CLANG.
The heavy Kairoseki shackles were tossed onto the deck, letting out a dull, metallic thud.
Ace flexed his wrists. His body, which had been suppressed by the Sea Stone's draining aura, let out a series of sharp, rhythmic pops as his joints realigned. A surge of abundant power—purer and more concentrated than before—rushed through his muscle fibers.
"Today's hell-session ends here."
Ace grabbed his dark red trench coat from a nearby barrel and threw it over his shoulders. He glanced at his crew, who were scattered across the deck in various states of physical collapse. "We're making landfall. Tidy up."
Sabo exhaled slowly, unwinding his leg wraps and straightening his tailcoat. Carina and Leona didn't even try to look dignified; they lay flat on the wood, gasping for air. Leona, despite her monstrous stamina, found her fingers trembling from hours of swinging her cleavers under triple-gravity conditions. Yet, feeling the new density of her muscles, her eyes glowed with a feral satisfaction.
"It's over... I actually thought I was going to see the pearly gates," Buggy wheezed, spread-eagled near the railing.
"Look ahead. The Port of Ferrum," Carina managed to prop herself up, pointing toward a massive island shrouded in a permanent veil of black soot and the rhythmic throb of heavy machinery.
From the sea, the island looked like a jagged fortress of iron. Thousands of chimneys pierced the smog, vomiting industrial exhaust, while titanic gears and mechanical cranes groaned at the harbor's edge. The air itself tasted of coal, grease, and the sharp tang of gunpowder.
"Let's go ashore. We need to vent some steam," Ace said, his tone steady. "The training has been intense; we're wound too tight. We'll find some local flavor and scout for the Black Steel we need to reinforce the Eclipse. She took some dings coming through Reverse Mountain."
At the mention of shore leave, Buggy's "Pirate Legend" instincts flared. He snapped to his feet with a theatrical kip-up. "Drinks! This Great Man is going to find the darkest ale and the loudest tavern in this hunk of junk!"
Half an hour later, the Eclipse drifted into a hidden, cliff-side cove Ace had scouted with his Observation Haki. It was a natural dry-dock, shielded from prying eyes.
The five stepped out into the streets of Ferrum.
The architecture was brutal—obsidian rock and riveted steel. Mercenaries with scarred faces and heavy flintlocks hurried past, and steam-tracked haulers dragged mountainous loads of ore through the cobbles.
"What a depressing place," Carina muttered, instinctively clutching her purse as she surveyed the grim faces of the locals.
"It's a warzone, kid. This is the scent of profit," Buggy lectured, falling into his "Senior Navigator" persona. "Back in my day, in the New World, I visited islands that make this place look like a playground. In a hole like this, the high-grade materials—the real Black Steel—aren't sold in boutiques. They're buried in the dirt."
"Since you're the expert, the logistics are on you," Ace said.
"Leave it to Captain Buggy!" the clown chirped. "Follow me to the Rust Belts. That's where the lawless artisans hide the good stuff."
They delved deeper, moving from the industrial port to the city's decaying marrow. The buildings grew shorter, caked in layers of oil and rust. Piles of discarded scrap—shattered gears, rusted cannons, and unidentifiable husks of bronze—towered like metal dunes.
Suddenly, a violent explosion rocked the alleyway ahead, followed by the screech of tearing metal.
BOOM!
A steam-powered armored carriage, mounted with a quad-barrel volley gun, was launched from a side street like a kicked tin can. It skipped across the pavement for thirty meters before slamming into a heap of scrap, belching thick, oily smoke.
A handful of soldiers in the Ducal Guard uniform scrambled out of the alley, their eyes wide with primal terror.
"Monster! The guy is a maniac! Get the Admiral! Go, go, go!" They screamed, fleeing without looking back.
Ace stopped. His gaze pierced through the settling dust, focusing on the dark alleyway. Sabo and Leona felt it too—a heavy, pressurized presence.
Standing before a mangled repair shop was a man who looked carved from the iron around him.
He had messy, silver-gray hair and oil-stained goggles pushed onto his forehead. He was nearly seven feet tall—half a head taller than Ace—with shoulders like a canyon. He wore heavy-duty, grease-slicked overalls, his scarred arms exposed. He was casually chewing on a thick, industrial screw as if it were a toothpick.
What demanded attention was his right arm.
It was encased in a massive mechanical exoskeleton—a masterpiece of heavy-industry violence. High-pressure steam hissed from brass vents, and hydraulic pistons let out a low, predatory growl every time his fingers flexed. In that hand, he dragged a Hydraulic Power Hammer of terrifying proportions. Its head had clearly been fashioned from the main cannon-sleeve of a decommissioned battleship.
"Trash," the man spat, the screw rolling between his teeth. He didn't spare a glance for the groaning soldiers. Instead, he leaned down and picked up a crushed mechanical wind-up toy from the mud, his brow furrowing in genuine distress.
"Scum who only know how to break things... they have no soul for the machine."
He scratched his silver hair irritably and turned to retreat into his dilapidated shop.
"Interesting," Ace murmured. He'd seen swordsmen, marksmen, and brawlers—but this man, a fusion of raw muscle and steam-powered engineering, was a breed apart.
Ace stepped forward, his boots crunching on the metallic grit. He stopped at the threshold of the shop.
The silver-haired man paused. He turned his head, his sharp eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of his goggles. He sized up the black-haired youth before him—a man who radiated the calm, lethal stillness of a true predator.
Two auras—one of burning spirit, one of cold iron—collided in the silence of the Rust Belts.
"We're looking for top-tier Black Steel," Ace said, getting straight to the point. His gaze drifted to the battleship-cannon hammer. "That's a hell of a weapon. What's your name? What do you do?"
The silver-haired man spat out the screw. He wiped a streak of oil across his cheek with a scarred hand.
"Jeno," he grunted, the voice sounding like grinding gears. He slammed the hydraulic hammer onto the floor. BANG. The entire street trembled.
"I'm the Mechanic."
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