power, Olbap's vision. His shift to protect them, to orchestrate deaths as accidents, deepened their trust. "Keep to your roles," Olbap said, his voice firm. "When I call, answer and follow orders without hesitation. No doubts, no delays."
They agreed, their nods a silent pact, and dispersed into the night, their footsteps fading down the tower's grand staircase. Olbap lingered, alone at the window, Krakenport's lights sprawling below like a map of his ambition. The sea whispered beyond, its waves carrying the weight of his plans. He smiled, a quiet, dangerous curve of his lips. "It's time to take it all," he murmured, the city's glow reflecting in his eyes, a fire ready to consume the Red Tide and reshape the world.
End of the chapter.