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"She was so cool! I want to learn wrestling!"
Yamato was still buzzing with excitement as they exited the underground arena into the cool West Blue night air.
"It's a shame our seats were so far from the fighter's tunnel," she muttered, her tone laced with genuine regret. "I didn't get a chance to invite her aboard the Gospel. I'd love to have someone like that on the crew."
Ornn gave a soft, pragmatic sigh. "You shouldn't just hand out invitations to strangers, Yamato. We don't know her temperament. If her values or habits clash with ours, bringing someone incompatible on board is just asking for a miserable voyage."
If they were judging solely by raw combat capability, Nightmare was an undeniable prize. Based on the brutal demonstration by The Reaper, anyone who could dismantle him with such clean, surgical efficiency was easily a top-tier powerhouse in the West Blue. Her talent was monstrous—she was roughly Yamato's age and possessed an immense ceiling for growth.
Yet strength was never Ornn's sole metric for a crewmate.
He wasn't building a floating syndicate of cutthroats like Rocks or Blackbeard. He envisioned something closer to the Straw Hats—a tight-knit family of kindred spirits whose ideals and worldview aligned.
As long as their core values matched and they shared a mutual respect, Ornn wouldn't care if a recruit's combat strength started at zero. With his crafting system, he could forge equipment that elevated his allies, granting them the defense and power needed to survive the world.
Conversely, if an individual carried toxic malice or a rotten moral compass, no amount of raw strength would buy them a ticket onto his ship. In fact, if someone crossed that line, he wouldn't hesitate to eliminate them preemptively and harvest their potential for his forge.
Hearing his reasoning, Yamato subsided, though she still muttered under her breath, "Well... what if she turns out to be friendly?"
Ornn chuckled, shaking his head. "Never mind that. Instead of daydreaming about recruiters, let's figure out where we're sleeping tonight. Are we bedding down on the ship, or do you want a proper hotel room?"
Ornn's preference was the Gospel. His precious Heart Steel inventory and the Sun Pirates' flag were secured in the hold; leaving the vessel unattended overnight felt too risky.
As for Yamato, knowing her lingering vulnerability to seasickness, Ornn was half-inclined to book her a comfortable room on land so she could enjoy a solid week of restful sleep.
"I'll sleep on the ship," Yamato declared without hesitation. "The Gospel is steady. When the water's calm, you barely feel the swell. My stomach is fine as long as we're docked."
With their sleeping arrangements settled, the two turned their steps toward the harbor.
They reached the main gate of the port district only to find their path blocked.
A dense phalanx of armed men occupied the pier, surrounding the Gospel. At the front of the mob stood their navigator—looking thoroughly pleased with himself—flanked by a middle-aged man draped in an expensive silk coat, leaning heavily on a polished silver-topped cane.
The navigator spotted Ornn and Yamato instantly. He pointed a trembling, dramatic finger at them, sneering up at his new patron. "Lord Garner! Those are the ones! They're the monsters who murdered Captain Balu!"
The man called Garner stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over Ornn and Yamato with cold indifference.
"Ruba may have broken ties with our Fire Tank syndicate," Garner said, his voice dripping with oily false piety, "but he was still a brother who shared wine at my table. Blood is blood. You cannot slaughter one of our own and simply walk away."
Ornn didn't bother answering the gentleman. Instead, his eyes slid past the crowd toward the Gospel.
The ship was undamaged, but its decks were bare. Every single crate, barrel, and piece of equipment they had salvaged had been hauled off and piled onto the stone wharf.
Ornn's expression froze into a dangerous, glacial mask.
He glanced across the pier toward the guard station. The captain of the Royal Army unit—the very man Ornn had bribed fifty thousand Berries a day to protect the vessel—was standing fifty yards away, refusing to make eye contact.
Noticing Ornn's cold stare, the guard captain flinched, shrunk his neck, and offered a helpless, apologetic shrug. The silent message was painfully clear: What can I do? Their backers are way heavier than your pocket change.
Ornn let out a dry, humorless breath, turning his attention back to Garner. "So. Let's skip the theatricals. What do you want?"
Garner stroked his trimmed mustache, his smile serene. "Simple. Hand over Ruba's inheritance, pay a restitution fee of one hundred million Berries for the trouble you've caused our family, and you are free to leave Keya Town with your lives."
A hundred million Berries.
To Ornn's ears, the speech translated into three simple words: We want extortion.
Ornn let out a contemptuous snort. "Your 'good brother' is cold in the water, and you aren't even pretending to care about vengeance—you're just here to loot his safe. You wear that suit well, but you're just as much of a scavenger as he was."
Garner's skin was thick; the insult didn't even scratch his composure. "Business is business, young man. Money solves most problems in the West Blue."
"And if I tell you I won't pay?"
Garner's eyes narrowed, scanning their physique with predatory calculation. "Can't pay? Well, I'm told you're both formidable fighters. You're easily worth two hundred million on the black market. And as for that young lady..."
His gaze drifted to Yamato's horns, a gleam of greed lighting up his eyes. "Horns? A rare race, beautifully built, and clearly possessing devil fruit powers. What an absolute jackpot. Take them!"
At his command, the syndicate thugs behind him surged forward with synchronized grins. Some hefted iron clubs and heavy cutlasses; others drew short-barreled rifles—weapons far more destructive and lethal than standard flintlocks.
Sensing the violence, Ornn's hand dropped instantly to his waist, wrapping around the handle of his hammer. Beside him, Yamato slipped her grip onto her iron club with a low, predatory growl.
Before either of them could launch their counter-attack, a sharp, clear voice rang out from the shadows behind the dock crane.
"What kind of cowards jumps a pair of travelers with a whole mob?"
Ornn and Yamato whipped around. Striding out from the glow of the harbor lamps was none other than the undefeated champion of the underground arena—Nightmare.
"Nightmareous?!" Yamato blurted out in genuine astonishment. "We literally just watched your match an hour ago!"
"Are you two really the ones who cheered for me in the third row?" Nightmare asked, her gothic makeup catching the amber streetlights as a broad, feral grin spread across her face.
She cracked her knuckles, a sound like dry twigs snapping in winter.
"Well. That changes things. Nobody touches my fans on my turf."
Garner's face twisted in sudden, genuine alarm. He clearly recognized the fighter. "Nightmare! Are you out of your mind? Do you have any idea who you're crossing? This is a private matter with the Fire Tank Syndicate!"
His answer didn't come in words.
Nightmare dropped into a low sprinter's stance and vanished.
The burst of motion was so violently fast that even Ornn blinked in sheer disbelief.
That speed... Ornn's eyes widened. If my eyes aren't deceiving me, was that... Soru? One of the Navy's Six Powers?!
There was no time to dissect her technique. As Nightmare tore directly into the center of the syndicate mob like a human wrecking ball, sending men flying into crates and water alike, Ornn grinned.
"Well," Ornn muttered, hefting his hammer to his shoulder. "Looks like we have company."
Yamato twirled her club, her eyes gleaming with battle-hunger. "Let's clear the board!"
Garner's gentlemanly facade shattered completely. He dropped his cane, his face contorted in furious rage as he screamed at his remaining gunmen.
"Kill them all! Leave no one breathing!"