Time flew by like a fleeting white horse.
In the blink of an eye, more than two years had passed.
Sea Circle Calendar 1509, late winter.
The first half of the Grand Line.
Whiskey Peak.
This was an island located at the starting point of one of the seven main routes. Its mountains were steep and unsuitable for habitation, but its geographical location was exceptionally advantageous.
Not far to the east lay Reverse Mountain and the Twin Cape Lighthouse.
Bounty hunter groups had stationed themselves here year-round, specializing in hunting fledglings newly entering the Grand Line. Most of the time, they could make a fortune off those "naive" pirate crews.
All kinds of underground intelligence deals flourished as a result, and over time, a fairly prosperous little commercial town had developed on the island.
However.
Over the past two years, Whiskey Peak had gradually begun to show signs of decline and desolation.
Taverns of all sizes in town had shut down one after another, and many pirate hunters who had long made their living here had also left in succession, returning home in gloom.
By now.
As the first snow of the year fell through the night, only the last few houses in the vast Whiskey Peak still had their lights on.
Not a single soul could be seen on the dilapidated, bleak streets.
Only the largest tavern in town remained crowded and somewhat lively.
The last hundred or so bounty hunters had gathered here. Some sat in groups of three or five, drinking wildly, laughing and crying as they bid one another farewell;
Others drank alone in secluded corners, their faces troubled as they worried over a future as unknown as fog.
No matter who they were.
Tomorrow.
They would officially set off, either returning home to retire