The relentless Grand Line sun had cycled through blazing days and surprisingly cool nights perhaps sixty times since Ryoma's fateful awakening.
Two months. In that span, Whiskey Peak had transformed from a terrifying death trap into a harsh but functional training ground, and Ryoma himself had undergone a metamorphosis far more profound than simply gaining a Devil Fruit power.
The scrawny, terrified castaway was gone, replaced by lean, hard muscle forged through relentless effort. Daily runs on the shifting sands had built formidable endurance, while wrestling with boulders had layered strength onto his frame.
The clumsy movements had sharpened into something more economical, more aware, a result of countless bruises and harsh lessons paid for in hard-earned Beri. His eyes, once wide with fear and disorientation, now held a watchful calm, constantly observing, assessing.
The frantic energy of survival had cooled into a more focused intensity.
His routine remained largely unchanged: pre-dawn training, a long shift slinging drinks and cleaning spills at Martha's tavern, more training or perhaps a combat lesson in the evening, sleep, repeat. But the results of that routine were undeniable.
He moved with a quiet confidence that hadn't gone unnoticed.
Even the bounty hunters who had initially used him as a punching bag for a few coins now treated him with a palpable degree of respect, often mixed with a healthy dose of wary curiosity. Conversations sometimes paused when he entered a room. The condescending smirks were replaced by nods, the dismissive grunts by cautious greetings.
More than once, during sparring sessions he still occasionally paid for (more to maintain connections and observe techniques than for genuine learning now), his former "teachers" would end up on their backs, staring up at the sky in disbelief after a swift, unexpected counter or a move executed with deceptive speed.
"Damn, kid," one of the brawlers, a man named Grok who favoured spiked knuckles, had muttered after Ryoma sidestepped his lunge and tripped him effortlessly, "You learn too fast. Gettin' spooky." Grok hadn't asked for payment after that session.
This burgeoning reputation led to inevitable suggestions. "Oi, Ryoma! Forget slinging ale," a scarred swordsman slurred one evening, clapping him heavily on the shoulder. "Got killer instincts, you do. Should join us proper! Plenty of pirate scum sailing these waters, easy money for someone quick like you."
Another hunter, leaner and more calculating, put it differently. "You've outgrown this place, kid. Whiskey Peak… it's for hunters like us, who need the numbers, the trap, to take down crews. Someone with your talent could be making real Beri hunting solo bounties out there. No offense, but you don't need us anymore."
He understood their logic. Whiskey Peak's entire strategy revolved around collective action, overwhelming unsuspecting crews through numbers and deception. It was a haven for competent, but not necessarily elite, bounty hunters.
Ryoma, with his rapidly growing strength and the trump card of his still-secret Devil Fruit power, was beginning to feel like a shark swimming in a fishpond. They recognized he could likely achieve more, earn more, away from the island's specific setup.
But Ryoma had politely deflected their suggestions. He wasn't ready to leave. Not yet. His training wasn't complete, his control over Sukuna's power still needed refinement, and more importantly, a crucial piece of news had recently drifted into Whiskey Peak, carried on the salt spray and the pages of a slightly damp newspaper brought in by a returning hunter.
The news originated from the weakest of the four Blues: East Blue. Normally, events there barely caused a ripple in the Grand Line.
But this report spoke of a ridiculously high bounty placed on a rookie pirate captain, a boy with a straw hat, and his small but increasingly infamous crew who had apparently defeated several notorious East Blue figures – Arlong included.
Monkey D. Luffy. The Straw Hat Pirates.
A slow smile had spread across Ryoma's face as he surreptitiously read the article over a customer's shoulder at the bar. It's starting. The main storyline, the grand adventure he knew so well, was underway.
And according to the narrative flow he remembered, after entering the Grand Line via Reverse Mountain and their encounter with Laboon, their path would inevitably lead them here. To Whiskey Peak.
Their arrival would throw the entire island into chaos, exposing Baroque Works' front and triggering a confrontation with Crocodile's agents.
He needed to be here for that. Not necessarily to intervene directly – getting involved with the protagonists felt like painting a massive target on his back – but to observe, to gauge his own strength against known players, and perhaps, to capitalize on the ensuing chaos.
Leaving now would mean missing a critical juncture.
How strong was he, really? Months of relentless physical training had built a solid foundation. His stamina was leagues beyond his old self, allowing him sustained effort. His combat instincts, honed through painful lessons and observation, were sharper.
And then there was Sukuna's power. He had gained significant control over Dismantle, able to launch rapid, invisible slashes with precision, taking down training dummies or unfortunate pieces of flotsam with ease.
He had also begun practicing Cleave, the more powerful slash that adapted to the target's toughness, requiring more focus and a greater stamina expenditure. Against the average bounty hunter on the island?
He was confident he could win, likely without even revealing his Devil Fruit abilities fully.
What about the Baroque Works agents stationed here?
Mr. 9, the clumsy acrobat with his steel bats. Miss Monday, the physically imposing woman. Mr. 8, who he knew was Igaram, captain of Alabasta's Royal Guard, skilled with his saxophone-shotgun. And Miss Wednesday, Princess Vivi herself, with her Peacock Slashers.
Based on their canon showings against the early Straw Hats, Ryoma felt a growing confidence he could handle them, especially using Dismantle's element of surprise. The invisible nature of the attacks was a significant advantage.
But beyond them? Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine, with their Devil Fruits? Mr. 3? Crocodile himself? He knew he wasn't ready for that level.
Not yet. His stamina, while improved, wasn't infinite, and he suspected truly powerful opponents in this world had ways of dealing with unseen attacks, perhaps through Observation Haki, though that was rare in Paradise.
His noticeable improvement hadn't escaped the attention of the island's other power structure, either.
One evening, while clearing tables after the main rush, he was approached not by a regular bounty hunter, but by Mr. 9 and Miss Monday. They cornered him near the back storeroom, their usual comical or stoic demeanors replaced with something colder, more appraising.
"Yo! Ryoma!" Mr. 9 greeted him with forced cheerfulness, twirling one of his bats. "Word is, you're quite the tough guy now, eh? Not just a wet-behind-the-ears castaway anymore."
Miss Monday simply crossed her incredibly muscular arms, her gaze intense. "We've seen you train. Impressive speed. Impressive strength gains." She paused, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Almost... unnatural gains for such a short time."
Ryoma kept his expression neutral, wiping down a table, his senses on high alert. "Just working hard. Need to be strong to survive here."
"Indeed," Miss Monday continued, her voice low. "Survival often requires… special tools. Hidden talents." She leaned in slightly. "Like, perhaps, the talent bestowed by a certain rare type of fruit?"
Ryoma didn't flinch, though his heart rate slightly quickened. They suspected. They didn't know what power he had, likely hadn't seen him use Dismantle clearly, but his rapid progress screamed 'Devil Fruit user'.
Mr. 9 dropped the facade slightly. "Look, the Boss is always looking for promising individuals. People with... potential. We represent an organization, see? A secret organization with big plans. We could use someone with your grit. Offers good pay, security, a chance to be part of something bigger."
Baroque Works. The invitation had come, as he'd half expected. Join Crocodile's ranks, become another numbered pawn in his scheme to take over Alabasta. Ryoma felt a flicker of disgust. Serve Crocodile? The man responsible for so much suffering? Never.
"Thanks for the offer," Ryoma said, his tone polite but firm, meeting their gazes steadily. "But I'm content here for now. Just trying to make my way." He deliberately kept it vague, avoiding any hint of antagonism or revealing his knowledge of their organization.
Mr. 9 frowned, but Miss Monday simply gave a curt nod. "Suit yourself. But know this – this island operates under certain rules. The Boss appreciates talent, but dislikes loose cannons or potential rivals." The implied threat hung heavy in the air. "The offer stands, for now. Think about it."
They turned and left, leaving Ryoma alone in the suddenly quiet storeroom.
He let out a slow breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He had navigated the invitation, but their suspicion remained. They would be watching him even more closely now. Rejecting Baroque Works was dangerous.
However, as the initial tension faded, a new, audacious thought sparked in his mind, startling him with its boldness. He didn't want to join Baroque Works. He didn't want to serve Crocodile.
But the organization itself… it was a vast network of agents, spies, and assassins spread across Paradise. It had resources, influence, power. Crocodile used it for his own nefarious ends, but what if he were in charge?
Couldn't I take the organization for myself?
The idea was insane, born of the intoxicating power humming within him and the confidence forged over the past months. But it lodged itself in his mind, refusing to be dismissed.
Dismantle Baroque Works from within? Eliminate Crocodile and usurp his position? Use the network not to destroy a kingdom, but for his own ends – whatever those might be? Perhaps reshape it into a true bounty hunting guild, or something else entirely?
He leaned against a stack of barrels, the sheer audacity of the thought making his head spin. Just months ago, he was terrified of being discovered, focused solely on day-to-day survival. Now, he was contemplating overthrowing a Warlord and hijacking his secret organization.
Power, he mused, truly did change a person.
He had grown. He wasn't the anxious, scared kid anymore. The harsh realities of Whiskey Peak, coupled with the potent abilities of the Hito Hito no Mi, Model: Sukuna, had forged something new. He found he didn't mind the straightforward nature of the bounty hunters' life – identify target, hunt target, get paid.
It lacked the moral complexities and unpredictable loyalties of piracy or the rigid structure of the Marines. It felt… clean, in its own brutal way. His confidence wasn't just physical; it was mental. He trusted his abilities, his judgment, honed in this dangerous environment.
Dismantle and Cleave were extensions of his will, potent tools ready at his command, their only constraint the stamina that fueled them. Prolonged, intense battles would still exhaust him quickly, a vital limitation he kept constantly in mind, but for short, decisive engagements? He felt ready.
Later that night, standing atop the flat roof of the tavern, Ryoma looked down at the familiar scene unfolding in the streets below. Another pirate ship had docked, lured in by the promise of booze and respite.
Now, under the light of the moon, the welcoming facade had dropped. Shouts of alarm mingled with the clash of steel and the crack of flintlocks as the bounty hunters launched their ambush. Figures darted through the alleys, caught between the hunters and the towering cactus mountains.
Ryoma watched with detached calm. The chaos, the violence, it had become routine, just another night in Whiskey Peak. He sighed, the cool night air filling his lungs. The Straw Hats were coming. Baroque Works was watching.
And he, Ryoma, stood poised on the edge of something far grander and more dangerous than just survival. An ambition was taking root, watered by the power of a Cursed King, nurtured in a town of hunters. The Grand Line awaited.