Back at the Sabaody base, Jin rested for a while.
"Rested," in his case, meant he pushed everything onto Kuro and the others—paperwork, logistics, minor pirate cleanups—and focused on training.
In the meantime, Tokikake called to complain.
"White," he groaned through the Den Den Mushi, "Sengoku chewed me out for ten minutes straight. Then he confiscated everything and left me five million. Five! He called it 'illegal proceeds' and said it had to be turned over. He robbed me!"
Jin smirked and kept training.
A few days later, a promotion order arrived.
Vice Admiral.
Jin stared at the paper for a moment, genuinely confused. Then he pulled a few strings and asked around.
Apparently, Mjosgard had personally praised him to the Five Elders. They were "very satisfied" with this hard-nosed, results-oriented Marine and ordered Sengoku to promote him.
Tokikake later whispered that Sakazuki was furious at this "ass-kissing promotion" and had been smashing desks at HQ.
Jin didn't care.
He just trained harder.
One Piece people are weird, he thought, watching Marines in the training yard. They only train upper body. All chests and arms, no legs. Top-heavy freaks.
He made sure Kuro, Zangao, Ain—and the rest of the 62nd base—had orders in writing: full-body training, especially the legs. He wasn't going to raise a bunch of wobbly scarecrows.
He kept at it until a snail rang on his desk.
"Beru beru beru… click."
Jin picked up. "Who?"
The Den Den Mushi's face twisted, sprouting wire-framed glasses and a manic grin under a flamingo-feather coat.
"Fufufufufu… I hear you got promoted, White Ghost," Doflamingo chuckled.
Jin's brow furrowed. "I hope you're only calling because you found what I asked for."
"Fufufu… still rude as ever. Come to Auction House No. 1. Your item's waiting."
"Click."
On the other end, Doflamingo stared at the phone, a vein throbbing in his forehead. "Little bastard hung up on me…"
Jin took a quick shower. It was still morning, but he'd already sweated through a few shirts during training.
Fresh uniform. Sword on his back. One large case of cash in hand.
He left the base alone.
He walked through the commercial streets of Sabaody until he stopped in front of a mid-range "talent shop" halfway down the block.
Inside, a woman was singing.
Golden hair. Perfect figure. A slave collar around her neck.
Stella.
In Jin's mind, she was one of the most tragic women in this world. Tesoro's goddess. The woman he couldn't protect. The one whose death he used as an altar for his greed.
Selling your woman's corpse to fuel your hatred, Jin thought. Pathetic.
He stood outside and listened.
Her voice was beautiful—clear, soft, and heartbreaking. She wore a simple dress, moving gently as she sang, eyes down.
Stella had seen him the moment he stopped there, that tall man with a black coat and a massive sword. He looked clean. Solid. Safe.
She knew exactly what she was doing here. Ever since the traffickers grabbed her, her fate had been on rails.
Somebody had tried to rape her when she first arrived. The manager stopped him, not because he cared, but because she was too valuable to waste. They'd spent days teaching her how to pour wine, how to walk, how to smile, how to please. How to sell well.
Today was her first day out in the front.
Her first day on the shelf.
She was frightened. Helpless. But she could do nothing, so she sang.
As the first song rose, she'd glanced at the doorway and seen him.
Two meters tall, neat, handsome, sword on his back, cloak on his shoulders.
He didn't look at her like a toy. There was no lecherous heat in his eyes. Just calm… and something that felt like pity.
Will he buy me? she wondered. If I have to be bought, better by him than some drunk old man…
She sang of sunsets and ships and laughter. As the words flowed, a tear slipped down her cheek.
The song never wavered, but her eyes glowed.
Jin saw that light.
She wants to live, he thought.
The shop's fat manager scuttled over, rubbing his pudgy hands together. A safe, rich mark. Exactly his favourite kind.
"Aha! Honoured customer, you've got a good eye," he said obsequiously. "That one's our finest product. Beautiful face, beautiful body, beautiful voice… heh, and she's still completely untouched."
He smiled in a way every man recognized.
Jin glanced at him once. "How much?"
"I knew you'd see her value, sir!" the manager chirped. "For you, ah… only thirty million berries. A bargain for our top item, I assure you."
Jin looked back at Stella. Her singing had grown clearer, brighter, now that she'd heard the price.
He opened his case.
The manager's eyes nearly fell out of his skull. The box was stuffed with stacks. A few hundred million at least.
Jin counted out thirty million without blinking and tossed it to him.
"Oh-ho!" The piglet manager scrambled to catch the money. "Right away, sir! I'll have her brought out at once."
He turned and barked orders.
"You heard him! Hey, you! The customer's picked you. Come out!"
Stella's hands were trembling, but she kept her voice steady.
Just like that, she thought. One glance… and he bought me.
"Alright," she said softly. "I'll come."
"One showing and you're sold," the shop boy muttered as he unlocked her booth. "Lucky. Thirty million too. For a first sale, that's big."
Thirty million? Stella thought. Is that what I'm worth?
She looked through the doorway again. The man was watching her quietly, eyes steady. No hunger. No cruelty.
She stepped out.
"Hello, Master," she said, bowing gracefully.
Her voice was as beautiful up close as it was when she sang.
"Don't do that," Jin said. "My name is Arakaki Jin. Just call me 'Mr. Bai'. Or 'Bai-ge' if you like."
"Mr. Bai," she repeated, cheeks warming. "Bai–ge… I'll stick to Mr. Bai."
From behind, the manager kept yammering, piling on sales pitch. "You see, sir, this one's trained in service, etiquette, pouring drinks—everything. A perfect domestic, I promise—"
He produced a small key and a thumb-sized detonator.
"The key for the collar, and this is the remote," he explained. "If she runs away, just press this button and—"
Jin took both.
"Good," he said.
He slipped the detonator into his pocket, put the key to Stella's collar, and turned it.
Click.
The slave collar fell to the ground.
"Come with me," Jin said.
"Yes, Mr. Bai," Stella replied, touching her bare neck like she barely believed it.
"Hehehe, honoured customer, please visit again," the manager simpered. "We have everything you—"
Jin and Stella walked away without listening.
Once they were out of immediate earshot, the manager's expression curdled.
"Follow him," he snarled to one clerk. "When you get the chance, cut his tongue out and bring him and the product back. Both intact. We'll resell them."
"Sir, that might—"
"Idiot," the manager snapped. "He's a sentimental fool. Rich, soft-hearted. Thinks being big makes him invincible. Get enough men and he's just meat. Move."
"Yes, sir!"
Another flunky licked his lips. "Boss, you're brilliant. Sell her once, then drag her back and sell her again. With a body and face like that, she'll make us a fortune."
"Heheh. That's why I'm the manager," the man said smugly. "These rich bleeding hearts are suckers. Easy money."
Jin and Stella stopped next at a high-end clothing shop.
"Welcome, honoured guests," two pretty sales girls chorused, bowing.
"Go pick out a few things you like," Jin told Stella. "I'm terrible at buying clothes."
Stella blinked. "C–Can I?"
She was his property now. There was no need for him to indulge her. Yet he spoke like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Go," Jin said. "Forget what happened before. From now on, you're free."
"Free…" Stella echoed. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes again.
She nodded quickly. "Okay."
She followed the sales girls inside, touching fabrics like they were dreams.
Jin turned, scanned the alleyway across the street, and took out a Den Den Mushi.
"Beru beru beru… click."
"Yeah?" Kuro's sleepy voice answered.
"Commercial district. Shop forty-five," Jin said. "Manager's a short fat bastard. Clean it quietly. Bring him back alive."
"Understood," Kuro said.
Jin had considered making it an official arrest. But he could already picture the complaint on the Fleet Admiral's desk, the nobles whining, Sengoku massaging his temples.
Too much paperwork.
A quiet disappearance was simpler.
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