Saint Poplar Island.
Inside the hotel, Ryan reclined on the sofa, a cigar burning dim red between his fingers. His gaze swept over the members of CP9, a playful smile curling at the corners of his lips. "You arrived faster than I expected."
Given the World Government's habit of discarding tools once they were no longer useful, it was no surprise that the Spandam father and son would ruthlessly eliminate these "discarded pawns" the moment he left Enies Lobby. What he hadn't anticipated, however, was how decisively CP9 had acted—tracking him down to this hotel on Saint Poplar Island in such a short time.
This was the mark of elite agents—swift and resolute.
Rob Lucci ignored the mockery in Ryan's tone, meeting his gaze directly. His voice was hoarse but firm. "The ship you built in Water 7 will need skilled craftsmen for long voyages. We spent five years undercover there—when it comes to shipbuilding and repairs, the craftsmen of Water 7 may not even compare to us. In exchange for our services, we ask for your protection under your title as one of the Seven Warlords."
"Oh?" Ryan drew out the syllable, his interest piqued as he studied Rob Lucci. "And why do you think such a meager offer is enough to buy the protection of a Warlord?"
A long voyage indeed required experienced and skilled shipwrights, but using that as a bargaining chip seemed far too flimsy in his eyes.
Of course, the most important factor was whether he felt like entertaining them.
Rob Lucci's expression darkened slightly, his brows furrowing, but he remained composed, standing rigidly in place. His uninjured right hand clenched subtly, veins faintly protruding—a sign of the turmoil beneath his calm exterior.
Ryan's words were like a sharp blade, mercilessly slicing open a reality Lucci had been unwilling to acknowledge. Though hailed as CP9's once-in-a-century prodigy, a master of Rokushiki who could unleash the devastating Six King Gun—
When he had poured every ounce of his strength into that final, decisive strike on Enies Lobby, it hadn't even caused a ripple against this man.
The chasm between their power was an insurmountable abyss, rendering any argument meaningless.
"You're nothing more than a group of abandoned pawns, cast aside by the World Government," Ryan said dismissively, his gaze sweeping over Rob Lucci. "In a world where the strong prey on the weak, the powerless have no right to bargain."
Lucci's jaw tightened, his fingers digging into his palm hard enough to draw blood. Yet he swallowed his fury and humiliation, refusing to utter a single word in protest.
In the face of such overwhelming disparity, any retort would only be the desperate howling of the weak—nothing more than a pitiful spectacle.
They had chosen Ryan precisely because of this crushing strength.
CP9's dignity had never been earned through groveling. Only by standing beside a true powerhouse could they regain their edge.
Ryan lost interest in Lucci, his gaze sliding past Blueno to settle on Kalifa. Her golden hair obscured half her face, but the slight tension in her fingers as she adjusted her glasses betrayed the unease beneath her composure.
"The terms I want have been clear from the start," Ryan exhaled a slow stream of smoke, watching the white haze dissipate in the air. "Now, it's time for you to make your choice. Don't waste my time."
"Kalifa is not a bargaining chip," Lucci's voice dropped dangerously low, his dislocated left arm trembling faintly from the strain of suppressed emotion. "She is CP9's core combatant—not some commodity to be traded."
"Combatant?" Ryan scoffed. "Your so-called 'combat strength' is nothing more than ants in my eyes. Why would I care about such trivial power?"
A Power Level of 3000—impressive? That outdated metric was utterly worthless.
Lucci met Ryan's gaze in silence, his eyes burning with unwillingness and restraint, before finally turning away with a cold, clipped, "Let's go."
"I accept your terms."
Kalifa's cool voice cut through the tension. She took three deliberate steps forward, her golden hair slipping over her shoulder as she revealed a profile of absolute calm.
The CP9 members froze in unison. Jabura halted mid-step, Kaku's brows knitted tightly, and even the ever-silent Blueno showed rare surprise on his bovine face.
"Kalifa, you—" Lucci whirled around, shock written across his features.
"This is my own decision, made after careful consideration," Kalifa interrupted firmly, adjusting her glasses as she swept her gaze over her comrades. Her voice was steady. "Spandam won't give us a moment's respite. What we need now is a stable foothold—a place where we can evade pursuit and rebuild our strength."
This was the instinctive judgment of an elite agent—weighing the options in a desperate situation and choosing the optimal path. The "Dark Justice" CP9 upheld meant that, when necessary, they would sacrifice partial interests without hesitation to achieve their ultimate goal.
Accepting Ryan's demand was no different from blowing up their own ship during a mission—just another calculated decision.
Agent Rule: The mission comes first.
"I will agree to your condition," Kalifa turned to Ryan, her expression unreadable, her voice low but resolute. "But I have one demand of my own—you must accept it."
Ryan studied her, a flicker of interest in his eyes as he leaned back against the sofa, gesturing for her to continue.
"Our relationship must be one of equals—not subservience," Kalifa stated firmly, leaving no room for compromise. "From now on, CP9 will dedicate itself fully to ship repairs and handling miscellaneous tasks. But in return, you will not interfere with our internal operations. We must retain our independence—free from your arbitrary restrictions."
For a moment, Ryan simply stared at her, then a slow, knowing smile spread across his face.
Now this was the kind of talk befitting a CP9 agent—calm, rational, and decisive, holding onto principles even in dire straits.
"Fine," Ryan flicked the ash from his cigar. "As long as you don't cause trouble, do whatever you want. I couldn't care less."
Truthfully, he had no interest in controlling these broken remnants. In his eyes, CP9 were nothing more than a group of defeated stragglers—the only one who held any appeal was Kalifa.
The rest were just insignificant extras.
"Then we have no further issues," Kalifa gave a slight nod, her expression as composed as ever.
The CP9 members remained silent. Lucci's gaze bore into Kalifa, his dislocated arm trembling faintly from the storm of emotions within him—but in the end, he held back, offering no further protest.
Ryan wasn't surprised. Though these agents shared camaraderie, they were first and foremost operatives who upheld "Dark Justice." In their creed, even sacrificing comrades was acceptable if it furthered the mission.
They had long grown accustomed to such "necessary sacrifices." The mission always took precedence.
"From this moment on, you are under my protection. The World Government won't trouble you," Ryan's gaze swept over the CP9 members. "Now—everyone except Kalifa, get out."
Without a word, the agents turned and filed out. Lucci cast one last glance at Kalifa, his eyes filled with unspoken complexity, before following his comrades out of the hotel.
The door clicked shut behind them, sealing the room in silence. Only Ryan and Kalifa remained, the atmosphere thickening with tension.
"Well then," Ryan's gaze settled on Kalifa, brimming with undisguised appraisal and desire—as if admiring a newly acquired, priceless treasure. "It's time to show your sincerity."
Kalifa said nothing. Her expression remained impassive as she adjusted her glasses with her usual grace. Then, with measured steps, she walked toward Ryan, the sharp clicks of her black heels echoing crisply against the floor.
When she reached him, she tilted her head slightly, meeting his gaze without a trace of fear or hesitation. Slowly, her slender fingers grasped the zipper of her form-fitting suit and pulled it down in one smooth motion.
The sound of the zipper sliding open was stark in the quiet room.
Fabric slipped away, first revealing shoulders pale as snow, then the sleek curve of fishnet-clad legs—the intricate weave casting tantalizing shadows under the light.
There was no shyness, no hesitation—only the cool precision of an agent executing a mission.
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