Private Cell

Private Cell No. 1 lay in the deepest part of Iron Cage City.

On Jack's second day there, an old man came to his door.

The old man came alone, carrying a toolbox. The metal case swung at his side, its hammers and pliers clattering all the way down the corridor.

His hair was graying, his face covered in wrinkles, and his hands were as rough as bark. Rust and oil were lodged beneath his nails. He wore a blacksmith's leather apron, its scorched holes edged in black where sparks had burned through.

Jack had seen him in fragments of the original body's memories. Garma was Iron Cage City's blacksmith. He repaired the guards' weapons and sometimes welded reinforcement bars onto the cages. He was neither a fighting slave nor a guard. He was there to fix things. Iron Cage City needed someone for that, so the Arena Master had picked a blacksmith from among the captives and kept him. He didn't make Garma fight or let him die. He just made him work.

Garma reached the iron door, set down his toolbox, and unhooked a ring of keys from his belt. It took him a while to find the key to Private Cell No. 1. The door had two locks. He opened the first with one key, but the second key wouldn't turn. He spat on it, tried again, and the lock clicked open.

He pushed the door open but stayed at the threshold, glancing inside.

"The lock's loose. The Arena Master sent me to reinforce it."

Jack leaned against the bed frame and watched him.

Garma brought in his toolbox, crouched beside the inside of the door, and began taking the lock apart.

He spoke as he worked, his voice low, almost as if he were talking to himself.

"The Arena Master spent all last night counting money from your match."

Jack said nothing.

Garma kept working. The sound of his wrench turning screws was unusually clear in the quiet cell. "The betting went against expectations. All the money wagered on Lynx went into his pocket. Hardly anyone bet on you, and the odds were low, so he made money there too." He laid the screws on the floor and counted them one by one, then took larger replacements from his toolbox. "He made a fortune."

Jack watched him. In the lamplight, Garma looked older still. Wrinkles ran from the corners of his eyes to his ears. His mouth drooped, and his lips were dry and cracked. He never looked at Jack. His eyes stayed on the lock.

"He's already planning your next opponent." Garma drove a new screw into the lock and paused as he tightened it with the wrench. "He said you're the best fighting dog he's ever raised."

Jack's expression didn't change. But Garma sensed something and gave the wrench another half turn.

"You're different from the others." Garma finally looked up at Jack. "After a few wins, they started thinking they were somebody. They got friendly with the guards and tried bargaining with the Arena Master. You don't talk, and that unsettles them. He doesn't know what you're thinking, which makes him want to use you even more."

Jack spoke. "Tighten the lock."

Garma froze for a moment and looked down at his wrench, then at the lock. He ran a finger along the edge of the screw head and nodded. "It's tight."

He began putting the lock housing back on. He fitted the metal cover in place and tightened the screws from the outside. As he gave the last one a turn, he spoke again.

"The Arena Master will come tonight."

Jack said nothing.

"Some of the people with him are from higher up on Banaro Island." Garma returned the wrench to his toolbox, stood, and brushed the dust from his knees. "I can't tell who they are, but I know they're not from Iron Cage City."

Jack looked at him. "How do you know?"

"He isn't raising you. He's waiting for you to become valuable."

The iron door closed. The two locks slid home one after the other. Click, click.

Before long, footsteps sounded outside. Dress shoes.

The heels struck the metal corridor at an unhurried pace, the same rhythm as on earlier inspections. But this time, the footsteps passed Private Cell No. 1 without stopping. They reached the end of the corridor, turned back, and stopped outside his door.

A key went into the lock. The iron door opened.

The Arena Master stood in the doorway with two guards behind him. Another man in a black coat remained in the shadows of the corridor.

The Arena Master carried a bottle of wine and two paper-wrapped parcels. The bottle had no label, but its shape and the color of the wine made it clear it wasn't cheap. Grease had soaked through the paper. There was meat inside.

The Arena Master entered the cell and set the wine and food on the table.

"You fought well yesterday." The Arena Master sat beside the table, and a guard brought in a chair. Its legs scraped against the metal floor with an earsplitting screech. The Arena Master frowned. The guard hurriedly set the chair straight and retreated outside.

The Arena Master opened one parcel. Inside was roast beef cut into thick slices. Juices seeped from the meat and spread a ring of grease across the paper. The other parcel held bread—white bread, not the dark bread Jack ate every day. Its crust was golden, and the loaf sprang back when pressed.

"Eat." The Arena Master pushed the meat and bread toward Jack, then uncorked the bottle and poured two glasses. Dark red wine swirled in them, clinging to the sides.

Jack looked at him without moving.

The Arena Master picked up a glass and took a sip. He smacked his lips and set it down. "Think I poisoned it?" He laughed softly, the sound bouncing off the concrete walls. "If you died of poison in Iron Cage City, I'd lose a fortune tonight. Betting's already open for tomorrow. Your name's on the board at odds of one to one and a half. Know what that means? Every day you stay alive, I make money."

Jack picked up a piece of beef and took a bite. Fat ran between his teeth as he chewed. It was better than the dark bread and thin gruel by more than he could measure. He ate meat and stew in turn, breaking the bread into small pieces and soaking them in the stew. He ate quickly, but without rushing. He chewed slowly, his eyes on the Arena Master.

That stare made the Arena Master a little uncomfortable. He picked up his glass, took another sip, set it down, and tapped the table twice.

"You've been here long enough to understand Iron Cage City's rules. The strong live, the weak die. You killed Lynx, so now you're the strongest. The executioner's position is yours. You kill for me, and I give you money, meat, a better private cell." His tone was matter-of-fact, as though he were discussing a business deal.

Jack swallowed the meat in his mouth and said nothing.

The Arena Master didn't mind. "But Iron Cage City is a small place. The people at the top of Banaro Island are looking for fighters." He lowered his voice and leaned forward, elbows on the table. "Capone Bege. Have you heard that name?"

Jack stopped chewing.

The Arena Master saw the change in Jack's expression and smiled. "The West Blue Mafia. Half the underworld business in the West Blue passes through his hands. His men are fighting another faction for territory. It's been vicious lately, and plenty of people have died. He wants fighters who aren't afraid to die and know how to obey." The Arena Master paused and tapped the table twice more. "I want to recommend you."

Jack swallowed, picked up the white bread, and took a bite. It was soft, much easier to swallow than dark bread.

The Arena Master took Jack's eating for agreement, and his tone relaxed. He leaned back, crossed his legs, and spun the gold ring on his finger.

"Bege has a habit. Every time he takes down a major opponent, he captures a Marine and makes his guards beat him to death in a cage to celebrate." The Arena Master smiled. It wasn't mockery. It was something colder. "Three days from now, he's bringing a soldier he captured from the 16th Branch. I want you as the final act. Execute that Marine in front of Bege."

Jack ate his bread without answering. His expression didn't change, as though he hadn't heard.

The Arena Master took that as agreement and went on. He talked about the reach of Bege's power, how deeply his informants had penetrated the 16th Branch, and how much business he controlled in the West Blue. There was a boastful note in his voice, as though he were showing off the powerful man he knew.

Jack didn't catch the rest. He heard only one thing.

Three days from now, Bege comes. He brings a Marine.

The Arena Master had tucked those two facts into a heap of nonsense, delivering them as casually as if he were arranging an ordinary match.

Jack swallowed the last bite of bread and took a sip of wine. It was strong, going down like a mouthful of fire, but his steel-hardened esophagus felt no burn. He set the glass back on the table and looked at the Arena Master.

"Fine."

One word.

The Arena Master stared for half a second, then laughed. He stood and patted Jack's shoulder. His palm struck steel-hardened skin with a dull thud. After a second pat, he withdrew his hand and headed for the iron door. He looked back at the threshold.

"Get some rest. You've got a big fight in three days."

The iron door closed. The two locks slid home one after the other. Click, click.

Once the footsteps had faded completely, Jack finished the wine in his glass and set it on the table. He leaned against the bed frame, turning over what the Arena Master had said.

The 16th Branch. A Marine base.

The Arena Master and Bege thought the captured Marine was a prop for their celebration, a sacrifice to prove loyalty to Bege, Iron Cage City's offering to the Mafia boss. But to Jack, that man was no sacrifice.

He was a ticket out.

A Marine uniform. A Marine identity. A Marine warship. With those, Jack could climb out of the cesspit of Iron Cage City. He could kill the people who deserved it in broad daylight, legally hunt those with powers, and sacrifice more Devil Fruits.