The building was a burnt-out shell, a blackened scar on the face of the town. The fires from the fight had spread, consuming the opulent structure in a pyre of its own decadence. The walls were collapsed, the roof gone, leaving only a skeletal framework of charred timbers against the sky. A fitting end.
But someone was there. Amidst the ruins, a single figure sat on a pile of rubble, calmly sipping tea from a porcelain cup. It was Madame Feng. She was dressed in the same elegant kimono, her appearance untouched by the chaos around her, a spider perched in the center of her ruined web.
"I expected you would come here first," she said, her voice a calm, musical purr, as if they were meeting in her teahouse. "The direct approach. It suits you."
"You set us up," Arima said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion. He didn't draw his sword. He didn't need to. The raw, coiled violence in him was a weapon more potent than any blade.
"I provided an opportunity," Feng corrected, taking another delicate sip of her tea. "The risk was yours to assess. The outcome was yours to determine. You survived. You procured a portion of the assets. I call that a partial success. Rorkaan's... intervention... was an unforeseen variable. An asset he wanted back. His rage is a blunt instrument, but a useful one."
"He works for you," Takeshi stated, his voice a quiet, cutting blade.
"Rorkaan works for Rorkaan," Feng replied, a flicker of something like disdain in her winter-grey eyes. "He is a dog I occasionally set loose when a particularly loud noise is required. He was meant to retrieve the... lost property, and eliminate any witnesses. Your survival complicates matters. But complications are the currency of power."
She placed her teacup on a flat piece of rubble beside her. "You have my payment. The Sea Prism Stone is in your possession. I have already liquidated the shackles you delivered into my possession. Your share is forty-five million Berry. And the names of three buyers, as promised. They are waiting for you at the teahouse. A formal account, sealed."
Arima was silent, the gears of his Yakuza mind turning. He could kill her. Right here, right now. He could smash her skull, paint these ruins with her blood. But she was more valuable alive than dead. She was a key, a source of information, a network that spanned the New World. Killing her would be a satisfying, but ultimately short-sighted, act of rage. He was a Yakuza officer, not a common thug. He understood the value of a good front.
"Feng," Takeshi spoke again, his gaze unwavering. "The shipwright. Kairi. You knew. You knew Rorkaan had her."
Feng's lips curved into a thin, enigmatic smile. "Information is my trade, swordsman. I know many things. The sale was conducted through one of my subsidiaries. Rorkaan is a collector of rare... things. A master shipwright with a unique Devil Fruit ability is a very rare thing indeed. He paid a premium for her."
"And where is she now?" Arima asked, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
"On Rorkaan's ship," Feng said simply. "The Titan's Fist. A converted war galleon, armed to the teeth and crewed by the most vicious scum this side of the Red Line. He is here. He was waiting for you to return to this island. He considers the Sea Prism Stone his property. And he considers you a thief."
A cold, hard clarity settled over Arima. The game was laid bare. Feng had played him, but she had also given him the pieces he needed to win. Rorkaan wasn't a distant threat; he was a neighbour. A sleeping giant in the next room.
"You have a fleet," Feng continued, her gaze shifting between the two men. "The Sea Serpent is a wolf, but it is a lone wolf. Rorkaan's Titan's Fist is a leviathan. You cannot face him head-on. Not yet."
"You seem to have an answer for everything," Takeshi said, his tone laced with a quiet, cutting skepticism.
"I have a network," Feng corrected, her placid expression unchanging. "And within that network, there is a... disturbance. A weakness in Rorkaan's armour. His first mate, a man named 'Gash' Crook, is a disgruntled subordinate. Greedy, ambitious, and utterly loyal only to himself. He believes Rorkaan's obsession with the shipwright is a liability, a drain on their resources. He has been making... overtures... to rival captains. He is looking for a new alliance."
She stood up, brushing a speck of dust from her pristine kimono. "Gash Crook is currently at a place called the 'Drowned Rat Tavern' on the waterfront. A fine establishment for men of his... calibre. He will be there until sundown. If you want to weaken the leviathan before you strike, you will start by cutting off its tail. The choice is yours."
With that, she turned and walked away, her movements as silent and graceful as a cat, disappearing into the ruins of the city, leaving them alone with the ghosts of the fire and the chillingly detailed map of the coming war.
Arima watched her go, a cold, hard calculus playing out in his mind. He was being offered another piece, another move in Feng's grand game. He was being played, but he was also being armed. He was a knife, and she was giving him a whetstone and a target.
"Her information has been accurate so far," Takeshi said, as if reading his thoughts. "But her motives are her own. Gash Crook could be a trap. An invitation to another ambush."
"He could be," Arima agreed. "But we can't afford to ignore the possibility. Rorkaan is a mountain. We can't climb a mountain. We have to make it crumble from the inside."
He turned from the ruins, the scent of smoke and betrayal a familiar, unwelcome perfume. "Let's go pay a visit to a rat."
The Drowned Rat Tavern was everything its name promised. A dim, fetid hole-in-the-wall, crammed between a fish market and a tannery, the air inside was a thick, nauseating cocktail of stale ale, cheap spirits, sweat, and the acrid smell of desperation. The floor was a sticky morass of sawdust and spilt liquor, and the clientele were the dregs of the port: sunken-eyed pirates nursing grudges and cheap rum, down-on-their-luck bounty hunters, and snivelling informants looking to sell a secret for the price of a drink.
Arima and Takeshi entered, a sudden, clean slash of darkness that cut through the grimy haze. All conversation ceased. Dozens of bloodshot eyes turned towards them, a pack of mangy dogs sizing up two strange, new wolves. The pressure of their combined presences, one a coiled spring of lethal intent, the other a black hole of violent promise, was a physical force that sucked the air from the room.
Arima's gaze swept the room, a predator's inventory. The Observation Haki was a constant, low-level hum, painting the tavern in shades of life and intent. He saw fear, resentment, drunken bravado, and in one corner, a target. A man sitting alone at a table in the back, half-hidden in the shadows. He was a lean, wiry man with a face that was a road map of old scars and a weasel-like cunning in his beady eyes. His aura was a tangled knot of greed, paranoia, and a simmering ambition that burned like a banked fire. This was Gash Crook.
He wasn't alone. Two hulking brutes flanked him, their faces blank, their bodies oozing a dull, thuggish menace. They were muscle, pure and simple. Human shields.
Arima started towards the table, the crowd parting before him as if he were the grim reaper himself. Takeshi followed a step behind, a silent, ominous shadow, a living reminder that death was close at hand. They moved with a fluid, deadly grace that was out of place in the squalid tavern, a whisper of lethal purpose in a room full of loud, empty threats.
They reached the table. The two brutes tensed, their hands resting on the butts of their pistols, their knuckles white. Gash Crook, however, didn't flinch. He simply looked up, a slow, calculating smile spreading across his scarred face, revealing a gold tooth that glinted in the dim light.
"Well, well," Crook drawled, his voice a raspy, tobacco-cured baritone. "If it isn't the ghost of the auction house and his pet ronin. Come to finish the job?" He gestured to a chair with a languid, contemptuous wave of his hand. "Pull up a stool. The first round's on me."
Arima ignored the chair. He placed both hands flat on the sticky table, leaning forward, the tattoos on his arms snaking out from beneath the sleeves of his coat like living things. He invaded Crook's space, a subtle, suffocating pressure that had nothing to do with Haki and everything to do with raw, predatory dominance. He could smell the cheap rum on Crook's breath, the unwashed stench of a man who lived by his wits and didn't care who he stepped on.
"I'm not here for drinks," Arima said, his voice a low growl that was barely audible over the tavern's muted hum. "I'm here to talk about your captain."
Crook's smile didn't waver, but a flicker of something sharp and dangerous entered his beady eyes. "Rorkaan? What about him? You got some kind of death wish? Because I know a guy who can arrange that. For a price."
"I have a price for you," Arima countered, ignoring the threat. "A better one than he's offering."
He straightened up, the movement giving the two brutes just enough room to think they might have a chance. It was a mistake. In a blur of motion, Takeshi moved. His katana was a silver whisper in the dim light. There was no flourish, no battle cry. Just two swift, economical movements. The tip of the blade flicked out, tapping the wrist of one brute, then the other. The two pistols clattered to the sticky floorboards. The men froze, their faces masks of stunned disbelief, looking at the thin, bloody lines now decorating their hands. They hadn't even seen him draw.
Takeshi resheathed his sword, the soft click of the blade sliding home louder than a gunshot in the sudden, ringing silence. The brutes took a stumbling step back, clutching their bleeding hands, their bravado evaporating like mist in the sun.
"Feng sent us," Arima said, his gaze boring into Crook, who had watched the display with a cool, calculating interest. "She says you're a man who knows when the ship is sinking."
Crook leaned back in his chair, a slow, genuine grin spreading across his face, the gold tooth winking like a malevolent star. "Now we're talking," he rasped. "Feng. A woman who understands the market. What's her proposal? Or yours?"
"I'm the proposal," Arima said, his voice dropping even lower, a conspiratorial growl. "Rorkaan is a liability. He's a brute with a one-track mind. He's going to get you all killed chasing a fairy tale and a few shiny rocks. He's obsessed with that shipwright, and with me."
He leaned in again, the pressure of his presence a suffocating blanket. "I'm offering you a chance to be on the winning side. I'm offering you a chance to be the captain of your own ship. The Titan's Fist is a fine vessel. She deserves a captain who understands numbers, not just smashing things."
Crook's eyes glittered, the raw, naked ambition in them burning brighter. "And what do you get out of this?"
"I get the shipwright," Arima said simply. "And Rorkaan's head. The rest is yours. The ship, the crew, the bounty. You take Rorkaan's place, you answer to me. We form a partnership. You handle the… day-to-day. I handle the big picture."
It was a classic Yakuza power play. Offer a man everything he wants, but make sure he knows he's still just a lieutenant in a larger organization.
Crook was silent for a long moment, the only sounds in the tavern the ragged breathing of his two guards and the distant clink of glasses. He was weighing the odds, calculating the risks. He was a survivor, a bottom-feeder who had managed to claw his way up the food chain, and he recognized a predator when he saw one.
"A partnership," Crook finally rasped, a slow, wolfish grin spreading across his face. "I like the sound of that. But Rorkaan's not going to just step down. He's a rock. You can't reason with him, and you can't threaten him. He only understands one thing."
"He understands that his prize is getting away," Takeshi said, speaking for the first time, his quiet, cutting voice a stark contrast to the tavern's grime. "He believes the shipwright is the key to restoring a ship he values above all else. A ship from the past. That is his weakness. We will use it."
Crook looked at Takeshi, a flicker of grudging respect in his eyes. "The pet ronin speaks the truth. The crazy bastard has a wreck of his own hidden in a cove on the far side of this island. An old galleon from a bygone era. He thinks the woman, with her wood-Logia powers, is the only one who can restore it. He spends more time cooped up there, staring at that pile of driftwood, than he does chasing bounties."
Arima's eyes narrowed, a cold, hard clarity settling in. "That's where we'll find him. And her."
"He'll have the whole crew with him," Crook warned, his greed warring with a long-ingrained sense of self-preservation. "The Titan's Fist will be anchored nearby, a floating fortress. And he won't be alone. He has a pet. A 'guard dog', he calls it. A small-time Zoan user. A Jackal-Jackal fruit. Fast, vicious, and loyal only to Rorkaan. He's the captain's eyes and ears when the big man is too busy smashing things to notice."
"A jackal," Arima mused, a grim smile on his face. "I'll add the pelt to my collection."