Eden Breakers: Snapping Fate's Chains[Invite Only]

[BEX]

Contently sitting with legs crossed and the heavy overcoat draped clumsily across his shoulders, Jack stared expectantly into the pit where his prize attempted to futilely hide herself from him.

“Oi! Come on ya troublesome wench! You already made a promise so pay what ya friggin owe!”

Even though disapproval traveled thickly upon the sound waves filtering into his body from the surrounding area, the pirate refused to relent in his collection of payment. On these seas where nothing was certain, debt was a burden as heavy as a mountain. Not even the lowest scum amongst real pirates sought to betray an earnestly agreed upon bargain.

“Such a beast, that man is! Our priestess has been known to beat even Sensei from the Western Dojo Regions, but against this man…” a rotund, bassoon-voiced commoner whispered in awed tones.

Sucking his teeth in irritation, Jack drummed his fingers on the imperfect surface of the katana laying across his lap. Only a discerning smith’s eye could identify the faults in the folds of the steel blade—or perhaps someone whose enhanced hearing easily detected the unperceivable dents and misplaced ridges that lined both edge and flat side of the sword. Strangely it was only when the whistling wind pronounced these defects by ratcheting through countless tiny breaches within the metal that the vagrant’s heart swelled with pride for the weapon he’d attained. Like him, the sword held many faults, yet because of those deficiencies both of them hungered for cathartic enlightenment in surpassing the limitations that had levied upon them by pompous assholes that believed themselves better.

“Oi!” Jack called impatiently into the house-sized crater which still belched visible stacks of dust as loose particles of soil were cast adrift upon friendly winds.

Only the rustling his flamboyant yukata’s sleeve returned in response to his call. He began to wonder if this warrior priestess could really be so afraid of getting plowed; it wasn’t as if he were incapable of being gentle after all.

“How horrible…that monster is going to steal the innocent lady’s virtue against her will. What a base villain!” a woman decreed in the background of the scene, safely voicing her bold opinion in the security of numbers.

“What kinda mongrel forces himself on a lady he callously whooped on anyway?” questioned a gruff geezer whose legs trembled beneath the weight of his frail body.

Others agreed with the sentiment of these two outspoken individuals while Jack’s back was turned. Twisting his neck at an uncomfortable angle, the crude swordsman glared at the naysayers with an unholy light shimmering in his eye, “Eh? Whazzat? Yer offerin’ yer own daughters to fill my needs in place of yer hero? Ho-ho, that’s mighty kind o’ ya. Let’s start with three girls over the age o’ 18 and work our way up, hmmm?”

A moment of grave silence passed before…

“It was stupid to offer up her chastity so recklessly anyway!”
“Hmph! That little harlot is just getting what she deserves!”
“Perhaps it would be okay if I watched…”

Only then did the priestess’s head emerge from the hole, her once-petite mouth now housing rows of fangs that came together to vocalize her outrage, “Heathens! Have you no loyalty?!” she screeched before turning to the miserly fellow whose eyes were lit dimly with considerable lust, “…And No!—you absolutely cannot watch!”

“Aww…” groaned the man, but this time his voice was joined with a host of other disappointed lechers.

Suddenly the mood ceased to be lighthearted as a hand fell heavily atop the dainty girl’s head. Small and almond shaped, the woman was really a girl, Jack realized as he palmed her crown with easy power that exemplified the difference between the two warriors. Leaning close he whispered breathily into her ear, “Bout time ya came up, babe. Wuz beginnin’ to think ya didn’t like me or somethin’,” Jack cooed sadistically, but his lewd entertainment was interrupted as he noticed the focus of the woman’s eyes was fixed past him.

With a quick glance over the collar of his overcoat he found himself staring upward at the impossible silhouette of a man outlined in the illumination of the noonday sun. Wait a sec…I didn’t hear this bastard coming up behind me? The hell is goin’ on here?!

[Blackwater]

An Interlocking Elbow Guard intercepted the Open-Palmed Tiger Strike. The Rising Mid-Section Knee Jab was negated by the Eight Trigram Lake Step. A Basic Cross-Body Jab was returned in favor by a Spinning Back Fist. In this fashion, techniques crashed ashore the defenses of other techniques as two wills clashed fiercely in the confines of the dojo’s roomy training room. Treated wood flooring soon became slick with fresh blood as the two forms collided repetitively, each time trading blows so mighty that the doors and windows quivered after every exchange. Exhausation was a concept alien to both battlers as the injuries inflicted upon one another mounted to inhuman levels leaving both barely recognizable specters of what human beings should look like. All thought was set aside as the demanding tempo of the fight transcended tactic and experience, leaving only one factor untested between the rivals.

Conviction.

It was the fundamental characteristic that separated the strongest from the weakest; the survivors from the vanquished. That yearning was what possessed a smiling, pulverized Tang as his body writhed and moved with newfound precision and power. Eamon was a worthy enemy. From the strength of his strikes, the speed of his attacks, even the brilliant manner which the man manipulated his body proved that he was a full-fledged member of the fighting mercenary clan; the 72 Demons. More importantly was that this proved another thing: Tang was his equal.

“What’s this?” Tang gushed as he easily twisted beneath a high kicking leg, “Your attacks are becoming more and more predictable as the fight goes on. Is it really alright for you to continue holding back while losing advantage?”

The forced laugh that escaped the stoic striker’s throat held a hidden joy nearly equal to the one bursting within Tang’s chest, “Don’t make me laugh! If I hit a kid like you for real…you’d…DIE!!”

From there the struggle recovered its gusto. A moment of manic inspiration saw both fighters launch themselves into one another absent any form of defense. Captured by the surreal rapture overloading his senses, Tang noticed how right this sort of fight felt. Pain ululated in uneven swells throughout his body and he could only make out cloudy shapes through his left eye. His pants hung in rags around his waist, the sturdy clothing resembling a billowing dress more than anything a respectable man would wear publicly. Kugo had fared little better. Black and blue bruises pocked his transcendent frame and the tasteless, over-colored attire which had greedily demanded the attention of all who saw it was now thoroughly smattered with barely congealed blood.

For that brief instance both warriors rejoiced in the clear, singular purpose given to their existences. Etched in the ridges of their knuckles was what their heart desired above all accolades, wealth, influence, approval, and power.

In their fists was the sole ambition of achieving victory against a monstrously strong opponent.

With a shout bones cracked inaudibly as both jaws were realigned in simultaneous occurrence. Colors flashed brightly and then swam in Tang’s vision while his feet were lifted from the ground. Suspended and without a base he began to worry that if he couldn’t parry this next attack he would no longer be able to continue fighting. More than losing, the prospect of being unable to continue fighting returned him quickly to his senses as he looked blearily towards Eamon Kugo who was blinking through mild delirium several meters away. Touching down at the same time both men took reprieve for the first time since the violent outset of their duel. Oxygen burned gravelly trails through Tang’s lungs and though he winced he always kept one eye upon his enemy while rushing to regain fortitude. Wiping away an errant trail of blood caked along the side of his cheek, a smile produced beads of red from cracked lips making him regret the action in the first place.

“I’m surprised my father hasn’t come out to see what all the noise has been about,” commented Tang conversationally. Stalling hadn’t crossed his mind. He was truly perplexed by the lack of Demons surrounding their battle which by now had become the talk of the Western District of Karate Island. If he remembered correctly Warlord sanctioned fights were rare and far between—most ending in a brutal showing of one-sided dominance. “My brother would probably scoff and mutter something demeaning about how many openings I’ve got before walking away,” he chuckled softly to himself.

Tao bloomed into view of his mind’s eye. His brother was built much like Kugo though there was a leanness that lent itself to greater explosive power and Tang was certain that eldest son of Masahashi Long far surpassed either himself or Eamon in fighting prowess. So lost in his reverie was he that he failed to notice the growing hostility in his enemy’s facial expression. A darkness cast angry shadows across the hulking man’s visage as his rage flared into open contempt.

“You dare mock me!” Eamon bellowed in a deep and frightening voice.

Confused Tang said nothing instead choosing to watch and listen carefully, “You wonder where they are?! As if you hadn’t gone to train with them and then returned here to crush me as a show of strength! To prove to ‘daddy’ that his blood will always be superior to everyone else!”

The disgust in Eamon’s voice was too sincere, the humiliated anger to personal to have been feigned; the 72 Demons had really left Karate Island behind...and with it Eamon Kugo.

[BEX]

Whispers naming the intruder as Shinga came to Jack’s ears. Hushed revere and barely muted excited were intoned quietly amongst the bystanders as their conversations climaxed to a dull roar; there was hope blossoming in the words of the once-stricken crowd.

The man himself was skeletal. Faded skin stretched over bony cheeks so painfully that it was hard to look directly into the fellow’s face without nausea threatening to overwhelm the stomach. Hard, cold eyes tinted the color of ice studied everything with a haughty superiority that only the minimal amount of notice at its surroundings as well those who happened to occupy said environment. Only when that inhuman glare fell upon Jack was there something reminiscent of emotion. Like a contained, the man’s eyes trembled with want—no, necessity to harm someone. Wrapped in grays and blacks of an evening sky, this hero of the people moved and in an instant Jack was on his feet with sword gripped tightly in hand.

As always eagerness stirred in the swordsman’s chest. The threatening possibility that both thrilled and frightened the warrior spirit within brought the world into unique perspective. Embracing the tide of his own unchecked anger in preparation Jack cracked his neck, the sound of his bones creaking generating an ironic peace of mind while his instincts gradually assumed control his being. Today has been one helluva of a ride. I hope things keep getting’ mo’ and mo’ interestin’

It wasn’t until the thought had completely run its course through his mind that he realized Mister Skeleton was kneeling.

“Thank you for bringing this man to us, Onojiro-Sempai,” the bony bag of skin stated solemnly.
Turning to the nervously sweating Bobo-Cokan-or-Biobio Griva Jack arched his brow in a menacing question.

“Cha-ra-ra-ra..” the effeminate Pirate crooned, palm pressed against head theatrically.

So much had happened since entering the commons that the man’s presence had been relatively overlooked; similr to how one ignored a buzzing gnat. Slick with sweat as the South Blue heat poured into his darkened skin, Jack adjusted the grip on the hilt in his hand, “Why you…” he began dangerously, an advancing step coming in wake of a pugnacious smirk.

Idiotically a revolver’s barrel leapt into view of his good eye. Not for the first time Jack cursed his useless eye and tried to twist his head around the crappy piece of metal blaring in excruciating detail within the Doka Doka no Mi’s sonar range. Dada-or-Chola-or-Saffro Kucapio edged the weapon back into full view much to the Saint Reia native’s irritation, “ Yer pissin’ me off, bub” Jack mumbled, his eyelid low and slanting maliciously as he considered all the horrible torture he would inflict upon the quibbling piece of trash jabbing a firearm in his face.

“Please excuse Onojiro-Sempai,” Bones creaked again, but Jack’s patience had already worn thin with the lot of the peasants. The chick could keep what was between her legs if this much damned trouble came from it. “He did this because news of your escape from B-2 was welcomed in these lands. On our behalf Sakon-dono braved capture by marines to bring you, Jack Dancer, to Karate Island,” Shinga continued.

A sinking feeling that had nothing to do with enhanced hearing began to unsettle Jack’s nerves as he stood at the center of attention with hundreds of eyes watching him—judging him to see what course of action he’d take. Sighing in surrender he allowed his sword hand to fall limply at his side. “I want the best drink yo’ve got and a place to sleep for the night; for free,” he demanded.

With a smile, Bony Fingers rose with a ghost’s grace and beckoned the escaped convict towards the real reason he’d been brought to the island.

It wasn’t long before Jack’s stomach was warm and full while his head fought to remain upright. Rouge colored his cheeks as the rum worked its way through his veins, the sweet lack of inhibition reminding him of better days as the world tilted dizzily around him. Beside his stool at the counter, three empty caskets lay turned upon one side, the last vestiges of their contents spilling upon the hardwood floor. Sakon, a name that came oddly clear to him now, sat in a secluded section of the common room. Every now and then those kholed eyebrows angled themselves furtively in Jack’s direction. Why was that loser being so surly when there was drink to be had?

“Please feel free to indulge as much as you like, Dancer-san,” Bones encouraged pleasantly.

“Oh yea?” Jack grunted with bloodshot eyes.
“Yes, please.”
“Where’s t-t-that heffer then?!”
“Hmmm? You mean the priestess?”
“N-ngh! Nah, I mean the lil twat that owes me a ‘good time’…know what I mean?” Jack jested drunkenly.

“W-w-well you see…” the lanky host stammered suddenly uncomfortable with the tide of the conversation.
“What?!”
“That priestess…she—is my…sister.”

“Oh…” That revelation made Jack pause, but after a moment’s thought he replied, “She…yunno…she she still ‘ripe’?”

“LECHER!!” the room cried indignantly.

[Blackwater]

(OOC: Had to edit your post for you. Check your coding before you post next time.)

---

His consciousness congealed from the darkness of sleep. Suspended between the waking mind and his subconscious Tang was stranded upon an island. Isolated within the serene emptiness of his mind the warrior began to rehearse the events leading to his current condition. I was fighting Kugo-san and then…that’s right!

The family that he’d come searching for. The father whose approval he’d come to find. His brother whom had cast him aside for betraying their family’s honor. Everything that had been done, all that had been risked to reach the land of his father’s; it had been all for nothing. Failure obliterated his peace and sent him tumbling back to brutal reality where pain awaited him at his first breath. An inferno burned a trail in his lungs, but with shaky motions he struggled to his feet. Licking at the salty perspiration on his lips, Tang faced Eamon again.

Immediately the difference in appearance was evident. Muscles swelled like an armor upon every inch of skin. The man had grown larger, his rage stripping itself in angry bands of sinewy mass where normal humans were soft and flabby. Slowing his breathing, Tang readied to attack again even though he knew the effort would be a fruitless one; having his body pummeled physically was much better than confronting the growing sense of loss that had begun to eat away at his insides. Did they leave because they thought I wasn’t coming back? No, I have to focus on this fight…only this fight. If I stop to think even for a moment I won’t be able raise my fists again; then I would have lost everything.

He’d only taken a step when a force ripped away the tenuous hold he’d had on his balance and sent his body cascading into—and through a wall of brick. Again his senses flashed in and out of functionality leaving fractured interpretations of the world around him. In the distance someone shouted what could only have been an order from the flat expectation lingering in the words, but Tang couldn’t comprehend what had been said. A hand reached towards the light that poured into the otherwise unlit room. It took several seconds for Tang to realize that it was his hand that he was staring at. In that brief period of disorientation the feather-light proposal of giving into death came to him. Beautifully the option sparkled at the edge of his awareness, its relieving end to his suffering warming his aching bones. Blood-caked lips cracked into a weary smile as his hand stretched towards that endless oblivion. Death would really be so much easier than continuing on in such an unforgiving world.

“Yes,” he heard himself say, “with this I leave everything to you…Dancer-san.”

Just as the soul was set to take flight another hand emerged from the center of the blinding illumination. With eyes that where barely open Tang noticed the grayish-blue pallor of the hand’s skin. There was inhuman strength to the grip that easily pulled his body from the rubble that weighed him down. Dimly cognizant of the sensation of being carried, ponderings—what he believed would be his last—of where his family had gone domineered his thoughts.

Roughly the ground impacted against Tang’s face, but he didn’t cry out or move to get up; the pain had already become a part of his world. The quantity of it no longer mattered.

“Froo-froo-froo,” chuckle a familiarly deep voice, “It seems your slave succeeded where you failed, Kugo-dono.”

While slipping deeper into the mire of the Void, Tang recalled whom had beaten him so badly. It had not been Eamon Kugo, but instead the Fishman slave, Gol.

[BEX]

[OOC: Oi! Shaddap, you!]

Rubbing a finger across the smoothed over skin where an eye had once been, Jack yawned the last residues of sleep away. Turning over in the crappy cotton sheets that smelled of stale puke he cursed inwardly as noticed he had awoken irritably alone this morning. Five more caskets of rum and a vat of honeyed wine muddled any recollection of what followed after the excessive imbibing of alcohol.

At least for the first time in a thousand moons the throbbing between his temples couldn’t entirely be attributed to the blasted noise going on outside the room. Opening his good eye fully, the usual morning ritual began. Sound swept through the moon, searching for the familiar metal hiss of steel. Finding the sword, his nerves settled as they only did when a blade was in his possession. A hand grazed against the hilt, lingering only a beat before climbing down to gently tap the length of the blade’s body. To most swordsmen, even those without a code, a sword was a dependable companion.

Where the good sense of people failed when put to the test, a fine blade always cut true if its master paid enough attention to it.

No sooner had the comparison come to mind when the detection of another heartbeat approaching his door set Jack’s nerves on edge. Rapid palpitations suggested hostility—or excitement; maybe even a mixture of both. There were very few instances such people turned out to be good company. Then again could be a babe coming over for a good morning romp. Muted pain pulsated through his skull as the door swung open and revealed the identity of the visitor.

“Che. Long time no see, toots,” Jack greeted Alice.

He could always tell when she was angry. Red splotches ruined her beatific complexion and made the scar splitting her delicate features appear wreathed by fire. Aware of the weapon she carried as well as the rapid rise and fall of her chest, but there was no ignoring the shape of her body. As long as anyone had known Alice, she’d never been snubbed by the opposite gender. Her hips curved so invitingly men brave enough, dared to imagine running their hands along her waist. She wasn’t slim, but supple, every ounce of meat contributed to make the pear-shaped goddess everything she wasn’t in personality; sexy, soft, arousing, and alluring.

An ache for her between his legs reminded Jack of how much he’d missed having a pair of arms encircling his neck. Suddenly it didn’t matter that Alice was mad or why she came to him; he wanted her.

“C’mere I missed ya,” the Typhoon called his lady lustfully. Somehow he’d already gotten out of bed and was edging towards her with no clothes before he’d fully realized what was happening.

Wordlessly Alice drew the revolver he’d known she’d been carrying. In her eyes embers of hatred roared upwards from the furnace that was her heart, “Dun take another step, ya fast-talkin’ varmin!” she snapped hotly. Jack laughed.

They’d played this game often on the ship. A few threatening words and maybe even some drawn blood before they finally hunkered down and got to business. Now he was only two short steps away and the rough spicy fragrance of her favorite perfume filled Jack’s nostrils, “Stay. Back.”

This time Jack stopped and stared, searching for the hungry, playfulness that signaled that she wanted the same thing that he wanted. It wasn’t there this time. Replacing that desire was the penetrating hurt born of jealousy and insecurity. The heck is her problem, Jack wondered.

“I heard you had a hankerin’ from some lil bimbo with prayer beads. Now stupidity aside what makes ya think I won’t kill ya right now and collect the money on yer head?”

Was this bitch crazy? She was…threatening him?!

From deep within a throaty chuckle rumbled the long-time seafarer’s chest as he stood on the precipice of his expiration, “So what now? Ya gonna kill me fer a lil bit o’ money?”

“93 million beri is mo’ than a lil bit, baby,” Alice cooed venomously. The edge in her voice made Jack suddenly wary; he’d never seen this side of her. Where cheeks had been dimpled and dainty, they were now a practiced slab of hard-jawed seriousness. She might actually…pull the trigger.

The mounting danger of the situation began to rouse the animal within. Instinctively his eyes picked out several footholds along the walls that he could use to evade the initial barrage of shots until he either had his sword in hand or had managed to disarm her. His excitement was easily noticed by the way Alice’s eyes focused between his legs.

“Seems like I needed to step up the foreplay a bit. Never seen ya so bold before,” the renegade woman jibed. Damn, those breeches fit so snugly on her.

[Blackwater]

Music and laughter rang throughout the hall that served as the Warlord’s hosting area. Dancers gyrating to exotic tunes sounded from instruments Tang had never laid eyes upon. Smells and sights assaulted the senses with such robustness that the proclivity to lose oneself in the enjoyment unfolding before them was great. To one corner Eamon and the Warlord devoured succulent meats poached from the lands along the Calm Belt. Though injuries were still apparent upon the Demon’s flesh the man seemed unhindered by their aftereffects nor did the leader of Karate Island appear to have been displeased with the fact that a foreigner had nearly bested one of the island’s finest warriors. Sensei who were normally found in quiet meditation hooted wildly while feasting their eyes upon the luxurious women whose clothes swirled and moved along with the scintillating motions of their routine. The evening and night boomed with the festivities of the Warlord’s house and there wasn’t a soul within the Western District who was not indulging himself completely in the hospitality of their leader.

Except Tang.

Despite the hostile circumstances upon which his identity was discovered he had been given pardon on the grounds that since his blood of Karate Island, it meant nothing that he’d left his home for an extended amount of time; a warrior of Karate Island remained so throughout his life. As soon as he’d been nursed to good health—an event which baffled the medics as they struggled to explain Tang’s rapid recovery—he was given the finest garments to wear to the evening’s gala and was promised by the Warlord himself that a seat befitting one of the most important assets to the island’s standing in the world. When it became apparent that there would be no execution of this individual who had come so close to shaming what many considered to be amongst the finest warriors their land boasted, the other sensei eagerly drilled him about his childhood and where he’d been in the time he’d stayed away from the island. Though he answered their questions, there was an uncomfortable alienation in their eyes that left all conversation lacking for sincerity. Eventually as the night wore on and the baser instincts of men took over fewer inquiries were made about his technique and his legendary father. To his great relief, the boy who had grown accustomed to being unnoticed by no one other than his stringent teacher was finally left to his thoughts.

“Your thoughts are as plain as the clear summer night’s sky, young one. One’s youth should be spent pondering very little and acting upon a great deal. Only after a life of adventure do they finally seek to understand the choices they’ve made.”

Repressing the urge to flinch at the sudden interjection Tang recovered from his revere to find Master Muto, the sensei whom had the misfortune of being made an example of at the hands of the Fishman slave, sitting beside him on the dinner mat. Inclining his head respectfully low as was appropriate for a young disciple to a master Tang welcomed the elder’s presence, but midway through the gesture the old man stopped him, “There is no need for such formality given the circumstances my boy. The old ways which had made us strong have been cast aside and in its place we’ve grown…reliant.”

The words were of a bitter loser, but a discerning mind could easily see there was more to it than that. Looking out into the collection of the world's finest practitioners of martial arts, where fighting and sparring were a way of life as opposed to a tool meant to quell one’s enemy, it was possible to see the daunting truth in the sensei’s words. Men who’d never taken sake to their lips drank thirstily, their eyes preying upon the smooth skin of young girls, some even putting the hard earned techniques that had taken them years to master on display as a means to attain a night’s pleasure. It wounded the heart to see his homeland reduced to a place of such conventionality. Emotion gripped the young boy’s heart making the fist hidden beneath layers of golden-flecked silk quiver in anger. How could the path of the warrior have been abandoned so easily? Why were these people who had been considered by many the ‘strongest’ in the Blues lowering themselves to the base characteristics that their society had once sought to transcend?

“Master…are the ways of old finished? Have we lost the ability to find true meaning in the world for what it really is?”

For a time neither said anything, the lack of words whisked away any restorative silence that might have cured the growing despair in their hearts. Finally Kenji Muto spoke, “The old ways live within you, my boy. A true warrior of Karate Island. Never forget your path and face destiny according to the lessons you attained from very young.”

Tang wanted to say something. He wanted to yell about how those words were frivolous and meant nothing, but his eye was stuck upon the tiny figure that sat elegantly at the Warlord’s side. Her small face hidden beneath elaborately weaving mountains of golden hair. Callie wore a dress more proactive than anything he’d ever seen her in and…he liked staring at her. But what is she doing here? he wondered curiously.

[BEX]

[OOC: Keep up partner, we already moved on to the next day.]

---

The moment’s tension trapped encased them in its melodrama. Held at gunpoint all the sounds which he’d come to think of as nuisances to be endured suddenly took on sentimental value. Plopping water drew him back to a time—ancient by his standards—when he’d been a young dock worker; his only thoughts were for brawling and get even with those that spoke ill about him. On that fateful day, the day when his life had been turned upside down, Jack had been at the docks. There had been a ship that needed to be ported, unloaded and reloaded as quickly as possible so the dockmaster had called for all hands on deck.

There hadn’t even been time to tell the old man he’d been going. Thinking back now, maybe he should’ve stayed at their humble little hovel. If he’d been around maybe that killer wouldn’t have croaked the old fart.

With the thud of a boot step the present snapped back into focus and he was swordless in a life-or-death situation, “Normally broads that are tryna get revenge are all outta control and whatnot,” Jack commented blithely as he settled back into the bed, its relic spring groaning in complaint. Alice kept her distance, but there was unmistakable sound of her trigger finger pulling slightly; she was ready to blow his head off at the drop of a dime. “Not you though. Ya got the look of someone who’s been plannin’ this thing the whole time. So tell me…what the hell is a Game Hunter?”

Surprised painted itself in that hardened face and the stone-cold killer that had pinned the drifting vagrant down allowed for it to break her concentration. A chain of events taking place warned of the optimal moment to strike. The slowing heart rate, the sharp intake of break, even the way her weight gradually shifted to the heels of her feet making the planks below crack loudly to the ears of the audibly gifted. With movements so inhumanly fast Jack sprung from the bed, ducked below the line of vision, and drove the body of the revolver upward into the gunwoman’s face with a palm. A sickening crack as metal met bone told him that he’d succeeded in disarming even before wrenching the weapon from her hand and striking the crown of her head with brutal efficiency. So easily she collapsed to her knees, crimson manifesting from the forest of rich, red hair before spilling onto the floor. After running into the Vice Admiral there had been a secretly harbored fear that perhaps the loss was the beginning of a trend; that the ability to fight had been taken from him. Now, however, he wondered when would be the next time he could go up against someone who wasn’t fodder, someone who could allow him to experience the euphoria of battle at the highest echelon.

Breathing raggedly Alice lifted her head, her eyes barely coming into focus upon the man who stood before her. Perhaps she saw the feral beast she’d been bedding all this time or maybe her thoughts were closer to infatuation as the sight of him stripped without clothing and so close to her brought to memory the thousands of times he’d taken her in the confines of their secluded little cabin. Didn’t matter one way or another; she’d tried to kill him. That was unforgivable.

“Before ya go an’ kill me…tell me how you know that name?”

“Dun matter much does it?”

“To me it’s of the utmost important that I know if I’ve been betrayed.”

“Huh? Ya mean by yer little posse of friends that work fer some chump named Sel-o-than? Quit askin’ unimportant questions and tell me who the hell you are.”

“Jack…I…can’t. Please. Just end it. I don’t care anymore. It’s been so hard. You…you broke me, you bastard,” the woman grunted, her voice thick with emotion. Luckily it was morning and no else had been around to see the attempted assassination. Aside from Alice’s racing heart, Jack heard no one else within threatening vicinity. “I was sent to collect you, but instead I gave my heart to you!”

Hell, even her accent’s gone. What’s going on here? For the second time in two days Jack’s hand palmed a small female’s head as he hoisted her into the air with an effortless strength before tossing her onto the bed where she sniffed a couple of times, but remained stunned by the simple fact that she still remained among the breathing. With his good eye, scanning the emptied top floor of the inn Jack closed the door behind him as he turned towards the redheaded woman whose beautiful face was splotchy and tear-stricken. Tossing the gun aside he stepped towards her, his eyes brooding as he approached. Suspecting her impending doom, Alice closed her eyes, her full lips parted as if to release her soul into the ether…but that soul never had a chance to leave.

Before either of them could make a sound they were entwined in each other. The scent of their bodies melding as clothes were ripped away dominated their attention so much so that even the near-death experience that had just taken place faded in the flash pan heat of their passion. Hours later after they’d clawed, punched, bitten, and cursed their frustrations out they lay beside one another with eyes averted towards the slanting ceiling above. “You should’ve killed me, love; I can’t disobey orders as long as I’m alive,” Alice said suddenly.

“I like yer old way of speakin’ better.”

“Fufufufu. Yer such a lil whiner when ya want yer way,” she acquiesced while rubbing her nose into his chest. He didn’t stop her only because doing so would mean his hands weren’t free to reach for the sword at his bedside. Either way if any malice came from her now she would die; it was that simple. Breathing in the musky air filled with the residue of their lust, Jack Dialed a few numbers on his teeth wondering if the person on the other end would pick up. It was unlikely, but now that that person’s theory had been proven correct the swordsman owed it to keep the other party informed, “Jack…I should leave. The other’ll come fer ya anyway whether I’m dead ‘r not.”

Rather than saying anything he kept his eyes angled skyward, his thoughts upon other subjects, her betrayal, her love—everything that she believed made their tantalizing connection sentimental had already been discarded by the thuggish warrior. In his world there was only victory to be had and conquest to be made; betrayal was a small matter relative to the path he walked. “Get the eff out and next time we meet…I’ll definitely take yer life.”

[Blackwater]

Night faded into morning and the first rays of sunlight found Tang’s bed empty. Barely had day broken when his grunts of exertion began to penetrating the eerie half-silence that preceded the general populace rising from their slumber in the gallant house of Lord Iori Kobayashi. Retainers had been up when the sky had grayed in preparation for the sun’s rising and the smells of tea leaves boiling in kettles permeated through the estate’s hallways leaving those fortune enough to wake at such an early hour relaxed with the atmosphere. The manse which served as the sensei’s home was an elaborate structure that stretched partially into the uncivilized woodlands that boarded the further west of the Western District. Only the finest wood was harvested and used within the monolithic architecture that boasted festive friezes and temple relics alike. Among all the warriors native to Karate Island Kobayashi-dono was the most eccentric in his tastes for foreign arts and delicacies.

A knock on the door interrupted Tang’s 1500th single-arm push-up. Sighing as lank bangs dropped over his face, wetting already moist skin he reluctantly allowed the visitor to enter. A small woman with canted eyes and dark hair twisted in a modest bun entered. Her kimono was light-colored with mixes of greens and yellows reminiscent of a sprawling meadow on a sunny day. Prostrating herself within the doorway she paid her respects to Tang, her forehead touching the polished wooden floors. Reticence climbed to irritation as the unnecessary kowtowing continued, but unable to show any disrespect the newest guest to the Kobayashi household courteously gave command for the serving maid to rise to her feet and state her business.

“Forgive my lord, I didn’t know that you were in training,” the maid began shyly, her dark fox-brown eyes peering only at her feet for lifting her eyes any higher to a warrior lord of the island would have been an offense punishable by death. “I will make certain to bring your morning meals earlier henceforth.”

Grunting his agreement with her statement Tang continued on with his exercise. Reedy muscle jumped from his flesh as lactic acid poured through his blood vessels and preyed upon his pain receptors. Truthfully he still hadn’t completely recovered from his battle with Gol and Eamon Kugo. By now he’d been able to push far past 2500 without the need for even a slight break. Still it’s better than nothing. Only last night I managed 1000 before collapsing in exhaustion. At least I’m getting stronger. As he continued to press the limits of his strength he listened to the gentle, unobtrusive shuffling of the woman setting his meal upon a small table positioned near the east-facing window of the room. Mats of the finest silk were set for him to sit and indulge in his meal with luxury fit for a king, but the implications of his position within Karate Island’s politics had been made clear by the mere placement of his room.

Given that many believed that the martial arts world thrived when in harmony with nature, the most prominent masters and lordlings enjoyed views that stretched on into the Kurokawa Mountain range far at the western ridges of the island. A series of valleys and forests covered the stretch of land between the Western District and the mountains; it was a place where many sought quiet hours of meditation and spiritual training. To the east, the Eastern District of the island rose into view like an eyesore. Bamboo buildings that jutted awkwardly into the horizon often times leaning clumsily in one direction or another made for a poor view when one stared out the window. If anything the image served as a stark reminder of the social stratification that had gradually separated the island which had once been whole. Wanting only to focus on his training, Tang pushed these thoughts aside and listened to the silent language in which his body spoke to him.

At least he tried to until his maid coughed suggestively.

“My Lord, I’m sorry to intrude yet again, but there is someone who wishes to see you and I am to remind you that Overlord Kensei wishes to meet with you by the Hour of the Rat. Shall I see your guest to your room or do you wish to receive her in Lord Kobayashi’s study?”

Her? Curiosity eventually won the better of him as he stood up and began toweling off his exposed upper body. It wasn’t until he’d looked to answer the maid that he noticed her blushing and pointedly keeping her head bowed with a child’s guilt. Eh? Who’s she fooling? She peeped already so why pretend? Clearing his throat to remove the levity of his thoughts from head Tang said, “I would like to receive this guest here if you will.”

“Of course my lord. I shall retrieve them immediately.”

“Ah, wait a moment!”

“Lord Long?”

“Just now…you peeked at me, didn’t you?” asked the Unrivaled Tiger’s son.

“I-I-I…please! Forgive me! I didn’t mean to!” the woman stammered fearfully with eyes wide in panic. With a gesture Tang waved her worries away,

“No! No! I just wanted to know if…well did you think I looked intimidating? I mean if you were a warrior would you think I was someone strong?”

Perhaps it was the innocence of the question; or maybe this maid who had served dozens of qualified men, individuals skilled in both politics and warfare had realized that she was handling a fool. Or it may have been that she saw something earnest in Tang that was a rarity among the upper echelon of the feudal political society. Either way the fear that had been present melted away leaving the prettiest smile that he’d seen since Callie back when they were sailing away from B-2, “I think I would think you’re bravest man I’ve ever seen…and that you’ve got excellent…um, shoulders.”

Reddening beyond what was healthy the returned son of Karate Island bowed his head in thanks and dismissed her, wondering what had possessed him to ask such a frivolous question. High society was so confusing.

[BEX]

Like a blanket his hearing covered everything. From the barely audible dropping of motes of dust to the shuffling slapping feet that strained the hastily assembled collage of bamboo stalks that supported the weight of the entire building. At first it had made him wonder how such frail things could handle such a burden, but then upon closer observation the city’s design had been made with an uncanny cleverness. No building in the dry little settling just off the shore was more than a floor high and most had extremely wide first floors. At least something seemed to make sense in this backward, jacked up town.

Blowing a breath through his lips Jack closed his eye again and withdrew from the world that his eyes saw. As colors, smells, and even tastes faded away, the innumerable pings and clangs that filled everyday life came to him more vibrant and lucid. It was a habit he’d picked up during his confinement in that shitty cell when life had been at its most bleak and he’d even lost the cursed power of the Devil’s Fruit. For hours he’d sit with the skin on his wrists raw from chaffing against the Kairouseki chains and lips cracked from the blistering cold that chilled him to his soul. The only solace—the only hope he’d ever had in this shithole had been the hope that some extraordinary sound would ring out and spell his liberation. Day by day he convinced himself that this had to be true; that had been why the absence of the world of sound had been so maddening to him during captivity.

Now he extolled in his power daily, glorying in its peacefulness and vividness. Other than when he was fighting, the world gained a sort of complete simplicity that Jack could follow when heard through the Doka Doka no Mi. Every voice and noise held purpose whether stated in its inflection or by the contents that those sound waves held; everything could be understood and worked out—even by an idiot like him.

Not feeling the sheets pressed against his back nor the smelling the slow roasting of a ruined meat on the floor below Jack perceived an anomaly that only yesterday bothered him. Everything had made noise; it was a sign that that thing existed, however yesterday there was a man who move absent that clamor…absent that proof of existence. Opening his eye and growling as he drew the covers over his naked body the wild-eyed swordsman rested a hand on his weapon and called out.

“Come out, Bonehead! I ain’t in the mood fer no games!”

At first nothing moved. An unnatural stillness gripped the moment and like an animal smelling an intruder’s scent steel sliced through the air gouging out a sizable chunk from the doorway’s side. Only then did a surrendering hand appear from just outside the place Jack had struck. A nearly meatless hand that gradually became a wrist before finally materializing into a gaunt frame whose expression matched the face of the Reaper himself. Shinga stood at least a head or two taller than Jack, but nonetheless the two locked feral gazes upon one another and at the end of the stalemate it was the bony façade of a human that turned away first, “Forgive me, Dancer-san I had been watching when that women snuck upstairs with such a malicious look in her eyes. I only wanted to ensure your health when I saw her return and quietly slip out of the door.”

Pressing a corpse-like hand against the wounded wall, the lanky man pursed his lips disapprovingly, but said nothing to the man whom he had maneuvered to bring to their homeland.

Though not completely at ease Jack drove down the impulse to fight. Without drink his instincts demanded the swinging of his blade, the crushing of his enemy, and the single-minded ecstasy that came with victory. “If ya though she looked suspicious then why’d ya let her up here then?” the former pirate questioned as he turned his back to his visitor.

“The inn isn’t doing so well that I can turn away paying customers—and she paid a considerable amount I’m told. Besides…I had thought perhaps she was coming to take care of those needs you’d required yesterday.”

Damn him! Why’d he have to bring that up! It was bad enough fighting down the desire to cut down everyone without being reminded of how madly he and that woman had lost themselves in one another for a few breathtaking hours. Shaking his head to clear the memory of her from thought was no easy matter. Licking his lips he could still taste her’s kissing them. Each time planting a smaller kiss in-between the larger one’s as if marking him as her territory. Hands clenched in remembrance of her soft skin, the way it yielded and stretched to every unspoken demand. She was like a frickin’ poison in his mind! A ragged breath escaped his lips and without thinking of his action, Jack whirled on Shinga, pointing his blade’s point at the chest where he was almost certain there was no beating hear, “Yo, bub…” he growled shakily. His lips peeled back in a snarl. Even the fact that the cover had fallen to the ground and he was naked in the presence of a man didn’t matter to him.

“You’d best be tellin’ me why the hell I’m on this crap-ass island…you tell me or I’ll remove yer skull before you can you can say graveyard.”

It was the sort of threat that garnered a response of some sort. Those that believed themselves in control would haughtily dismiss him as a danger or even badger his naivety about the world while others would see the seriousness in his eyes and would acquiesce to his will. This Shinga however remained unperturbed at the steel point that had already punctured a hole in the worn black suit that hung loosely over his grayed flesh. Only the containerized flash of anger gave any impression that this person was human. Everything else—the way his lips pressed in a straight line or how the man’s body didn’t budge an inch when jabbed with a sword seemed…wrong.

“I had actually come to speak to you on that very matter, Dancer-san,” the underworld guild head replied coolly. “Now if you’ll kindly put both swords away and get dressed we can discuss the subject of your interest.”

Both swords? The heck is he talkin’ bout…oh…damn I really need some pants Jack thought miserably.

[Blackwater]

By the time Tang had managed to struggle into one of the garishly colored kimonos that Lord Kobayashi had graciously gifted to him, Callie stood in his doorway with catlike, bright eyes. Blushing at how near the girl of his dreams had come to catching him literally with his pants down, the adolescent warrior tore his eyes away from her after a lingering gaze that betrayed the hormones raging within. Purposefully giving the off-colored sash he was tying around his waist all his attention he had been unprepared when a second pair of hands gently moved past his own and began working on the belt of cloth. Strands of hair—hair he knew was not his—tickled his forehead, but lack of composure kept him from looking up. So long as he stared at those delicate fingers working nimbly at their task he couldn’t fall into her trap…into her gaze.

“Tang…I” she began to say.

“What’re are you doing here, Callie-san?” Tang cut in. That creeping doubt that had nagged at his intuition during the latter part of their trip to Karatle Island began whispering in his ear again and this time there was no training to force them away, “I thought everyone had agreed that it was best that you all left Jack given that association with him would get you all deemed criminals.”

At his question she pulled away from him and turned towards the door. The gown she wore was exquisite and befitted a woman of many more years, but nonetheless as she glided upon unseen feet towards the exit from the room Tang gawked at how beautiful she was. Though it was easily to identify Kobayashi-dono’s eccentric aesthetic taste, nothing of Callie appeared overdone or wrought with gaudiness. From her hair to the accessories adorning her, everything seemed to contain just the right amount of function augmented by splendor. It was when her hand fell upon the knob that the boy—trapped by a myriad of emotions—realized that he did not want her to go. Moving towards her with a hand outstretched, he prepared to tell her the burden that had nested in his heart, the way that the sight of her set his heart racing, and how no amount of training or control of his mind could allow him to push her from his thoughts. All this was about to come tumbling from his mouth when the door slammed shut and the click of a firearm sounded in his ear.

Like a bad dream the moments played out with agonizing slowness. Callie hiking up her skirt, exposing a slender leg that would entice any man. Strapped to that divine appendage was the weapon she’d hidden to avoid suspicion; a place where no man with any virtue would think to look unless he’d convinced her to show him. Having no time to brood over the betrayal instinct moved his body where thought failed to prevail. Before her turn was complete a crushing palm smashed her hand against the door, slamming her wrist into the strong wood with unyielding force. Another gripped her head while a knee dug into the small of her back driving the air from her as the vixen was quickly overwhelmed, suppressed, and disarmed. The revolver clattered to the ground as the panting pair stood statue-still in position, their bodies pressed against one another. Desire held no place in their action as red-faced Callie struggled fruitlessly against the recovered Tang’s physical superiority. Watching blankly as she fought him, the ruthless Demon within instructed him. Mercilessly another knee blow crunched her spine audibly and the dainty girl whose dimpled cheeks brought a ray of sunshine to any gloom collapsed to the ground gasping from the pain.

“I’ll ask you again: What exactly are you doing here?” a voice, devoid of emotion or empathy for the tears that trickled down that angelic face. Was someone else in the room? Something told the Demon’s son to resist the urge to look around for there was nothing to see. The voice had belonged to him.

Fingers calloused from hours of training wrapped around the weeping girl’s neck and dragged her to her feet before drawing her ear close to the assailant’s lips.

Cruelty was a toxin that poisoned even the most well-meaning vessel. It was easy for one to fall into depravity, the power to dominate the weak forever entrenching their soul in immoral ambitions as they began to thrive on the rush that came with breaking those lesser than them. In its own right, this feeling was as a monster that devoured the human soul, tainting what had once been pure to an unrecognizable degree. Left unchecked there would be nothing left of that individual. Their spirit would wither leaving behind a husk of humanity that barely understood what it meant to be such. This was the internal struggle that Tang fought against. His senses were overwhelmed by the adrenaline rushing through his veins. As a warrior he’d only faced people equal to him and since he’d been weak in the past there had been only a few that he could easily impose his will upon. Now he’d come to realize the extent of his strength.

This girl who had sought to kill him was powerlessly struggling in his grip. And he liked it. “I hate hitting girls,” the Demon murmured through Tang’s lips, “…but if you’re not careful you might make me realize my father’s blood-stained legacy right here and now.”

[BEX]

“What…the hell’re are you goin’ on ‘bout?” the irritated blademaster rumbled quizzically.

By now tensions had calmed and both men were fully dressed—Jack wearing his brightly colored yukata which dangled over his knees and Shinga wearing an all-black attire that was both business like as it was austere in its mildness. Though he wasn’t exactly pleased by the prospect of being locked in a single-exit room with another man, the Typhoon Swell maintained his poise for the sake of the debt owed to this Shinga. Had it not been for this skeleton of a man the precious sword he’d foraged from that stinking Pirate Captain’s ship would have had its edge ruined from being exposed to the air for too long. Currently it resided in the scabbard of a unique make.

A hide of dark-green leather that was stripped by razor-thin white lines crisscrossing across the surface of the sheath made it tough and not quite an eyesore. Most importantly was the fact that the katana had seamlessly fit into the confines of the casing. How the unnerving fellow had known about Jack’s search for such a thing remained a mystery.

As if sensing his thoughts the mysterious man smiled a smile that was all teeth before continuing on “In the mountains beyond the Western District there is a…well I’m not sure he’s a man, but there’s something up there that has been worrying the Warlord of this land and along with him the people.”

Still not seeing his connection to the story Jack scratched at the eye patch covering his right eye. The heat that sprawled through the room, enveloping everything was burdensome enough but damned thing made it feel like fire ants were crawling over the scarred-over skin. Growling his annoyance he ripped the tiny cloth from his face and rested his head in his hands. Deathly silence fell over the room as images of the battle that had so drastically altered the nomadic soldier’s life, flashing in the brief seconds that had led to the sight that had been stolen from him. Before, in the deepest hours of the night, he would lie awake next to that woman, his mind racing with a potent mixture of agony and despair. During those times when the thought of not being able to fight haunted him he would try to rationalize the amount of hindrance that losing a single eye brought him. Always the arguments seemed shale and while Alice slept peacefully at his side, he remained tormented by the sight of the man who had robbed him of something even more precious than half his eyesight.

When his head finally lifted and he stared at the thin man standing across the room from him, his eyes flashed with malevolence. Softly his muscles tensed as if inspecting the capability of the rest of his being. Immediately he became aware of his katana’s presence at his side, angled against the bed with its hilt pointed towards him in case he needed to draw it at a moment’s notice. Alice’s failed assassination or abduction attempt had roused the sleeping animal within, the sense of obligation he’d held towards her and those peons had shackled him to the point where he’d almost perceived them as friends. Had it not been for that person he would never have suspected the wench of treachery even though the signs had been there all along.

Now he could see everything clearly. His purpose was to advance to the next level. That Vice Admiral had been strong, but he hadn’t been unbeatable. It had merely been a case of Jack needing to fight harder. Yes, this is why I was brought here. Maybe I’ll even see that old man on the way and pay my respects.

“Erm, Dancer-san? Are you well?” the skeleton asked, something akin to apprehension tainting his words.

Smiling wolfishly the ex-pirate nodded his head. “In that case, the many warriors have been sent to subdue this…thing who at times rampages through the Western District slaughtering its strongest men and taking the woman back to its home where they are likely ravaged and never seen again. We…the Black Dragon have secretly been sending operatives as well, however none have returned successfully.”

“Cut to the chase.”

“Indeed.” Bones stated coldly, “The chase is that we, the people of Karate Island, need you, Jack Dancer, to travel through the forests and into the Kurokawa mountains in order to find and slay this entity that continuously pillages our land.”

For a time both men stared at one another. Their eyes weighing the other individual, gauging their reaction, while simultaneously attempting to mask their own thoughts. In the end it was a meaningless competition as Jack rose to his feet, his swagger returning as he tucked the sheathed sword into his sash, “Ya forgot to mention one thing, partner; what’s the pay rate fer this lil’ gig you got going for me?”

This brought a painful smile back to Shinga’s face. “This individual is known as ‘Susa, the Frightening’. If my sources are correct then this man currently has a bounty of 15 million beri—however it’s said that the only reason his bounty is so low is because he’s never left those mountains so the World Government had little need to worry about him—or it.”

“I take it that when I turn the body in, then y’all will handle the processin’?” Jack replied while partially drawing his blade from its new container, “Seein’ as I am who I am…it’s kinda difficult for me to be collectin’ on bounties these days.”

With a chuckle, the headmaster of the shitty guild who’d attacked him earlier gave him all the approval he needed. Excitement coursed through him as he slammed the weapon back into place and hitched the hilt in the folds of his sash. A coarse hand ran through the bristly hair atop his head as he opened the door, “Yo, don’t wait up. I do this on my own time,” Jack warned.

“Take as long as you like, Dancer-san. Our arrangement is the same nonetheless.”

Before the words had floated into the input speakers embedded in his ear canal Jack had already started down the stairs, his next challenge—his next prey already on his mind.

[Blackwater]

“Ugh…guh! T-T-Tang…sto-stop joking around!” the girl whose appearance had bewitched stammered.

Looking down from above, she appeared so small and weak. In the quiet times they’d shared she had been fierce, knowledgably, loyal, and above all understanding. The stories shared in the dank storage of their merchant runner hadn’t been simple conversation where one’s aim was only to fill the dreary quietness of an empty room. Souls had bared naked, vulnerable to judgment as the pair of solemn travelers, ripped from their homes at such early ages sought comfort in one another. Back then Tang remembered how their eyes had met and held each other’s gaze captive for an endless stretch of time before either could manage to the strength to turn away. Did that really happen weeks ago?. A small part of him—the love-addled teen—wanted to stop hurting this person. On many levels the girl’s duplicity had been comprehended; not even the naïve parts of his being could ignore that. Even then the thoughts that flowed through his mind, images flashing of broken body parts with him laughing manically while stamping out the tiny person that had attempted to double-cross him.

Abruptly the awareness that Callie’s feet dangled in the air where a hand gripped around her throat shook Tang and he released her. Coughing and spluttering as lungs hungrily drank in the precious oxygen of which it had been so deprived of she writhed at the feet of the person she had callously betrayed.

“Now then,” again the words that filled the room where of a familiar voice, but the cold intonation that they were spoken with was unrecognizable. Is that really how I sound? I…sound like I’m about to kill her! The thought alone was frightening, but within the depths of his heart the Demon cackled madly, its enjoyment felt tangibly as the boy crouched until he was eye level with his prey, “…you refused to tell me what you’re doing here so I’ll ask another question. Who are the Game Hunters?”

The gasp that followed told him his hunch had been right. During their time on the ship, Tang had noticed the others acting strangely at times. When Onojiro-san and his men had boarded things had gotten even more peculiar. Secret meetings were held and when someone asked about what they were doing, they would all laugh the matter off dismissively, but suspicion hadn’t been roused in Tang alone. In passing the young martial artist had mentioned his doubts to Jack Dancer and oddly enough the cold hearted villain shared his concerns. Together they began to study the civilians from the B-2 settlement in an attempt to understand what was taking place. All changed when by chance Jack overhead a call made over a snail transponder and many times the title ‘Game Hunters’ and the name ‘Selethen’ were mentioned. It was then that Tang had known something was wrong.

Making a secret alliance of their own, he and Jack had come up with a plan in case their ‘partners’ were aiming to do them harm. Seems I was right, Tang thought bitterly as he studied Callie. Shame and shock turned her glass eyes watery as the realization that her trickery had failed took hold in her mind. When her head dropped and her body sagged, it appeared that something had broken within her. The once-lustrous spools of golden hair fell lankly over her face and the exquisiteness of the dress dimmed in the unseemly position of weakness that she was in. All the confidence and allure that had been exuded when she first appeared before him had faded away leaving only a tiny, young woman whose ploy had failed tragically.

“The intent had been to bring Jack Dancer to the Grand Line where our Emperor desires someone of his strength to participate in a tournament. We…we hadn’t counted on you showing up. Then when we saw how strong you were—the fact that you had a bounty of 20 million beli also made our master amenable to the idea of bringing you back. I…I didn’t have a choice, Tang,”

Like a wave of cold water crashing over him the explanation behind the furtive glances, the whispered conversations, and the occasional sensation of being watched by unseen eyes clicked into understanding. Feelings of disgust burbled up from a dark place and Tang rose to his feet, hands crossed behind his back as he fought the tumultuous storm rising within him. Light filled his quarters to the brim and as he looked out towards the Eastern District he wondered how many of the others were plotting to use the same underhanded tricks to capture Jack. It won’t be enough. Of course there had never been any concern for the pirate swordsman—the man was a force of destruction all on his own. If anything the concern should have been for the traitors. Slowly he let a breath pass from his lips as his mind wandered to the edge of the Void seeking the clarity of mind to think matters through. His eyes could see smog rising out the buildings of the Eastern District, the filth of the forgotten people of his home festering in the air just a few miles from where he rested luxuriously; it felt wrong.

Groaning wood betrayed his former almost-girlfriend’s hasty retreat, but he didn’t turn around. There was no need to detain her any longer. Likely Jack would contact him soon and things would proceed from there, but now Tang was gripped by another desire. He wanted his home to be free. Why this mattered at a time when they were being hunted by an unknown organization as well as the World Government he did not know. News of his bounty had been of little concern, but the more he pondered on it, the more he realized the sort of difficulty it would pose in life later on. Without turning the boy, who was slowly coming to grips with making the decisions of a man, gave his last regards to the first girl who’d ever wounded his heart.

“Tell the others this: I don’t condemn you all for the lies, but know that before I go anywhere, I’m going to fix my father’s land…so don’t interfere with me until I've done that.”

[BEX]

Downstairs joyous voices boomed throughout the greasy, over-packed bar room. Chairs grated against the rough hides of the bamboo stalks that meshed gauchely against one another, often times creating tiny ‘hills’ which disorderly patrons tripped upon over the course of their carousing. Drinks sloshed within cups, tins, and all other manner of container that the poor could manage to sneak into the tavern—and no one expected them not to. In their region of the land where wealth was determined by how little one needed to steal, there was often very little to be gleeful about.

Today was different. Life filled the room whose atmosphere was usually thick with solemn grousing and tight-lipped silence. The people gathered around one man, an adopted son of their retched culture, a hero whom they would hoist upon their shoulders for years to come. Laughter followed his every joke, women swooned at a batting of his eye, and men cheered to bold claims, offering to buy him more drink with hard-earned money. For some time now Jack had indulged these rundown people’s faded desire to have a symbol of hope. From the moment he’d descended from the floor above, expectant smiles had met him and at first he hadn’t known why. Then he spotted Bobo-or-Molou-or-Kakki Mochahina boldly gesturing with a gathering around him; until they saw him.

Since then he’d been offered drinks, kisses, and even a few fathers pledging their daughter’s hand in marriage should he return successfully from the crusade to save the island from this villainous pillager. It was pitiful how reliant they were upon him. Some even made grabbing motions towards his blade, but that behavior came to a quick end when he clubbed a man three times as wide as he over the head and sent the fool hurtling through a window. Rather than taking offense the new fan group marveled at his display of strength.

“Ohoho! If anyone can beat that monster, it’ll be you, Master Dancer…I wonder…would you mind teachin’ my son how to fight when you come back,” a gap-toothed man with a hooked nose asked him as he jostled aside the thickening pack surrounding the swordsman’s chair. His eyes beady with selfish greed, the citizen slapped a coin upon the counter in an effort to get the barkeep’s attention, “Five cups of sake for Karate Island’s savior!” he called out, his voice rising above the din of the chanting masses.

Of course they kept their distance. As much as they claimed to believe in him and rejoice over the news of his accepting the daunting task which many of their best had failed to complete, they secretly feared him. Nothing as blatant as running away, but each time Jack’s eye passed through them in effort to collect information on the multitude of faces gathering around him they pressed back against one another, the gleeful smirks of their expressions growing wary as he quickly examined them and tossed them aside. Their damned noise was deafening to his ears, but there was little to be done so he drowned out the cacophony with drink. Cup after cup warmed his stomach and soon a good feeling began to spread through him. Liquid sunshine warming his bones and numbing the incessant itch of his eye. If only these animals would get away from me. Look at ‘em. They’re not even tryin’ to hide their weakness—just depending on some outsider to get the job for ‘em. Pathetic!

A vision of how glorious it would be to cut a swathe of crimson through their ranks filled his head briefly, but the image evaporated as the sake came. Before even thinking about it Jack downed the rice wine with the practiced skill of a veteran alcoholic. Dizzily his thoughts whirled and the room took on dazzling colors as the world tilted on its axis. Drawing the heavy overcoat tightly around his shoulders he rose to his feet and gathered his belongings. Immediately Shinga, the crypt keeper came into view.

Lounging laxly near the entrance the underground leader of the Black Dragon faction watched him from a brow-less face that made his emotions hard to discern. The only thing evident was the innate violence that brewed within the man; his eyes gave away that much. Quietly the vaunted martyr—and that’s what he was to them, a martyr—marched towards the exit where sunlight washed aboard the porch of the elevated building. Stepping out into the light, Jack winced as the first rays of illumination he’d seen at all burned against his retina, “Ya should prolly think ‘bout gettin’ some lighting in that joint,” he muttered annoyed.

“Of course, Jack-dono,” the skeleton of a man answered amicably. It was bothersome how there was never an ounce of ill-will in his words…not overtly. The man was smart, Jack had to admit that, but the unusual manner in which the guy looked and attacked was more than enough to keep any real fighter on guard. As Jack’s eyes adjusted, the lithe forms of a small band of black swathed men saluted him. With a quirked brow towards Shinga, the question was posed: Who are these mofos?

“Naturally, I imagined that you would need guides if you were to make it all the way to the mountain region. Only those who are very familiar with the land’s layout could make it there without misfortune befalling them.”

“Get rid o’ them” Jack demanded over his shoulder as he walked through the patch of kneeling men. At a glance it was easy to tell they were well trained…and dangerous. Fighting bred a certain look to human beings and the more one fought, the more discernible it was to the eye that knew what to inspect for.

Broad shoulders that were carried high suggested many were fine handlers of weapons while the rigidity that they held their postures in meant that they were used to enduring severe conditions for long periods of time. Had he been going up against an army, Jack would’ve wanted his troops to at least be on the same level as these guys if not stronger. That said he never liked having tag-alongs when he was heading off to a good fight.

[Blackwater]

Midday passed and the golden bars of light which had poured generously into the musky room had reduced to a few scant hairs of illumination as the sun made its pass overhead. Meal in lap, Tang rolled succulent noodles on his tongue to allow the savory spices and meat sauce to drizzle down his throat before he actually enjoyed the privilege of devouring his favorite meal. Far too much time had passed since a delectable ramen dish had been prepared for him and even the steamy aroma wafting in the air was enough to make his mouth water. Dragon-embroidered sleeves of gold pulled back as his worked absentmindedly upon the meal, the young man who had ventured far in the name of finding the ‘True Warrior’ failed to take pleasure in his meal.

Thoughts of Callie and what these Game Hunters were made the food dry and tasteless in his mouth. Eventually placing the bowl aside and abandoning his feeding endeavor altogether, the son of Masahashi Long rose to his feet. What should I do about Callie and the others? Jack hasn’t contacted me yet, though I’m not sure how he’d manage to get ahold of me without meeting me in person. Sometimes that man can be so cryptic that it’s annoying. The meeting with the Warlord had been forgotten in the excitement so when a small child whose hair had been carved into intricate patterns symbolizing that he was a blood relative of Lord Kobayashi, Tang was ill-prepared to receive his esteemed guest.

“My name is Torimasu; how do you do?” greeted the pudgy child who stood little higher than Tang’s chest.

“I’m well, thank you for asking Torimasu-kun. I’m Tang Long. I used to live on this island when I was younger…with my father and…and my family.”

Even uttering the words ‘family’ and ‘father’ brought a lump to his chest as the vacant space that had once housed his heart made its emptiness known. As children do the boy failed to sense the mood and prattled on excitably about the future he would hold in the martial arts world. For a time they discussed the strongest members on the island and the prodigious history that the denizens boasted from the Martial Arts Capitol of the Blues. Many times Torimasu would extoll the adventures and virtues of heroes whose stories Tang didn’t know. These were most enjoyable since the lad had a stroke the dramatic. With each suspenseful point a poignant silence would punctuate the dilemma or at the height of the tale vigorous gestures accompanied the vivacious telling of slayers and champions. Giggles tickled the corners of the hallways so often that more than one maid peeped their head through the door to investigate the reason for the ruckus, but they too were sucked into the fantastic retellings of former idols whose name were still vaunted on the lips of the island dwellers. Before long there five servant women with an additional host of men lounging surreptitiously beyond the room.

One maid, an older woman whom everyone called Obaa-san quieted everyone with a motion, her authority amongst the attendants evident in the way their eyes lit up when she took the stage. “Now I will tell you all about the most recent hero that our time has given birth to; Masahashi Long, the Unrivaled Tiger.”

Hearing his father’s name spoken of with such respect was a new experience for Tang. Most often only rivals or fellow members of the 72 Demons dared to mention the man who had taken Karate Island by storm. Even now that the man and his band of marauders were gone there were few with the courage to speak ill of the barbaric king for fear that a few sects of the Demons had been left behind to monitor the island’s happenings. Many of the recounts he heard—his birth included—were horrendously exaggerated, often times adding two or three times the number of foes his father faced, but the gallant storytelling made the matter a non-factor so that even Tang clapped by its ending.

As quickly as the merriment had taken underfoot, it was ground to an abrupt halt as a rotund man entered the room with a piggish face. Lord Oburo Kobayashi was not a handsome man. In fact he lacked anything a woman would desire in a warrior much less an member of the male specimen, but he held great influence in the Warrior’s Society; four of his sons stood amongst the strongest men on the island and possessed their own dojos. Beyond that his connections to the World Government meant that the navy rarely interfered with the martial artist’s world. Many called him the ‘Pig-Faced Deity’ behind his back.

“Loo? What is this? Master Long was supposed to have gone to see the Warlord ages ago! Loo!” chirped the vexed household head in a peevish voice. At the crack of his words several maids lifted Tang to his feet and ushered forcefully through a series of maze-like hallways while the other listeners who had entered his room vanished hastily with claims of a growing pile of tasks to handle.

It was unfortunate, but the brief moment of reprieve had ended…and the story of Masahashi hadn’t even been finished.

[BEX]

Damn them! They’re persistent lil bastards aren’t they?

Dropping his weight in a smooth, improvised change of direction a coattail snapped in the wind as the rest of his body followed the turbulent motion. Meters vanished beneath his feet in between breaths and when the presence of another person was sensed he took flight, enjoying the solitude of the impoverished city’s rooftops.

Wind kissed his hairs, peeling the follicles back against his scalp in a firm, but gentle manner. Every part of his being felt strained as reedy muscle carried him at dizzying speeds through divergent streets where people rarely traveled for fear of getting caught by the wrong sort of people at the wrong time. For someone like Jack, these dark alleys and cross-paths that slipped between the cracks of civilization were home. Even in the brightest hours of the day sunlight struggled to poke its head through the slanted buildings that leaned so far to one side that they nearly touched one another. Shadows were a constant in this desolate, dreary world and trash heaps were the yardsticks by which the underworld was measured.

Stopping to catch an unneeded breath the swordsman adjusted his weapon. It’d been ramming into his side ever since he’d broken into the mad dash away from those clowns. “Geez…that wasn’t fair at all. Sickin’ those crazy mofos after me like that. I’ll pay that bony guy back when I come back from that mission.”

The mission.

Thinking on the objective he’d been given sent tiny eddies of excitement exploding through his being. Leaning against a nearby wall the roguish warrior pondered on what sort of villain could have an entire society of fighters frightened to the point of where they needed the help of an outside source. Intelligence had never been a strongpoint of his—it never needed to be when one was strong—but the only conclusion he could come to was…that the enemy must have been unreasonably strong. That monster that craved battle since birth drew his lips back in a feral grin as the darkness hid the ugly barbarity of his expression. Fighting off a mad man’s shiver Jack imagined how many times he’d get to use his sword on whoever this Susa was. Dying never occurred to him as a possible outcome, but it hung on the edge of his thoughts like a snarling wolf, snapping to the forefront of his mind whenever he paid too little attention.

Squelching steps drew his eyes to the other end of the lifeless corridor composed of decaying matter and humans. In his euphoria he’d been distracted enough to let someone draw near. Looking back the way he’d come the sound of trampling feet racing hastily in a roundabout fashion meant the idiots who had pledged themselves to accompany him into the valley were still searching for him. Gnashing his teeth at the predicament he was in Jack headed towards the single intruder.

The individual had stopped moving, but the sound of his breaths was sung into every pour of his being as he advanced. Having such a sensitive Devil Fruit at a time like this was extremely annoying. He could barely hear his own thoughts over the white-noise of his environment. In a way it kept him sharp. Each step he took was as controlled and hushed as a hunters, every pass of the eye hungrily sought at a detail that might warn him of something he missed with his ears, even the heavy muskiness of the air was measured by the way it pressed its dirtiness against his skin. Again nostalgia beckoned the image of a ruined Saint Reia to mind. Fires astray amongst the populations while gunpowder stung each intake of breath. When the dust had cleared and the Revolutionaries claimed themselves the victor everyone wondered what they had been the victors of.

“Yo,” Jack called into the darkness, one hand already resting upon the katana’s hilt. His yukata rippled inaudibly as uncanny breeze passed through the cramped setting. “Perhaps ya should get outta my way so I ain’t gotta hurt ya.”

Now the very distinct sound of a heartbeat slowing came into focus within the enhanced auditory senses. Immediately that set Jack on edge. Animals always recognized predators when they stumbled upon one. Any person who when faced with a battle began to calm down was dangerous; it was the cardinal rule of the wild.

“Gyahohoho. That’s quite a—hic!—bravado you’ve got there young master. My ears are ablaze with the tales of the hero who will slay Susa so I had to see you for myself. I wonder though if you—hic!—the man for the task.” the disembodied voice called from the folds of eternal darkness.

Wrinkling his nose in distaste Jack decided he didn’t like the sound of this person’s voice; it was unpleasant.

“If I’m not the man for the job it shouldn’t matter one or another, right? I’ll die in that case so what’s yer problem.”

“Gyahohoho! My problem? *hic* Well, that’s simple. *hic-hic* Are you not the one—hic!—who attacked a priestess in the street the other—hic!—day?”

“What of it?”

Now that unpleasantness which had originated from the deep baritones of the conversing phantom’s voice enmeshed the air with an intense desire for blood. Once again it seems as though I’ve gotten lucky. I dunno if I ever wanna leave this interesting island.