"Dock 41, 'The Coral Banker'," Rizzo said, consulting Feng's note, his voice a nervous whisper as he stared at the overwhelming spectacle. "It's on Grove 46. A lawless grove. The note says to fly a black flag."
Arima nodded. "Stumps. Find a black piece of sailcloth. Hoist it. Lefty, get the lead-lined box with the Sea Prism stones. Rizzo, find us a berth. Act like you belong here. We're not tourists. We're businessmen."
The men scrambled to obey, their earlier terror now channelled into a focused, professional purpose. They were no longer just thugs from a backwater island; they were the crew of a dangerous ship, visiting the heart of the underworld. They were playing a part, and for the first time, they were starting to believe it.
The Sea Serpent, a sleek, black wolf amongst a flock of noisy, gaudy sheep, navigated the crowded channels, her movements unnervingly precise. The Sword of Triton guided them through the chaos, a silent, steady hand on the helm. They found a vacant pier on Grove 46, a rough-and-tumble district where the buildings looked like they were held together more by rust and desperation than by nails and mortar. They hoisted the makeshift black flag, a stark, simple statement.
A small, unremarkable boat, a dinghy with a single, hooded figure rowing, detached itself from a nearby pier and made its way towards them. The figure was cloaked and masked, its identity a complete mystery.
"Arima Koujiro?" the figure asked, its voice a dry, sibilant rasp that had been digitally altered, or perhaps magically.
"I'm the one with the ship," Arima replied, standing at the rail, a casual, but undeniably menacing, posture.
"The goods?" the figure rasped.
Arima nodded to Lefty, who grunted as he heaved the heavy, lead-lined box onto the deck. He opened it. The Sea Prism stones within glowed with their faint, milky light, a silent, powerful promise in the bright daylight. The hooded figure leaned in, its gaze hidden by the shadow of its cowl, but the intensity of its focus was a palpable wave.
"The authenticity will be verified," the figure rasped. "If you are trying to defraud The Coral Banker, this pier will be your grave."
"Check it," Arima said, a dismissive wave of his hand. "I've got a ship to buy."
The figure produced a small, handheld device, a complex array of lenses and dials that it held over the stones. The device whirred and chirped, a series of lights flashing green. "Authentic. High purity. The value is... significant."
The figure produced a heavy, leather-bound satchel, placing it on the deck. "The agreed-upon sum for one-fifth of the stock. Forty-five million Berry. As per Madame Feng's arrangement. The remaining four-fifths have been logged into an account in your name. You may draw upon it at any of our branches, with the proper identification. The password is 'Ghost'."
Arima opened the satchel. Inside were neat stacks of high-denomination Berry notes. A fortune, represented by paper. It was a heady, intoxicating sight.
"The buyer for the Adam Wood," the figure continued, its rasping voice pulling him from his reverie. "He is expecting you. The name is 'Goliath'. He operates the largest timber brokerage on Grove 42. He does not deal with amateurs. Be direct. Be prepared to pay. His reputation for... ruthlessness... is well-earned."
With that, the hooded figure closed the box, lifted it with a surprising strength, and rowed away, disappearing into the chaotic labyrinth of channels, leaving them alone on the pier with a satchel full of money and a name.
"Lefty, Stumps. Guard the ship," Arima ordered, his mind already moving to the next piece of the puzzle. "No one comes aboard. If anyone so much as looks at the ship the wrong way, you use the crossbow. I want to see a body float past before they get a second look."
The thugs nodded, their faces grim, their hands resting on the weapon that had become the ship's guardian spirit. They were no longer just thugs; they were the gatekeepers of a small, dangerous kingdom.
"Rizzo," Arima said, slinging the satchel of money over his shoulder. "You're with me. We're going to see a giant about a tree."
Rizzo swallowed hard, his nervousness a palpable aura, but he nodded, grabbing a worn satchel of his own. "Aye, Captain."
They walked off the pier and into the chaos of Grove 46. The narrow, crowded streets were a sensory assault. The air was thick with the smells of roasting meat, exotic spices, stale beer, and the underlying stench of too many bodies packed into too small a space. The noise was a constant, deafening roar of haggling merchants, drunken brawls, brash laughter, and the distant, rhythmic clang of a blacksmith's hammer. It was a place of vibrant, aggressive life, a city that throbbed with the raw, untamed energy of the Grand Line.
Arima moved through the crowd with a deliberate, unyielding purpose. He was a tall, imposing figure, and the traditional tattoos that snaked down his arms, now partially visible beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his coat, drew stares. Not just of fear, but of a grudging, street-level respect. People made way for him, a subtle parting of the crowd that was as much a recognition of power as it was a desire for self-preservation. Rizzo scurried in his wake, a nervous remora clinging to a shark, his face pale but his step firm, drawing courage from the sheer, undeniable authority of the man he followed.
They crossed a series of rickety rope bridges that connected Grove 46 to Grove 42. The new grove was a stark contrast. While 46 was a den of pure chaos, 42 was chaos organised for profit. The buildings were larger, more solid structures of brick and iron. The crowds were still thick, but there was a more business-like, predatory focus to their movements. This was the financial district of the lawless city, and the scent of money was sharper than the scent of blood.
They found 'Goliath's' brokerage easily. It wasn't a shop, but a massive, open-air timber yard that sprawled across the entire western side of the grove. A mountain range of lumber, stacked with an impossible, geometric precision, rose towards the canopy of the mangrove. Each stack was a different colour and texture, a library of wood from every corner of the world. The air was heavy with the sharp, clean scent of cut timber and resin.
In the centre of this wooden kingdom was a small, fortified office made of ironwood, and standing in the doorway of that office was the reason for the name. Goliath was a giant. He wasn't as tall as some of the giants Arima had seen in picture books back in his old life, but he was a massive, broad-shouldered man who had to be at least four meters tall. He was dressed in simple leather overalls, but they were strained over a physique of pure, solid muscle. His beard was a massive, braided tangle of red, and a pair of thick-lensed spectacles were perched on a broad, flat nose, giving him a strangely scholarly look that was utterly at odds with his brute size.
He was directing a crew of smaller, wiry men, shouting instructions in a voice that was a deep, rumbling bass that vibrated through the soles of their feet. He saw them approach, and a flicker of annoyance crossed his broad, fleshy features.
"The yard's closed for new clients," he rumbled, not even bothering to look at them directly, his attention focused on a massive log being hoisted by a crane. "Unless you're carrying a hundred million in unmarked berries, get lost. I'm busy."
Arima stopped a few feet from the giant, a small, dark shape against the backdrop of the mountain of wood. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't posture. He simply stood there, a coiled spring of silent, absolute confidence.
"Feng sent me," he said, the words a low growl that cut through the din of the yard.
Goliath froze. The crane operators, a team of four men, instinctively stopped their work, the massive log hanging precariously in the air. The giant turned his massive head, his spectacles catching the light, and looked down at Arima, his small, dark eyes narrowing. The annoyance was gone, replaced by a sharp, calculating intelligence.
"Feng," the giant rumbled, the name a weight of its own. "She has a bad habit of sending me walking liabilities."
"She sends you men with money," Arima countered, placing the heavy satchel on the ground. He didn't open it. He didn't need to. The promise of its weight was enough. "I need Adam Wood. Enough to refurbish a galleon."
Goliath stared at the satchel, then back at Arima, a slow, deep chuckle rumbling up from his chest, a sound like boulders grinding together. "A galleon? A collector's dream. A fool's errand. The wood for a ship that size would cost you two hundred million, at least. And that's for common-grade planks. You're not looking to patch a boat. You're looking to build a legend. That's 'Rare' Adam Wood. The price starts at two hundred million per ton. And I only have three tons in stock. Unreserved."
He let the number hang in the air, a declaration meant to crush the dreams of lesser men.
"I have an account at The Coral Banker," Arima said, his voice flat, unimpressed by the figure. "The password is 'Ghost'. I am not here to haggle. I am here to purchase. And I am not a liability."
Goliath's small, intelligent eyes narrowed. He took a step forward, the ground shaking slightly. "Brave words for a man who barely reaches my belt buckle. Feng's recommendation is a key, but it opens no doors here. Business is business. You want my best wood, you show me you can handle it. You show me you're worth the risk."
He pointed a thick, sausage-like finger towards a massive, dark stack of timber at the far end of the yard. The wood there was different. It wasn't brown or tan, but a deep, rich reddish-brown, almost black, with a faint, inner luminescence that seemed to drink the light. It radiated an aura of ancient, unyielding strength. "That's my private stock. A single, massive trunk, a petrified Adam tree that I've been saving for thirty years. It's enough for the hull of a small warship. Its value... is priceless. I won't sell it for money."
"What will you sell it for?" Rizzo asked, his voice a squeak, then shrank back as Goliath's gaze shifted to him.
"I'll sell it for a performance," Goliath rumbled, a sly, calculating grin spreading across his broad face. "A demonstration. You see, this grove, this city... it's controlled by a balance of power. I am one of those powers. My business is my business, but I have a... partner. A man who handles things that require a bit more... finesse. A bit of enforcement. His name is 'Slasher' Vance."
He spat the name out like a bad piece of gristle. "Vance is a leech. A parasite. He thinks his little crew of swordsmen gives him the right to a piece of my operation. He's been getting bold lately. Messing with my shipments. Challenging my men. He has an office on Grove 44, a high-end teahouse called 'The Gilded Cage'. He's there right now, enjoying a bottle of my best sake, on my dime."
He leaned down, his massive face uncomfortably close to Arima's, the smell of sawdust and sweat a palpable aura. "You go to Grove 44. You go to 'The Gilded Cage'. You bring me Vance's head. Or, if you're feeling creative, something he values more. His sword, 'Whisperwind'. He never lets it out of his sight. Bring me one, or the other, and the petrified Adam is yours. It's not a purchase. It's an acquisition fee."
Arima looked at the massive, dark stack of timber. He could feel its power, its history, its potential. It was the heart of the ship he was building, the foundation of the legend he was forging. This wasn't a negotiation; it was a job interview. A blood-splattered, brutal job interview.
"Deal," he said, the word a flat, final decree.
He turned and walked away, Rizzo scrambling to keep up. As they left the timber yard, the giant's booming laughter followed them, a sound that was both a challenge and a dismissal.