The Cloudchaser reached the crescent-shaped shores of Whiskey Peak, its sails rustling as the Grand Line's erratic winds died to a whisper. The island's small port came into view—rigged with weatherworn stone walls, a wooden jetty extending like an arm into the sea. Everything was... surprisingly clean. Surprisingly quiet.
Several boats were docked—mostly merchant vessels. No Marine flags in sight.
As the crew tied down the sails and dropped anchor, they disembarked with wary steps. The scent of fresh bread, alcohol, and briny sea salt mixed in the air.
To their surprise, they were met not with suspicion—but applause.
A small crowd of cheerful islanders had gathered, clapping politely.
"Welcome to Whiskey Peak, travelers!" a man in a feathered hat called out, arms wide. His coat swayed in the breeze, and gold rings flashed on his fingers. "We rarely get visitors who survive the climb! You must be tired, hungry... Come, let us treat you!"
Toma, Selka, and Rigg exchanged uncertain looks.
"No pitchforks?" Rigg muttered.
"No Marines," Selka added, scanning the area with narrowed eyes.
Toma gave a cautious smile. "Let's see where this goes."
Half a Day Later…
The trio found themselves in a warm, candlelit inn at the center of the town. Rough stone walls held old seafarer maps and netting draped along the rafters. Music echoed off the beams—flutes and fiddles. The smell of grilled fish, mashed tubers, and a strong, throat-burning whiskey filled the air.
Locals danced in the corner, raised mugs in toast—even though they didn't seem to know the crew's names.
"You know," Rigg said, mouth half full of buttered crab, "this is the most suspiciously friendly place I've ever been."
Selka sipped her drink slowly, eyes sharp. "Too clean. Too welcoming. No questions about who we are."
Toma leaned back in his chair, arms folded, gaze resting on the window's reflection. "Because they already know."
"What?" Selka and Rigg said together.
He stood up and nodded toward a corkboard mounted on the far wall of the inn—covered in yellowed papers and tattered postings.
Among them, unmistakable, were bounty posters.
He brushed aside a few older ones, revealing the ones they feared might exist.
The first showed a charcoal sketch of him—messy black hair caught in wind, eyes calm and unreadable.
"WANTED — DEAD OR ALIVE
ARMAN D. TOMA
Bounty: 43,000,000 Berries
Crimes: Assault on Marine Officers (Lt. Hume, Lt. Vale), Disruption of Judicial Proceedings, Harboring a Fugitive, Illegal Entry into the Grand Line."
Selka's eyes widened as she stepped up beside him. "Forty-three million? Already?"
Toma didn't answer. He just kept reading.
Next to his was hers:
"WANTED — DEAD OR ALIVE
SELKA
Bounty: 2,000,000 Berries
Crimes: Armed Assault, Illegal Entry into the Grand Line."
And Rigg's:
"WANTED — DEAD OR ALIVE
RIGG VELLOR
Bounty: 6,000,000 Berries
Crimes: Illegal Mechanical Deployment, Sabotage, Aiding Pirate Escape, Alchemical Hazard Creation, Illegal Entry into the Grand Line."
Rigg let out a low whistle. "They called my acid bombs 'alchemical hazards'? That's classy."
Just then, a voice—low and smooth—cut through the room.
"They post 'em as fast as they print 'em these days."
The trio turned sharply.
A young man stood in the doorway. Hooded cloak drawn back, steam rising from the cup of tea he held. He was maybe their age—his pale copper eyes calm, skin like moon-washed porcelain. A scroll case was strapped to his back, sleeves stained with ink and wear. He leaned casually against the frame, yet his presence sharpened the air.
His gaze swept over them. Alert. Calculating. Not hostile—but aware.
"You're real lucky, coming here first," he continued, stepping inside. "Most of the early islands in the Grand Line? Bad bets. But this one… has people who know how to keep quiet—for a price."
"Who are you?" Toma asked calmly, not yet lowering his guard.
The man gave a faint smile. "Just a traveler. Like you."
"So… you're also a pirate?" Toma asked, standing straighter.
Selka's hand hovered near her belt as she glanced at the door.
"You knew who we were?" she asked.
"Of course." He held up a small, flickering black Den Den Mushi. "Your bounties hit the blacklines before your ship hit the water. You're marked. No more hiding."
"And you?" Toma asked, narrowing his eyes. "You're speaking like someone who's already been through this."
The man shrugged and reached inside his coat. He pulled out a folded poster and handed it to Toma without a word.
Toma unfolded it.
"WANTED — DEAD OR ALIVE
RAIKO D. FEN
Bounty: 35,000,000 Berries
Crimes: Possession of Myth-Class Devil Fruit, Unlicensed Historical Excavation, Entry into Restricted Archives."
Toma looked back up. "It's your bounty poster."
"Yep." Raiko sipped his tea. "See? That's the region I'm telling you. We're all in the same storm."
Selka blinked. "Thirty-five million? For what?"
"I found things," Raiko said. "Old things. I find what gone missing or disappear from world – I am an archaeologists."
Rigg stared. "Wait… You're the guy who wrote 'The Lost Lineage Scroll'? That thing got banned in East Blue."
Raiko grinned faintly. "'They say myth is dead. But I say myth remembers', remember this line from book". He continued moving his face towards rigg "it's my fav. Line in my book".
Toma folded the poster slowly. "You said we're lucky to have landed here. Why?"
"Because you've got one shot," Raiko said, his tone shifting to quiet urgency. "The World Government won't send ships yet. They'll send agents. If Cipher Pol is watching… it's already begun."
Rigg looked confused. "Wait—Cipher what?"
Selka frowned. "Yeah, what is Cipher Pol?"
"It's a secret force," Toma answered, still watching Raiko. "They answer only to the World Government. Above the Navy. They don't fight wars—they are killers who kill from the shadows."