The sounds of shouting and hurried footsteps faded behind Ryoma as the remaining bounty hunters of Whiskey Peak fled from the square, leaving behind their defeated comrades and the rubble wrought by Luffy and Zoro's brief, destructive argument.
Ryoma remained standing at the edge of the square, his calm gaze fixed on the distant docks. The Going Merry was a distinct silhouette against the moonlit water, a flurry of activity as the Straw Hats and their princess companion scrambled aboard.
He watched as the ship's sails unfurled, catching the wind. Slowly, steadily, the Going Merry pulled away from the island, leaving behind the deceptive hospitality and the chaos of the night. Ryoma stood there for a long moment, the sounds of the sea replacing the recent echoes of battle.
He felt no malice towards the escaping pirates, only a quiet satisfaction. The fight with Zoro had been illuminating. The swordsman was undeniably powerful, his potential immense. Ryoma had measured himself against a future World's Strongest Swordsman and hadn't been immediately overwhelmed.
He'd pushed Zoro, forced him to adapt, and confirmed that his own abilities, while perhaps different in nature, could stand against top-tier combatants, or at least those on the cusp of becoming so. The question about cutting steel wasn't just a taunt; it was a genuine inquiry into Zoro's current stage of growth, a data point for Ryoma.
"They got away."
The voice was raspy, strained. Ryoma didn't turn. Behind him, stumbling slightly from their injuries but upright, were Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine. Mr. 5 still adjusted his slightly cracked sunglasses, and Miss Valentine leaned heavily on her umbrella, her polka-dot dress torn.
"Indeed," Ryoma replied, his voice calm, still watching the Merry sail into the distance. "Your attempt to capture them was… inadequate."
Mr. 5 bristled slightly, despite his state. "Hey! We handled the preliminary agents! Those Straw Hats were just too strong! And that swordsman… he's a monster!"
Miss Valentine nodded weakly. "And the captain is impervious to explosives and just… bounces! This mission was compromised from the start!"
They hobbled closer, looking at Ryoma with a mixture of caution and grudging respect. They had seen him handle Zoro for a significant period, a feat far beyond their capabilities.
"You…" Mr. 5 began, clearing his throat. "You were pretty impressive back there. Taking on the Pirate Hunter alone. Didn't look like you even broke a sweat."
Ryoma finally turned to face them, his expression neutral. "He is strong. I needed to gauge his level."
Miss Valentine perked up slightly, seeing an opportunity amidst the failure. "Listen, we're down a couple of key agents after tonight. Mr. 8 and Miss Wednesday… well, they were traitors, obviously, but they left gaps."
She gestured vaguely. "Baroque Works is always looking for capable individuals to fill the ranks, especially at the Frontier Agent level. Anyone who can hold their own against a bounty like Roronoa Zoro…"
Mr. 5 caught on, adjusting his sunglasses again.
"Yeah. Mr. 8 and Miss Wednesday were supposed to be our partners for the next phase too. We need replacements. You clearly have the power. How about it? Join Baroque Works? You saw the kind of resources we have. The influence. It's a chance to operate on a grander scale than just chasing small bounties."
Ryoma listened, his calm gaze assessing the two agents. Their offer was exactly what he needed. Joining Baroque Works hadn't been his original plan – his goal had been simpler survival and observation.
But the sheer power and reach of the organization, revealed by Vivi's frantic confession, presented a new, far more ambitious path. Why merely observe when he could control? Why watch the story unfold when he could seize the reins? This was a thought he entertained since his awakening.
His ambition wasn't to serve Crocodile. His ambition was to understand Baroque Works from the inside, to learn its structure, its secrets, its weaknesses, and ultimately, to take control. Crocodile was a Warlord, a major player in the world.
Controlling his organization would grant Ryoma immense power and influence, far beyond anything he could achieve as a lone bounty hunter. It was a dangerous path, fraught with risk, but the potential rewards were immense.
It aligned perfectly with his newly articulated philosophy: the Grand Line wasn't just about dreams; it was about power.
"Baroque Works," Ryoma repeated softly, letting the name hang in the air.
"That's right!" Miss Valentine chirped, regaining some of her annoying cheerfulness. "You'd be working directly under one of the Officers, maybe even a higher number! Good pay, interesting missions, travel…"
Ryoma made his decision. He wouldn't serve them, he would infiltrate them.
"I accept," Ryoma stated calmly.
Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine exchanged surprised, relieved looks. "Great!" Mr. 5 said. "Welcome aboard! We'll report our failure here and recommend you immediately. You'll need to come with us to the rendezvous point."
"No," Ryoma said, holding up a hand.
Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine paused, confused. "No? But you just said you'd join?"
"I will join," Ryoma clarified. "But I won't be following you back like a new recruit. I have my own methods. My own immediate priorities." He needed time to train, time to consolidate his burgeoning strength without being immediately thrust into the organization's hierarchy at a low level. He needed to be introduced on his own terms, with a direct line to the top.
"Your own priorities?" Mr. 5 squinted behind his sunglasses. "Listen, kid, when you join Baroque Works, your priority is the company's priority."
"Is that so?" Ryoma's calm tone held a subtle edge that made the two agents pause. "Or is the priority serving the Boss effectively?" He knew enough from the manga to know the structure, the ambition, the ruthless efficiency desired by Crocodile.
He reached into his simple tavern clothes and took out a small, snail-like creature attached to a portable base – a Den Den Mushi. It was one of the generic ones used for local communication within the organization, likely left behind in the chaos. Ryoma calmly disconnected it from its base and handed it to Mr. 5.
"This one is useless to me," Ryoma said. "I need a direct line." His knowledge from his past life provided the necessary leverage. He knew who the key players were. "A Den Den Mushi connected to someone high up. Provide me with that, and I will be ready for my first assignment when they call."
Mr. 5 and Miss Valentine were taken aback. Requesting a direct line to the Vice President, bypassing them entirely, was audacious. But the calm confidence in Ryoma's eyes, coupled with the demonstration of power they had just witnessed, gave them pause.
They needed capable agents, and this one clearly wasn't afraid to aim high. And frankly, they were in damage control mode after the night's debacle; arguing with him seemed counterproductive if it meant losing a valuable potential asset.
"High Up? You mean, Miss… All Sunday?" Mr. 5 stammered slightly. "That's… a tall order."
"If I am to operate effectively, I need direct communication," Ryoma stated simply. "Provide me with a Den Den Mushi linked to her, leave it somewhere I can retrieve it safely, and I will wait for her to contact me. Consider it my condition for joining."
He knew they reported directly to the Miss All Sunday, who reported higher up. A request filtered through enough layers would eventually reach the top.
Miss Valentine exchanged a look with Mr. 5. Their mission had failed spectacularly. Recruiting a powerful individual with initiative, even one who made unusual demands, might help mitigate their own failure report.
"Alright," Miss Valentine said slowly. "We'll… we'll put in the request. It might take some time to get the Den Den Mushi here."
"I understand," Ryoma said with a slight nod. "I will be on the island. Ensure it reaches me."
With that, Ryoma turned his back on them once more, walking away from the ruined square and towards the more remote areas of Whiskey Peak. He left the two injured agents standing there, looking bewildered but ultimately compliant.
They had come seeking a replacement; they had found a potential subordinate who was already acting like a superior.
Ryoma's immediate priority was training. He had felt the limits of his current power against Zoro, particularly the inability to inflict truly significant damage with his invisible slashes against a highly resilient and skilled opponent like the Pirate Hunter, even though they were at their lowest output.
His meta-knowledge was a guide, but raw physical and energy cultivation within this world was essential. And the next step in that cultivation, he knew, was Haki.
Armament Haki – the ability to harden one's body or weapons into an invisible armor, increasing defensive power and allowing attacks to connect with Logia users and enhance offensive capability.
He had felt the potential for it simmering beneath his skin since arriving in this world, a latent energy waiting to be drawn out and controlled. The intense pressure of the Grand Line environment and the recent combat had brought him closer. He felt it was within reach.
He spent the next few days in the secluded, rocky parts of Whiskey Peak, far from the town and the remnants of Baroque Works activity. He found a desolate stretch littered with large boulders and sheer rock faces. This was his training ground.
His training was simple, brutal, and repetitive. He punched the boulders. Hour after hour, day after day. He focused his will, trying to draw out that internal energy he sensed. He felt the impact reverberating through his bones, the skin of his knuckles scraping and bruising. It was a test of endurance as much as power.
He would stand before a massive rock and unleash a barrage of strikes, focusing his mind not just on the physical force of the punch, but on pushing that internal energy to the surface. He wasn't using his invisible slashes; he was trying to manifest a different kind of power, a physical hardening.
Thud! Thud! Crack! Boulders would groan, small pieces would chip away, his knuckles would ache.
He felt it intermittently – a strange sensation, like his skin was momentarily becoming denser, heavier, tougher than normal. It was fleeting, uncontrolled, but undeniably present. He would focus harder, try to replicate the feeling, chase that elusive sensation of reinforcement.
Slowly, over the course of those few days, the fleeting sensation became more consistent. The rock wouldn't just chip; sometimes, under a particularly focused strike, his knuckles would feel less pain, and the rock would complain more vehemently.
He would examine his fist afterward, expecting to see only bruised skin, but sometimes, just for a split second, he thought he saw a faint, dull sheen across his skin, a subtle discoloration that wasn't just bruising.
He punched a large, unyielding boulder, putting his full focus into drawing out that hardening power. He gritted his teeth, pouring his will into his fist.
THUD!
This time, the sensation was stronger, held for a fraction of a second longer. And as he pulled his fist back, he saw it clearly. For a brief moment, his knuckles and the front of his forearm shimmered with a dark, metallic sheen, like polished steel. It was gone almost instantly, but it had been visible. Tangible.
He grinned, a look of fierce satisfaction on his face. He was close. He was getting it. Armament Haki. He raised his fist, examining it, feeling the residual phantom sensation of hardness. He just needed practice. Consistency. Control.
He wound up for another punch, eager to replicate the effect, to push further.
Suddenly, a familiar, electronic trill echoed through the rocky cove.
Bururubururu… Bururubururu…
Ryoma stopped mid-swing. The sound cut through the silence of his training ground. It was the distinct ring of a Den Den Mushi. He looked towards the small, unassuming snail sitting on a flat rock a few feet away. Its eyes were open, staring blankly ahead, emitting the ringing sound.
They had delivered. And Miss All Sunday was calling.
His expression settled back into one of calm resolve. The training would have to wait. Baroque Works was making contact. His infiltration, his bid for power, was about to begin.