The next morning, the Queen Anne's Revenge was a different ship. The chaos of the new crew had been beaten into a rough, disciplined order. Lefty and his new deck bosses, Grip and Mallet, were hard, brutal men who understood that fear was a more effective tool than kindness. They ran the decks with a heavy hand and a loud voice, their commands punctuated by the thud of a wooden club on a careless back. The new crew, a hundred and fifty hardened killers, were learning the rules of the ship. The main rule was that the captain's word was law. The second rule was that Lefty's word was also law. The third rule was that there were no other rules.
Arima watched the proceedings from the quarterdeck, a silent, observing presence. He was not a micro-manager. He had hired men to manage for him. Shiv's small, strange retinue had become the ship's secret police. Shiv herself was a ghost, a pale-eyed shadow who seemed to be everywhere at once, her presence a silent, unspoken threat. Rat, her second, was the ship's ears, a small, wiry creature who could slip through a crowd like smoke and hear every whispered secret. Borin, the giant ex-Marine gunnery sergeant, was a brooding, angry mountain of a man who spent his days in the magazine, polishing the cannons with a grim, obsessive focus. He was a problem that hadn't been solved yet, just contained. And Quill, the nervous, twitchy cartographer, had taken over the navigator's cabin, a place he now ruled with a paranoid, territorial intensity, covering every available surface with charts, maps, and strange, arcane symbols.
Gumbo, the cheerful cook, had transformed the ship's galley into a temple of good food. The aroma of his cooking, a rich, savoury cloud of spices and grilled meat, was a constant, morale-boosting presence on the ship. The crew, who had been used to sailors' slop, now ate like kings. It was a small, simple thing, but it was a powerful tool. A well-fed crew was a happy crew. And a happy crew was less likely to get stupid ideas.
Arima spent most of his days in the captain's quarters, studying the charts, cleaning his weapons, and scrolling through the endless, bizarre listings of the system's shop. He was a general arming for war, and the shop was his armoury. He was learning the cost of everything, from a single Sea Prism Stone bullet to a full set of ship-hull plating. The numbers were astronomical, but the gold from the Serpent's Maw was a mountain that could move mountains.
He was also spending a lot of time with the Sword of Triton. He was learning its language, its secrets. He could feel the ship's every beat, every creak, every sigh. He could feel the wind and the waves not as obstacles, but as currents of energy to be harnessed. The sword was not just a tool; it was a part of him, a sixth sense that connected him to the living soul of the ship.
One evening, he was in his cabin, the cat, Kuro, purring on his lap, a small, warm engine of comfort in the quiet solitude. He was scrolling through the shop, a bored, almost casual search for anything that might catch his eye. He was past the weapons and the armour, past the alchemical compounds and the exotic materials, and into the more esoteric sections of the shop, the ones that sold information and rare, one-of-a-kind items.
And then he saw it.
It was not an item. It was a listing for a piece of information. A map. But it wasn't a map of a place. It was a map of a person.
"Information: The Current Location and Known Associates of 'Dracule Mihawk', 'Hawk-Eyes'."
Arima's finger froze on the screen. He didn't know the name. Mihawk. Hawk-Eyes. It sounded like a pirate's boast, a nickname. But the price... the price was astronomical. Five hundred million Berries. For a piece of information. That was not the price of a map to a treasure. That was the price of a king's head.
Arima read the information, a slow, cold understanding dawning in his mind. This was not a man. This was a force of nature. A living legend. And someone, somewhere, was selling a map to find him.
Five hundred million Berries. It was a king's ransom, a price that would make even a Yonkou's subordinate pause. But for Arima, it was not just a price. It was a statement. It was the ultimate challenge. He was a sword collector. A geek. A genius in his field. And here was the ultimate prize. Not a sword, but the man who wielded the greatest sword. It was a collector's dream, a hunter's ultimate quarry.
He did not hesitate. He did not haggle. He opened the black box of gold from the Serpent's Maw, the box that was now almost empty, and counted out the price. It was half of his remaining fortune, a reckless, insane gamble. But he was a Yakuza. A gambler. And this was the biggest gamble of all.
He hit 'Purchase'. The screen flashed. 'Transaction Complete. A physical copy of the information will be delivered to a secure location of your choosing within 24 hours.'
A slow, predatory smile touched Arima's lips. He had a new mission. A new hunt.
He closed the system and stood up, the cat, Kuro, jumping down from his lap with a soft mrrrow of protest. He walked out onto the quarterdeck. The night was clear, the stars a blanket of cold, distant fire over the dark, heaving sea. Takeshi was standing at the prow, a silent, watching statue.
"Takeshi," Arima said, his voice a low, flat monotone that cut through the quiet of the night.
The swordsman turned, his face a calm, unreadable mask. "Captain."
"I have a new job for you," Arima said. "A special one. We're going to the West Blue, just the two of us. To the last known location of a man named 'Hawk-Eyes'."
Takeshi's calm, unreadable expression did not change, but Arima could feel a shift in the air, a subtle, almost imperceptible change in the swordsman's focus. His Observation Haki, a constant, passive awareness, suddenly sharpened, a lens focusing on a single point of interest.
"Hawk-Eyes," Takeshi repeated, the name a low, thoughtful murmur. "A swordsman?"
"The best," Arima replied. "Or so the rumours say. He destroyed a fleet of fifty ships by himself. A week ago."
A slow, deep understanding dawned in Takeshi's eyes. This was not a mission of piracy or treasure hunting. This was a pilgrimage. A quest. "And you wish to... meet him?"
"I want to see him," Arima corrected, a cold, hard certainty in his voice. "I want to see the man who wields the best sword. I want to see what a 'Black Blade' looks like. And I want to know if he's as good as they say."
"You are going to challenge him," Takeshi stated. It was not a question. It was a fact.
"I'm going to see if he's worth the challenge," Arima countered. "You're going with me. Not to fight. To watch. To learn. You are my witness. I want you to see the best sword in the world with your own eyes. And then, when we come back, you and I are going to get better. So that the next time, one of us can take it."
It was the most direct, honest thing he had ever said to the swordsman. It was an acknowledgement of Takeshi's skill, and a challenge to it. A shared goal. A dream.
Takeshi's calm, unreadable expression finally broke. A slow, thin smile touched his lips, a rare and unsettling sight. "That is a worthy quest," he said, his quiet, focused tone filled with a new, burning intensity. "I will prepare my things. When do we leave?"
"We don't," Arima said. "We will stop by Sabaody first to receive the info. The Queen will stay there while we get a faster ship for our trip. Lefty is in command. Shiv is in charge of discipline. You and I will go see the Hawk-Eye."
It was a test of his new command structure. A test of Lefty's leadership and Shiv's control. A test of the loyalty of the hundred and fifty killers he had bought.
"A dangerous choice, Captain," Takeshi stated, his calm, practical mind immediately assessing the risks. "To leave a new crew, a crew of mercenaries, alone on a ship like this... without your presence to hold them. It is a gamble."
"The whole thing is a gamble," Arima replied, a cold, hard certainty in his voice. "But this is a gamble I need to make. The ship is in good hands. Lefty has something to prove. Shiv has her pay to protect. And they all know what happens if they fail." He looked out at the sea, at the moonlight on the water. "I need to know what's out there, Takeshi. I need to see the top of the mountain. So I know how high we have to climb."
Takeshi gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. "I understand."
The next morning, the order was given. The Queen Anne's Revenge, a living weapon of war, was changing course. Her new destination was not a treasure island or a secret cove. It was Sabaody Archipelago.
The voyage was a masterclass in power projection. Arima did not hide in his cabin. He was a constant, visible presence on the deck. He would stand at the helm, his hand resting on the Sword of Triton, not steering, but simply being. His presence was a cold, heavy weight that settled over the entire ship, a silent reminder of the absolute power that commanded them.
He watched Shiv at work. She was a ghost. A pale-eyed shadow who moved through the ship with an unnerving quiet. He would see her emerge from the forecastle, a small, notepad in her hand, and make a quiet report to Lefty. A few words, a pointed finger. And then a crewman would be pulled from his bunk, his face pale with fear, and he would be given a choice: a flogging in front of the entire crew, or a swim. The choice was always the swim. The message was clear: there were no secrets on the Queen Anne's Revenge. There were only the captain's rules.
He watched Borin, the giant ex-Marine, in the magazine. The man was a brooding, solitary figure, a problem that had not yet been solved. He ignored the other crewmen, focusing on the cannons with an obsessive, religious fervour. He would spend hours polishing a single gun barrel, his massive hands moving with a gentle, precise touch that was at odds with his angry, intimidating size. He was a weapon that was not yet pointed in the right direction, and Arima knew he would have to be the one to point him.
The journey was uneventful, which was in itself a statement. The Queen Anne's Revenge sailed through the Grand Line not like a pirate ship looking for trouble, but like a king on his way to a meeting. The sea itself seemed to part for them, the winds and currents bending to the will of the sword at the helm. They were a legend in the making, a dark story whispered in taverns from one end of the ocean to the other.
And then they saw it. Sabaody Archipelago. It was not a single island, but a forest of massive, mangrove-like trees that grew up from the ocean floor, their enormous, interwoven roots forming a solid, walkable landmass on the surface. It was a chaotic, bustling city built on the water, a neutral ground where pirates, Marines, and bounty hunters all walked the same streets, bound by a tense, unspoken truce.
The air was different here. It was thick with the smell of salt, and tar, and a hundred different kinds of cooking food, but underneath it all was a strange, electric tension. It was the smell of a million conflicting ambitions, all compressed into a single, volatile space.
"Find a quiet pier," Arima commanded. "A private one. I don't want an audience."
Rizzo, a man who was becoming a truly exceptional navigator, found a spot on the outer ring of the archipelago, a small, unused pier that was shadowed by the massive roots of the trees. The Queen Anne's Revenge slid into the space, a dark, silent predator among the brightly coloured, chaotic fishing boats and merchant vessels.
The information arrived exactly as promised. A small, unmarked skiff approached the ship, a single, hooded figure at the tiller. The figure tossed a small, waterproof tube onto the deck and, without a word, turned and disappeared back into the labyrinth of waterways. There was no face, no signature, just the silent, professional delivery of a very expensive secret.
Arima took the tube below deck to his cabin. He broke the wax seal and unrolled the paper inside. It was a single sheet, covered in a precise, elegant script.
The subject, Dracule Mihawk, is a creature of habit and solitude. He does not stay in populated areas. He hunts. His current territory is a small, unnamed island in the West Blue, designated as 'Shipwreck Island' on older Marine charts. It is called this because the reefs around it are a graveyard of ships. Mihawk uses it as his personal hunting ground, preying on the pirate crews who foolishly use it as a hideout.
He travels on a small, coffin-shaped raft with a single, black sail. This is not a weakness. It is a statement. He does not need a bigger ship. He is a man who believes that a journey should be as simple as the destination.
Do not seek to ambush him. He will know you are there long before you see him. He is a master of Observation Haki, and the sea itself whispers to him. The only way to meet him is to be found.
Go to the island. Find the highest point. Wait. He will come to you. He is always curious about those who seek him out.
Arima read the note three times. The words were simple, direct, and chilling. The plan was not a plan. It was an invitation to a suicide.
The ship was quiet. He could feel the new crew, a hundred and fifty nervous killers, waiting below. They were a powder keg, and he was about to walk away from the match.
He walked out onto the deck. Lefty and Shiv were waiting for him. They knew something was happening.
"Lefty," Arima said, his voice a flat, unarguable command. "You have the ship. Shiv, you have the crew. I am leaving."
Lefty's face hardened. "Captain, you can't. This crew... they're not loyal. They're scared of you. That's not the same thing. The second you're gone, they'll start testing the fences."
"Good," Arima replied. "Let them. I want to see which wolves need to be culled from the pack. Shiv, that's your job. Anyone who mutinies, anyone who disobeys Lefty, or anyone who so much as looks at you funny, you kill them. Hang their bodies from the masts as a warning. You have my authority."
He turned to Lefty. "And you. You're the captain now. Act like one. If a man challenges your word, break him. If the crew gets restless, find the loudest one and make an example of him. Fear is the glue that will hold this thing together until I get back. Don't be shy about using it."
He looked from Lefty's grim, determined face to Shiv's cold, pale eyes. "I'm trusting you with my ship. Don't make me regret it."
"Aye, Captain," Lefty said, his voice a low, determined rumble.
"It will be done," Shiv said, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
Takeshi was waiting by the rail with two small packs. He had already said his goodbyes to the ship. He was a man of few attachments, and the Queen Anne's Revenge was just a tool. The quest was what mattered.
Arima took one last look at his ship. The Ironwood masts pulsed with a faint, silvery light, the living hull thrummed with a quiet power. It was the most dangerous weapon in the Grand Line, and he was leaving it in the hands of a grieving thug and a cold-blooded killer. It was the biggest gamble of his life.
He turned and walked down the gangplank, Takeshi a silent shadow behind him. As their feet touched the solid wood of the pier, the gangplank was pulled up, a final, decisive separation. The Queen Anne's Revenge sat in the water, a dark, brooding predator, a fortress without its king.
The Sabaody Archipelago was a chaotic assault on the senses. The walkways were uneven, made of the interwoven roots of the massive mangrove trees, and they were packed with a chaotic mix of humanity. Pirates in flamboyant, ridiculous outfits swaggered past grim-faced Marines, who pointedly ignored them. Bounty hunters, with cold, dead eyes and a menagerie of weapons, moved through the crowds like sharks. Merchants shouted their wares from stalls, their voices a constant, high-pitched drone.
Arima moved through the chaos with a single, direct purpose. He was not a tourist. He was a man on a mission. He ignored the stares, the whispers, and the challenges. He was looking for one thing: a fast ship. Not a warship. Not a pirate vessel. A smuggler's boat. Something small, fast, and unremarkable. And he knew whose he should visit for a ship.