Alabasta.
At the scorching port fifty nautical miles from the capital Alubarna, Hina's warship was docked at the outermost berth. The word "Justice" emblazoned on its hull reflected the blinding midday sun.
On deck, Hina clenched an unlit cigarette between her teeth. The orders she'd received three hours ago sat like a damp cloth over her heart: "Stand by and await the World Government envoy and 'important personnel' to assist with transfer procedures."
Suddenly, a three-masted ship slowly approached the dock. Slightly smaller than Hina's warship yet unusually spacious, its dark purple hull gleamed with polish. The deck was empty enough for ten people to stand shoulder-to-shoulder, and even the masts were thicker than average—clearly designed for "comfort" over "speed."
Before the ship fully docked, the gangplank crashed onto the pier with a loud clang. The first to disembark was a man in gold-rimmed glasses—the World Government envoy. The two figures following behind made Hina's expression darken instantly.
Ryan walked with his hands in his pockets, his gait as casual as if he were strolling through a marketplace. Mikita clung to his arm with intimate familiarity.
"It's him!" Tashigi's grip tightened around her pen.
Smoker's cigar fell onto the deck with a sharp clatter. His hand instinctively went to the Seastone jutte at his waist, his face darker than the smoke curling from his cigar. "What the hell is he doing here?"
He'd suspected this kid was trouble back in Loguetown. Sure enough, he'd committed the grave crime of assaulting Marines. Though Smoker hadn't personally witnessed the events in Alabasta, Tashigi had recounted the man's actions—nothing short of villainous.
"Fellow Marines," the bespectacled man said, seemingly oblivious to the tense atmosphere, "this is Mr. Ryan." He gestured with a smile. "The government has officially appointed Mr. Ryan as the new Seven Warlord of the Sea, filling Crocodile's vacancy."
"Seven Warlord?!" Tashigi gasped, her cheeks flushing with shock and indignation.
Hina, clad in a rose-red suit with the Marine Justice cloak draped loosely over her shoulders, clenched her gloved fists. Her teeth ground down on the cigarette butt as her purple sunglasses slid down her nose, revealing eyes brimming with impatience.
The humiliation from Kyuka Island still burned fresh in her memory. That rule-breaking madman had somehow become the government's recognized "ally"!
Ryan's gaze first landed on Tashigi. He gave her a casual nod, his tone as relaxed as if greeting an old friend. "Long time no see. How's the sword training coming along?"
Tashigi's face flushed deeper, but she stubbornly refused to speak, tucking her logbook behind her back. Marine pride wouldn't allow her to show weakness in front of someone like him—even if her fingertips still trembled.
"Yo, Pinky Captain. Been a while?" Ryan chuckled, unfazed by Tashigi's wariness. His eyes then shifted to Hina, lingering on her vibrant pink hair with a hint of teasing.
"Hina is very displeased," Hina bit out, crushing the cigarette between her teeth. She took half a step forward, her boots thudding against the deck. "What is the government thinking, letting scum like this—"
"Captain Hina," the bespectacled man cut in sharply, his tone brooking no argument. "Mind your words."
Ryan watched Hina's bristling reaction with amusement. She was far more entertaining than those spineless Marines—especially with how her suit strained against her chest, exuding an indescribable defiance.
How nostalgic.
"What do you want with us?" Smoker finally snapped, spinning the Seastone jutte in his palm. "Don't tell me you're here for sightseeing."
"Of course not." The bespectacled man adjusted his glasses and pulled a document from his briefcase. "Mr. Ryan requires several Baroque Works members for ship duties. This is the government's approval."
"You what?!" Smoker's face turned beet red, his grip on the jutte creaking. "Those are criminals who endangered Alabasta! Why the hell should we hand them over?!"
"Because Mr. Ryan is a Warlord," the man coldly interrupted. "Captain Smoker, know your place. The Marines are obligated to accommodate reasonable requests from the Seven Warlords."
Smoker's chest heaved, but Hina restrained him with a hand. Taking a deep breath, she knew arguing further would only humiliate them—the bastard had the rules on his side.
"See that, little Tashigi?" Ryan suddenly laughed, tilting his chin at the stunned woman. "That's how this world works. The strong make the rules."
Tashigi's face cycled between red and white. She wanted to shout that justice shouldn't work this way, but reality choked her words. All she could do was bite her lip hard enough to draw blood.
"Who do you want?" Hina whirled around and kicked the cabin door handle. The metal door clanged violently. "Pick fast. Hina doesn't want to see you any longer."
"No rush." Ryan raised an eyebrow, amused by Hina's tense back. "Gotta choose the right ones."
"Take them to the brig!" Hina growled without turning, barking the order into the cabin.
Two Marines stepped forward, leading Ryan's group into the ship's depths. The moment they entered the prison block, damp air thick with rust assaulted them. Mikita swayed her lemon earrings, announcing in an exaggerated tone, "Hey, old coworkers! Meet Mr. Ryan—the man who took down Crocodile and is about to become the newest Warlord!"
The cells erupted into murmurs. The clanking of chains mixed with sharp inhales, even the oil lamps seemed to flicker.
"Here they are." A soldier unlocked the heavy cell door, its hinges screeching as he stepped back warily.
Ryan strode inside, scanning the prisoners. Behind the bars, faces ranged from wary to numb, Seastone cuffs gleaming coldly around their wrists, sealing away all their strength.
"I need deckhands for ship chores," Ryan announced, his voice carrying clearly. "Who wants out?"
The moment the words left his mouth, Mr. 3 shuffled forward, his chains scraping loudly. He forced an obsequious grin. "Pick me, Mr. Ryan! My wax can repair sails, reinforce decks, even—"
"Piss off." Ryan didn't even glance at him, his disgust palpable.
Though the ability was useful, he couldn't stand scheming snakes like that.
Mr. 3's smile froze before he slunk back, not daring another word.
Ryan's gaze lazily swept the prisoners before settling on Zala.
Even in prison garb, the woman's curves were impossible to hide. Voluminous blue curls cascaded over her shoulders, accentuating her fair skin. Her delicate features held an air of intellect, and the cling of her jumpsuit hinted at an alluring yet capable figure—a strange blend of charm and competence.
Ryan approached and gripped Zala's chin, his thumb brushing her smooth skin as he forced her to meet his eyes. A flash of anger flickered in her gaze, but not a trace of pleading.
"You'll do." Ryan traced her jawline, smirking. "Wanna come with me?"
"Let go." Though her jaw ached from his grip, Zala didn't struggle. Her lashes lowered briefly before meeting his gaze again, calm and unbothered by his audacity.
Ryan's fingers lingered, feeling the subtle tension beneath her skin. He studied her silently.
Zala tilted her head away, her blue hair shielding half her face. Her voice was even but firm. "If you're recruiting, use words. Hands aren't necessary."
Still silent, Ryan lightly stroked where he'd gripped her, as if testing something.
"I'll go." Zala raised an eyebrow, her Seastone cuffs clinking. Her usual composure carried a hint of urgency now. "I'll handle ship work and pitch in when needed. But don't expect me to grovel."
Having said her piece, she leaned against the wall, done talking.
"Interesting." Ryan chuckled at her "survival without submission" attitude. His fingers trailed down her neck with deliberate pressure. "You're a prisoner. Bargaining isn't an option."
Leaning closer, his shadow engulfing her, he sneered. "Want out of these cuffs? Off this ship? Then pay the price. Surely you understand?"
For Zala, he only cared about her body—nothing else mattered.
Zala paled momentarily, her blue hair veiling her expression. After a pause, she met his eyes again, her voice flat. "I'll go."
Ryan wasn't surprised. If Zala were as unyielding as she pretended, she wouldn't have conceded so quickly.
He knew her type—never wasting energy on hopeless resistance, always calculating the best survival move. Her "conditions" were just attempts to salvage dignity or secure future leverage.
Call it pragmatism or knowing when to fold—either way, she understood how to trade minimal losses for maximum survival.
Just like... he once had.
Ryan said no more, turning to Mr. 4 in the corner. The mountain of a man had his chin resting on his chest, his sheer strength perfect for labor like steering or hauling cargo.
"You. Coming?" Ryan tilted his chin.
BABE lifted his head sluggishly, his dull eyes blinking as he processed the question. After staring blankly at Ryan, he slowly nodded—clumsy but decisive.
"And you?" Ryan's gaze dropped to Daz Bonez against the wall. "Want to rot in cuffs or sail with me?"
Daz Bonez finally looked up, his blade-sharp eyes locking onto Ryan's. After a long silence, he answered simply, "I'll go."
To him, only the strong deserved to be employers.
Ryan grinned. Now this was more like it. Unlike the schemers and fools, these strength-worshippers suited him far better. Turning to leave, he ordered the Marines, "Uncuff these three."
"Three picks." Mikita lingered by the door, watching the soldiers remove the restraints. She whispered to Ryan, "Enough?"
"Plenty." Ryan glanced back at his selections.
Zala massaged her reddened wrists, BABE hefted his baseball bat and bazooka-like gun, while Daz Bonez flexed his fingers. Ryan nodded. "More than enough for labor."
BABE's strength alone could handle steering. In storms, their combined power could secure sails and ropes.
As for the remaining prisoners... either too slippery or useless. Not worth his time.
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