Several sunrises had painted the impossibly blue sky since Ryoma first awoke on the shores of Whiskey Peak, the foul taste of his Devil Fruit a fading, unpleasant memory.
The initial, frantic urge to flee, to put as much distance as possible between himself and this deceptively cheerful town of killers, had slowly subsided, replaced by a cautious, pragmatic assessment of his situation. Leaving hadn't been feasible.
Where would he go? He had no boat, no supplies, no knowledge of navigating the treacherous Grand Line waters that surrounded this island. Blind flight was just as likely to lead to death as staying put.
Surprisingly, Whiskey Peak hadn't proven to be the immediate death trap he'd feared. At least, not for him. The key, he'd quickly surmised, lay in the town's primary function. These were bounty hunters.
Their focus, their livelihood, revolved around capturing individuals with prices on their heads – pirates, predominantly. Ryoma Tanaka, the accidental transmigrator, currently possessed a bounty of precisely zero Beri.
To the rank-and-file residents of Whiskey Peak, he was background noise, irrelevant to their goals. As long as he didn't cause trouble or wave a Jolly Roger, they seemed content to ignore him or, at worst, treat him with gruff indifference.
His arrival hadn't been entirely smooth, of course. Emerging from the coastal shrubbery, dusty, disoriented, and wide-eyed with the horror of recognition, had immediately drawn suspicion.
Within moments, he'd found himself staring down the barrels of several flintlock pistols and the menacing points of various cutlasses. Rough faces glared at him, eyes narrowed, assessing the potential threat – or potential profit.
Ryoma had frozen, hands raised placatingly, heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced it down, channeling the desperate need for survival.
He stammered out his story – a variation of the truth, stripped of the impossible interdimensional elements. He was Ryoma, eighteen years old, a cabin boy on a merchant ship that had fallen victim to the Grand Line's notorious weather anomalies.
A sudden storm, monstrous waves, the ship torn apart… he'd clung to wreckage, eventually washing ashore here, the sole survivor as far as he knew.
He played up his youth, his apparent weakness, the genuine fear clear in his voice. He looked scrawny, harmless, clearly possessing nothing of value.
The bounty hunters exchanged glances, their initial hostility slowly softening into something resembling rough pity or, more likely, disinterest. Shipwrecks were tragically commonplace here. Lone survivors washing ashore weren't unheard of.
After a few gruff questions, confirming he wasn't affiliated with any known pirate crew and didn't recognize any recent bounty posters, they lowered their weapons with shrugs.
"Just another piece of sea trash," one large, bearded man had grunted, spitting onto the dusty street. "Keep yer head down and outta trouble, kid. Don't touch nothin' that ain't yours, and don't get in the way."
With that dismissal, the tension evaporated. They turned back to their drinks, their boasts, their weapon maintenance, leaving Ryoma trembling slightly but immensely relieved. He had passed the initial test. His fabricated identity as a harmless castaway held.
He had no illusions, however. While the average bounty hunter might ignore him, the real power on this island, Baroque Works, undoubtedly knew of his presence. He imagined unseen eyes watching, evaluating.
Mr. 8, Ms. Monday, and the other Officer Agents stationed here wouldn't have simply accepted his story without scrutiny. They might not perceive him as a threat yet, but they would be aware of the newcomer.
It was a chilling thought, a constant reminder that the welcoming atmosphere was paper-thin, covering a foundation of deadly intrigue. He made sure to keep his head down, act unassuming, and above all, never give any indication he knew more about this island than he should.
Living amongst the bounty hunters offered a strange, unsettling perspective. They were surprisingly open about their methods, especially after a few drinks. The entire town was a carefully constructed honeypot.
The endless parties, the free-flowing alcohol, the boisterous welcome offered to visiting ships – it was all designed to lure unsuspecting pirate crews into a sense of security. Once the pirates were drunk, celebrating their arrival in this "paradise," the trap would spring.
The friendly townsfolk would reveal themselves as hunters, ambushing their prey when they were least prepared. Hearing them laughingly recount successful hunts, describing the panicked confusion of pirates realizing their haven was actually a cage, sent a genuine chill down Ryoma's spine.
It was brutally effective and deeply cynical.
Yet, amidst the unease, Ryoma found a sliver of grim justification. He listened to the tales the bounty hunters swapped, not just about their successful captures, but about the reasons why certain pirates had such high bounties.
Tales of villages raided, homes burned, families torn apart, brutal acts of violence carried out for plunder or sheer malice. While his heart resonated with the adventurous spirit of Luffy and his crew, he was forced to confront the reality that they were the exception, not the rule.
Most pirates in this world weren't lovable rogues chasing dreams; they were dangerous criminals, leaving trails of suffering in their wake.
The bounty hunters of Whiskey Peak, for all their ruthlessness and deceptive methods, were, in their own way, cleaning up the sea – albeit for profit rather than justice. It didn't make living among them comfortable, but it made it slightly more palatable.
They hunted monsters, and as long as he wasn't one, he was relatively safe.
Needing a way to sustain himself, Ryoma had leveraged one of the few practical skills he possessed from his previous life: a rudimentary knowledge of mixing drinks, gleaned from a brief stint working part-time during college.
He'd approached the owner of the largest, rowdiest tavern – the same one with the 'Whiskey Peak' sign – offering his services as a barback and apprentice bartender.
The owner, a burly woman named Martha with arms thicker than Ryoma's legs and a surprising tolerance for castaways as long as they worked hard, had given him a trial run.
He proved capable enough at cleaning mugs, hauling barrels, and mixing basic drinks that he earned himself a permanent spot, complete with meagre pay and cramped sleeping quarters above the tavern.
It was exhausting work.
The tavern was busy from noon till the early hours of the morning, filled with loud, demanding, and often heavily armed patrons. Fights occasionally broke out, though Martha usually quelled them with a bellowed threat or a strategically swung frying pan before they escalated too badly.
Ryoma learned quickly to keep his eyes open, his mouth shut, and the drinks flowing. He mopped up spilled ale, listened to drunken boasts of captured pirates, and tried his best to fade into the background, polishing glasses while subtly observing the dynamics of the town.
But mere survival wasn't enough. Not in the Grand Line. Not with the power of Ryomen Sukuna simmering beneath his skin. He needed to get stronger. His job provided subsistence, but his free time, scarce as it was, became dedicated to rigorous, self-imposed training.
Every morning, before the town truly stirred and the relentless sun climbed too high, Ryoma would slip out and head towards the deserted stretches of beach beyond the main settlement. There, he pushed his body relentlessly.
He started with running, long, grueling marathons along the coastline, the soft sand sucking at his feet, adding resistance, forcing his lungs and legs to burn. He'd run until sweat blinded him, until his muscles screamed in protest, and then he'd push himself to run further.
After the runs, came strength training, Grand Line style. He found smooth, heavy boulders near the rocky outcrops framing the beaches.
Starting small, he began lifting them, performing squats, presses, and carries. It was crude, punishing work, leaving his muscles aching and his hands raw, but he felt a grim satisfaction with each session.
He needed a body capable of handling the strain of his Devil Fruit powers, a vessel strong enough to withstand the rigors of this world.
Physical conditioning alone wasn't enough, though. He needed combat skills. He possessed the devastating cutting power of Dismantle (and presumably Cleave, though he hadn't dared test that more powerful, targeted slash yet), but he lacked any practical fighting experience.
He couldn't rely solely on invisible slashes; what if someone got close? What if he ran out of stamina?
Observing the bounty hunters gave him an idea. Many of them, while primarily relying on swords or guns, were proficient brawlers, used to subduing targets.
Swallowing his pride, Ryoma started approaching some of the less intimidating hunters during their downtime, offering them a portion of his meager earnings – a small pouch of Beri painstakingly saved – in exchange for lessons.
Most laughed him off initially. Why would they waste time teaching a scrawny bar-kid? But money, even small amounts, held sway in Whiskey Peak. A few, perhaps bored or slightly amused, agreed.
His first "lesson" involved getting thoroughly beaten up by a wiry hunter who specialized in knife fighting, teaching Ryoma the painful basics of dodging and parrying.
Another, a brawler with fists like hammers, showed him rudimentary blocking techniques and how to throw a proper punch, mostly by using Ryoma as a practice dummy.
It was brutal, humbling, and expensive, but slowly, painfully, he began to learn. He absorbed tips on footwork, on reading an opponent, on taking a hit and staying on his feet.
And in the quiet solitude of the pre-dawn beach, or late at night behind the tavern when everyone else was asleep or drunk, he practiced with his Devil Fruit.
He started small, focusing on control. Slicing driftwood with Dismantle, trying to make the cuts cleaner, faster. He experimented with range, finding the optimal distance where he could strike effectively without excessive stamina drain.
He practiced the hand gestures until they felt natural, exploring whether intent alone was truly sufficient (it seemed to be, but the gestures helped concentration).
He hadn't yet attempted Sukuna's more complex abilities – the domain, the fire arrow – uncertain if they were even possible with his stamina-based system, or what the cost might be.
For now, mastery of the fundamental slash was paramount.
Life in Whiskey Peak settled into a strange rhythm. Wake before dawn, train body and Devil Fruit, work the long, exhausting shift at the tavern, maybe squeeze in a painful combat lesson, collapse into bed, repeat.
It was far from ideal. He was constantly aware of the danger humming beneath the surface, the knowledge that Crocodile's agents walked among the townsfolk, the ever-present threat of discovery.
Yet… it wasn't entirely bad. He had food, shelter, and a way to earn money. He was getting stronger, fitter, more capable than he had ever been in his previous life. He was learning valuable skills, however violently.
The bounty hunters, while rough, generally left him alone now, accepting him as part of the town's eccentric backdrop. He had found a temporary equilibrium, a small space where he could grow, gather experience, and hone his newfound power without drawing undue attention.
He still planned to leave. Staying in Whiskey Peak indefinitely, especially knowing the Straw Hats were due to arrive eventually (an event he definitely wanted to avoid being caught in the middle of), wasn't an option. But he wouldn't leave as the same weak, terrified castaway who washed ashore.
He would leave when he was stronger, when he was more prepared, when he felt ready to face the wider, wilder world of the Grand Line not as prey, but as someone capable of carving his own path. For now, Whiskey Peak, the town of hunters and deception, was his training ground.