(17/02/24 - 10:35) (Wednesday February 17, 1524)
Uma stood over the broken body of Silas. The slaver gurgled wetly on the blood-soaked stone, his eyes half-open, staring at nothing. Every major bone in his limbs was shattered. His ribcage had caved inward. He would never stand again.
Uma reached down. He grabbed the ring of keys from Silas's belt. He straightened up and looked at the ruined reception area. The polished stone floor was buried under shattered wood, pulverized rock, and thick pools of dark blood. The chain-whip lay coiled in the debris like a dead snake.
He walked back down the dimly lit corridor. He stopped at the first heavy iron door. He sorted through the key ring, found the correct one, and unlocked it. The door swung open. The thirty chained men inside flinched away from the sudden light.
"The locks on your collars take key number 7," Uma said, holding the ring out toward the closest prisoner. "The front gate is open. After that, you are on your own."
The prisoner stared at him with hollow, disbelieving eyes. Uma set the key ring on the floor and moved to the next cell.
He repeated the process down the entire corridor. The cell holding the women. The cell holding the children. He crouched at each door, said the same words, and left the keys within reach. He did not wait to watch them move. He did not make speeches. He walked back toward the reception area.
He located the compound's administrative office behind a locked door near the shattered desk. He broke the lock with a single punch. Inside, a heavy iron safe sat bolted to the stone wall. He grabbed the edges of the safe door, planted his feet, and pulled. The bolts tore free from the wall with a grinding shriek of metal. He dropped the door on the floor.
Inside the safe, thick stacks of Berry notes filled 3 shelves. He grabbed a canvas sack from a hook on the wall and swept every stack inside. He slung the sack over his shoulder.
On the desk, a leather-bound ledger sat open next to a stack of sealed shipping manifests. He picked them up and flipped through the pages. Names, dates, cargo quantities listed as stock, and a recurring signature at the bottom of every transaction. Don Valerius. A Grove 1 berth number. A departure date of February 23rd.
Uma folded the manifests and shoved them into the waistband of his trousers. He walked out of the office and through the shattered front doors of the compound into the morning sun.
Behind him, the first freed slaves began moving toward the gate.
(17/02/24 - 18:00)
The clinic smelled of medicinal alcohol and roasting fish. Uma sat at the wooden table. He dropped the canvas sack of Berries onto the surface with a heavy thud. He spread the shipping manifests flat and laid them side by side.
Vance leaned over his shoulder, reading in silence. The doctor's cigar sent a thin thread of smoke curling toward the ceiling.
Koro stood near the cast-iron stove. The Fish-Man read the papers without touching them, his pale blue eyes moving carefully across each line.
"Don Valerius," Vance said quietly. He straightened up and walked back to his chair. "He is not a man you touch lightly. He holds legitimate Noble status through a purchased title. The World Government leaves him alone because he keeps their supply lines running and their secrets buried."
"He departs on February 23rd," Uma replied. He tapped the berth number on the bottom manifest. "Grove 1."
"That is six days from now," Koro rumbled.
"I know," Uma said.
Vance blew a long breath of smoke toward the ceiling. "You destroyed his Sabaody operation. Silas was his primary source of premium stock for the Nobles. Valerius will not absorb that loss quietly."
Uma closed the manifests and stacked them neatly. He leaned back in his chair. The lacerations across his chest and thighs from the chain-whip had already sealed over, leaving a fresh map of raised dark tissue across his skin. The deeper cuts across his shoulder were still weeping slightly, but the bleeding had slowed to almost nothing. His body was already consuming the dense calories of the evening meal to fuel the repair process.
"He will retaliate," Uma stated. It was not a question.
"Yes," Vance confirmed.
"Good," Uma said. He picked up his fork and resumed eating.
Koro watched him from across the room. The Fish-Man said nothing. He turned back to the stove.
(17/02/24 - 23:50)
Uma lay flat on the narrow cot. The clinic was dark and quiet. The distant sounds of the lawless groves filtered through the walls. His body ran hot, the accelerated metabolism burning through the last of its fuel to finalize the repair cycle. The whip lacerations across his chest and thighs fused closed. The muscle fibers knitted back together with a density noticeably tighter than before.
He felt it happening the way he always did. A deep, internal pressure building in his bones. A slow, radiating heat spreading from his core outward to his extremities. His frame stretched slightly on the mattress. His joints cracked softly in the silence.
He closed his eyes and let it run its course.
(18/02/24 - 08:00) (Thursday February 18, 1524)
Uma stood in front of the small cracked mirror on the clinic wall. He looked at his own reflection.
185 centimeters. The difference was visible. His shoulders carried more width. The muscle density across his chest and upper back had increased significantly, pressing against the fabric of his clean canvas shirt.
He pressed two fingers against the sealed skin where the chain-whip had torn the deepest gash across his pectoral. The surface was smooth. He pushed harder. The underlying tissue felt like dense rubber over iron cable.
He turned away from the mirror and grabbed the shipping manifests from the table. He sat down and read through them again. He committed every name, date, and figure to memory. Valerius operated through multiple proxy suppliers across 4 different island chains. Silas had been his primary Sabaody contact for 9 years. The financial relationship ran deep.
Vance walked in from the back room carrying a fresh newspaper. He tossed it onto the table without comment.
Uma picked it up. The front page carried a dense block of international news. The Blackbeard Pirates had raided Baltigo, the headquarters of the Revolutionary Army. The island was leveled. Cipher Pol clashed briefly with Blackbeard's forces before Dragon's people escaped. The World Government's press framed it as a significant blow to the Revolutionary movement.
Uma set the paper down. He stared at the wall for a moment.
Dragon's organization survived. That much he knew in a general sense. The details of Baltigo were fuzzy in his memory, but the Revolutionaries did not collapse from a single raid. He filed the information and returned his attention to the manifests.
(18/02/24 - 10:30)
He spent the morning at the base of the nearest mangrove root. He alternated between conditioning strikes against the petrified wood and practicing the aerial technique. His knuckles split and resealed repeatedly over the course of 2 hours. The bones absorbed the micro-fractures and calcified denser with each cycle.
The aerial technique was improving. He could now sustain 3 consecutive platforms before his legs fatigued and his control fractured. Each platform produced a clean, sharp sonic crack rather than the scattered compression of his first attempt during the Gator fight. The movement was still rough. The landings were imprecise. But the fundamental mechanism was becoming instinctive.
He pushed himself until his legs refused to generate the necessary torque. He stopped, drank a full pitcher of water, ate a cold slab of sea beast meat, and walked back to the clinic to assist Vance with the afternoon patients.
(18/02/24 - 20:30)
He arrived at Shakky's bar exactly on time. He grabbed his apron from the hook near the kitchen and moved into the crowded room. The bar was loud and packed. He collected empty mugs, wiped tables, and kept his head down.
Rayleigh sat at his usual stool. The old man had a glass of dark rum in front of him and was doing what he usually did, nothing, with the particular quality of stillness that made you feel like the room was slightly smaller than it had been a moment ago.
Uma passed behind him carrying a full tray. He did not slow down.
"Someone dismantled the Hound's compound this morning," Rayleigh said, to no one in particular. He swirled his glass. "Heard about it from three different people before I finished my first drink. Whoever did it walked in through the front gate pretending to be a buyer."
Uma set the tray down at the far table. He distributed the mugs without looking back at the counter.
'He already knows,' Uma thought. 'He probably knew before I walked through the door.'
He picked up the empty tray and walked back past the counter without stopping.
Rayleigh watched the rum move in the glass. "Silas had a bounty of twenty-two million," he added, in the same idle tone. "Whoever touched him either does not know what that means, or does not particularly care."
Uma disappeared into the kitchen.
Rayleigh took a slow sip and said nothing else.
At closing, Shakky set a glass of rum on the counter for herself and slid a folded piece of paper toward Uma with two fingers. He opened it. A name. A berth number. A notation of armed guards, twelve at minimum, written in Shakky's clean, precise handwriting.
"A merchant came in around nine," Shakky said. She tapped her cigarette over the glass tray. "He was very eager to tell me that Don Valerius's people have been asking questions in Grove Seventeen since this afternoon." She looked at Uma directly. "He was not the only one."
Uma folded the paper and put it in his pocket.
"Thank you," he said.
Shakky watched him untie his apron. She did not tell him to be careful. She had the look of a woman who had learned a long time ago that saying it changed nothing.
He pushed the door open and stepped out into the dark.