Grove 44 was another world again. If Grove 42 was the financial district, this was the pleasure quarter. The buildings were more ornate, more opulent, with balconies overflowing with exotic flowers and silk curtains. The crowds were different, too. Less desperation, more calculation. Here, the predators wore fine clothes and carried themselves with an arrogant, languid grace. The violence wasn't in the streets; it was behind closed doors, in smoky back rooms and private, guarded salons.
'The Gilded Cage' was a masterpiece of understated menace. It was a two-story teahouse built from a dark, lustrous wood that gleamed like wet oil. The windows were made of frosted glass, obscuring the view inside, but the sounds that drifted out were a strange mix of soft, elegant koto music and the sharp, occasional burst of laughter that was more like a bark.
They entered. The interior was a cool, hushed sanctuary. The air was thick with the scent of expensive incense and an even more expensive brand of sake. The patrons were a mix of flamboyant pirates with bounties on their heads and shadowy figures who screamed 'broker' or 'information dealer'. They all looked up as Arima entered, a hush falling over the room. He was an anomaly. He wasn't flashy. He wasn't arrogant. He was just… solid. A block of concrete in a room full of fragile glass.
His Observation Haki was a constant, low-level hum, painting the room in shades of intent. He could feel the predatory auras, the nervous energy, the calculating greed. And in a private room on the second floor, he could feel a different kind of aura. Sharp, focused, and supremely confident. A swordsman.
"The captain's not seeing anyone right now," a reed-thin man with a pencil-thin moustache said, stepping into their path. He was the manager, a man whose entire profession was based on being an immovable, and often fatal, obstacle.
Arima didn't break stride. He simply kept walking. The manager tensed, his hand moving towards the tanto tucked into his sash. Before he could draw it, Rizzo, moving with a speed that belied his nervous demeanour, was there. He didn't draw a weapon. He just tripped the manager, a simple, brutal, and surprisingly effective move that sent the man sprawling in an undignified heap. Before he could even shout, Rizzo was on him, pressing a heavy, canvas-wrapped object—he'd brought the tool kit from the ship—against the back of the man's neck with enough force to make him gasp for air.
"He's seeing me now," Arima said, not even looking back. He ascended the stairs, the sounds of the teahouse fading behind him.
The second floor was a narrow corridor lined with paper-screen doors. The sharp, confident aura he'd felt was coming from the last door on the left. It was slightly ajar. He could hear a man's voice, smooth and self-assured, talking. "...a fool's errand, Goliath. The old man is losing his nerve. His 'enforcer' is a myth. A story to frighten the children."
Arima pushed the door open.
The room was elegantly appointed, with polished wood floors and a single, masterfully painted screen depicting a tiger in a bamboo grove. Seated at a low table was a man who was the antithesis of everything Arima was. He was lean and wiry, with a long, pale face and fingers that were long and delicate, like a pianist's. His hair was slicked back, and he wore a fine, silk kimono of pale blue. He was every inch the fop, the dandy. But his eyes, cold and black as chips of obsidian, held the focus of a predator.
Seated opposite him were two men, the kind of disposable muscle every small-time captain seemed to collect. They were brutes, their hands resting near their swords, their postures radiating a dull, thuggish menace. They were the wolves. The man at the table was the one who held the leash.
Resting on the table, within easy reach of the dandy's long fingers, was a sword. It wasn't ornate. The saya was a simple, worn black lacquer, and the tsuba was a plain, octagonal piece of dark iron. But Arima felt it. A cold, sharp, hungry presence. A masterwork blade. 'Whisperwind'.
The dandy looked up as the door slid open, a flicker of irritation crossing his refined features at the interruption. "I told you, we're not to be disturbed," he said, his voice as smooth and silky as his kimono. His gaze slid over Arima, dismissive, then sharpened with a sudden, intense interest as it lingered on the tattoos snaking down his arms. "Well, now. What have we here? A stray Yakuza, far from home?"
Arima didn't answer. He stepped into the room, the presence of the Sword of Triton at his hip a dark, counter-song to the blade on the table. He let his own aura expand, a slow, suffocating pressure that was a direct challenge to the swordsman's own. The room's temperature seemed to drop, the elegant, placid atmosphere curdling into a tense, electric silence.
The two brutes stirred, their hands tightening on the hilts of their swords. Vance, however, didn't move. He simply leaned back, a slow, appreciative smile spreading across his pale face, the polite mask melting away to reveal the cold, reptilian predator beneath. "You have a certain… presence. It's crude. Unrefined. But it's potent. You're here for Goliath's little errand, aren't you? The big ox sent a wolf to do his dirty work."
"He sent me for a head," Arima said, his voice a low, flat growl. "Or a sword. I'm not particular."
Vance laughed, a sound like glass being gently cracked. "Ambitious. But foolish. You think you can just walk into my cage and take what you want? You have no idea who you're dealing with. This isn't a back-alley knife fight. This is an art form."
He stood up, his movements a fluid, graceful dance. He drew 'Whisperwind' from its saya. The blade was a thing of terrible beauty, long and slender, with a subtle, visible temper line that seemed to shimmer like a heat haze on the steel. He didn't hold it in a combat stance. He held it like a conductor holds a baton, an extension of his will, a tool for shaping the world.
"Kenbonshoku no Oden," he murmured, the words a soft, intimate whisper. "Observation Haki. I can see every twitch of your muscle, every bead of sweat on your brow. I can see the intent behind your every move before you even conceive of it. Your aggression is a shout. My blade is a whisper. You cannot hit what you cannot see."
He was a peacock, a performer, a man who had spent a lifetime honing a single, lethal art and now revelled in the intellectual superiority it granted him. He saw this as a lecture, a demonstration of his sublime mastery.
Arima was not a student. He was a Yakuza enforcer. He didn't believe in fair fights. He believed in overwhelming force and crippling the opposition before they knew the fight had started.
He didn't draw the Sword of Triton. He drew the pistol from his coat.
The move was so unexpected, so fundamentally antithetical to the entire ritualised performance that Vance had constructed, that it took the dandy a full second to process it. A fatal second.
It wasn't a clean shot. It wasn't aimed for the heart or the head. It was a Yakuza shot. A brutal, disabling strike meant to announce the end of the game. Arima fired from the hip, the heavy-calibre pistol booming in the confined space, a thunderclap of raw, uncivilised violence. The bullet struck Vance in the shoulder, a devastating impact that spun him around, the elegant silk of his kimono instantly turning a dark, wet crimson.
'Whisperwind' clattered to the polished wood floor, the masterwork blade suddenly just a piece of steel, its artistry meaningless in the face of brutal pragmatism.
The two brutes, shocked into action by the gunshot, drew their swords and charged. They were predictable, their movements loud and clumsy, their auras a muddled, red haze of aggression.
Arima dropped the pistol and drew the Sword of Triton. The blade was in his hand, a dark, hungry extension of his will. He met the first brute's charge with a simple, brutal block, the heavy blade of the katana ringing against the Sword of Triton with a jarring, unpleasant screech. He didn't try to match the man's strength. He used it, guiding the man's momentum, turning aside, letting the brute stumble past. As he passed, Arima drove the Sword of Triton backwards, a blind, trusting thrust that sank deep into the small of the man's back. A wet, sucking sound, a choked gasp, and the brute fell, his sword clattering uselessly on the floor.
The second brute was more cautious, but no more skilled. He feinted left, then right, his movements clumsy and telegraphed. Arima could read every move, not with Haki, but with the seasoned eye of a man who had spent a life ending fights before they began. He let the man come, a patient, predatory stillness. The brute overcommitted, lunging with a wild, horizontal swing meant to cleave him in two. Arima simply ducked under the arc of the blade, the wind of its passage whistling over his head. He rose up inside the man's guard, a piston-like upward thrust that punched the Sword of Triton through the man's jaw and into his brain. The brute's eyes went wide, a final, stupid surprise, and then he collapsed.
Arima turned his attention to Vance. The dandy was on the floor, clutching his ruined shoulder, his face a mask of shock and disbelief. The pain was a fire that was burning away the layers of arrogance and refinement, leaving only the raw, terrified core of the man beneath.
"My... my arm," he gasped, his voice a thin, reedy whine, a pathetic echo of his earlier confidence.
"You were talking about art," Arima said, walking towards him, the Sword of Triton dripping blood onto the polished floor. He nudged the fallen 'Whisperwind' with the tip of his boot. "This is a nice blade. A collector's item. But a tool is only as good as the hand that wields it."
He stopped, standing over the wounded swordsman. "You were right about one thing. This isn't a fair fight. It's an execution."
Vance's eyes darted from Arima's face to the sword on the floor. A desperate, last-ditch gambit flickered in their depths. He made a move, a lunge for 'Whisperwind', a final, desperate grasp at the source of his power and identity.
Arima's boot came down, not hard, but with a decisive, crushing finality, right on Vance's outstretched fingers. There was a series of wet, sickening cracks, like twigs being snapped. The dandy screamed, a high-pitched, animal sound of pure agony, all pretence of refinement shattered.
"I changed my mind," Arima said, his voice a low, flat monotone. He crouched down, bringing his face level with the writhing, screaming man. "I'll take the sword. But I think Goliath will appreciate a matching set."
He drew a tanto, a simple, razor-sharp utility blade he kept tucked into his belt. He didn't hesitate. He didn't gloat. He simply grabbed a handful of Vance's slick, black hair, pulled his head back, and drew the blade across his throat in a single, economical, brutal motion. The screaming stopped. Blood, dark and hot, pumped onto the floor, staining the delicate pattern of the painted screen.
He wiped the tanto clean on Vance's fine silk kimono, sheathed it, and then picked up 'Whisperwind'. The blade felt cool in his hand, a perfect balance, a lethal tool crafted by a master. He slid it into the empty saya at his own hip, a new, dark companion to the Sword of Triton.
He stood up, the room a tableau of death. The two dead thugs, the dying dandy, the blood-slicked floor. It was a mess. An efficient, but messy, piece of business. He stepped over the bodies and opened the door.
Rizzo was standing there, his face ashen, his knuckles white where he gripped the canvas-wrapped tool kit. The teahouse manager was unconscious at his feet, a trickle of blood running from the back of his head. The rest of the teahouse was silent, the patrons frozen in a tableau of fear, their earlier arrogance and bravado vanished in the face of raw, unapologetic violence.
"Let's go," Arima said, his tone calm, as if they were just leaving a business meeting.
They walked out of 'The Gilded Cage' and back into the chaotic streets of Grove 44. No one stopped them. No one even met their gaze. The story would spread, a whisper of fear and brutal efficiency. A new player had arrived in Sabaody, and he didn't play by the rules of their game. He made his own.