New World, Ink Tide Island.
Black tides lashed against the port reefs time and again.
The waves failed to kick up a single speck of white foam, looking as though they had been dyed in thick, dark ink as heavy black tide-patterns spread across the surface of the sea in layers.
The entire island was shrouded in gloomy, damp, and cold fog.
At the highest point of the port, a giant Whitebeard flag fluttered in the wind.
That flag should have symbolized sanctuary.
Yet at this moment, beneath the flag, pirate ships bearing octopus emblems were quietly moored at the shore.
On the decks, figures hauled cargo back and forth.
The occasional sound that drifted over was not the calls of sailors, but the harsh, grating noise of iron chains dragging across the ground.
Clatter...
The sound blended into the crashing of the black tides, leaving a heavy weight in the chest.
Deep within Ink Tide Island.
Sunken Ink Auction House blazed with light.
This place had originally been an abandoned mine, converted into an underground auction house by the Octopus Pirates.
Black stone pillars supported the dome, and the walls were covered with torches.
The flickering firelight cast the shadows of rows of iron cages, stretching them long and distorted.
Iron cages were pushed onto the high platform one after another.
There were newcomers to adventure groups who had just set out to sea, as well as children whose hands and feet were bound and who were too terrified to even let out a cry.
The pirates down below raised their wine glasses, laughing and bidding.
Those pairs of greedy eyes looked not at people, but as though they were selecting cargo.
At the very top of the high platform.
An octopus fish-man sat in a wide chair.
He