The New World.
A certain nameless island.
This speck of land housed fewer than a hundred households. The soil was too barren for farming, the sparse forests offered little game, and the earth held no precious minerals. As for fishing... well, several Sea Kings patrolled the surrounding waters. Little more than scraps escaped the maws of those behemoths, and any fisherman unlucky enough to be spotted was more likely to be swallowed whole—boat and all.
In short, it was a desolate, godforsaken rock where even sea birds couldn't be bothered to stop and drop their dung.
Yet, while the birds avoided it, the Shipping King, Umit, did not. As the man who controlled the vast majority of shipping lanes and logistics in the New World, Umit required a multitude of transit stations to ease the strain of long-distance transport. So long as an island wasn't too far off the trade routes and lacked lethal environmental hazards, Umit never felt he had too many of them.
"Chairman!"
A subordinate in a sharp suit hurried toward him.
"Resupply is complete. We've patched the damaged sections of the hull as best we can. Provided we don't hit a major storm, we'll have no trouble reaching the next major port to switch vessels."
The subordinate bowed deeply, reporting his progress to Umit, who sat upon a jagged reef staring out at the sea.
Chairman.
Umit savored the title.
While Big News Morgans' papers favored grander monikers like "Shipping King" or "Deep Current"—each more hyperbolic and intimidating than the last—Umit preferred to think of himself as a poor, drifting merchant with no stable home.
The Blackwater Society. That was his company.
"Black" represented the specialized, shadow nature of his business. "Water" signified that the company lived and died by the sea.
He had built it from nothing, spending half his life expanding until the Blackwater Society held a near-monopoly on New World shipping. But he had reached his ceiling. Every route that could be seized and every fleet that could be absorbed was already under his thumb.
The rest? Those were troubles he couldn't afford to provoke, dared not touch, or simply didn't want to deal with.
To continue his expansion, he had only one choice: move into a new industry.
However, the New World was both vast and claustrophobically small.
Setting aside the territories carved out by the Four Emperors, the giants of the Underworld and the powerful nations just below the Yonko level had already divided the most lucrative pies among themselves. Loans, brothels, newspapers, warehousing, slave trading...
Every industry was held in the iron grip of a titan no less formidable than Umit himself. There were no easy entries.
But Umit had no intention of standing still. Ambition was his lifeblood. He sought to climb higher, and after a careful survey of the landscape, his eyes had locked onto the Kingdom of Echemondo—a nation that sat upon mountains of gold and silver earned from its coffee plantations.
One could not underestimate the coffee trade.
Among the world's three great non-alcoholic beverages—coffee, cocoa, and tea—all were top-tier commodities.
The cocoa market in the New World was essentially a monopoly held by the Big Mom Pirates. As the "Tyrant of Sweets," anything even remotely sugary fell under her gluttonous grasp. As for tea, the New World lacked a central production hub; it was fragmented among various small-time bosses, none of whom were particularly easy to deal with.
Finally, there was coffee. The primary production areas for coffee beans in the New World were highly concentrated, likely due to a specific intersection of climate and geography. The main islands—Latte, Mocha, Cappuccino, Macchiato, Au Lait—were all clustered in the same region.
The Bikashi Archipelago.
The heart of the Kingdom of Echemondo.
Umit had calculated the kingdom's annual coffee exports against current market prices. Even with his rough estimates, he realized Echemondo was a massive, deep-sea gold mine.
Echemondo was a powerhouse in its own right, but according to his intel, they weren't untouchable. The only real thorn was that flag of the Whitebeard Pirates.
But that wouldn't stop Umit. If he played his cards right and avoided a direct confrontation with the Whitebeard main fleet, success was within reach. Having spent years in the shipping business, Umit understood one fundamental truth: the bold feast, while the timid starve.
Thus, everything had proceeded according to plan.
He had meticulously manipulated the Kingdom of Amento, using them as a front to wage war. By striking now—while the Second Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates was on his deathbed and the entire crew was too distracted to look elsewhere—he had reduced the likelihood of Whitebeard's interference to its absolute minimum.
"Don't disappoint me, Venculla."
Sitting on the reef, Umit gazed out at the churning waves, waiting for the good news to roll in.
Toothed Whale Sea, Whale Tail Island.
This island wasn't particularly suited for growing coffee, which made it the perfect battlefield; one wouldn't feel the sting if the land was torn apart. The Third King of Echemondo had expended great effort to occupy the three islands of the Toothed Whale Sea, fortifying them into the kingdom's northern gates.
They served as a vital buffer zone, preventing the heart of the kingdom from suffering massive losses in the event of a surprise raid.
On this day, eight warships sailing from the south slowly appeared within the sights of the Whale Tail garrison's lookouts.
Colonel Sousa, the supreme commander of the Whale Tail garrison, received the news of the reinforcements and let out a long, heavy sigh of relief. Finally, they had arrived. Perhaps he wouldn't have to die for his country today after all.
The fall of Whale Head and Whale Belly had already proven the strength of the invaders. Sousa didn't harbor any delusions that he was significantly stronger than his colleagues on the other two islands. As the commanders of the only three islands in this sea, the three Colonels had been close; they knew each other's capabilities well.
Two of them were already dead.
Without help, he knew he would be next.
The reinforcements had arrived before the enemy reached them, but Sousa wasn't entirely at ease. Reinforcements were one thing; whether they could actually repel the invaders was another. Based on the intel sent via Transponder Snail by his dying colleagues, the situation was grim.
The enemy fleet boasted at least five major pirates with bounties exceeding a hundred million Berries.
Despite his lingering anxiety, the Colonel moved quickly to assemble his men at the harbor to welcome the fleet.
"Sir, who do you think they sent?" Sousa's adjutant asked, staring at the warships gliding into the port. "General Foy, perhaps?"
The garrison had only been told that reinforcements were coming; the central command hadn't disclosed their identity.
"Who knows? Maybe the King himself has taken the field," Sousa grunted, his eyes fixed on the lead ship. "You saw the reports. These enemies aren't something we can handle alone."
In his heart, Sousa was praying for the King. Only if the King himself marched would the true powerhouses of the Royal Guard leave the capital of Arabica. Aside from those two legendary figures, Sousa didn't believe anyone else in the kingdom had a guaranteed chance of turning the tide.