—Third Person POV—
Dozens of meters beneath the surface, where sunlight fractured into dancing shards of blue-green, a massive shadow glided through the depths.
The whale shark's spotted hide rippled with each powerful stroke of its large fins, its mouth agape to filter the ocean's bounty.
Yet this ancient giant bore a burden unlike any of its kind—a platform strapped across its broad back, leather bindings strapped on its flat, wide back.
The saddle sprawled across the creature's dorsal surface like a parody of luxury. Rough-hewn chairs, salvaged from merchant vessels and pirate ships alike, sat bolted to metal plates that groaned with each undulation of their living mount.
Salt-stained cushions, some still bearing the embroidered crests of their former owners, provided meager comfort for the eight figures who rode this poor big thing through the East Blue's depths.
They were not human.
Blue-scaled skin gleamed wetly in the filtered light, gills fluttering rhythmically along elongated necks. Webbed fingers gripped the chair arms with casual strength that could crush bone, while dorsal fins cut through the water's resistance like living sails.
These were fishmen—children of the deep who had abandoned their ancestral home ten thousand meters below for the ground above.
"Look at this haul!" The youngest among them thrust a jewel-encrusted goblet toward the non-existent ceiling, his shark-like teeth flashing in a predatory grin.
Kecho's excitement bubbled through the water like champagne, his words carrying clearly through the liquid medium. "Six ships in three days! The humans practically threw their treasure at us!"
The goblet caught what little light penetrated their depths, sending fractured rainbows dancing across his companions' faces.
Around his feet, waterproof sacks bulged with cash, coin, and precious metals, the spoils of their recent raids scattered carelessly across the platform's deck.
"Calm yourself, rookie." Okuba's voice carried the weight of experience, his scarred hide telling tales of many battles.
The hammerhead fishman's eyes swiveled independently, one watching Kecho while the other scanned the waters ahead. "This is routine work. Side business while we map these pathetic waters for Arlong-san's plans."
His words carried casual dismissal, but his predatory smile revealed the satisfaction he took in their violent work.
"You stick with us, kid," another voice chimed in, this one belonging to Surume, whose octopus heritage granted him tentacles that writhed independently of conscious thought.
"Keep your mind and blade sharp, and this backwater called East Blue will turn into a paradise for you." The tentacles wrapped around a blood-stained cutlass, its edge still keen despite recent use.
Gore had long since been washed away by the ocean's embrace, but the metal held memory of violence like a brand.
Kecho's enthusiasm dimmed, his fins drooping slightly as reality crept through his euphoria. "But... is this right? I mean, will Arlong-san approve? We're supposed to be scouting, not..." He gestured helplessly at the scattered treasure, the evidence of their maritime predation.
Silence fell over the group like a shroud. The whale shark's breathing created a rhythmic pulse that seemed to count the seconds, each exhalation a reminder of the depths that separated them from the world above. Several of the older fishmen exchanged glances, communications passing between them in the subtle language of survivors.
The group's leader, Gyaro, broke the quiet. He commanded attention without effort, his massive frame dwarfing even his fellow fishmen.
"Listen well, rookie." Gyaro's words carried the patience of a teacher instructing a particularly slow student.
"Arlong-san doesn't concern himself with the methods, only the results. We bring him intelligence about these waters, and he's satisfied. As for what we do in the process?" He shrugged, massive shoulders creating currents that rocked their makeshift chairs.
"Humans are prey. It's the natural order."
The leader's eyes gleamed with predatory satisfaction as he continued. "Besides, even if Arlong-san raised questions—which he won't—a generous contribution to the crew's treasury would smooth any ruffled fins. Arlong-san's ambitions require significant funding, and he appreciates those who contribute to the cause."
Kecho's expression shifted, excitement curdling into something approaching dismay. "You mean... we have to give up part of our haul?"
"Dahahahahaha!"
"Hahahahaha!"
"Hehahahaha!"
Laughter erupted from the senior members, harsh sounds that sent small fish scattering into the darker depths.
"Look at his face!" Surume's tentacles writhed with amusement, coiling around the chair arms like living ropes. "He thought this was charity work!"
"Every rookie thinks the same thing," Okuba added, his hammer-shaped head swaying with what might have been fondness. "Greed burns bright until reality douses the flame."
Gyaro raised a webbed hand, and the laughter subsided like a tide retreating from shore. His huge features arranged themselves into something approaching paternal understanding, though the effect was somewhat undermined by the rows of serrated teeth that dominated his smile.
"Easy, boys. We all felt that sting once." His attention focused on Kecho, who had deflated like a punctured bladder. "But here's wisdom earned through experience, rookie—only part of our haul needs to reach official reports."
The words hung in the water like bait on a hook, their implications slowly sinking into Kecho's consciousness. Around them, the whale shark's massive form undulated through the depths, its living engine carrying them steadily through the East Blue's hunting grounds.
"Think about it," Gyaro continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carried clearly through the aquatic medium.
"Six ships raided, two of them bearing pirate flags. Arlong-san receives his tribute, the crew treasury grows fat, and everyone profits. But what about the next ships we encounter? The ones that don't appear in any report?"
Understanding dawned across Kecho's features like sunrise breaking through storm clouds. His grip on the goblet relaxed, and the predatory gleam returned to his eyes with renewed intensity.
"You mean..." The young fishman's voice carried breathless anticipation. "We keep everything from the unreported raids?"
"Now you're learning!" Gyaro's laughter boomed through the water, a sound that spoke of violence and avarice in equal measure.
"The ocean is vast, boy, and merchant ships are plentiful. What's two or three vessels that simply... disappear without a trace?"
Gyaro's scary features arranged themselves into a predatory grin that would have sent lesser creatures fleeing into the depths.
"Kurami," the leader called, his voice carrying clear command. "Put that nose of yours to work. What do you smell on the current?"
The addressed fishman lifted his head, nostrils flaring as he tasted the water's chemical signature.
"Already on it, boss." Kurami's voice carried the confidence of someone whose abilities had never failed him. His specialized senses could detect traces of humanity from kilometers away—the particular cocktail of merchant vessels struggling against the ocean's indifference.
His arm rose from the water, index finger pointing steadily toward the northeast.
"Two leagues that way. Fresh scent, maybe few hours old. Smells like..." He paused, tasting the water again. "Spices and food. Merchant vessel, probably carrying goods across the region."
"Excellent work," Gyaro purred, his massive frame settling back into his chair with the satisfaction of a plan falling into place.
"Gentlemen, it seems the benevolent ocean has provided us with another opportunity for profit."
Around him, his crew began their preparations with the practiced efficiency of seasoned killers.
Weapons emerged from waterproof sheaths, their edges honed to razor sharpness. Coils of rope were checked and tested, ready to bind whatever survivors they might choose to spare for ransom or sport.
"This one's off the books," the leader announced, his words carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Every coin, every jewel, every scrap of valuable cargo—it belongs to us alone."
"Yeah!"
"Let's Make This One Worth It!"
Kecho clutched his goblet with renewed enthusiasm, the earlier disappointment forgotten in the face of promised wealth. "How long until we reach them?"
"Patience, rookie." Okuba's hammer-shaped head swayed with amusement. "The hunt is half the pleasure. Let anticipation sharpen your appetite for what's to come."
The water around them began to brighten as they ascended, the whale shark's powerful strokes carrying them toward the hunting grounds above.
Shafts of sunlight penetrated deeper, painting their blue-scaled forms in shifting patterns of light and shadow.
"Remember," Gyaro's voice carried final instructions as they rose toward their prey, "merchants fight differently than pirates. Less skill, more desperation. They'll throw their wealth at us hoping to buy their lives."
His hardened features twisted into something approaching philosophical contemplation. "But well, whether we honor such bargains depends entirely on our mood and their entertainment value."
*******************************
—Hachiman POV—
I decided to position myself at the cargo ship's rail, ostensibly to admire the endless expanse of water stretching toward the horizon.
Of course, "admire" was probably too generous a term for what I was actually doing. The ocean was vast, blue, and utterly indifferent to my circumstances—much like the universe itself, really.
My efforts over the past two and a half days hadn't been completely in vain, at least.
The fact that this cargo ship was still there when I arrived and was preparing for departure, meant I hadn't fallen into the trap of an extended sea chase.
There was something to be said for small victories, even if they were just stepping stones toward larger potential failures.
The island we'd just left wasn't exactly what you'd call prosperous. The docks had maybe a dozen ships total, most of them looking like they'd seen better days.
It wasn't the kind of place where major merchant vessels typically made extended stops, which had made locating the right ship surprisingly straightforward.
'Sometimes, I reflected, being in the middle of nowhere had its advantages.'
Finding the ship had been the easy part. The moment I'd spotted it among the sparse collection of vessels at the dock, I'd known this was my target.
The Compass had been pointing steadily in its direction, and there was something about the way the crew moved with practiced efficiency that suggested they were used to handling valuable cargo.
The next part had been securing passage on the ship.
I'd approached the captain with what I hoped was the right mixture of confidence and deference.
"I need passage to your next destination, a private cabin please" I'd told him, producing a handful of Berri as evidence of my ability to pay.
He'd considered this for a moment, probably calculating the extra income against the potential hassle.
"All the private cabins are taken," he'd finally said. "You'd be bunking with the other passengers in the common quarters. Dozen people to a room, and it ain't comfortable."
'Tsk!'
I'd agreed, because what other choice did I have? Comfort was a luxury I couldn't afford when every day spent not pursuing Devil Fruits was another day further from home.
The moment I'd confirmed my passage, my mind had shifted to the next logical problem: identifying which passenger actually possessed the Devil Fruit.
It stood to reason that if this was a cargo ship primarily serving merchants, the Devil Fruit was likely in the possession of one of the traders rather than a crew member.
Crew typically didn't have the capital to invest in items worth a hundred million Berri in things that would make them hammers at sea, and they'd be more likely to sell such a valuable find at the first opportunity rather than transport it as personal cargo.
'Well, that in case they actually believed it was a Devil Fruit, adding to it the issue of them recognizing it as one and not a funny looking fruit,'
This line of reasoning had led me to my next decision: I needed significantly more money than I currently possessed.
So I'd done what any rational person would do when faced with insufficient funds in a world where they had magical boxes that could conjure precious metals:
I'd hit every exchange center and bank on the island.
The process had been both enlightening and frustrating. Each establishment had its own quirks, its own exchange rates, its own level of suspicion regarding the sudden appearance of a teenager with pockets full of gold and jewels.
I'd refined my approach with each visit with my "BargainingHiki" and combining it with deadpan delivery, strategic pauses, and the kind of world-weary expression that suggested I'd been dealing in precious metals since before they were born.
The key was to appear simultaneously knowledgeable about the value of what I was selling and completely uninterested in haggling over small details.
Even with my refined technique, the results had been disappointing. Sixty million Berri sounded impressive until you compared it to the standard asking price for a Devil Fruit. (100 Million Berri)
It was the kind of shortfall that couldn't be overcome with clever negotiation—it was a fundamental gap between what I had and what I needed.
The pessimistic part of my brain had immediately begun cataloguing all the ways this could go wrong. The merchant could refuse outright. They could demand to know why I was offering below market value.
They could get suspicious about my age, my background, or my sudden appearance on their ship. They could already have a buyer lined up, or they could decide to hold onto the fruit for their own use.
But dwelling on potential failures was a luxury I couldn't afford. I'd made my choice when I'd boarded this ship with insufficient funds. Now I had to see it through.
The common passenger quarters had turned out to be exactly as uncomfortable as advertised.
More than a dozen people crammed into a space designed for maybe eight, with hammocks strung so close together that turning over in your sleep risked elbowing your neighbor.
Air was thick with the combined odors of unwashed bodies, stale food, and the general mustiness that seemed to permeate every corner of the ship below deck.
'Complaining about hygiene was the first thing that could come to my mind, but the person responsible for it probably gave up on it and life in general long ago.'
But as I'd quickly discovered, the discomfort came with an unexpected benefit: nobody wanted to spend more time in those quarters than absolutely necessary.
This meant that passengers were constantly moving around the ship, seeking fresh air, privacy, or just a temporary escape from the cramped conditions.
It provided perfect cover for my own movements as I worked to identify which of my fellow travelers possessed the Devil Fruit I needed.
The Compass had made this process remarkably straightforward.
'Well, thankfully at that that.'
While other passengers wandered aimlessly or gathered in small groups to complain about the accommodations, I'd been able to conduct a systematic survey of the ship.
The compass needle had pointed consistently toward the stern, specifically toward one of the private cabins reserved for merchants who could afford better accommodations.
A little discreet observation had revealed the cabin's occupants: a middle-aged merchant, his wife, and their young child.
They had the look of people accustomed to travel—their clothes were practical but well-made, their movements around the ship confident and purposeful. The merchant himself was probably in his forties, with the kind of soft build that suggested prosperity but not excess. His wife appeared younger, with the carefully maintained appearance of someone who understood that her husband's business often depended on first impressions. Their child, a boy of maybe eight years old, had that restless energy that suggested he was already bored with the voyage.
They seemed, in other words, like exactly the kind of people who would view a Devil Fruit as a valuable investment rather than a tool for personal empowerment.
'This was good news for my purposes—investors were generally more willing to negotiate than power hungry.'
I'd spent the better part of a day confirming that they were indeed the ones in possession of the Devil Fruit.
Yes, the Compass was reliable, but I'd learned not to trust any single source of information completely. I'd observed their cabin from various angles, noted their comings and goings, and even tied to subtly ask other passengers to see if anyone had mentioned seeing unusual items in their possession.
The conversations had been exercises in casual interrogation disguised as friendly small talk.
"That merchant family seems to be doing well for themselves," I'd mentioned to an elderly passenger who'd been complaining about the cramped quarters.
"Oh, the Gilberts?" the man had replied. "Yes, they're in the import-export business. Deal in agriculture products, common ones usually. The kind of things that sell for premium prices to anyone who needs it."
"Agriculture products," I'd repeated, as if only mildly interested. "Like what?"
"As I said the common things. What they can get and sell at good prices. Smart people I would say. Rather than being ambitious, good and steady to win the race. Though they seem they want to expand their operations as they wanted to visit the major trade centers in this region."
That had been all the confirmation I'd needed.
Suddenly wanted to visit the trade center in the region not to expand their operation,
'But most likely to visit auction houses to sell something precious.'
Now, standing at the ship's rail with the afternoon sun beginning its descent toward the horizon, I decided it was time to make my approach.
The timing felt right. Lunch had ended about a while ago, which meant the family would likely be back in their cabin, possibly taking an afternoon rest or discussing their business plans for the next port of call. It was a time when they'd be settled but not yet preparing for dinner, creating a window of opportunity for an unscheduled business discussion.
I made my way from the rail toward the ship's interior, but first, I had preparation to do.
'Presentation mattered in business negotiations, perhaps more than the actual substance of the offer.'
I had learned this lesson during my various exchanges on the previous islands, where my appearance as a somewhat disheveled teenager had clearly influenced how seriously people took my inquiries.
'Well, if I was going to approach a merchant family with a sixty million Berri offer for a hundred million Berri item even if I was going to use gold as substitute, I needed every possible advantage.'
The ship's bathroom was about as luxurious as you'd expect on a cargo vessel, which is to say it was functional and nothing more. But it had a mirror, running water, and enough space for me to make the necessary adjustments to my appearance.
I changed into what I privately considered my "business suit"—the fanciest combination of clothing I could conjure from my admittedly limited wardrobe in my mind.
It wasn't haute couture by any means, but it was clean, well-fitted, and suggested someone who took professional matters seriously.
The kind of outfit that said "legitimate businessman" rather than "desperate teenager with questionable funding sources."
I spent several minutes working on my appearance, combing my hair into something resembling a professional style and checking my reflection from multiple angles.
As the goal wasn't to look older—that would have been impossible and probably counterproductive. Instead, I was aiming for "young but serious," the kind of appearance that suggested I might be representing family interests or acting as an agent for more substantial financial backing.
My expression needed work, too. My natural resting face tended toward skeptical boredom, which was fine for most situations but potentially problematic for business negotiations.
'Did I just find another way to insult my dead fish eyes?'
For that, I practiced a few different expressions in the mirror, settling on something that I hoped conveyed professional competence without crossing the line into aggressive salesmanship.
Satisfied that I'd done what I could with my physical presentation, I turned my attention to the most critical element of my approach: the note.
I was composing this message in my head for the past several hours, refining the wording and trying to anticipate how it would be received.
The challenge was to communicate several things simultaneously: that I was a serious buyer, that I knew exactly what they possessed, that I was prepared to make an immediate offer, and that I understood the delicate nature of such transactions.
Too direct, and I'd sound like I was making demands. Too vague, and they might not understand what I was referring to. Too casual, and they wouldn't take me seriously. Too formal, and I might come across as threatening or official in a way that would make them nervous.
I pulled out a piece of paper and began writing in my most careful handwriting:
Dear Gilbert-dono,
I represent interests that specialize in the acquisition of rare and unique items. I have reason to believe that you may have recently acquired something that would be of considerable interest to my associates.
If my information is correct, I would like to discuss the possibility of making a direct purchase offer for this item. The transaction would be immediate and could be completed before the ship reaches its next destination.
I understand that such matters require discretion and careful consideration. I would be happy to discuss the details at your convenience.
Respectfully, H. Hikigaya Private Acquisitions
I read over the note several times, looking for any phrasing that might be misinterpreted or any information that might be unnecessary.
My goal was to communicate enough to demonstrate serious intent without being so specific that it could be used as evidence if things went wrong.
The phrase "rare and unique items" was deliberately vague—it could refer to Devil Fruits, but it could also refer to any number of other valuable goods. "Direct purchase offer" suggested urgency without desperation. "Immediate transaction" addressed their most likely concern about payment methods. "Discretion and careful consideration" acknowledged the sensitive nature of such deals.
The signature was perhaps the trickiest part.
Using my full name felt too personal, but using a completely fake identity seemed unnecessarily deceptive. "H. Hikigaya" struck a balance—professional enough to suggest legitimacy while maintaining some personal distance.
"Private Acquisitions" was vague enough to mean almost anything while suggesting I represented broader interests than just my own.
With my appearance and message prepared, I made my way through the ship's corridors toward the merchant family's cabin.
As I walked, the pessimistic part of my brain couldn't help but run through all the ways this interaction could go sideways.
The merchant could refuse to see me. He could read the note and immediately become suspicious about how I knew what they possessed. He could call for ship crew, or worse, decide that I represented some kind of threat to his family.
There was also the very real possibility that I was completely wrong about what they had. The Compass was reliable, but it pointed toward Devil Fruits in general, not the specific circumstances around it.
But again, these were the kinds of concerns that could paralyze you if you let them. I'd made my decision to approach them, and now I had to follow through, regardless of my reservations.
I reached their cabin and paused outside the door, taking a moment to compose myself and run through my planned approach one final time.
'The knock should be firm but not aggressive—the kind of knock that suggested business rather than emergency.'
'My introduction needed to be professional but not intimidating. The handover of the note should be smooth and confident, followed by a graceful exit that gave them time to consider the offer without feeling pressured.'
'Most importantly, I needed to project competence and legitimacy while being prepared for any number of possible reactions.'
I knocked on the door with what I hoped was the appropriate level of firmness.
After a moment, I heard footsteps approaching from inside the cabin, followed by the sound of the door being unlatched. The door opened to reveal the merchant I'd been observing—middle-aged, well-dressed in the practical fashion of successful traders, with the kind of cautious expression that suggested someone accustomed to dealing with unexpected visitors in the course of business.
His eyes took in my appearance quickly, and I could see him trying to place me in some familiar category.
Passenger? Crew member? Someone with ship's business? The slight puzzlement in his expression suggested that I didn't fit neatly into any of his usual frameworks.
"Good afternoon," I said, keeping my voice level and professional. "My name is H. Hikigaya. I represent private acquisition interests."
I held out the note as I spoke, maintaining eye contact while extending the paper toward him. "I believe you may have something that would be of interest to my associates."
He took the note from me, his movements careful and measured. I could see him trying to read my expression while simultaneously processing what I'd just said.
The mention of "private acquisition interests" had clearly registered—it was the kind of phrase that meant something specific in merchant circles.
As he began to read the note, I watched his facial expressions change.
Initial curiosity gave way to surprise, then to what looked like careful consideration. His eyes moved back and forth across the paper, and I could see him reading certain phrases multiple times.
When he looked up from the note, his expression had shifted to something that was part wariness and part business interest. It was exactly the kind of reaction I'd been hoping for—he understood what I was referring to, and he was taking the possibility seriously rather than dismissing it outright.
Before he could formulate a response or ask any of the questions that were probably forming in his mind, I executed the next part of my plan.
"I apologize for the unexpected intrusion," I said, bowing politely in the formal manner that suggested serious business rather than casual interaction. "I understand that such matters require careful consideration."
I straightened from the bow and met his eyes again. "I'll return in one hour to discuss this further, if you're interested in hearing the details of what I have in mind."
The timing was deliberate—enough time for him to discuss the matter with his wife and think through the implications, but not so much time that he could overthink it or decide to involve ship security in the conversation.
"I hope you'll consider the opportunity," I added, then turned and walked away before he could respond.
As I made my way back down the corridor, I could feel his eyes on my back. Behind me, I heard the soft sound of the cabin door closing, followed by immediate conversation in voices too quiet for me to make out the words.
The first phase of my plan was complete. Now came the hard part: waiting to see how they'd respond, and preparing for whatever reaction they'd have when I returned.
I found myself back at the ship's rail, ostensibly watching the ocean but actually using the time to mentally prepare for every possible outcome of the upcoming conversation.
They could agree to negotiate, they could refuse entirely, they could try to involve ship authorities, or they could demand explanations I wasn't prepared to give.
…
A\N: Well, That's it for now.
Thank you all for reading! Hope you enjoyed this one!
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