The plan that formed in Arima's mind was a brutal, multi-pronged assault, a Yakuza takedown executed on a pirate stage. It wasn't a duel of honor; it was an extermination.
"You will return to your ship," Arima ordered Crook, his voice a low, flat command that left no room for argument. "You will act as if nothing is wrong. You will wait for my signal. The signal will be fire. When you see the Titan's Fist burning, you will lead the loyal men against the confused. You will seize the ship. Do you understand?"
Crook's grin was a feral baring of teeth. "I understand. Fire and chaos. My two favorite things."
"One more thing," Arima added, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "If you betray me, I will not kill you. I will let Takeshi here have you. He has a very... particular way of making people talk. And I assure you, it is not a quick process."
A flicker of genuine fear crossed Crook's face as he looked at the impassive swordsman. He swallowed hard, then nodded, a jerky, decisive motion. "We have a deal." With a last, greedy glance at the two of them, he and his two bleeding guards disappeared into the tavern's grimy shadows.
Arima and Takeshi left the Drowned Rat, the stench of betrayal and cheap rum clinging to their clothes like a shroud. The sun was high in the sky now, beating down on the dusty streets of the port. The town was alive with a nervous energy, a pre-storm quiet that was more unnerving than outright chaos. Word of the battle with the Marine convoy had spread, whispers on the wind, and the name 'Arima' was being spoken in hushed, fearful tones.
They returned to the private cove. The Sea Serpent was at anchor, a dark, sleek sentinel in the calm water. Higgs and his crew were on deck, performing maintenance with a quiet, professional diligence that was a marked change from their earlier nervousness. They were a crew now, forged in the crucible of combat, and their loyalty, bought and paid for, was solidifying into a grudging respect for the man who had led them through hell.
"Higgs," Arima called out as he boarded the ship. "Get the men ready. We're going hunting. The rest of you," he looked at the remaining crew of the sloop, Gills Malone's old thugs, "you will stay here. You will guard this dock. You will not leave. If anyone approaches, you send a signal. One of you runs to the Golden Lily and tells Feng a new storm is brewing. The other brings word to Silas at the shipyard. Understood?"
The two thugs nodded, their faces pale, a new, grim purpose in their eyes. They were no longer just small-time smugglers; they were a part of something bigger, a cog in a war machine, and they were terrified, but they were also alive.
He and Takeshi retired to the captain's quarters, the small cabin a cramped but effective command center. The naval chart of the island was spread across the desk, a detailed map of their battlefield.
"The far side of the island," Takeshi said, his finger tracing a rugged, unpopulated coastline on the chart. "A series of hidden coves. If I were hiding a large, vulnerable ship, it would be there. Rorkaan's galleon will be in the deepest one. The Titan's Fist will be stationed at the entrance, a guard dog."
"He'll have lookouts," Arima mused, his mind a whirlwind of tactical calculations. "On the cliffs, in the trees. His jackal will be patrolling the perimeter. A direct approach is suicide."
"So, we don't approach directly," Arima continued, thinking aloud. "We become the terrain. We use the night. We use misdirection."
He looked up at Takeshi, a cold, hard glint in his eyes. "You will be the ghost on the mountain. Your job is to silence the lookouts and neutralize the jackal. I don't care how you do it. Just make sure no one gets off a signal flare."
Takeshi gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "A quiet walk in the woods. And the jackal?"
"Kill it," Arima said, the words a flat, absolute statement. "I want Rorkaan to feel alone when we come for him."
"And you?" Takeshi asked, his gaze steady.
"I'm going to have a chat with our new business associate, Feng," Arima said, a grim smile on his face. "She started this fire. She's going to provide the fuel."
An hour later, he was back in the upper district, the atmosphere in the Golden Lily teahouse as serene and tranquil as if a war wasn't brewing on its doorstep. Madame Feng was in the same private room, playing her koto, the melancholic notes a stark contrast to the brutal efficiency of the plan forming in his mind.
"You have a boldness that borders on insanity, Arima Koujiro," she said without looking up, her fingers still dancing across the strings. "To walk back into my web after it has already ensnared you. Either you are a fool, or you are a far more dangerous spider than I gave you credit for."
"I'm a man who wants to burn your competitor's house down," Arima said, cutting straight to the point. "Rorkaan. His ship is anchored in a cove on the far side of the island. His crew is there. So is the shipwright."
He slid the naval chart across the table. "I need a diversion. Something big. Something loud. Something that will draw every Marine, every bounty hunter, and every curious fool on this island to the east coast. I want a fire that can be seen from here."
Feng finally stopped playing, her fingers resting on the strings. She looked at the chart, her pale, grey eyes a mask of cold calculation. "A naval battle. A large one. It would create a significant distraction. A... profitable chaos."
She looked up at him, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her lips. "I have two pirate crews in port who are heavily indebted to me. The 'Red Scalp' brothers and a up-and-coming captain named 'One-Eye' Jack. They have been rivals for years, each itching to prove their superiority. A rumor that the other is preparing to ship out with a massive treasure… it would be the spark they need. I can arrange for that rumor to reach them. I can also arrange for a large, empty ship to be in the vicinity as a tempting target."
"You can manipulate them that easily?" Takeshi asked, a hint of professional curiosity in his tone.
"They are predictable, greedy men," Feng said dismissively. "Their desires are their greatest weakness. It is a simple matter to point them in the right direction and let their own nature do the rest. They will fight. They will burn. And the island will watch."
"And what do you get out of it?" Arima asked, a cold suspicion in his gut.
"I get to eliminate two troublesome debts," she said, the smile never leaving her face. "And I get to watch a show. The entertainment alone is worth the price. But I am also a businesswoman. In return for this… favor, I want a percentage. Ten percent of whatever you salvage from Rorkaan's wreck. And the Titan's Fist, if you take it. I will find a buyer for her. My commission is non-negotiable."
Arima stared at her, a grudging respect warring with a profound, cold anger. She was a true master of the game, a queen who saw the entire board, and every piece on it was a tool for her advancement. He was her sharpest knife, and she was honing him on the whetstone of her enemy.
"Done," he said, the word a clipped, final decree. He turned and left, the melancholic notes of the koto a haunting farewell to a deal made with the devil.
As dusk began to bleed across the sky, painting the clouds in shades of purple and bruised orange, the operation began. Takeshi was a phantom, vanishing into the rugged terrain that led to the far side of the island. He moved without a sound, a ghost in the twilight, leaving no trace of his passing. His part of the hunt was about to begin.
Arima stood on the deck of the Sea Serpent, the wind whipping at his coat, the scent of the sea a cool, clean promise of violence to come. He had changed into clothes better suited for the night's work: a dark, sleeveless tunic that left his tattooed arms free, reinforced trousers, and soft-soled boots. The Sword of Triton was a heavy, reassuring presence at his hip, and the pouch of Sea Prism stones was a cold, solid weight against his side.
"Higgs," he said, his voice a low growl that cut through the tense silence of the crew. "Get us moving. Follow the coastline. Stay out of sight behind the cliffs. We'll find an anchorage point and wait for the signal."
"Aye, Captain," Higgs replied, a new, steelier tone in his voice. He was a soldier, and a clear, dangerous objective was a language he understood.
The Sea Serpent slipped away from the dock, a silent shadow hugging the coastline. The mood on deck was tense but focused, the fear replaced by the cold, adrenaline-laced clarity of men who knew what was coming. They were no longer just mercenaries; they were part of an invasion force.
An hour after sunset, as the Sea Serpent found a hidden cove to drop anchor, the signal came. A distant, orange glow bloomed on the eastern horizon, a malevolent flower blooming in the night. It was quickly followed by the muffled, distant thunder of cannon fire. Feng's diversion had begun. The Red Scalp brothers and One-Eye Jack were putting on a show for the island, a fire that would draw every eye away from the real hunt.
"The stage is set," Higgs said, coming to stand beside him at the rail, his scarred face grim in the faint light of the distant flames. "Rorkaan will be watching. He'll think it's chaos. An opportunity."
"He'll think no one would be stupid enough to attack him while the whole island is on fire," Arima corrected, a grim smile on his face. "He'll be wrong."
He looked towards the rugged, dark silhouette of the far side of the island, a wall of impenetrable blackness. He couldn't see Takeshi, but he could feel him. A faint, sharp pinpoint of focused intent, a single, silent predator moving through the darkness. The ghost on the mountain was on the hunt.
"Get the boat ready," Arima ordered, turning from the rail. "You, Rizzo, and the twins are with me. Higgs, you have the ship. Keep the cannons trained on the entrance to that cove. If anything other than our signal fire comes out, you sink it. If we're not back by dawn, you take the ship and meet Feng. You'll get paid one way or another."
It was a calculated risk, trusting Higgs with the ship and the escape route. But the man was a professional. His ambition was a tool, and right now, that ambition was tied directly to Arima's success.
"Aye, Captain," Higgs said, the title now spoken with a grudging, professional respect. He saluted, a crisp, military gesture, then turned to relay the orders to the rest of the skeleton crew.
The small jolly-boat was lowered into the calm water of the cove. Arima, Takeshi's absence a silent, gaping void at his side, climbed in, followed by Rizzo and the twins. The twins, Pike and Tackle, were brutes, but there was a new, hard-edged focus to them now. They had seen what Rorkaan could do, and the fear in their eyes had been replaced by a cold, animal desire for revenge, or at the very least, a chance to prove they were not weak links. The repeating crossbow was slung over Pike's shoulder, a deadly promise in the dark.
Rizzo manned the oars, his wiry form surprisingly strong, pulling them through the water with a steady, rhythmic pace. He was still a bundle of nerves, but the focus of the mission seemed to sharpen him, funnelling his anxiety into a productive, single-minded purpose. They hugged the coastline, a dark shadow against a darker shore, the distant fire in the east a silent, cheering spectator to their grim work.
Arima sat at the bow, the Sword of Triton resting across his lap, the cool metal a familiar, grounding presence. He closed his eyes, extending his senses. The Observation Haki was a blanket of awareness, a sixth sense that painted the world in a palette of intent. He could feel the four men in the boat with him, their auras a mix of fear, adrenaline, and loyalty. He could feel the Sea Serpent, a tense knot of waiting power behind them. He could feel the distant chaos of Feng's diversion, a roaring bonfire of greed and violence.
And then, he felt it. Faint, but sharp. A prick of cold, focused intent, vanishing. Then another. Takeshi was doing his work. The ghost on the mountain was silencing the sentries.
"Pull in here," Arima murmured, pointing to a small, rocky inlet, barely visible in the gloom.
Rizzo guided the boat into the inlet, the hull scraping softly against the pebble-strewn beach. They climbed out, the rough ground a solid, reassuring feel under their boots.
"The cove is just over that ridge," Arima said, his voice a low whisper. He looked at the twins, their hulking forms barely visible in the darkness. "You two are on overwatch. Find a high point. If you see anyone other than us or our signal, you use that crossbow. No questions."
Pike grunted, slinging the repeating crossbow from his shoulder. He and Tackle melted into the darkness, their movements surprisingly quiet for men of their size.
Arima and Rizzo started up the ridge, a steep, rocky incline that offered a commanding view of the hidden cove below. As they reached the crest, the scene unfolded before them, a tableau painted in moonlight and shadow.
It was a perfect natural harbor, a deep, sheltered bay with a narrow entrance. Moored near the center of the cove, looking like a beached leviathan, was the wreck of an ancient galleon. Its masts were broken, its hull a skeletal ruin of splintered wood and rotting timbers, but its sheer size was still imposing. This was Rorkaan's treasure, his obsession.
Closer to the entrance, like a vigilant guard dog, rested the Titan's Fist. She was a monster of a ship, a converted war galleon that was all brute force and intimidation. Her hull was reinforced with thick iron plates, and she bristled with cannons, their black mouths gaping in the moonlight. A single lantern burned on her quarterdeck, a watchful, malevolent eye.
A small camp was set up on the beach near the wreck, a handful of tents and a crackling bonfire. Dozens of Rorkaan's crew milled about, a rough, dangerous-looking pack of wolves. And standing near the water's edge, staring out at the wrecked galleon, was the mountain himself. Rorkaan was in his human form, a titan of a man even without his Zoan transformation, his silhouette a brutal monument of muscle and rage.
Arima scanned the camp with the Observation Haki, a fine-toothed comb searching for a specific aura. There. Near the largest tent, a small, huddled figure, a dim, flickering light of despair amidst the sea of predatory energy. The shipwright.
"The twins are in position," Rizzo whispered, his voice trembling slightly.
"Good," Arima murmured. "Now, we wait for our ghost."
As if on cue, a flicker of movement on the far cliff, a shadow detaching itself from the rock face. A signal from Takeshi. The sentries were down.
"Rizzo," Arima said, turning to the navigator. "You're on distraction. Take the boat. Circle the island to the far side of the cove. When you see our signal, you come in fast. You get the shipwright, and you get her out. You don't wait for anyone. You don't stop for anything. Understand?"
Rizzo's face was pale, but he nodded, a jerky, desperate motion. "Understand, Captain."
"Go."
Rizzo scrambled back down the ridge and disappeared into the darkness. Arima watched him go, then turned his attention back to the cove. The plan was in motion. The pieces were moving. It was time to introduce chaos.
He reached into the pouch at his side, his fingers closing around one of the 'Sea Sickness' powder pouches. He also took out two flash bangs. He was a Yakuza officer, and he believed in overwhelming force and psychological warfare.
He took a deep breath, then moved. He descended the ridge, not with a noisy clatter, but with the practiced, silent grace of a predator. He was a shadow on the moonlit rocks, a ghost moving towards the camp. The Observation Haki was a blanket of awareness, painting the camp in shades of life and intent. He could feel the boredom of the guards, the simmering aggression of the crew, the burning, focused obsession of Rorkaan, and the dim, flickering candle of despair that was Kairi.
He found the large water casks near the camp's perimeter, a clumsy, obvious weakness. He crept towards them, the soft sand muffling his footsteps. He uncorked the 'Sea Sickness' pouch and poured the fine, odorless powder into the cask. He did the same with the other two. A silent, insidious poison.
He then circled the camp, moving towards the tents, a phantom in the night. He found Kairi's tent, a larger, more reinforced structure that was meant to hold a prisoner, not a guest. He could feel her small, frightened aura inside.
He unhooked one of the flash bangs and pulled the pin. He didn't throw it into the camp. That would be too indiscriminate. He dropped it at the base of the mast of the Titan's Fist, the sound of its impact swallowed by the gentle lapping of the waves. He then moved back towards the ridge, giving himself a clear view of the chaos to come.
The flash bang erupted with a deafening crack and a blinding, white-hot flash of light that turned night into noon for a split second. The sound was a physical blow, a shockwave that shattered the night's calm and sent a concussive blast across the water.
The camp exploded into chaos. Men screamed, clutching their ears and eyes, disoriented and terrified. The bonfire was scattered, sending a shower of sparks into the darkness. Rorkaan roared, a sound of pure rage, as he stumbled back, his senses overwhelmed.
That was the signal. From the high ground, Pike opened up with the repeating crossbow. The thud, thud, thud of the weapon was a grim, steady rhythm, the bolts a rain of death that cut down the pirates as they stumbled from their tents. It was a slaughter.
Arima didn't wait. He charged back down the ridge, a black-clad demon of vengeance. He drew the Sword of Triton, the blade humming with a dark, eager energy. He hit the camp like a thunderclap, a whirlwind of brutal, efficient violence.
The pirates, disoriented by the flash bang and sickened by the powder, were no match for him. They were lambs to the slaughter. The Sword of Triton drank deep, the blade a silver arc of death in the firelit chaos. He was a force of nature, a Yakuza enforcer unleashed in a den of wolves, and for the first time, the wolves knew fear.
He fought his way towards Kairi's tent, a path of carnage in his wake. He sliced through the canvas, the fabric parting like wet paper, and burst inside. The young woman was huddled in the corner, her face a mask of terror, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief.
"Who are you?" she whispered, her voice a hoarse, trembling squeak.
"The guy who's getting you out of here," Arima said, grabbing her arm. "Now move."
He pulled her out of the tent, into the nightmarish chaos of the camp. The sight of her, alive and free, was the final straw for Rorkaan. The brute had recovered from the flash bang, and the sight of his prize escaping sent him into a berserker rage.
"You!" he bellowed, his voice a geological roar that shook the very ground. He began to transform, his skin cracking and hardening, the glow of molten energy spreading across his body like a wildfire. He was becoming the mountain, the unstoppable force of nature.
"Rizzo! Now!" Arima roared, pushing Kairi towards the beach.
From the far side of the cove, the jolly-boat appeared, Rizzo at the oars, pulling with a desperate, panicked strength. The twins laid down a covering fire, the thudding of the repeating crossbow a grim counterpoint to Rorkaan's enraged bellows.
Arima turned to face the charging behemoth. He knew he couldn't win this fight head-on. But he didn't have to. He just had to hold the line.
He reached into an inner pocket and pulled out the Sea Prism bullet. He had planned this for a Devil Fruit user, a weapon of last resort, and now was the time. He loaded it into the repeating crossbow he'd snatched from Pike, the weapon a clumsy, unfamiliar weight in his hands. He took aim, not at Rorkaan's head, but at the glowing, molten cracks on his chest.
The bolt flew true, a silver streak in the firelit chaos. It struck the monster dead center. There was no deafening clang, no shower of sparks. There was a soft, almost silent thump, and the bolt sank into Rorkaan's chest, as if into soft clay.
The effect was instantaneous. The molten energy that crackled across Rorkaan's body sputtered and died. The living stone began to crumble, flaking away like old mortar. The brute stumbled, a confused, animalistic grunt escaping his throat. His immense strength was failing him, the anti-magic properties of the Sea Prism stone severing his connection to the very essence of his power.
Arima didn't hesitate. He charged, the Sword of Triton a gleaming promise of retribution. He was no longer fighting a mountain; he was fighting a wounded, disintegrating man. He brought the blade down in a brutal, two-handed swing, not with the finesse of a fencer, but with the raw, brutal power of a Yakuza enforcer. The Sword of Triton, a blade that had been scratched by the monster's full strength, now bit deep, sinking into Rorkaan's shoulder.
The monster roared, a sound of pain and disbelief. He swung a massive, crumbling arm, but the blow was slow, clumsy. Arima sidestepped, the sword ripping free in a spray of stony dust and black blood. He drove the blade into Rorkaan's leg, crippling him, bringing the titan to his knees.
The behemoth looked down at the wounds, at the crumbling ruin of his own body, a flicker of something almost human—dawning horror—crossing his rock-like features. "What... what is this?" he ground out, his voice a crumbling, geological rumble.
"Justice," Arima growled, raising the sword for the final blow.
But before he could strike, a new player entered the game. A blur of motion, a streak of brown fur and bared fangs. The jackal. The Zoan user. It moved with a speed that was inhuman, a blur of predatory intent that was aimed not at Arima, but at the small, terrified figure of Kairi, who was still scrambling towards the beach.
Arima reacted on pure instinct. He twisted, shoving Kairi aside with a brutal, desperate shove that sent her sprawling into the sand. The jackal's teeth, meant for her throat, sank into his arm instead. The pain was a white-hot, searing fire, a sharp, immediate agony that was a stark counterpoint to the dull, throbbing ache of his other injuries. He could feel the creature's fangs tearing through his coat, through the muscle, a raw, brutal injury that threatened to cripple him.
He roared, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage, and slammed the pommel of the Sword of Triton down on the jackal's skull. There was a sickening, wet crunch, and the creature went limp, a dead weight hanging from his arm. He shook it off with a violent, desperate heave, the dead body landing in a heap on the sand.
The distraction had cost him. Rorkaan, fueled by a last, desperate surge of adrenaline, had managed to scramble to his feet. He was crumbling, falling apart, but he was still a mountain of a man, and he was armed with a desperate, cornered-rat fury. He charged, a lumbering, unstoppable force, not at Arima, but at the jolly-boat, where Rizzo was desperately trying to pull Kairi aboard.
Arima saw it happen, a slow-motion nightmare. He knew he couldn't get there in time. He knew he couldn't stop the brute.
Then, a shadow detached itself from the ridge. Takeshi. He moved with a fluid, deadly grace, a ghost in the firelight. He didn't charge. He simply appeared between Rorkaan and the boat, a lean, solitary figure standing against a charging titan. He raised his katana, the blade a silver whisper in the chaos, and held his ground.
Rorkaan, in his mindless rage, didn't even see him. He simply ran through the space where the swordsman stood. Or tried to. Takeshi's blade moved, a single, perfect, horizontal cut. It was a stroke of impossible speed and precision, a work of art painted in blood and bone.
The stone titan's charge faltered. A thin, red line appeared across his massive chest. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a sound like a dam breaking, his entire upper torso slid away from his lower body, cleaved in two by a single, impossibly perfect strike. The two halves of the monster crumbled into a pile of stony dust and blackened gore, the last remnants of a life of rage and violence.