The ship landed with a deep creak, the wood of its hull groaning as it met the dock with a familiar bump. Salt wind rippled through the sails as villagers hurried forward to secure the mooring lines. Thick ropes slapped against cleats, knotted fast by hands calloused from years of labor.
Above the clamor, I sat. No, I rested.
Just comfortably, as any rational man would on a sunlit day, peeling an orange atop a sturdy crate that smelled faintly of varnish and fresh spice.
Beside me stood Klahadore.
He was rigid as ever, pen scratching against parchment with rapid, almost angry precision. Every crate that came off the ship was marked, noted, cross-referenced. He counted barrels like they were sins and weighed bags of flour as though a gram out of place would damn us all.
I, on the other hand, let the sunlight warm my face as I eased a juicy slice of orange between my lips. The ship workers had delivered several crates of them—fresh, sweet, and rare in this season. They were technically for the mansion's kitchen, but I had "sampled" one before any list had been completed. For research purposes. To check poison.
Klahadore, of course, said nothing.
But his eyes flicked toward me with the subtle disgust of a man watching someone dip a brush into a shared ink pot with their fingers.
Eventually, the work was done.
Four carts stood at the end of the dock, fully loaded and creaking under the weight of goods—two bound for the village, two for the mansion. The separation was clear, and the villagers didn't wait long. With waves and shouts of thanks, they hauled their carts away, nodding to both of us. I gave a friendly wave back, beaming like the village's generous patron.
And Klahadore?
He barely nodded, holding the last ledger against his chest like a holy text.
The villagers always saw the contrast.
He was the strict one, the cold steward guarding every coin and counting every grain of rice. I was the man who paid full price, tipped, and slipped a few extras to the local kids. Who didn't love the generous one when he stood next to the stingy disciplinarian?
That, too, was by design. My design.
Once all was confirmed, I reached into my coat and handed the captain his payment. He took the bag of berry with a gleam in his eye, nodding in satisfaction as his second-in-command immediately began counting the stacks, tongue poking out the side of his mouth as the coins clinked between fingers.
They paused halfway through the stack. The first mate glanced up. Then, slowly, he broke into a smile.
There was a little more than needed.
Just enough to feel like a gift, not a mistake.
The captain clapped me on the shoulder with a grin. Who didn't love money? But more than that—who didn't love someone who gave it freely? With that single pat, I'd earned another few notches of loyalty. Influence was easy to buy if you knew the right price and the right people.
They boarded the ship soon after, waving their farewells as the sails dropped and the vessel slipped away from the dock, cutting cleanly through the water.
Looking at the two crate, I grinned.
We had brought one worker.
One.
I let the worker push the cart.
I smiled sweetly, swung my leg over the cart of mansion-bound goods, and sat atop a barrel labeled olive oil – refined, imported. My posture was perfect. Carefree, even.
He glared.
I knew that glare. If glares were heat, I'd have been charcoal in seconds.
But Klahadore said nothing. Instead, he turned to the remaining cart and placed his gloved hands on the wood. I raised an eyebrow as he began to push.
He didn't ask for help. Not from the worker, not from me.
So I let him.
The wheels groaned under the weight of flour, rice, sugar, kitchen spices, and more. Essentials for the mansion.
And I? I sat, breathing in the ocean breeze, legs swinging like a bored prince watching his kingdom run itself or rather run by Klahadore as I took all the credit.
When we reached the mansion, the gates creaked open as if holding back laughter.
The worker hurried ahead and placed his cart just inside the entrance, eager to be done with the delivery. He glanced back at me, perched on the second cart with half a peeled orange in hand, and blinked. There was confusion in his eyes. Maybe envy. Maybe admiration. Maybe he wondered what kind of deal a man had to strike with the heavens to be wheeled through life like this.
I gave him a lazy salute with a wedge of citrus.
Merry came out the front doors then, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
I hopped off the cart, landed lightly, and dusted myself off like I'd done something incredibly taxing. Merry said nothing. Just sighed. One of those long, familiar sighs that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts.
I only smiled.
Then came the chaos—light, joyful chaos—rushing down the steps.
The girls.
Nami, Carina, and Kaya, their laughter ringing through the courtyard before they even reached us. They weren't running; they were gliding—like joy had given them extra momentum. Kaya looked healthier. More color in her face. Her movements had steadiness.
That alone was enough to make my chest loosen.
Whatever had weighed on her since I'd left, Usopp and the girls had done wonders in lifting it.
Merry began checking the inventory with Klahadore, who handed over the ledger with rigid efficiency. The cart the butler had dragged—his burden—was the one full of the heavy things. Canned meats, dry goods, pickled vegetables, and preserved herbs. Salt blocks and glass bottles clinking together in crates.
And the cart the worker pushed?
Luxury incarnate.
Silk fabrics from South Blue, dyed in ocean gradients and soft to the touch.
Boxes of jewels inlaid with tiny sea stones, imported from Arabasta.
Perfume oils sealed in hand-blown glass.
Makeup kits wrapped in shimmering paper—straight from the elite ateliers of the Kingdom of Goa.
And the centerpiece: a stack of sealed wooden boxes bearing the stamp of Drum Island, each one containing rare medical texts. Knowledge banned after Wapol's regime had shifted into suppression. I had paid dearly for them.
For Kaya.
She ran her fingers across the book.
Meanwhile, the girls had already jumped onto the cart. Nami held up a silk dress to the light, its colors dancing across her skin. Carina tried on a pair of jeweled bangles and spun around like a noble's daughter. Even Kaya climbed up beside them and opened a compact mirror with a delighted gasp.
They had spared no expense.
Why would they?
I was footing the bill.
Just the cart of luxuries cost over ten million berries.
This was the village whole year budget.
Klahadore's face twisted, as if he had seen his money fly away. His money the one he worked so hard for just fly away to impress girls.
I said nothing. But I felt satisfied.
He had pushed the heavy cart.
Pettiness dressed in silk—and Klahadore did the heavy lifting. Why would I be ashamed?
It was my money. I'd promised the girls they could enjoy life. Buy stuff in the Syrup Village that were hard to find even in towns. Even if it meant going broke.
They were happy. Kaya was smiling.
And Klahadore had done all the work while I got the praises.
A good day in my book.
------
The sound of giggling drifted down the hallway, light and carefree—too warm to ignore, too distant to join. Kaya's room had become a fortress of laughter. The door was shut tight, locked from the inside. All of us were kicked out from the room.
They had huddled up in there the moment all the crates had arrived, dragging the finery and treasures into the room as if they were hoarding a dragon's bounty.
And of course, Klahadore carried every crate upstairs.
Every last one.
Not me. Never me. I merely stood at the bottom of the steps, watching with something between amusement and smug triumph as he hauled heavy box after heavy box, his back straight but his soul clearly cracking.
If he wanted the image of a hardworking, dutiful butler, I had no problem giving him the stage. I would just need to make sure I got the benefit from his work.
Merry stood beside me, eyes fixed on Kaya's door, arms crossed lightly over his chest. He didn't say anything, but the lines on his face spoke volumes. He had the look of an father watching his daughter get influenced by bad decisions.
Then he looked at me, he had questions. Worries. Maybe even fears. Fears about the two of us—me and Klahadore—existing in the same house, breathing the same air. He probably wanted to urge caution, to beg us both to ease off before the tension shattered something that couldn't be repaired.
But he didn't.
Because Merry knew one thing too well:
Neither of us would listen.
Klahadore and I were both too damn stubborn. Set in our ways. Always waiting for the other to flinch first. And Merry? He was too old and too tired to mediate a fire that never stopped burning.
So instead, I broke the silence.
"Ocha, Klahadore."
Tea.
Simple. Dismissive. Intentionally plain.
Klahadore turned his head toward me, his expression unreadable. Then, without a word, he walked toward the kitchen, shoes clicking sharply against the polished wood floor.
The moment he turned the corner, I reached into the inside pocket of my jacket and unfolded a set of thick, carefully preserved design plans.
I handed them to Merry.
He took them without a word, eyes narrowing as he adjusted his glasses and scanned the paper. A beat passed. Then another. The giggling behind Kaya's door was still going strong, but here, in this hallway, the silence took on a different weight.
Merry's brows furrowed, not in confusion but in deep concentration. His hands trembled slightly—not with age, but with something like awe.
This was his dream.
Or at least... the bones of it made in my own color with a little help from Usopp himself.
He didn't look up for nearly a full minute. Then, finally, he exhaled—one long breath that sounded like it carried years of suppressed ambition.
But he sighed again, and this time it was heavier. He was already calculating, estimating costs and time and labor. Years of being careful, of scraping for every coin, had left him skeptical of big ideas.
I could see it in his eyes—the worry, the impossible math.
So I leaned against the wall and clarified, gently but firmly.
I wanted to invest.
Not as a benefactor.
Not as a guest.
As a partner.
I laid it out clean: 70 million berries. Liquid, ready, no strings except one. He could build it—his project, his dream—but I wanted to be involved. Not to control, but to anchor it. To make sure it happened. To etch my name on it.
That money wasn't a gift. It was a stake.
He didn't answer right away.
Klahadore returned, balancing a tray with two cups of green tea. I accepted mine and waved him back toward the kitchen for snacks.
He bristled. Subtly. But it was there. The irritation curled around his posture, made his exit just a touch sharper. Still, he left again, and I turned back to Merry.
He had set the design plans down, hands still resting lightly on them.
I could see the calculation running through him.
Just... the weight of possibility.
Seventy million was more than enough to begin. It wouldn't finish the project—nothing this big ever finished quickly—but it would kick down the first dozen doors. And for a man like Merry, who had waited so long to dream, that was hard to process all at once.
I watched him carefully, gauging not just his interest but the tug-of-war inside him.
And then, finally, he nodded.
He reached out and shook my hand—firm, unflinching.
The deal was made.
Just as our hands parted, Klahadore returned again, this time with a new tray stacked with small plates. Sliced fruit, sweet rice cakes, pastries still warm from the oven. He looked between us and paused for a fraction too long.
I waved him off again, this time for lunch for the girls.
The look he gave me—oh, it was art.
Controlled fury. Irritated grace. A butler with a sword sheathed in etiquette.
But he turned away and obeyed.
With him gone, Merry sat down on the nearby bench and unrolled the design plans again.
Now came the real discussion.
Not contracts or percentages. Materials.
The type of wood we'd use. The shape of the keel. The bones of the ship before it ever touched water.
Merry started naming viable woods—cheaper ones, accessible ones. But I was adamant. This wouldn't be a standard vessel. Not for this. Not for her.
Adam Wood.
The hardest, rarest, most durable timber in the world. It was overkill. It was expensive. It was nearly impossible to obtain.
But I needed it.
The keel—the spine of the ship, the foundation—had to be made from Adam Wood.
I didn't explain it to Merry, but it mattered on more than just a structural level. I needed to test the world. See what it would allow.
If we could acquire Adam Wood without issues, it meant an interesting theory. If we failed—if we were diverted, delayed, or if Merry one day changed his mind, broke his word and used normal wood- it would bring another theory.
That the plot, the force shaping this world behind the curtain, had claws sharp enough to carve even through conviction. It could change minds of its character.
I drew up a contract on the spot.
Merry read every line carefully.
I made it clear: no Adam Wood, no ship. The keel would define the whole project. Without it, everything else was moot.
He tried, gently, to amend the clause. Suggested options. Other woods, at least for the first phase. He wasn't arguing from greed or laziness. He was trying to be practical.
But I didn't budge.
And in the end, he nodded again, slower this time.
He signed.
I trusted Merry. Truly. He was a man of honor, one of the few I could look in the eye without second-guessing his motives.
So if one day he did go against the contract—if he ordered the keel made of something cheaper, faster—it wouldn't be him betraying me.
It would mean something darker.
It would mean the plot itself had twisted him.
Maybe even me.
That was the test. The ship wasn't just a dream or an investment.
It was an experiment. A hypothesis in wood and ambition.
A test to check the world's plot.
Klahadore returned one final time, looking increasingly weary. He muttered something under his breath as he brought the lunch tray.
I took the tray from him and knocked on the door. Nami opened the door and quickly took the tray not before closing the door on my face. I rubbed my nose and focused my attention elsewhere.
I watched Merry trace his finger along the blueprint again.
Would the world plot make sure Going Merry was built with ordinary wood—or let an Adam Wood keel slip through?
I had to wait to find out.
But for now Operation: Going Merry had started.