The night cloaked Brackmor Island in a veil of shadow, the moon a piercing silver eye glaring through jagged gaps in the forest's twisted canopy. Olbap crouched low in the underbrush, the black Den Den Mushi pressed against his ear, its obsidian shell cold. There, a black-sailed ship rocked gently, its masts groaning softly against the restless rhythm of the waves, the hull a dark specter against the moonlit sea. Olbap had intercepted Silco's call with the Bartolo Family, their words of the place they meet, warning of a deal that could reshape the South Blue's underworld. He had calculated every angle, his plan with an 80% chance of success—a gamble worth everything.
The strategy was elegant in its simplicity, lethal in its execution, designed to exploit Silco's arrogance and dwindling ranks. Popeye, his double-headed hammer catching the moonlight like a polished guillotine, would take position with Liro at the forest's edge, where the dense trees gave way to the open shore.
The path was a perfect choke point—flanked by the tangled woods on one side and the churning sea on the other, the wind carrying the faint echo of footsteps or the creak of armor. Popeye's role was to serve as a decoy, stepping into view just enough to rattle Silco's group, spurring them to rush toward the ship in a blind panic. As they scrambled to board, Popeye would block the dock, his towering frame an unyielding wall, forcing Silco to abandon his men to fight, clinging to the illusion of escape.
Liro, his eyes sharp as a hawk's, would remain concealed among the gnarled roots and shadowed trunks, where the earth pulsed like veins beneath the moss. His task was to watch the rear, ensuring no one outflanked Popeye or sprang an ambush from the darkness. Olbap had dismissed the likelihood of outsiders intervening, but Silco's cunning could have summoned a hidden squad to strike from behind, catching them unprepared. Every possibility had to be accounted for.
Olbap's role was the linchpin. He had infiltrated the ship under cover of night, moving like a wraith through the cargo hold, where crates of Red Tide powder—its crimson grains glinting faintly in the dark—were stacked alongside barrels of rum and coiled ropes. T
he ship groaned with each swell, its timbers creaking like old bones, the rolled sails whispering like restless spirits caught in the breeze. He placed incendiary grenades with surgical precision: one tucked beneath a pile of powder barrels, its fuse camouflaged among tangled hemp; another hidden near the hatch, nestled in a coil of rusted chain, primed to detonate if disturbed.
In the captain's cabin, Olbap positioned himself behind a tattered curtain, its fabric heavy with mildew, the room dim save for a sliver of moonlight streaming through a porthole. His flintlock pistol, loaded and primed, rested steady in his hand, its barrel trained on the door, the cold steel an extension of his will. Olbap's pulse was calm, his mind a still ready for what was coming, every detail aligned for victory.
The plan's heart was surgical precision: Popeye would isolate Silco, forcing him to board alone, his guard softened by the chaos on the shore. Olbap would fire a single shot to wound, not kill, targeting Silco's leg or shoulder to incapacitate him, then extract the Red Tide formula under threat.
Popeye would neutralize Jerry, Tom, and Mot on the dock, dismantling Silco's loyalists and leaving him defenseless. The operation would be clean, delivering Brackmor and the Red Tide into the hands of the Rabocse Family.
Silco's fatal error was forging an alliance with the Bartolo Family, a West Blue underworld juggernaut, without the power to match his ambition. That misstep led to one outcome: death, with the Bartolos poised to seize the Red tide trade. Olbap would not allow it. His family would rise as the sole masters of Red Tide, their empire built on intellect and strengh, not betrayal. The memory of Kael and Toro, their blood on his hands, fueled his determination, a fire burning beneath his calm exterior.
Deep in Brackmor's heart, Silco and his men—Jerry, Tom, and Mot—hurried through the forest, their boots sinking into a carpet of wet leaves and moss, the air heavy with pine, brine, and the faint musk of decay. The distant crash of waves grew louder as they neared the dock, their pace quick but cautious, avoiding attention. Jerry's instincts, honed by years of survival, prickled, his scarred brow creasing. "Silco, we're being followed. They're not stopping, not keeping distance," he said, his voice a low hiss, his eyes darting to the shadows trailing them.
"I sense it too," Silco replied, his black cape billowing like raven wings as he quickened his stride. "They'll need time to catch us. We just need to reach the ship first. Out at sea, they can't follow." His tone was steady, but his hand rested on the flintlock at his hip, fingers twitching with readiness, his mind racing through contingencies.
The four pressed forward, the dock now visible—a dark silhouette against the silver sea, the ship's black sails catching the moonlight like a predator's cloak. But the shadow behind them closed in, swift and relentless, a force they couldn't outrun. They knew it was Popeye, Olbap's unbreakable giant, a storm in human form, his loyalty a mystery after his cryptic words.
As they reached the open dock, a massive figure exploded from the trees, landing with a thud that sent leaves and dust swirling like a tempest. When the cloud settled, Popeye stood there, his silhouette a monolith under the moon, his double-headed hammer slung over his shoulder, its steel glinting like a guillotine blade. His grin was feral, his black eyes blazing with adrenaline, his red pocket square a vivid splash of blood against his black suit. The wind carried the salt and the distant roar of waves, amplifying the tension.
"So, you finally stop running. Nice ship for your little escape. Shame you'll die here," Popeye said, his voice a low growl, rolling like thunder over the sea, each word laced with menace.
Silco's eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on his flintlock, the barrel catching a glint of moonlight. "Popeye. So you and Olbap are the traitors as I had thought. Where's your master? Always tethered to that runt's leash," he said, his voice cold as steel, his posture taut like a coiled spring, ready to strike or flee.
Popeye shook his head, his hair swaying with the winds. "Haha, Olbap and traitors? That doesn't suit people who don't exist anymore. Rane's gone, and you're next," he said, his tone dripping with scorn, his hammer shifting slightly, ready for action.
Silco's brow furrowed, his mind churning through the implications. "What do you mean? Olbap's dead? I expected Rane, but you, his loyal dog… you killed him?" His voice carried disbelief, the puzzle pieces misaligned. Popeye and Olbap were bound by blood and loyalty, an unbreakable duo—or so he'd thought.
Popeye's laugh roared through the forest, shaking the trees like a gale. "I get why you'd think that. Until recently, it was true. I was his shadow, his strength. But I got tired of that runt treating me like muscle, not respecting my potential. Without me, he'd have rotted in the swamps or drowned at sea. His mind was sharp, but he never saw my hammer coming for his back." His words were a mix of pride and bitterness, his eyes glinting with a dangerous light.
Silco's eyes narrowed, weighing the truth behind the words. "For respect and potential, you killed him. Olbap wasn't so different from me, then. Died before I could tell him. But why come for me, Popeye? Join me. I see your worth, unlike him. You'd have a place in my Red Tide, not as a pawn but as a power." His voice was smooth, a calculated offer, probing for weakness.
Silco didn't put much thought into the reasons why Popeye killed Olbap. He knew that in this underworld everyone had their ambitions and reasons for doing things, but Popeye's power and strength were a good enough resource to not just kill him, although he didn't know if that was possible. It was better to try before having to flee.
The words hung heavy, the wind whistling through the empty dock, carrying the crash of waves and the creak of the ship's rigging. Silence stretched, broken only by the restless shifting of Tom and Mot, their hands gripping their daggers, their breaths shallow. Popeye stood motionless, his hammer reflecting moonlight like a mirror, then erupted in laughter—a cannon blast that startled the group, echoing off the cliffs.
"That was a good try and you made me laugh, Silco, but I'm done bowing to anyone, especially someone weaker than me. Want me to serve? Come make me kneel," Popeye said, his voice shifting to a primal snarl, his body tensing like a beast ready to pounce.
With a burst of speed that shook the earth, Popeye charged, his hammer slicing through the air like a falling comet, the wind howling in its wake, scattering leaves and dust in a chaotic swirl. Silco and his men braced, but the attack was blinding, a force of nature unleashed.
The hammer swung toward Silco, its steel gleaming with lethal intent. Silco raised his flintlock, his arms trembling under the pressure, but Jerry lunged forward, his pale hand catching the hammer's shaft. The impact rang like clashing mountains, the ground quaking as Jerry skidded back, his boots carving deep furrows in the muddy earth, his gray coat catching on jagged roots.
"Haha, Jerry, you've been training. Blocking my swing now?" Popeye said, his grin widening, undeterred by the resistance. He spun, his massive frame a blur, delivering a spinning kick to Jerry's chest. The blow sent Jerry crashing into a tree with a splintering crack, the bark splitting under the impact. Jerry coughed blood, his coat tearing at the seams, but he staggered to his feet, his eyes blazing with defiance, his breath ragged but unbroken.
Silco seized the opening, backing toward the dock, his cape swirling in the wind. "Tom, Mot, stop him!" he barked, his voice sharp as a cutlass, cutting through the night's chaos. Pointing his flintlock at Popeye, shooting to distract him, the other two will approach.
Tom and Mot moved as one, their daggers flashing under the moon, sharp enough to cleave wood in a single stroke. They struck in perfect sync, their blades whistling through the air, slicing through shadows like razors.
Popeye scoffed dodging Silco's bullets, his massive hands snatching their wrists mid-strike with bone-crushing force. The daggers snapped like dry twigs in his grip, the metal shards glinting as they fell. With a brutal heave, he slammed them into the ground, the impact shaking the earth, kicking up clouds of dust and leaves.
Tom and Mot crumpled, blood trickling from their mouths, their bodies limp against the mossy soil, their gasps faint in the night air.
"You two are too weak to challenge me," Popeye said, his voice dripping with mockery, his eyes glinting with cruel amusement. "Jerry, don't tell me one kick took you out. I was just getting excited." His tone was taunting, his hammer shifting in his grip, ready for more.
Jerry rose, spitting little of blood from his lips, rolling his sleeves past his elbows to reveal scarred forearms. "One kick won't end me, traitor. You'll need more to kill me," he growled, dropping into a low stance, his body steady as a boulder against the crashing tide, his metal gloves catching the moonlight.
Silco, now closer to the ship, glanced back, his face etched with worry. "Can you take him, Jerry?" he called, the roar of the waves nearly drowning his voice, the dock's wooden planks creaking under his steps.
"No chance," Jerry admitted, his chest heaving with pain, his ribs aching from the kick. "He gets stronger the longer he fights. I can hold him off so you escape. Deal with him later with the Bartolos." His voice was firm, though his body betrayed the strain, his scar taut across his brow.
Silco nodded, his cape swirling as he turned, his boots splashing through the muddy shore as he sprinted for the ship. "I'd have liked to keep going with you all. We've built so much. I won't let it fall," he said, his voice heavy with resolve, the weight of his empire pressing on his shoulders.
Popeye moved to pursue, his hammer raised, its steel glinting with lethal promise, but Jerry, Tom, and Mot—bruised but staggering to their feet—formed a human wall. Jerry grabbed the hammer's shaft, his muscles straining like steel cables, veins bulging under his skin.
Tom and Mot threw desperate kicks and punches, their movements frantic, aiming to distract the giant. Popeye grunted, impressed for a fleeting moment. "Not bad, but not enough," he said, his voice a low growl. With a wide swing of his hammer, he swept Tom and Mot aside, their bodies crashing into the trees with sickening cracks, blood staining the earth as they collapsed, motionless, their breaths shallow and fading.
Jerry, now alone, released the hammer and unleashed a flurry of punches, his metal gloves flashing like silver under the moon. Each strike hit air or grazed Popeye, who dodged with a grace that belied his size, his movements fluid as a dancer's. "You won't reach the ship!" Jerry roared, his scar twitching with effort, his fists a blur of motion.
Popeye laughed, the sound a thunderclap that shook the night. "Come on, Jerry. Show me why you're third strongest." Dropping his hammer with a heavy thud, he fought bare-fisted, his massive hands open, inviting the challenge. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the wind stilling, the crash of waves the only sound weaving through the darkness.
Jerry's right fist slammed into Popeye's abdomen, the impact reverberating like striking a steel wall. Popeye grunted, his body absorbing the blow, but he held his ground, his eyes flashing with respect. He retaliated with an uppercut that lifted Jerry off the ground, sending him crashing into a tree with a splintering crack, the bark shattering under the force. Jerry coughed blood, his gray coat in tatters, his chest heaving as he staggered up. "Not… done… yet," he gasped, his voice a broken rasp, his eyes burning with defiance.
Between the two of them, the last ones on their feet, the fists continued to rain down, although more from Popeye towards Jerry, whose pale white skin showed signs of bruises. He tried to dodge, but Popeye seemed to know how to read all his movements, punishing him and giving him solid blows that made Jerry's body tremble.
Popeye's smile faded, his expression hardening. "You're tough, Jerry. But not enough." With a single, explosive step, he closed the distance, his fist crashing into Jerry's jaw with a bone-shattering crunch. Jerry crumpled, his body sinking into the muddy earth, unconscious, his breath a faint wheeze in the night.
The forest stirred once more, the wind whispering through the pines, the waves roaring against the shore. Popeye glanced at the ship, its black sails unfurling as Silco boarded, the rigging creaking under the strain of the wind. The plan had worked: Silco was alone, exposed, his allies broken on the shore. But aboard the ship, Olbap waited, his flintlock steady.
he just continued with the plan, approaching the dock that was somewhat covered with a black tent camouflaging itself so that no one would see it, to lift it and show a perfect cannon to blow up a ship if a shot was given in a perfect position.
Liro, hidden in the shadows, his cutlass sheathed at his hip, was previously watching the back appeared from where Silco and the others arrived, standing next to Popeye who moved the cannon to a better direction to hit the ship.
In the ship's cabin, Olbap stood behind the mildewed curtain, his flintlock unwavering, its barrel a silent promise. His pulse was calm, his mind clear, every sense attuned to the creak of the deck, the sway of the ship, the distant shouts fading into the night. Silco would come, confident and unguarded, stepping into the trap. The game was about to end, and the Rabocse Family would claim its prize.
End of the chapter.