They returned to Grove 42, the heavy silence of their walk a stark contrast to the lumber yard's usual din. The massive ironwood office of Goliath's brokerage was exactly as they had left it. The giant was standing in the doorway, a half-eaten leg of fried chicken in one hand, a tankard of ale that looked like a thimble in the other. His small, intelligent eyes narrowed as he saw them approach, then widened as he took in the scene. Arima, cool and impassive, and Rizzo, trailing behind him like a ghost, his face pale but set.
Goliath tossed the chicken bone over his shoulder. "You're either very good, or very stupid," he rumbled, his deep bass voice laced with a new, sharp-edged curiosity. "Considering you're walking back here and not being carried in a sack, I'm guessing it's the former."
Arima didn't speak. He simply unsheathed 'Whisperwind', holding it out horizontally, hilt-first, the long, slender blade catching the light, its perfect, shimmering line a silent, damning piece of evidence. Then, with the same casual indifference a man might use to toss a sack of garbage, he dropped a heavy, canvas-wrapped bundle onto the ground at the giant's feet. It landed with a wet, solid thud.
Goliath stared at the bundle, then at the sword. A slow, deep, earth-shaking chuckle rumbled up from his chest, a sound of genuine, unadulterated appreciation. He set down his tankard and reached down with one massive hand, undoing the twine. He peeled back the blood-soaked canvas to reveal Vance's pale, slack-jawed face, the gaping, ragged wound at the neck a testament to a brutal, final efficiency.
"He always did have a pretty face," Goliath rumbled, a sly, calculating grin spreading across his own broad features. He looked from the severed head to the sword in Arima's hands. "A matching set. A bonus." He prodded the head with the toe of his massive leather boot. "He was a parasite. An artist who forgot that art doesn't pay the bills. You've done this grove a service, Yakuza."
He gestured with a dismissive wave of his hand towards the mountain of lumber at the far end of the yard. "The petrified Adam. It's yours. My men will load it onto your ship. It will take a few hours."
"My men will load it," Arima corrected, sheathing 'Whisperwind'. The blade settled into its new home, a perfect, lethal fit. "Your men will stay where they are. I don't want your grubby paws on my wood."
Goliath's grin widened. The giant was not offended. He was impressed. This wasn't a desperate customer anymore; it was a peer. A rival, perhaps, but one who understood the fundamental rules of power. "Fair enough. I'll have my boys clear a path. Consider it a delivery surcharge."
He turned and bellowed, a command that made the yard's workers scramble. "Clear the way to Pier 7! The captain's got a delivery!"
Arima gave a curt nod and walked away, Rizzo trailing silently behind him. He didn't thank the giant. Thanks were for equals who had done you a favour. This was a transaction. A brutal, bloody, but perfectly balanced exchange of value for value.
Back at the Sea Serpent, the atmosphere was tense. Lefty and Stumps were on deck, the repeating crossbow held at a high ready, their faces grim and determined. The sight of their captain returning, unharmed and with a new sword at his hip, was a visible relief. The whispers in the grove had already reached the pier; the story of the slaughter at 'The Gilded Cage' was spreading like a brush fire, a terrifying new legend in the making.
Loading the petrified Adam Wood was a monumental task. The massive trunk, dark and heavy as a fallen star, was too large for the yard's main crane to handle in one piece. Goliath's men, directed by Rizzo's surprisingly adept navigation of complex logistical problems, had to use a system of winches, pulleys, and raw manpower to break it down into transportable sections. Each section was still a monstrous burden, requiring ten men to move it, their straining faces slick with sweat.
Arima supervised it all, a silent, watchful presence. He noted the way the wood, even when cut, seemed to resist the tools, the sawdust a fine, metallic powder that glittered in the sun. He could feel its aura, even from a distance—a deep, resonant hum of age and strength. This was the heart of his ship. The foundation of his fleet. The tool he would use to carve a name for himself in this brutal, unforgiving world.
As the last massive section was being secured onto the deck, a small, sleek rowboat approached the pier. It was Feng's contact, the hooded figure, back for the second half of their transaction. The figure climbed aboard, its movements swift and silent, and gestured towards the lower deck.
"The remaining four-fifths of the Sea Prism Stone stock," the rasping voice echoed from the shadow of the cowl. "The Banker requires a final verification. And to discuss the transfer of the funds into a more... liquid form. Gold bullion, perhaps. It is a cumbersome sum to carry in paper."
Arima nodded, leading the figure below deck to the captain's quarters where the remaining stones were stored. He opened the heavy, lead-lined chest. The milky, inner light of the stones washed over the small room, a silent, powerful luminescence. The hooded figure leaned in, the handheld device whirring as it scanned the contents.
"Authentic," the figure rasped, a note of satisfaction in its altered tone. "The total value is... considerable. The Banker will be pleased. He authorises the conversion of your account balance into bullion. It will be ready for pickup at dawn, at our main vault on Grove 13. Bring identification. The password remains 'Ghost'."
As the figure straightened up, a soft, almost inaudible rustle came from the corner of the room. Kuro, the black cat, padded out from the shadows, her obsidian eyes fixed on the hooded visitor. She stopped, tilted her head, and let out a low, questioning 'mrrrow?'
The hooded figure flinched, a subtle, almost imperceptible recoil. "Control your familiar," the raspy voice snapped, a flicker of something other than professional indifference breaking through the digital disguise.
"She's just curious," Arima said, scooping the cat up. She felt solid, real, a warm, purring weight in his arms. He scratched her head, her rumbling a strange counterpoint to the tension in the room.
The hooded figure gave a curt, dismissive nod and left, the heavy chest now seeming lighter. The transaction was complete. The Sea Serpent was groaning under the weight of her new cargo, the deck sagging slightly under the immense, concentrated mass of the petrified Adam Wood. She sat lower in the water, a wolf made sluggish by the jewel it had swallowed.
As the hooded figure's boat vanished into the labyrinth of channels, a new party appeared at the end of the pier. A group of four men, moving with a synchronised, predatory grace that set them apart from the chaotic mob of the grove. They were not pirates. They were not brokers. They were soldiers.
They were dressed in simple, stark white uniforms, trimmed with a deep, solemn blue. The high collars and short, brimmed caps were an unmistakable symbol of authority. They didn't carry the flashy, personalised weapons of the pirates. Each one had a standard-issue cutlass at their hip, and more importantly, each one carried a rifle, the long, dark wood and polished steel of the weapons a grim, business-like statement. They were the Marines.
"By order of the Sabaody Marine Patrol, this ship is subject to inspection!" the lead Marine, a man with a severe, square jaw and a gaze like chipped ice, called out. His voice was a clear, carrying shout that cut through the ambient noise of the dock. "All personnel to remain on deck!"
A cold, hard knot of tension formed in Arima's gut. This was the variable he hadn't fully accounted for. The uncontrolled element. The law.
Lefty and Stumps froze, their hands hovering near the repeating crossbow, their faces a mask of panic. Rizzo looked ready to jump over the side and swim for the horizon.
Arima held up a single, calming hand, a gesture that was both a command to his men and a signal of non-aggression to the approaching patrol. He didn't draw a weapon. He didn't even let his posture become threatening. He simply stood there, a coiled spring of controlled violence, waiting.
The four Marines came aboard, their movements efficient and practised, their rifles held at a low ready. They formed a loose perimeter, their gazes sweeping the deck, taking in everything: the heavy, dark sections of wood, the nervous thugs, the grim, professional set of their captain's jaw.
"Captain," the lead Marine said, his gaze locking onto Arima. "This vessel has been reported as being involved in a disturbance on Grove 44. Multiple fatalities. An execution-style killing. We have a description of a tall, tattooed individual matching your profile."
He wasn't accusing. He was stating a fact, a calm, professional opening of a potentially fatal conversation. His eyes were the key. They weren't the eyes of a thug or a pirate looking for a fight. They were the eyes of a bureaucrat with a gun, a man who was processing data, looking for the most efficient way to resolve a potential threat.
Arima knew what she meant. He was Yakuza. He understood the power of bureaucracy and red tape as much as he understood the power of a well-placed threat.
"We had a disagreement with a merchant named Vance," Arima said, his voice a low, calm rumble. He chose his words with the deliberate care of a bomb disposal expert. "A business transaction that turned sour. He defaulted on a payment. We... repossessed an asset to cover the debt." He gestured with a tilt of his head towards 'Whisperwind' at his hip. "His crew objected. They lost the argument."
The Chief Petty Officer's gaze flickered to the new sword, then back to Arima's face. His expression didn't change, but a flicker of something—calculation, perhaps—passed through his icy eyes. "Repossession. That's a bold word for murder in a lawless grove. This isn't your territory, 'Captain'. Here, the law is what we say it is. And right now, it looks a lot like you're a pirate who just made a very public mess."
"I'm a businessman who is about to make a very large, very legitimate purchase," Arima countered, reaching into an inner pocket of his coat. He didn't pull out a weapon. He pulled out the small, lacquered box Feng had given him. He opened it. Inside were the papers of ownership for the Sea Serpent, a bill of sale signed by a notary on a distant island, and, most importantly, the letter of marque he'd acquired from Feng. It was a beautifully crafted document, a masterpiece of legal ambiguity that effectively made him a privateer in the service of one of the Archipelago's most powerful, if shadowy, figures.
"We operate under the protection of a benefactor who values discretion and commerce," Arima continued, placing the papers on a nearby crate. "Our business here is almost concluded. We have purchased a significant quantity of materials from Goliath's brokerage." He gestured to the massive, dark sections of wood on the deck. "We intend to load our gold bullion at dawn, courtesy of The Coral Banker, and depart. Any... delay... in our departure would be financially detrimental to several very influential parties on this island. Including your superior officer's discretionary fund, perhaps."
It was a bluff, a shot in the dark, but it was delivered with the unwavering conviction of a man who knew he held the better cards. The Chief Petty Officer stared at the documents, then at the wood, then at the captain. He was a man caught between procedure and pragmatism. On one hand, he had a dead, connected swordsman and a ship full of suspicious-looking individuals. On the other, he had a letter of marque from a power he knew better than to cross, and a mountain of rare Adam Wood that represented a massive tax revenue. He was a cog in a machine, and he could feel the gears grinding in a direction he hadn't anticipated.
He let out a slow, measured breath. "Fine," he said, the word a clipped, reluctant concession. "We will log this as a 'dispute resolution between private parties'. Your paperwork will be processed. The gold at The Coral Banker will be verified. You will be permitted to depart, pending a final inspection of your cargo and manifests at dawn. But be warned, 'Captain'. Your presence here has been noted. Your ship has been noted. If we find so much as a single contraband item on board, you and your entire crew will be in chains faster than you can draw that pretty sword of yours."
He gave a sharp, curt gesture to his men. "We're done here."
The Marines filed out, their departure as efficient and disciplined as their arrival. The tension on the deck of the Sea Serpent didn't just dissipate; it snapped, leaving behind a strange, buzzing void of relief and adrenaline.
"Close call," Rizzo breathed, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow with a trembling hand.
"No," Arima said, sheathing 'Whisperwind' with a soft, decisive click. "That was a test. We passed."
He looked at the sky, where the last vestiges of daylight were being swallowed by the deep purple of the encroaching night. "Get the ship ready for departure at first light. I want to be out of this mangrove swamp before the morning patrol changes shift." He turned and walked towards the lower deck, towards the quiet solitude of his cabin. "I have a meeting with a bank."