Rum and cooperation

Thanks to his monstrously powerful physique and recovery ability comparable to that of a Zoan user.

Even after that Thunder Baptism, with his arms still trembling faintly of their own accord, Rear Admiral Raymont caught the bottle of rum floating toward him with steady precision.

His massive, three-meter-tall frame made even the largest bottle look like a toy in his broad, fan-sized hand.

He tipped his head back and, without even using a glass, shoved the bottle's mouth straight into his own.

"Glug, glug, glug-!"

His Adam's apple bobbed violently as the dark-gold liquor vanished as quickly as though it were being poured into a bottomless pit.

Within a few breaths, the full bottle of rum was empty. As though still unsatisfied, he smacked his thick lips hard and complained in a booming, muffled voice, with a trace of irritation and regret:

"Tch! I should've gone for a grapple instead of that punch! Grabbed those slippery legs of yours, pinned you to the ground, and hammered you like pig iron! Hmph!"

As he spoke, he casually slammed the empty bottle onto the conference table beside him with a heavy thud. The table looked particularly miniature next to him, and the impact sent the dust on its surface jumping.

Sitting opposite him, Boer still wore that unruffled smile. At those words, he smoothly raised his bone china cup of black tea, as though genuinely thanking Raymont for showing mercy. "In that case, thank you for going easy on me and letting me off, Rear Admiral."

He had barely finished speaking when, as though to substantiate this "gratitude," the conference room door was gently pushed open. Two powerfully built attendants struggled inside carrying an enormous wooden crate filled with assorted bottles of rum.

Before they could do anything, Boer's gaze merely shifted slightly, and every metal bottle cap in the crate unscrewed itself at once with a series of pops. A rich aroma of liquor instantly filled the room.

"Hmph! Brat, don't think you can buy me off with a little booze! I came here to..." Raymont talked tough, but his body was utterly honest. His large hand had already snatched up another bottle without ceremony-a perfect case of saying no while doing the opposite.

Before he could finish, however, Boer interrupted him quite rudely, though his tone carried just the right measure of respect:

"Forgive the interruption, Rear Admiral Raymont. Before you deliver your final verdict, might you allow me to explain a few... modest ideas of my own, and my good intentions?"

Perhaps the endless supply of fine liquor before him had somewhat soothed this explosive male lion, so recently battered by lightning. Or perhaps the strength Boer had displayed earlier, enough to stand on equal footing with him, had earned him the right to finish speaking.

Raymont snorted heavily through his nose and took a great swig of rum, giving his tacit consent.

An exceptionally "sincere" smile appeared on Boer's face as he offered his first substantial bargaining chip:

"To express my respect and support for the Marines who maintain order on the seas, I, Aaron Ball, will personally donate one hundred million Beli to the Marine 101st Branch, free of charge. And, unless my timing is mistaken, my people should already have delivered that cash safely aboard your warship."

"Oh-ho-ho?!" Raymont's bushy eyebrows rose, and he let out an exaggerated laugh, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing his eyes.

"That's quite a generous gesture, brat! One hundred million Beli... Carl." He turned toward the adjutant beside him, who had remained silent as a shadow throughout. "I almost forgot. How much did Marine Headquarters allocate to our branch for regular expenses last month?"

As the base's strongest fighter and symbol of strength, he was accustomed to following his idol Vice Admiral Garp's example, mainly concerning himself with swinging his iron fists to crush enemies. Such trivial financial matters had always been handled by his shrewd, capable adjutant, Carl Valentine.

Adjutant Carl habitually adjusted his elegant glasses. His gaze behind the lenses was calm and precise, as though delivering a routine report:

"Rear Admiral Raymont, Headquarters allocated approximately three hundred million Beli in regular funding last month. Of that, one hundred and twenty million went toward salaries for all officers, enlisted personnel, and civilian staff at the base. The remainder covered scheduled maintenance for our three main warships, weapons and ammunition replenishment, and logistical support for our various operational plans."

He spoke at a steady pace, without the slightest pause. Naturally, certain unmentionable "additional gray income" and "shares of spoils" were not suitable topics to discuss before outsiders.

"Hahaha! Hear that, boy? One hundred million Beli is no small sum! Enough for me to... ahem, enough to buy plenty of good things for the base!"

Clearly in a much better mood, Raymont slapped the table hard, making the bottles jump. "Since you're being so 'sensible,' I'll pretend I know nothing about that little mess with your men! That 'Greatsword Pirates' bunch or whatever-the records will state that during the last large-scale maritime suppression operation organized by the Marine 101st Branch, our brave Marines killed them on the spot! Not a scrap of their bodies remained! Understood?" He glared at Boer.

"A toast to our brave, fearless Marines, the defenders of justice!"

Boer smoothly raised his teacup again, his smile unchanged, as though he had merely completed an insignificant transaction. He took a light sip of black tea and continued:

"Actually, aside from this modest donation, I have a few... additional ideas. Or rather, another 'token of goodwill.' Would you two be interested in hearing it?"

"Oh? Another 'token of goodwill'?" Raymont narrowed his eyes like an old wolf sizing up its prey. Though he continued drinking deeply, his gaze had sharpened considerably.

"Let me make one thing clear first. Money-you can hand it over openly, and I'll take it with a clear conscience! But don't expect me to do anything that violates Marine principles and justice!"

The blunt words, with their touch of shamelessness, made Boer chuckle inwardly.

"Of course. I fully understand and respect the Marines' principles of justice."

Boer leaned forward slightly and folded his hands on the table. Speaking in an unhurried tone, he played his second, even more enticing card.

"Here's the situation. I imagine your main purpose in coming here is probably those standard-issue weapons produced by our Steel Heavy Industry Consortium?"

He paused, observing the two Marine officers' expressions. Only when he saw their gazes sharpen slightly did he continue:

"What if... I promised not only to stop selling those weapons to outside buyers immediately, but also to provide the Marine 101st Branch with regular weapon replacement services at cost, with some supplied free of charge? We would replace those old standard-issue military sabers your soldiers carry, the ones whose edges roll so easily, with our latest, more durable products."

This time, Raymont straightened his enormous frame slightly. He set down his bottle, his expression turning serious:

"Boy, are you saying you're willing to stop supplying those... dangerous blades to the market?" He deliberately emphasized the word "dangerous."

As though realizing that his demand had sounded somewhat blunt and greedy, Raymont did not wait for Boer's answer. He abruptly raised his voice and roared toward the door, "Link! Get in here!"

The conference room door opened at once. A Marine bodyguard with an upright bearing and a sharp gaze strode quickly inside and gave Raymont a crisp salute. "Link reporting!"

"Give me the spare standard-issue military saber you're carrying, then stand guard outside. Without my orders, no one's allowed near!" Raymont ordered.

"Yes, sir!" The soldier named Link unhesitatingly unfastened the saber at his waist and presented it with both hands. Then he turned smartly and left, closing the door behind him.

Raymont took the standard-issue Marine long sword. The instant he gripped its hilt, Boer's Extrasensory Vision clearly "saw" the vast Armament Haki within Raymont surge toward the blade like a flood bursting through a dam, pouring into it swiftly and evenly!

Almost within a single breath, the blade's cold metallic gleam was covered by a deep, subdued layer of pitch black that seemed capable of absorbing all light!

Once that was done, Raymont casually tossed the now "blackened" long sword lightly to Boer opposite him.

"Boy, you don't seem to have awakened Armament Haki yourself yet, so you might not fully understand."

Raymont's voice carried an unprecedented gravity. "The real 'danger' of these blades you've made isn't simply their sharpness or hardness. The key is their extraordinary ability to conduct and hold Haki!"

Boer caught the temporarily created "Black Blade" and brushed his fingers over its cool, smooth surface. He could clearly feel the stable yet surging energy contained within it.

He examined it closely, a flicker of understanding crossing his eyes, and asked tentatively, "You mean... anyone who can use Armament Haki can easily channel it into this sort of blade, temporarily giving it some of the properties of a 'Black Blade'? With almost... no loss or resistance?"

"Exactly!" Raymont slapped his thigh hard with a loud smack. "Imagine those troublesome pirate crews in the New World. They wouldn't need every member to be a Haki expert. They'd only need to equip a small squad, or even just a few officers skilled in Armament Haki, with these weapons of yours, and they could easily cut through ordinary Marines' weapons and defenses! It would be a devastating blow to the rank and file! Our casualties would increase enormously!"

His tone held a trace of lingering fear and anger; he had clearly pictured certain unpleasant scenes.

He looked at Boer, an almost imperceptible glimmer of cunning and genuine appreciation crossing his eyes, and made an unexpected offer:

"Boer, boy, I can see you're strong. Your tricks might be flashy, but your nature... doesn't seem too bad so far."

"If you agree to stop these weapons from reaching outside buyers and are willing to support the Marines instead, I can give you special approval to join us! With your strength and... 'contributions,' I can grant you the rank of lieutenant commander directly! I could even write a personal recommendation and secure you a place at Marine Headquarters' Elite Training Camp for further training!"

"With your potential and ability, becoming a pillar of the Marines, or even the next Marine Admiral, is by no means impossible! What do you say? Rather than hiding away in West Blue as some provincial noble, wouldn't making a name for yourself on the real Grand Line and practicing true justice better suit a man's ambitions?"

The invitation was thoroughly sincere, its terms exceptionally generous. Even Prince Locke beside them was somewhat moved.

Yet the gentle, distant smile on Boer's face did not change in the slightest. He shook his head lightly, his tone carrying just the right amount of regret and resolve:

"I'm deeply grateful that you think so highly of me, Rear Admiral. But I'm afraid I must disappoint you. I've always been easygoing by nature, and I can't stand too many military restrictions. I can't part with the power in my hands, the fine wine and beautiful women around me, or, least of all, the foundation I've built with my own hands. Please spare me from joining the Marines."

Half joking and half serious, he politely declined an invitation countless people dreamed of receiving.

"Tch!" Raymont spat in displeasure, but there was little surprise in his eyes, as though he had expected this outcome all along.

"Unambitious brat! You can earn rewards for military achievements and gain wealth and status as a Marine, too! I'm only offering you this chance because I like your temperament! What's so interesting about being a petty king in this tiny patch of land?"

Looking at Boer's unmoved smile, he knew the matter could not be forced and stopped pressing it. Disgruntled, he grabbed another bottle and waved his large hand.

"Forget it! Everyone has their own ambitions! Go on with this 'goodwill' of yours!"

Boer nodded slightly and continued:

"Since you've explicitly raised the issue of the weapons, I can guarantee you here and now that, effective immediately, I will no longer use my Devil Fruit ability to mass-produce this type of standard-issue weapon and release it onto the market."

Then he shifted tack. "However, my earlier promise to provide weapon replacement services for the 101st Branch still stands. Furthermore, I can promise that the weapons supplied to the Marines in the future will be products of equally excellent quality, manufactured through standardized industrial processes at our newly built Metal Smelting and Processing Center. In fact, if the Marines have special requirements, I can still occasionally 'personally' manufacture some customized, higher-performance 'Devil Fruit weapons' exclusively for Marine use."

This satisfied the Marines' demands while preserving room for future cooperation and exchanges of interests.

He paused, then presented the most central and far-sighted proposal of the day:

"Additionally, I'm sure you've both noticed that our Steel Heavy Industry Consortium will soon be investing heavily in building an automated sugar processing plant and a high-efficiency refined salt plant. I believe that, with the Marines' informants and connections throughout the Four Blues, you must have a stable, extensive distribution network and safe shipping routes-and those are precisely what we currently lack."

Seeing Raymont frown slightly, seemingly hesitant, Boer immediately added in a lowered voice full of temptation:

"We only need to 'borrow' some of your channels and shipping routes to sell our products across West Blue, and even to broader markets. In return, we will give twenty-five percent of the net profits from these two factories, free of charge, to the 101st Branch-or rather, to our friends here who choose to cooperate with us."

He paused briefly to let that figure sink in before slowly stating his estimate:

"According to our calculations, once the factories are fully operational, their monthly net profits will be no less than sixty million Beli. That means the Marines will receive a steady dividend of at least fifteen million Beli a month."

Boer's low voice continued, like a devil's temptation:

"This isn't simply a matter of monetary income. Building and operating the factories will require a great many workers. The families of Marine personnel, heroic soldiers forced to retire through injury, even your close and distant relatives... we can give all of them priority placements in the factories on generous terms, providing steady jobs and income. I can guarantee that any friend who chooses to cooperate with us will... make a fortune in the future!"

At that moment, Prince Locke, who had been silent for a long time, raised his hand at just the right moment and added, speaking from personal experience:

"Mr. Boer speaks the truth. I can testify that, thanks to his and the Commonwealth's operations, the full amount of this year's 'Heavenly Tribute' owed by the Kingdom of Bernia has already been prepared ahead of schedule. Most importantly, this time, unlike previous years, excessive taxation and extortion have not driven large numbers of commoners to their deaths..."

His words corroborated, from another angle, the "order" and "prosperity" Boer had brought.

When it was the Marines' turn to speak again, the conference room fell silent.

Rear Admiral Raymont stopped drinking. His thick fingers tapped unconsciously against the bottle with dull knocks. His brows were tightly furrowed on his resolute face; he was clearly engaged in an intense internal struggle.

Adjutant Carl Valentine adjusted his glasses again. His sharp gaze swept over Boer and Locke from behind the lenses as his mind raced, weighing every advantage, drawback, and risk behind this seemingly attractive proposal, which could in fact bind the Marines deeply to local powers.

Only the mellow fragrance of rum and the silent contest continued to drift through the air.