Location: Shells Town, East Blue Year: 1520 (Three Months Later)
The smell of Shells Town was a distinct mixture of sea salt, cheap rum, and polished brass from the Marine base that loomed over the island. For Hiroki Rintarō, it smelled like opportunity—and poverty.
He stood inside the dusty interior of "Saito's Steel," a cramped weapon shop near the docks. In his hand, he held a katana with a blue lacquer scabbard. It was beautiful. The balance point was less than an inch from the guard, and the temper line, the hamon, was a chaotic, cloudy wave pattern.
"That's a Wazamono grade," the shopkeeper, Saito, grunted, not looking up from his ledger. "Maybe not one of the fifty, but sharp enough to slice a hair floating in the air. Six hundred thousand berries."
Hiroki carefully placed the sword back on the rack. "I have fifty thousand."
Saito snorted. "Then you have a kitchen knife, kid. The discount bin is by the door."
Hiroki sighed. His current blade, the nameless steel sword from Aosagi, was suffering. The edge was chipped in three places from his daily suburi against ironwood logs. His strength was growing faster than his equipment could handle. The Acceleration Boost was a double-edged sword; it made him stronger, but it demanded tools that could keep up.
He walked out of the shop, squinting against the midday sun. He needed money. And in the East Blue, there was only one way for a freelance swordsman to make fast coin without raising a black flag.
He headed toward the town square, where the Marine bulletin board stood.
The board was plastered with faces. Most were small-time crooks—thieves, petty bandits, pirates who had barely left their home islands.
Hiroki scanned the numbers. 50,000... 100,000... too small. He needed a payout that would secure a good blade and supplies for a year.
His eyes stopped on a poster near the bottom.
"Iron-Knuckle" KargoWanted Dead or AliveBounty: 3,000,000 BerriesCrimes: Piracy, Assault on a Marine Vessel, Pillage.
Three million. A significant jump for a rookie hunter.
"He's a brute," a voice murmured beside him.
Hiroki turned. A Marine ensign was lighting a cigarette, watching him. "Kargo. He wears brass knuckles spiked with sea-stone fragments. Not enough to drain a fruit user, but enough to break a normal man's sword in half. He's been seen at the 'Rusty Anchor' bar on the outskirts."
Hiroki looked at the Marine, then back at the poster. "Thanks."
"Don't die, kid. Paperwork is a hassle."
The 'Rusty Anchor' was a dive built into the hull of a wrecked galleon. The air inside was thick with smoke. Hiroki stepped in, the sunlight from the door cutting a swath through the gloom.
[Tactical Insight Active]
The interface overlaid the room with cold data.
Threat Level: Minimal (Patrons)Target Identified: Corner Booth.Observation: Target mass ~120kg. Muscle density high. Weapons: Spiked knuckles on table.
Kargo was huge, a slab of muscle and scars, drinking from a tankard the size of a bucket. Two lackeys sat with him.
Hiroki walked to the center of the room. The chatter died down. He looked out of place—clean clothes, calm demeanor, a sword that looked too light for his grip.
"Kargo," Hiroki said softly.
The giant squinted. "Who's asking? Another Marine pup?"
"I'm here for the three million," Hiroki stated, his hand hovering over his hilt.
The room erupted in laughter. Kargo wiped foam from his lip and stood up, the floorboards creaking. He slipped the spiked knuckles onto his hands. They glinted ominously.
"Three million," Kargo mocked. "That's the price of your funeral."
He didn't signal. He just charged.
For a man his size, Kargo was fast. He closed the distance like a charging bull, throwing a right hook aimed at Hiroki's skull.
Hiroki didn't block. Blocking breaks the sword.
[Reflex Check: Pass]
Hiroki slid to the left, the wind of the punch ruffling his hair. He drew his blade in a horizontal flash.
Nuki-do.
Steel met... steel?
Kargo had twisted his body, catching the blade on the back of his brass gauntlet. Sparks showered the floor.
"Fast!" Kargo grunted, following up with a backhand.
Hiroki ducked, feeling the spikes tear the shoulder of his kimono. He rolled backward, resetting his stance.
Analysis: Kargo protects his vitals with the gauntlets. He baits attacks to break the opponent's weapon.
"Come on, little samurai!" Kargo roared, smashing a table aside. "Show me that toothpick!"
Hiroki took a breath. Calm the heart.
He couldn't win a contest of strength. His Strength stat was 13.5—respectable for a teen, but Kargo was easily in the 20s. He had to rely on precision.
Hiroki closed his eyes for a fraction of a second.
The breath of the room. The creak of wood. The shifting of weight.
[Observation Haki: 0.2%]
A faint sensation. A tug in his gut. Low. Right.
Hiroki jumped.
Kargo's leg sweep shattered the floorboards where Hiroki had been standing a moment before.
Mid-air, Hiroki twisted. He didn't slash. He thrust.
Tsuki.
The tip of his blade didn't aim for the chest or head, where the gauntlets could intercept. He aimed for the wrist, specifically the tendon gap between the gauntlet and the forearm.
SQUELCH.
"ARGH!" Kargo screamed, dropping his right hand as the tendon was severed.
Hiroki landed and pivoted behind the giant. Kargo spun, swinging blindly with his left.
Hiroki saw the opening. The neck. Exposed. Vulnerable.
Time slowed. In the dojo, you stopped the blade. In the tournament, you pulled the hit.
If I stop, he kills me. If I pull, he kills me.
The moral weight pressed on him, heavy as lead. But the memory of the village girl in Aosagi, nearly shot by a stray bullet, flashed in his mind.
Hesitation is death.
Hiroki's blade moved. A silver arc in the dim light.
Blood sprayed across the bar counter. Kargo choked, clutching his throat, and collapsed with a thunderous thud.
The room was silent.
Hiroki stood over the body. He flicked the blood off his blade—Chiburi—but his hand trembled slightly. This wasn't a spar. This was a bounty. He had traded a life for three million berries.
He sheathed the sword slowly, the click echoing like a gunshot.
"I'll take the body to the base," Hiroki said to the terrified bartender. "Sorry about the table."
Outside, the fresh air did little to settle his stomach. He leaned against a wall in an alleyway, taking deep, shuddering breaths. He had killed before, in his past life, indirectly through orders or accidents, but never like this. Up close. Personal.
The blue window appeared, indifferent to his nausea.
[Combat Encounter Resolved][Milestone: First Bounty Head Claimed]
[Status Window Update - Hiroki Rintarō]
Strength: 12.9 → 13.5 / 100Speed: 14.2 → 14.8 / 100Endurance: 11.9 → 12.5 / 100Reflex: 16.1 → 16.8 / 100Swordsmanship: 18.8 → 19.5 / 100Tactical Insight: 14.5 → 15.2 / 100Observation Haki: 0.1% → 0.3% (Senses heightening)
Hiroki stared at his hands. They were stained with microscopic specks of red.
"Three million," he whispered. "Enough for the sword."
He pushed off the wall. He would buy the Wazamono. He would train. And he would get stronger. Because in this world, the weak didn't get to choose who lived or died. Only the strong had that luxury.
[Chapter 2 End]