The Black Market.A lawless, smoke-choked underworld built on blood, secrets, and silence.
It wasn't listed on any map. It wasn't bound to a single location.Rather, it drifted like a specter across isolated islands, hidden coves, and abandoned ports—places the World Government pretended didn't exist.
Here, human lives were currency. Devil Fruits were auctioned in gilded cages.Ancient weapons, severed organs, narcotics, forbidden tomes—everything had a price. And no one ever asked questions.
Two days later…
A lone pirate ship coasted toward one such island, its sails half-furled, crew silent and wary.
On deck stood Argus, arms folded, coat rustling in the wind. His eyes were fixed on the land ahead—a seemingly ordinary trade port.
"Is this the place?" he asked, voice low.
From a distance, the island looked unremarkable. Merchant ships lined the docks. Small stalls cluttered the beachside roads. It could've been any civilian hub in the New World.
But Argus wasn't fooled.
"Gurararara... Looks peaceful, huh?" Newgate chuckled, that signature crescent mustache twitching. "Don't let it fool you. This place has fangs."
Leaving a skeleton crew behind to guard the ship, Argus, Newgate, and two trusted men disembarked—stepping into the belly of the beast.
The moment they entered, the illusion shattered.
Weapon racks stood alongside makeshift tents hawking hearts in jars. Slaves in chains were paraded like livestock. One stall openly sold banned poisons labeled "for discreet use." In another, Devil Fruit replicas sat beside cursed heirlooms and old ciphered texts.
This wasn't a marketplace.
It was a butcher's shop for the soul.
Morality didn't exist here. Only Beri and power.
Though Argus kept a low profile, Newgate stood out like a sea king in a koi pond. The moment his naginata touched the ground, merchants flinched. Pirates turned away. Even traffickers and warlords whispered his name with hushed reverence.
The Whitebeard.Still in his twenties. Still rising.But already a monster in the eyes of the underground.
"You bastard! This map was fake!"
A shout cracked across the bazaar.
Argus turned his head. A bloodied pirate—bandaged, enraged—was screaming at a vendor. He slammed a torn map onto the stall.
"My crew chased this lie across three islands! We were ambushed! Everyone's dead but me!"
The vendor, a slick-haired weasel of a man, scoffed.
"Not my problem," he said coolly. "Map's real. Maybe someone beat you to it. Or maybe your crew was just weak."
The pirate roared and reached for his blade.
He didn't make it.
A dozen guards stepped out from nowhere—silent, fast, brutal.They tackled the man, crushed his sword hand, and dragged him away.
No trial. No questions.
Disrupting business here was a death sentence.
The vendor straightened his collar, spat, and muttered, "Idiots. Treasure's not for the weak."
Argus stepped forward.
"You sell maps?"
The vendor froze mid-motion. His eyes darted to Argus… then to the towering figure beside him.
Recognition hit him like a hammer.His face drained of color.
"I—I do, sir! All kinds!" the man stammered. "Treasure routes, vaults, Devil Fruit rumors… even some Void Century scraps, if you're into that kind of thing."
"Are they real?" Argus asked coldly.
The man hesitated, then bowed slightly.
"Some. Maybe. Depends who sold 'em to me. I offer what I get—no guarantees, no refunds."
He gestured to a crate filled with scrolls, tubes, and weather-worn parchment.
"You're welcome to browse, sirs. Absolute discretion, of course."
Argus rifled through the pile with quiet precision.
Most were junk—childish scribbles, duplicated maps of public islands, or bait laced with curses. But one stood out.
An old scroll wrapped in cracked leather.Parchment yellowed with time.Faded ink, but still elegant. The title stood alone in block print:
"Supreme Blade."
Argus's eyes sharpened. He held it up.
"This one?"
The vendor's voice dropped to a reverent whisper.
"Ah—yes. That one's… special. Came from a dying man. Said it led to the tomb of a Supreme Grade Sword. One of the Twelve. Could be nonsense, could be real. I bought it for a thousand, was planning to sell for a hundred thousand—"
"I'll give you one ten," Argus said flatly.
The vendor blinked. "Wha—I—yes! Absolutely! Or—wait! You don't even need to pay! Please—take it! A gift! My humble respect to the Edward family!"
Argus exchanged a look with Newgate, then casually pocketed the scroll.
"Well, since you're being generous…"
The vendor bowed so deep his nose scraped dirt.
As the two pirates walked away, the man muttered bitterly,"I should've just shut up and taken the money…"
Outside the stall…
Newgate stretched, cracking his knuckles. "So? You think it's real?"
Argus tucked the scroll into his coat. "No idea."
"But it's worth a look?"
"Absolutely. If it's real—we just found a Supreme Grade weapon. If not? We just learned how this place operates."
Newgate laughed.
"Gurararara! Either way, we win."
And with that, the four of them disappeared back into the maze of the market—map in hand, future uncertain, but the hunt already underway.