Ace felt as if his brain had been punched head-on by Akainu's magma fist.
But this time, the damage wasn't physical; it was conceptual.
His mind was scorching, blank, and rebooting in safe mode.
"Going... public?" Ace stammered, his eyes swirling.
The words bounced around inside his skull like a rubber ball in an empty room.
'Angel investment? Strategic partners? Ten-year development plan?'
His mouth hung open, his jaw unhinged.
His expression was more stunned than when he'd seen Luffy descend from the sky at the execution platform.
At least falling from the sky made sense in terms of gravity.
This? This was alien.
"Go... ing... pubic?" Ace struggled to repeat the term, his tongue tripping over the syllables.
In his limited understanding, "public" sounded like a type of tavern, or perhaps a euphemism for getting executed in a plaza.
"It's 'Going Public,'" Putin corrected gently, flashing a smile that was 50% encouragement and 50% pity.
It was the look a teacher gives a student who is trying to eat the glue.
"You show great potential, Mr. Ace. Let me enlighten you."
Putin cleared his throat and gestured grandly to the open ocean.
"Simply put, we will package the 'Whitebeard Pirates' not just as a crew, but as a premium brand. We conduct an Initial Public Offering—an IPO—to attract external capital injection. This achieves scaled expansion and maximizes brand value equity."
Ace blinked. "Equity... like... horses?"
"No, its value!" Putin pressed on, caught up in his own fantasy.
"Imagine this: By Q3 of next year, forget just one Moby Dick. We could assemble an entire Moby Dick Fleet! A conglomerate! Each ship equipped with my patented tents, central heating, and round-the-clock air conditioning!"
As he reached the crescendo of his speech, Putin's eyes sparkled with boundless anticipation for the future.
He wasn't seeing pirates; he was seeing a multinational corporation with excellent employee benefits.
He saw infrastructure. He saw comfort. He saw a retirement plan.
Meanwhile, Ace's pupils had completely dilated.
He felt less like he was conversing with a human being and more like he was talking to a Den Den Mushi that had accidentally eaten the Human-Human Fruit, Model: Capitalist.
"Ahem."
A light, dry cough interrupted this cross-dimensional exchange.
Marco the Phoenix approached, carrying a tray with a steaming cup of herbal tea.
He looked tired.
He always looked tired, but today he looked like a single mother dealing with two toddlers who had just found the sugar jar.
His perpetually drowsy eyes held a rare clarity and a touch of amused exasperation.
He turned his gaze to Putin and said in his characteristic lazy drawl.
"So, what you mean is... you want to do business with us, yoi?"
Truly worthy of being the First Division Commander and the defacto "Mom" of the Whitebeard Pirates.
Marco cut through the jargon like a scalpel.
Putin inwardly praised him.
'Finally! Someone whose brain isn't made of fire and meat!'
Marco's comprehension was clearly several levels above his adopted brother.
"Not just simple business," Putin corrected, adjusting his non-existent glasses to look more intellectual.
He straightened his Marine uniform, which looked ridiculous in this context, but he wore it with the dignity of a CEO suit.
"Business implies a one-time transaction. A fling. A one-night stand, if you will." Putin shook his finger.
"No, no. What I am proposing is a marriage. I want to establish a deeply integrated, sustainable, mutually beneficial, long-term Strategic Partnership."
Marco sipped his tea. "That's a lot of adjectives, yoi."
"I, Putin, representing the 'Multiverse Groceries' conglomerate behind me, will provide the Whitebeard Pirates with comprehensive technical support, intelligence analysis, and brand image public relations services."
Ace had completely given up on thinking. His brain had overheated.
He silently retreated to a corner of the deck, clutching his giant plate of Sea Beast Leg like a safety blanket. He sat down and began to eat aggressively.
'This guy,' Ace thought, chewing furiously. 'His threat level might be comparable to Blackbeard's. Blackbeard just wanted to kill Thatch and steal a fruit. This guy... he seems intent on selling our souls and turning us into a spreadsheet.'
The corner of Marco's eye twitched almost imperceptibly.
'Technical support? Intelligence analysis? Brand image PR?'
"We are pirates," Marco said dryly. "Our 'public relations' usually involves cannons."
"Gurararara..."
A deep, powerful laugh rumbled from the throne nearby.
It sounded like tectonic plates shifting.
Whitebeard had been listening all along.
The IV drips in his arms swayed as he shook with mirth.
His worldly-wise eyes examined Putin with keen interest, as if observing a rare, exotic monkey that had learned to do calculus.
'This brat was interesting.'
'He didn't talk about ambition. He didn't talk about becoming the King of the Pirates. He didn't talk about justice.'
'He opened directly with "Financing" and "Going Public."'
"Brat," Whitebeard's voice boomed like a great bell, vibrating through the wooden deck planks and into Putin's bones.
"You have a strange way of speaking. You're saying you want to be my... Strategist?"
The title hung in the air.
Strategist.
It was a heavy word. Ben Beckman was a strategist. Sengoku was a strategist.
"No, no!"
Putin hastily waved his hands, his face full of performative humility.
"That term carries too much historical baggage. It feels too feudal. It doesn't align with our company's modern corporate culture."
He struck a pose.
"You may call me... Chief Strategic Advisor. Or perhaps, Project Director."
"Gurararara!"
Whitebeard laughed even harder.
The vibrations caused the wound on his chest to stretch, but he paid it no mind.
He wiped a tear from his eye.
"Fine! Chief Strategic Advisor! That's a fancy name for a squatter!"
Then, the laughter stopped.
The air on the deck grew heavy. The temperature dropped.
The playful atmosphere vanished, replaced by the crushing weight of the World's Strongest Man's Haki.
Whitebeard leaned forward. His shadow engulfed Putin.
"So, Your Excellency the Advisor," Whitebeard rumbled, his voice low and dangerous. "How do you plan to chart the future of our 'soon-to-be-sunken' wreck of a ship?"
He deliberately used the phrase "on the verge of sinking."
His invisible kingly aura descended upon Putin like a tangible, physical pressure.
It wasn't an attack, but a test.
A probe.
This was the Due Diligence phase.
Although the core of the Whitebeard Pirates had been preserved in the Summit War thanks to Putin's interference, it remained an undeniable fact that they had suffered heavy losses.
The Marine's inevitable encirclement campaigns.
The covetous eyes of Big Mom and Kaido. The treacherous ambition of Blackbeard. The surging undercurrents of the New World.
These were all imminent crises. The Moby Dick was sailing into a storm.
A mere smooth-talking fraud would instantly crumble under such pressure.
A man with weak will would faint.
Putin felt his legs trembling.
His knees knocked together like castanets.
The pressure reminded him of the primal fear he had faced when looking into Akainu's magma eyes.
'He's testing me', Putin realized. 'If I fail here, I don't get a job. I get thrown overboard.'
He wanted to retreat.
He wanted to run back to his tent and hide under the Simmons mattress.
But he couldn't.
Behind him was his mobile safe house. Inside that tent was air conditioning.
Inside that tent was Wi-Fi. Inside that tent was a toilet that flushed.
To protect his home... he must fight!
"I will not go back to pooping in a bucket!" Putin screamed internally.
His will to survive—his ultimate, pathetic, yet powerful yearning for a life of ease—transformed into an unprecedented fighting spirit.
It blazed fiercely in his chest, rivaling the Conqueror's Haki!
He was not fighting for fame.
He was not fighting for wealth.
He certainly didn't give a shit about the One Piece.
He was merely a man seeking a stable job with benefits in the New World to secure his forever slacker lifestyle!
And the Whitebeard Pirates, with their harmonious corporate culture (Family!), their protective nature (Loyalty!), and their formidable strength (Market Cap!), were the perfect "Client Daddy" he had set his sights on!
[Ding!]
The system chime rang in his head.
[Detected Host's intense "Career Ambition" and "Fighting Spirit"! Analysis: Your desire to slack off is so strong it registers as ambition.]
[Alignment Confirmed: "Business Tycoon" Growth Path.]
[Advanced Challenge Mission Triggered!]
[Mission Name: The Angel Investor's First Due Diligence Report.]
[Mission Objective: Successfully sell an intelligence-based product that showcases your "Core Competitiveness" to your potential strategic partners. Gain their recognition of "Investment Intent."]
[Target Audience: Edward Newgate (Chairman) & Marco (COO).]
[Mission Difficulty: S-Rank.]
[Rewards: Unlock Product Subcategory—[Information Warfare Series], +500,000 System Points, Stall Level Upgraded to LV3 (Handcart upgraded to Small Multifunctional Vending Vehicle).]
[Penalty for Failure: Confiscate all of the host's system points. Cut off power and internet to the Mobile Safe House for ONE WEEK.]
Putin's pupils contracted to the size of needle points.
'No power?No internet?For a WEEK?!'
Absolutely not! That was torture! That was a human rights violation!
The terror instilled by Whitebeard's pressure was instantly washed away by a much greater fear: The fear of boredom and lag.
Taking a deep breath, Putin straightened his back.
He stopped trembling.
He met Whitebeard's scrutinizing golden gaze with an incredibly confident, almost arrogant smile.
"Pops... oh, excuse me. Mr. Chairman."
Putin had already slipped into his role seamlessly.
He was no longer a grunt; he was Steve Jobs unveiling the iPhone.
"Your question is an excellent one. It hits right at the core pain point of our cooperation."
He paused for dramatic effect.
He reached into the storage compartment of his "Multiverse Groceries" handcart.
"Allow me to present my resume."
He retrieved an object.
It was a tablet.
Sleek, pitch-black, and shimmering with a matte metallic sheen.
It exuded the aesthetic of futuristic technology that didn't belong in this era of wooden ships and snails.
Its design was minimalist to the extreme—no buttons, just a smooth, obsidian mirror.
He held the tablet in his hands as if cradling the Holy Grail.
"The reason you ask about being 'on the verge of sinking' isn't because you've lost confidence," Putin said, his voice steady.
"It's because you are suffering from Information Blockage."
Putin stepped forward. The pirates parted ways for him.
"In the old era, you relied on newspapers delivered by birds. You relied on spies drinking in bars. You relied on 'experience.'"
He shook his head pitiably.
"But in my era? Information is life. Speed is everything! Your intelligence system is slower than a snail crawling through molasses! By the time you hear the news, the stock market has already crashed!"
He extended a finger and lightly tapped on the pitch-black screen.
Bzzz—
The screen instantly lit up.
The high-resolution glow illuminated the stunned faces of Marco and Ace.
Even Whitebeard leaned forward, intrigued by the glowing slate.
What appeared on the screen wasn't some boring text or a complex chart.
It was a dynamic, real-time, 3D rotating holographic map of the world.
Tiny dots of light moved across the oceans.
Red dots. Blue dots. Green dots.
"The first gift I bring to your company as a token of goodwill—my Core Competitiveness—"
Putin's voice dropped to a whisper, filled with the devilish persuasion of a salesman closing a deal.
"This is the Global Dynamic Real-Time Intelligence System. Codename: 'Sky Eye.'"
He looked up at Whitebeard.
"The price for access? A promise."
"A promise... that allows me to set up my tent on your ship, use your electricity, and live in peace without anyone asking me to scrub the deck."
"Do we have a deal, Mr. Chairman?"