He walked away, leaving Shiv to her own devices. He had a ship to provision. He found Lefty and the four deckhands at the largest gunsmith's in Siren's Call, a grimy, fortress-like forge that smelled of sulphur, hot metal, and ambition. The owner, a man with one eye and a face that was a roadmap of old burns, looked up from a cannon he was filing, a look of professional appraisal in his eye.
"I'll need the best you have," Arima said, plainly.
"The best costs the best," the one-eyed gunsmith grunted, not impressed by the scarred Yakuza. He saw men like him every day. Big, scary men with big, scary pockets full of gold. The gold was what impressed him.
"I know," Arima replied. He tossed the black box of gold onto the counter with a heavy thud that silenced the entire forge. "This is for the long guns. Thirty-two of them. I want twelve-pounders. Cast iron. And I want the carriages made from the best wood you have. Ironwood if you can get it."
The gunsmith's one eye widened. "Ironwood? That sky-island fairy tale? That's a collector's item, not a building material. A carriage made of that would cost..."
"I don't care," Arima cut him off, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. "Thirty-two long guns. Twenty swivel guns, four-pounders. And two hundred pistols. One hundred rifles. And enough shot and powder to fight a war. You have until sundown. The gold is for the materials. Your profit is doubled if you make the deadline."
The one-eyed gunsmith stared at the box of gold, then at the captain. He wasn't a stupid man. He recognised a man who was not bargaining, but issuing a command. He saw a way to not just make a profit, but to become the most famous gunsmith in the entire sector of the Grand Line, the man who armed the legendary ghost ship.
"It'll be done," he said, a new, hard light in his eye.
Arima left the forge, the sounds of frantic work already beginning behind him. He walked through the chaotic market, a man on a mission. He needed a cook. The best he could find. He was a man who understood the importance of a good meal. A well-fed crew was a happy crew, and a happy crew was less likely to get stupid ideas.
He found what he was looking for in a small, unassuming food stall tucked away in a corner of the floating market. It was a simple place, with a small counter and a few rickety stools. But the smell that came from it was incredible. A rich, savoury aroma of grilled fish, spiced rice, and something else... something sweet and smoky that made his stomach growl.
Behind the counter was a large, round man with a beaming, cheerful face and a massive, impressive moustache that was as wide as his smile. He was humming to himself as he worked, a cleaver in each hand, chopping vegetables with a speed and precision that was a dance of its own.
Arima watched him for a moment. The man's movements were not just skilled; they were joyful. He loved what he did. He was an artist, and his kitchen was his studio.
"What do you recommend?" Arima asked, his voice a flat, indifferent tone.
The large man looked up, his cheerful face not faltering for a second. "Everything, my friend! But if you want to know what the sea is singing today, it's the Spicy Sea Devil Skewer! Fresh-caught devil fish, marinated in a secret blend of thirteen spices, grilled over volcanic charcoal! A meal that will make you want to fight a Sea King and win!" He let out a booming, infectious laugh.
Arima placed a heavy pouch of Berry on the counter. "I don't want to eat it. I want you to make it. For one hundred and fifty men. Every day."
The large man's laugh died in his throat. He looked from the heavy pouch to the cold, scarred face of the Yakuza. He was not a stupid man. He could see the violence in the man's eyes, the same violence that clung to the other men he had seen walking through the market, the men from the ghost ship. This was not a customer. This was an offer.
"I have a name, you know," the large man said, his voice losing its cheerful, booming quality and taking on a quieter, more serious tone. "It's 'Gumbo'. I'm not just some cook you can order around. My food is my art. I serve it to those who appreciate it."
Arima looked at him, his expression unchanging. "You'll serve it to my crew. They're not artists. They're killers. They'll appreciate it because it's hot, and it's filling, and it's better than the slop they're used to. If they don't like it, they won't complain to me. They'll complain to you. And then I'll have to find a new cook. And you'll have a problem with your stomach."
He slid the pouch of Berry across the counter. "This is a month's pay in advance. I want you on my ship by sundown. You'll have your own kitchen. Your own budget. And a crew of underlings to do your chopping. You'll answer to me. You feed my men, and you keep them happy. That's your job."
Gumbo stared at the pouch. The money was a lot. Enough to buy ten stalls like this one. But the Yakuza's words were a threat, plain and simple. A threat wrapped in a job offer. He was a man who loved food, but he was not a fool. He knew the price of saying no to a man like this.
"Deal," he said, a slow, wide grin spreading across his face, the cheerful, booming Gumbo reappearing like a magic trick. He picked up the pouch and hefted it, a connoisseur of wealth judging its quality. "But I'm going to need my own spices! And a proper charcoal grill! None of that cheap, smoky stuff!"
"You'll have it," Arima said, turning and walking away. He had a crew to hire.
By sundown, the main pier was a scene of controlled chaos. The Queen Anne's Revenge sat at the end of the pier, a dark, brooding presence that seemed to absorb the last light of the day. A long line of men was forming, a grim procession of hard-faced mercenaries, ex-Marines, and washed-up pirates, all drawn by the rumours of a new power in the Grand Line, a captain with a legendary ship and a bottomless purse.
Takeshi stood at the head of the gangplank, a silent, intimidating filter. He would look a man up and down, ask a single, pointed question about a past battle or a specific piece of navigational data, and then, with a simple nod or a slight shake of his head, decide the man's fate. The rejects were sent away without a word. The accepted were herded onto the ship by Lefty and his new deckhands, their faces a mixture of excitement and nervousness.
Arima watched from the quarterdeck, a silent, observing presence. He wasn't just hiring men; he was buying the tools for his new weapon.
Shiv was the last to arrive. She was not alone. Behind her were three figures. The first was a mountain of a man, the ex-Marine gunnery sergeant Borin. He was a giant, even bigger than Lefty, with a face that was a mess of old scars and a perpetually sullen, angry glare. He carried a massive, custom-built rifle that looked like it could punch a hole through a ship's hull. He didn't look happy to be here.
The second was the small, twitchy man, Quill. He was clutching a large, leather-bound satchel to his chest as if it contained his soul, which it probably did. He was scanning the ship, the pier, and the sky with nervous, darting eyes, a man constantly mapping his surroundings in his head.
The third was a surprise. It was a woman, small and wiry, with a face that was a mask of sullen, street-hardened toughness. She had a series of thin, sharp-looking knives strapped to her thighs and a wicked-looking crossbow slung over her back. She moved with a cat-like grace, her eyes constantly scanning the crowd, missing nothing.
"Quill and Borin, as we discussed," Shiv said, her tone all business. "This is 'Rat'. She's my second. She was a top lookout and infiltrator for the Blackline Pirates before their captain got his head blown off by a Marine cannon. She's quiet, she's quick, and she's loyal to me, which means she'll be loyal to the pay."
Arima looked at Rat. The woman met his gaze, her chin jutting out in a defiant challenge. He saw the same thing in her eyes that he'd seen in Shiv's: a cold, hard professionalism that had burned away everything else. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "She'll do. Take them below. Find your quarters. The new crew is yours to manage. I want a full report on their skills, their histories, and their weaknesses by morning."
"A pleasure doing business with you, Captain," Shiv said, a ghost of a smile on her lips. She and her small, strange retinue boarded the ship, a new, strange piece being added to the ship's puzzle.
The last of the sun had vanished, and the full moon cast a silver, ethereal light over the harbour of Siren's Call. The gangplank was pulled up. The last of the new crew, a hundred and fifty hard-faced men, were herded into the forecastle, their muttered conversations a low, nervous hum.
The only people left on the pier were the one-eyed gunsmith and his crew, sweating and straining as they loaded the last of the new cannons onto the ship. The long guns were massive, dark cylinders of cast iron, each one a promise of violent death. The carriages, as promised, were made from a dark, dense wood that was not true Ironwood, but a close, terrestrial cousin, a black, heavy timber that was strong as stone.
"The cannons are loaded, Captain," the gunsmith said, wiping a greasy sleeve across his sweating forehead. "And the powder and shot are in the magazine. It was a... a rush job. But I guarantee my work. They'll fire true."
Arima nodded, not looking at the man. He was looking at the ship. His ship. "You'll be paid. The rest is on the ship." He didn't say thank you. Thank you was for equals.
He turned and walked to the helm. Takeshi was already there, a silent, observing presence. Lefty was on the main deck, his new deck bosses, two hard-faced men named 'Grip' and 'Mallet', were organising the new crew into watches, their voices harsh and loud in the quiet night.
"Rizzo, take us out," Arima commanded. "Nice and slow. Let the men get their sea legs. And let the whole damn ocean see what we are."
Rizzo, a man who was more comfortable with charts than with crowds, gripped the helm with a new, hard-won confidence. He had seen the ship fight a typhoon. He had seen it tear a fleet apart. He had faith.
The Queen Anne's Revenge moved. Not with the clumsy, shuddering lurch of a ship leaving port, but with a slow, liquid grace. The ropes and sails, animated by the unseen will of the Sword of Triton, moved in a silent, coordinated symphony, a dance that required no shouts or commands. The ship slid out of the harbour of Siren's Call, a dark, silent predator entering its hunting ground.
The new crew watched, their faces a mixture of awe and a dawning, terrifying realisation. They had signed on for a high-paying job on a powerful ship. They were now on a ghost ship, a vessel that lived and breathed without them, a weapon that had a soul, and that soul was the scarred, silent man at the helm. They were not sailors. They were ammunition.
Arima stood at the helm, his hand resting on the pommel of the Sword of Triton. He could feel it all. The thrum of the living hull, the resonance of the Ironwood masts, the nervous, excited energy of the hundred and fifty new bodies packed into the forecastle. The ship was no longer a collection of parts. It was an extension of himself, a second body made of wood and iron and will.
The ship was alive. And it was hungry.
The silence on the quarterdeck was a heavy, living thing. The only sounds were the soft, rhythmic creak of the living hull and the distant, nervous murmuring from the forecastle, where the new crew, a hundred and fifty hard-faced mercenaries, were packed together like sardines in a can of fear and ambition.
Arima stood at the railing, looking down at them. He was a statue of a man, a dark silhouette against the moonlight, his Yakuza tattoos like living shadows on his muscular arms. He wasn't a speaker. He was a doer. Words were for politicians and preachers. His language was violence and gold. But this was a necessary evil. A flock of wolves needed an alpha's howl to know who was in charge.
Takeshi stood by the mainmast, a silent, watchful shadow, his hand resting on the hilt of his katana. Shiv was on the opposite side of the deck, her pale grey eyes like chips of ice, her small, wiry second, Rat, a ghost at her shoulder. Lefty and his new deck bosses, Grip and Mallet, stood by the gangplank, their faces hard, their presence a solid, unsubtle threat. The leadership of the Queen Anne's Revenge was on display, a wall of quiet, unsmiling competence.
Arima let the silence stretch, let the nervous energy in the forecastle build to a breaking point. He watched them, these men he had bought. He saw the boastful swagger of the pirates, the rigid discipline of the ex-Marines, the cold, dead eyes of the bounty hunters. They were a mixed bag of scum and killers, a collection of lions, wolves, and hyenas, all snarling in the same cage. They needed a tamer.
He finally turned, his movements slow and deliberate, and walked to the front of the quarterdeck, looking down at the crowded men below. The murmuring died instantly, replaced by a tense, expectant silence.
"Look around you," he said, his voice a low, flat monotone that carried to every corner of the deck. "Look at the men next to you. You don't know them. You don't trust them. And you're right not to. The man on your left would probably slit your throat for a warm meal. The man on your right would sell your mother for a pouch of Berry."
He paused, letting the bitter truth of his words sink in. The men shifted, their hands instinctively moving closer to their weapons. Their eyes darted, seeing neighbours not as potential shipmates, but as the threats they truly were.
"You were all nothing. Broke. Caged. Selling the only thing you had left: your ability to kill," he continued, his tone as unchanging as the tide. "I bought you. Your contracts are signed. Your souls belong to me for the next year."
A low, angry murmur started to build. A few of the men, the ones with the most pride and the least sense, stiffened, their faces hardening with defiance. This was not the inspiring speech they had expected.
Arima let the murmur grow for a moment, a predator allowing the prey to feel a false sense of security. Then he raised a single, scarred hand, and the silence fell again, absolute and immediate.
"But I'm not buying your loyalty," he said, the cold, hard truth of it a splash of ice water in their faces. "I don't want it. Loyalty is for puppies and fools. I'm buying your competence. I'm buying your greed. I'm paying you more than any of you have ever dreamed of making, because the work I have for you is more dangerous than any fight you've ever been in."
He gestured to the ship around them, to the impossible Ironwood masts that pulsed with a faint, internal light, to the dark, living hull that seemed to breathe. "This is not a pirate ship. This is not a merchant vessel. This is a weapon. And you are not her crew. You are her ammunition."
He let that sink in. The word 'ammunition' hung in the air, ugly and absolute. It stripped them of their pride, of their individual histories, of their very identities. They were not pirates, not Marines, not bounty hunters. They were bullets in a gun, to be used and discarded.
"You will be paid. You will be paid well," he said, his voice dropping even lower, a conspiratorial growl that drew them in despite themselves. "But you will also be disciplined. On this ship, there is only one rule: my word is law. There are no arguments. There are no committees. There are no complaints. You follow an order, or you are gone. Not just off the ship. Gone."
He looked over the crowd, his gaze a physical weight that made men shrink back. "Lefty here," he said, gesturing to the big, hard-faced deck boss, "is my law on the decks. You answer to him. You argue with him, you answer to me."
"This is Takeshi," he continued, pointing to the silent swordsman. "He is my eyes and ears. He is also my justice. If you steal, if you slack, if you start fights you weren't ordered to start, he will cut the problem out of you. Literally."
"And this," he said, his gaze finally landing on Shiv, who stood with her pale grey eyes like chips of ice, "is Shiv. She is my chief of security. Her job is to make sure you don't get any clever ideas about mutiny. She is better at finding secrets than you are at keeping them. She hears everything. So watch your words, and watch your backs."
He let them look at his command staff, at the wall of cold, hard violence he had assembled. He was showing them the teeth of the beast they had joined.
"Now," he said, his tone shifting, becoming something else. Something that promised not just pain, but glory. "You've all heard the stories about this ship. They're all true."
He placed a hand on the pommel of the Sword of Triton, which was resting in its housing on the quarterdeck. "This sword is this ship's heart. And my will is its brain. I can make this ship dance on the waves. I can make it turn on a single coin. I can make it run without a single hand on a rope."
He looked out at the sea, at the moonlight on the water. "We faced a typhoon that would have torn a fleet apart. We sailed through it without losing a single mast. We met a pirate crew of five ships. We tore one apart without firing a single shot. We left the others to their fear."
He turned back to the crew, a slow, predatory smile touching his lips for the first time. "This ship is not bound by the rules of the sea. The wind and the waves are our servants. You are sailing on the most dangerous weapon in the Grand Line. You are sailing on my ship."
He let the statement stand. He wasn't asking for their belief. He was demanding their acceptance of a new reality.
"My promise to you is simple," he said, his voice a low, growling promise of things to come. "Follow my orders. Fight when I say fight. Kill who I say kill. Do that, and you will be richer than you ever dreamed. You will have gold, and respect, and fear. The world will be ours to take."
He looked at them one last time, a king surveying his new, deadly court. "Now get to your stations. We have work to do."
He turned and walked back to the helm, leaving a shocked, silent, and terrified crew in his wake. The speech was over. The rule had begun.