"William, you're on meat duty. And you..." Leo pointed at a lanky, skeletal man. "What's your name?"
The man bowed so deeply his forehead nearly hit the deck. "I'm Wood, sir. 'Long-arm' Wood."
Leo looked him over. His arms were indeed freakishly long, nearly reaching his ankles. In his home village, such a trait might have made him a local legend, but Leo knew the reality of the Grand Line. Once they reached the second half of the sea and encountered the true Long-arm and Long-leg tribes, Wood's nickname would become a joke. Then again, a crew like this usually "popped" after two or three islands. They weren't exactly New World material.
"Wood, start sawing the bread," Leo ordered.
"On it, sir!" Wood grabbed a small hacksaw and went to work with eager obedience.
It really did require a saw. The bread was made from coarse grains, baked with a rock-hard crust specifically designed to resist rot at sea. It looked like a charred log and had to be sliced into discs before it was even chewable. Even then, no one got a full loaf; most received a single thick slice and a modest sliver of salted ham.
Leo personally oversaw the distribution. He had one goal: Absolute Fairness.
In the Grand Line, everyone knows that justice is a myth and "absolute fairness" doesn't exist. Leo knew this too. But in a closed environment with a limited number of people, he could enforce a relative fairness—the kind that stops a mutiny before it starts. He ensured the portions of meat and rum were identical down to the ounce.
The pirates formed a ragged, winding line that snaked across the deck and toward the stern. Despite their exhaustion, their eyes were bright with anticipation.
Fresh meat was a luxury. On the sea, you don't hope for hot soup; you hope for something that hasn't started moving on its own yet. Most crews lived on hardtack. These men had been on half-rations for weeks, convinced they were going to die in the Calm Belt. Now, the scent of ham and the bite of rum was like a religious experience.
Leo stood at the third table, handing out the rum. He pulled every cork himself, ensuring they drank it on the spot. He couldn't risk them hoarding it for trade or having it stolen by a stronger bully in the hold.
Managing a crew of a hundred outlaws is an art form. Most captains manage through a mix of raw violence and "divide and conquer" tactics—pitting subordinates against each other so the captain remains the sole arbiter. The foolish ones get caught in their own webs and end up with a knife in their back.
Leo watched them. He knew these "trash" pirates were hardened by violence, and discipline was the only leash that could restrain that nature.
As they took their cups, the pirates didn't offer Leo a single word of thanks. Their eyes were elsewhere—locked on Rindo, who stood behind him.
Rindo was the picture of pirate wildness. She leaned against the railing, a cigarette between her lips, wearing an open leather jacket with nothing underneath. Her skirt was little more than a scrap of sheepskin, showcasing long, athletic legs held up by black garters. To these men, who had been drifting in a void of heat and salt for a month, she was a walking hallucination.
She stood at a normal human height—about five-foot-seven—making her far more "accessible" to their warped aesthetics than the giantesses of the Kuja.
Though she stood there casually with her massive cannon slung over her shoulder, the air of danger around her was thick. She knew exactly what they were thinking; she knew how cruel these men were to the weak. But she remained indifferent. She was busy analyzing Leo's "Management Model," waiting to see if he could truly domesticate this pack of strays.
Once the bellies were full and the rum had started to settle, Leo suddenly stepped up onto a table.
"Alright, listen up!" he shouted. "Now that you've had your fill, does anyone feel like moving around?"
"What kind of moving?" a pirate called out from the shadows. Most were lounging in the shade to escape the brutal sun, but a few were bored enough to bite.
"I've been training lately," Leo said, stripping off his shirt to reveal a lean, toned, but distinctly non-monstrous physique. "I need an opponent of equal standing. I want the weakest man among you to come up here and fight me."
The deck went silent for a heartbeat before exploding into a roar of laughter.
"He wants the weakest one!"
"Hahaha! Is he that pathetic?!"
"At least the guy knows his limits!"
"Hey, Todd! Get up there! That's your cue!"
"Shut up! I'm not the weakest!" a scrawny pirate yelled back, though he was already being pushed forward.
The atmosphere turned electric with joy. To the pirates, this was a joke—a bit of entertainment provided by their "master."
Leo, however, wasn't joking. He needed to know exactly how wide the gap was between a modern soul and a "standard" soldier of this world.