Arima found himself running through the grimy back alleys of the port town, the distant sounds of shouting and clanging metal slowly fading behind him. He was tired, but the adrenaline still coursed through his veins, making him feel alive in a way he hadn't felt since his days as a Yakuza. He had to find a place to lie low, at least for a little while.
He ducked into a narrow passage between two dilapidated buildings, the air thick with the smell of rot and fish. He leaned against the cold brick wall, trying to catch his breath. He looked down at the pouch in his hand, the coins from the dead men clinking together. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.
As he stood there, trying to figure out his next move, he heard a noise behind him. He spun around, his hand on the hilt of his sword, ready for another fight. But what he saw surprised him. It was a small, black cat, its fur matted and dirty. It was looking up at him with big, green eyes, meowing softly.
Arima was taken aback. He had never been a cat person, but there was something about this little creature that tugged at his heartstrings. He reached into the pouch and pulled out a small piece of dried fish he had taken from one of the men's pockets. He broke off a piece and tossed it to the cat. The cat sniffed it cautiously before devouring it in a single gulp.
Arima watched the cat eat, a small smile forming on his face. He had always been a tough guy, but he had a soft spot for animals. He had a feeling that this little cat was going to be his companion in this strange new world.
He decided to call the cat "Kuro," which meant "black" in Japanese. He picked up the cat and placed it on his shoulder. The cat purred, rubbing its head against his cheek. Arima felt a sense of calm wash over him, a feeling he hadn't experienced in a long time.
He continued walking through the alleys, with Kuro perched on his shoulder, a silent and watchful companion. He needed a place to stay, a place where he could rest and plan his next move. He thought about the old weapon shop owner. He seemed like a decent sort of guy; maybe he would know of a place.
As he made his way back towards the shop, he couldn't help but think about the bounty on Raider's head. He wondered what kind of person the young man was to have drawn that kind of bounty on his head. He also thought about the Sword of Triton, the mythical-grade sword now strapped to his waist. He could feel its energy humming against his skin, a constant reminder of the strange power he now possessed. He still didn't fully understand what it meant to be a "vessel" for the sword, but he knew it was a thing he couldn't ignore.
When he arrived at the weapon shop, he found the old man busy at his workbench, polishing a newly made scabbard. The old man looked up, his eyes widening slightly when he saw the cat on Arima's shoulder.
"Back already, are we?" the old man said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "And you've picked up a stray along the way."
"He found me," Arima replied, scratching Kuro behind the ears. "I was hoping you might be able to help me with something else. I need a place to stay. Somewhere inconspicuous."
The old man studied Arima for a moment, his gaze lingering on the sword at his hip. "That sword of yours... It's not from around here. It's not like anything I've ever seen before."
Arima tensed, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of the sword. "It's a family heirloom," he lied, his voice steady.
The old man nodded slowly, a knowing look in his eyes. "Right. A family heirloom." He put down the scabbard and wiped his hands on his apron. "I might know of a place. It's not much, but it's quiet, and the owner doesn't ask too many questions. It's a small inn, just down the street. Tell the innkeeper, a woman named Mai, that Gunpei sent you. She'll give you a good rate."
Arima nodded, relieved. "Thank you. I appreciate it."
"Don't mention it," Gunpei said, picking up the scabbard again. "But be careful, son. This island can be a dangerous place, especially for a man with a sword like that."
Arima left the shop, with Kuro still perched on his shoulder, and headed down the street in the direction Gunpei had indicated. The inn was easy to find, a small, unassuming building with a simple wooden sign hanging above the door that read "The Drunken Fisherman."
He pushed open the door and stepped inside. The common room was dimly lit and mostly empty, except for a few grizzled fishermen nursing their drinks at a corner table. A woman with long, dark hair pulled back in a messy bun stood behind the bar, wiping a glass with a dirty rag. She looked up as he entered, her eyes taking in the sword at his hip and the cat on his shoulder.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice flat.
"I'm looking for a room," Arima said. "Gunpei sent me."
Mai's expression softened slightly at the mention of Gunpei's name. "He did, did he? Well, you're in luck. I've got one room left. It's 5,000 Berry a night."
Arima handed her the money, and she led him up a creaky staircase to a small, sparsely furnished room on the second floor. It was clean, if a bit worn, and it had a single window that looked out over the port.
"It's not much, but it's a place to sleep," Mai said, handing him a key. "Dinner is served downstairs in an hour. Don't cause any trouble, and we'll get along just fine."
Arima nodded and closed the door behind her. He placed the cat on the bed and sat down on the edge of the mattress, the old springs groaning under his weight. He was exhausted, but his mind was racing.
He looked at the cat, who was now curled up on the pillow, watching him with those intelligent green eyes. There was something about the creature that was not quite right, something that nagged at the back of his mind.
Arima jumped, his hand instinctively reaching for his sword. He looked around the room, but he was alone. He then looked at the cat, whose tail was twitching slightly.
Arima was speechless. He stared at the cat, his mind reeling. A Codex Keeper, what is that?
the cat explained, as if reading his mind.
The cat, no, Sysara, then proceeded to explain the basic functions of the system that was now integrated into his being. There was a shop where he could buy items and abilities using the currency of this world, the Berry. There was an inventory, a void-like space where he could store his belongings. And there was her, his personal assistant, a guide and a companion.
Arima listened intently, his initial shock slowly giving way to a strange sense of understanding. It explained a lot. The renewed vigour, the rapid healing, the uncanny strength he felt after the shipwreck. It wasn't just the island air. It was him. He was changing.
Sysara explained, her mental voice calm and measured.
The sheer absurdity of it all crashed down on him. He was a dead Yakuza, a collector of sharp things, now a 'vessel' for a mythical sword in a world of pirates, guided by a talking cat. He should have been screaming. Instead, a grim smile touched his lips. This... this was the thrill he had been chasing. This was the story he'd wanted to live.
Arima stood up and walked over to the window, looking out at the bustling port. The setting sun cast a golden glow over the water, turning the waves into a shimmering tapestry of light and shadow. He could feel the Sword of Triton's weight against his hip, a constant reminder of the strange new reality he found himself in.
He turned back to the cat. "Alright, Kuro. What's the next step?"
He mentally selected [Inventory]. A grid appeared, showing the items he currently possessed. His sword, its new scabbard, the pouches of Berry, the two journals from the shipwreck, and a few odds and ends he'd taken from the dead men.
Arima's focus shifted to the [Shop] tab. He opened it. The interface was surprisingly simple. A search bar and a few categories: [Weapons], [Tools], [Skills], and [Information].
"Skills?" he muttered aloud.
He felt a grudging respect for this system. It was a twisted sort of meritocracy, a language he understood from the Yakuza. Power wasn't given; it was taken, earned, bought. He tapped on [Skills]. A list appeared, mostly greyed out. One entry was available.
[Skill: Observation Haki (Beginner)]
Price: 1,000,000 Berry
Description: The ability to sense the presence of others, even without sight. A rudimentary form allows one to perceive the strength and basic intentions of those within a small radius. A necessary step toward true awareness.
Requirements: None.
"Beginner," he scoffed. One million Berry for the basics. He checked his inventory funds. 1,300,000 Berry. The shop was a thief. Still, the ability to sense an opponent's strength and intention... that was invaluable. That was the difference between walking into an ambush and setting one. It was a tool, a finely crafted one, and he had always been a collector of tools.
A sword could be shattered. Information... information was a weapon you couldn't lose. He had the cash from the shipwreck, a windfall. This felt right. "I'll take it," he thought, a surge of decisiveness cutting through his exhaustion.
He focused on the [Skill: Observation Haki (Beginner)] entry. A prompt appeared.
[Confirm Purchase: 1,000,000 Berry?]
[Yes/No]
He mentally selected [Yes]. The sensation was immediate and jarring. It wasn't a download of knowledge, not like reading a book. It was a cold, clean shock that shot up his spine and spread through his skull, a phantom static that washed over his senses. His hearing sharpened, the creak of the floorboards and the distant muffled sounds from the tavern below suddenly crisp and layered. The small, musty room seemed to expand, the space between objects more defined.
He blinked, and the world was the same, yet different. He could feel Mai downstairs, a faint, weary spark of life. The fishermen in the corner were tired, a dull, resigned throb of existence. He could sense their movements, the subtle shift of weight on a chair, the raise of a glass, all without seeing them. His focus then snapped to the cat on the bed, Kuro.
The cat was no longer just a cat. In this new perception, Kuro was a beacon, a calm, cool, intensely deep well of power, ancient and utterly alien. It was like staring into a bottomless, starless ocean. There was no malice, no warmth, just a profound, silent presence that dwarfed everything else in his perception. He felt a primal flicker of fear, a Yakuza's instinct recognizing a predator far beyond his own league, before he clamped down on it.
Arima took a steadying breath, the sudden influx of information leaving him slightly dizzy. He pushed past the cat's overwhelming presence and let his new sense wash over the room, the inn, the street outside. He could feel the flow of people, their individual auras blending into a river of consciousness that flowed through the town. It was overwhelming, a chaotic symphony of life he wasn't yet equipped to decipher. But it was a start. A powerful one.
The sudden, piercing cry of a gull outside the window, amplified by this new sensitivity, made him flinch. He needed to get a grip. He closed his eyes, taking slow, deliberate breaths. He had spent years mastering his body, teaching it to obey without question. This was no different. It was just a new muscle. He focused, narrowing the scope of his awareness from the entire street to just the inn, then just the floor he was on, then just the room, then just himself and the cat. The static receded, replaced by a manageable, focused awareness. He opened his eyes, the world back to its normal volume, but with a new, subtle layer of information just beneath the surface. He could feel the faint life force of the wooden floorboards, the inert energy of the stones in the wall. He could feel his own blood coursing through his veins, a steady, powerful rhythm.
"It's all about control," Arima muttered, more to himself than to the cat. He walked over to the bed and picked up the two journals he'd taken from the shipwreck. He sat down at the small, rickety desk in the corner, placing them side by side. The captain's log and the personal diary. He had skimmed them before, but now, with a fresh perspective and a new tool at his disposal, he needed to dissect them. He opened the log first, to the page detailing the betrayal.
The writing was tight, angry, the strokes of the pen heavy with frustration. The first mate. A mole. The World Government. He let the words sink in. This wasn't just a pirate squabble. It was a conspiracy. The captain, Edward Teach, wasn't just some random pirate. He was a man powerful enough to warrant the attention of the World Government and its shadowy arm, Cipher Pol. He'd faced down a fleet and escaped, only to be cornered in the East Blue. It didn't add up. Why come here? The East Blue was known as the weakest of the four seas. A place to hide, perhaps? Or to lead his pursuers away from something more important?
He then opened the personal diary. The script was different, more relaxed, contemplative. It spoke of dreams, of leaving a life of comfort for one of adventure. He read about Teach's love for the sea, his fascination with the legends of the Grand Line. And then he found it. A passage he had glossed over before.
"The sword sings to me. Triton's legacy. It does not merely obey my will; it answers it. When my will is strong, the Queen... she responds like a living beast. The ropes become serpents, the sails catch winds that are not there. She is an extension of me. But the connection... it is a tether. A drain. The stronger I force my will upon her, the more of me she takes. I wonder, sometimes, if I am her master, or if I am simply the most recent rider, destined to be consumed."
Arima leaned back in the chair, the wood groaning in protest. The room suddenly felt colder. Consumed. The word echoed in the silence of the room, mirroring the sword's earlier promise. "You will be my vessel, and I shall be your power." It wasn't a gift. It was a symbiotic relationship, a deal with a potentially parasitic partner. Teach had been strong, a captain who could command a ship with his mind, and even he had been wary.
"Is this what I have to look forward to?" he asked the cat, who had jumped onto the desk and was now curiously sniffing the pages of the journal.
Arima grunted, not entirely convinced. He trusted power, but he was a professional. He understood that every tool had its limitations, every shortcut a hidden cost. He ran a hand over the scabbard of the Sword of Triton. The leather was cool and smooth, but beneath it, he could almost feel a faint vibration, a slumbering energy.
"Let's see if you can handle this," he muttered, his eyes falling back on the other journal, the captain's log. He turned to the final page, the one detailing the betrayal and the flight from the Marines. He focused, letting the new, strange sense wash over the aged parchment, trying to feel something beyond the ink. He wasn't sure what he was looking for—residual emotion, a phantom echo of the captain's turmoil. For a moment, there was nothing. Then, a faint, sharp spike of anger, a cold knot of betrayal. It was fleeting, like a whiff of gunpowder after a shot, but it was there. The feeling left him with a sour taste in his mouth.