The air inside the makeshift tent was thick with the scent of black tea and shame. Miss Valentine's teacup trembled in her hand, the delicate china clinking against the saucer. Across from her, Mr. 5 sat rigid, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle ticked in his cheek.
"Disappointing," Mr. 3 sighed, stirring his tea with a slow, deliberate motion. The sound of the spoon scraping the porcelain was like a nail dragged across their pride. "Professionals of Baroque Works do not fail. Losing to those Straw Hat brats is a disgrace on par with announcing our existence to the entire world."
"We had them—" Mr. 5 began, his voice a low growl.
"You had nothing!" Mr. 3 snapped, the pleasant facade vanishing. His eyes, cold and calculating behind his round glasses, pinned them in place. "You were outmaneuvered by a rubber boy and a swordsman. Our missions demand perfection. A single mistake unravels everything."
He leaned forward, the tent's lamplight casting deep shadows across his face. "But I am… merciful. You trailed them to Little Garden. For that, you keep thirty percent of the job's pay."
Miss Valentine's breath hitched. It was a pittance, an insult.
"And if we refuse your… generosity?" Mr. 5 asked, his hand curling into a fist on the table.
A slow, chilling smile spread across Mr. 3's lips. "Then I will ensure you are no longer an interference. Permanently."
The unspoken threat hung in the air, colder than the island's prehistoric mist. Mr. 3 calmly poured them more tea. "Drink. Your fortune is about to change. This island holds an opportunity far greater than some petty pirate capture."
From inside his coat, he produced two weathered posters, slapping them onto the wooden table. The paper was yellowed with age, the ink faded but the images unmistakable: two colossal figures, one branded a blue ogre, the other a red demon.
"Do you know the legends of the Warrior Giant Pirates?" Mr. 3's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "A century ago, they were the terror of the seas. Towns fell to their pillaging. The world itself trembled. Their captains—Dorry the Blue Ogre and Brogy the Red Ogre—faded into myth."
He tapped the posters. "They are not myth. They are here. And their bounties…" He let the suspense build, watching their eyes widen. "…were never rescinded."
"How much?" Miss Valentine breathed, leaning in.
"One hundred million berries. Each."
The tent seemed to spin. Two hundred million berries. The number echoed in the silence, a siren song of unimaginable wealth.
Mr. 5 finally understood, the pieces clicking into a horrifying, brilliant plan. "The rum barrels… the bombs…"
"Precisely," Mr. 3 said, his smile turning wicked. "We cannot fight mountains head-on. But with the right scheme…" He made a gentle, downward motion with his hand. "…even a mountain can be leveled to dust. Succeed here, claim these bounties alongside our original mission, and promotions will be the least of your rewards. You will be legends within Baroque Works."
The greed in Miss Valentine's eyes warred with her fear. Mr. 5's resistance crumbled, replaced by a sharp, ambitious hunger. They were cornered, offered a devil's bargain: servitude for a slice of glory.
"What is your command?" Mr. 5 asked, the fight gone from his voice.
*
The ground shook with a deep, primordial roar. Not from the volcano this time—but from the triumphant bellow of Brogy the Red Ogre, standing tall amidst the clearing smoke, his great axe held high.
"The hour of battle is upon us, little friend!" Brogy thundered, his voice shaking the leaves from the ancient trees.
Usopp, bandages stark white against his skin, scrambled back. "B-Brogy! Your wounds! Dorry's too! You can't fight like this!"
Brogy looked down, a gentle rumble in his chest that might have been a laugh. "A giant's pride is not in unbroken skin, but in an unbroken spirit! For a hundred years, our duel has honored our friendship and our crew! A few scratches are nothing!"
In the distance, a familiar, booming voice answered the challenge. "BROGY! MY FRIEND AND RIVAL! I AM COMING!"
Dorry's voice. The battle was inevitable.
But as Usopp watched Brogy stride toward the appointed clearing, a deep, instinctual dread coiled in his stomach. This wasn't right. The timing, the tension in the air… it felt like a trap.
He turned, his eyes scanning the dense, shadowy jungle. For a fleeting second, he caught a glint of reflected light—binoculars, high in the canopy. And beside a twisted, ancient tree, he saw it: a single, empty rum barrel, its lid slightly ajar.
His blood ran cold. The feast. The celebration. The barrels they'd all drunk from…
"Brogy, wait!" Usopp screamed, his voice raw with panic. "DON'T DRINK THE RUM!"
But it was too late. From the other side of the island, Dorry the Blue Ogre's joyous roar suddenly choked into a strangled, painful gasp, followed by the sound of a colossal body crashing to the earth.
Brogy skidded to a halt, his triumphant expression morphing into one of utter horror. "DORRY?"
High atop a volcanic ridge, Mr. 3 adjusted his glasses, a thin smile on his face. Below him, Mr. 5 lit a fuse, and Miss Valentine floated gently on her parasol, a rain of deadly explosives ready in her hands.
"Checkmate," Mr. 3 whispered, as the first bomb fell toward the paralyzed, poisoned giant below.
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