“The Deep-Sea Reaper…” the curly-haired man read aloud from the bold headline of the newspaper, his expression shifting. “I knew that name sounded familiar. It’s him.”

The image printed on the article was clearly taken from a bounty poster. When compared to the 50-million-berry bounty notice in his hand, there was no doubt—it was the same man.

After confirming it with the others, the curly-haired man sat down and began reading the article carefully.

The man with the crown picked up the bounty poster, examined it, then scoffed and tossed it back onto the table.

“Ugh, all those tentacles… Is he a Fish-Man? What’s a Fish-Man doing in the East Blue?”

“We don’t need to know that much,” the curly-haired man replied, turning to the nun. “Miss Monday, get in touch with HQ. Pass the intel up the chain. Let’s see how they want us to handle this.”

Crown-man looked baffled.

“Come on. Sure, Fish-Men are strong, but they’re just a few guys. We have more than enough manpower—do we really need HQ’s help?”

“To be precise, we have 100 bounty hunters under us,” the woman with the single blue ponytail—Miss Wednesday—added dramatically.

“Exactly!” Crown-man said. “Like Miss Wednesday said—what are we so scared of?”

“Mr. 9,” the curly-haired man said, gently pressing his hand on the agitated crown-wearer’s shoulder, “Listen to me. Miss Wednesday—go tell our men to let them in without suspicion. Let them think everything’s normal. You two, go take care of it.”

“Got it,” said Miss Wednesday and Miss Monday as they turned to leave and contact the Den Den Mushi.

The curly-haired man looked at Mr. 9 with a serious expression.

“We have to keep calm. Being cautious isn’t a weakness.”

“I just worry we’ll run out of funding and starve out the whole town…” Mr. 9 groaned. “Fine, Mr. 8. I’ll keep my cool.”

“Good.” Mr. 8 nodded.

Not long after, Miss Wednesday returned.

“I’ve explained everything to our people. They won’t act recklessly.”

Right after she finished, Miss Monday came back as well—but her face looked puzzled.

“What’s wrong?” Mr. 8 asked.

Miss Monday sat down, took a sip of tea, and then said:

“I reached Mr. 7. He said to leave Davy Jones’ crew alone. Let them go.”

“Let them go?!” Mr. 9 nearly jumped out of his seat—then slumped back down in defeat. “Sigh… Miss Wednesday, I guess we really are going to have to go whale hunting.”

Mr. 8 gave a resigned nod.

“If that’s HQ’s decision, then we’ll follow it. All right, everyone—back to work.”

The team dispersed.

But a few moments later, Miss Wednesday returned once again, for reasons unknown. She quietly entered the room, closed and locked the door, and sat down in the corner.

Mr. 8 wasn’t surprised. He poured her a cup of tea and handed it to her.

“Thank you.”

“Princess Vivi, you don’t have to be so formal with me,” Mr. 8 said, bowing respectfully.

“Igaram, don’t,” Vivi said, waving her hand. “Not while we’re out in the open. Just call me Vivi when it’s the two of us.”

Igaram nodded.

The girl known here as Miss Wednesday sighed.

“You picked up on it, didn’t you? The moment I pulled out that old newspaper, you played along. I just hoped they didn’t have any other source of news… But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“They probably don’t know yet,” Igaram said seriously. “But it won’t stay hidden for long. Vivi… do you have a plan?”

“I just didn’t want them to see the latest articles and get scared off. But Mr. 7’s response means HQ does know about Davy Jones’ strength… and they don’t want to get dragged into anything extra.”

Igaram was the nominal leader of Whiskey Peak. Miss Monday was his partner. Vivi was officially paired with Mr. 9.

However, Vivi and Igaram had a much deeper, secret bond—that of royal bodyguard and princess. No one else knew.

They often controlled access to outside information, especially newspapers.

New editions would often be delayed by a few days before being released to the general public—just to create a buffer. It gave them more time to react than the rest of the town.

“Igaram, look. This just arrived yesterday.” Vivi handed him a newspaper clipping.

“‘Battle at Reverse Mountain: What Caused the Navy’s Crushing Defeat?'”

Igaram read the headline aloud, his expression turning grim.

“I can’t believe Davy Jones’ crew pulled off something like that—beating Vice Admiral Garp’s forces? No wonder Mr. 7 said to leave them alone.”

Vivi shook her head. She understood Morgans, the president of the World Economic News Paper, all too well.

“There’s a lot of exaggeration in here. I think Davy Jones’ crew must have escaped Garp, not defeated him outright. But regardless, they clearly are strong.”

“Before Mr. 7 declined… what were you planning to do?” Igaram asked, reading her intentions.

“We’ve already learned almost everything we need to know about Baroque Works. The only thing we don’t have is evidence tying it to him. What we’re missing is time—and an opening.”

Igaram sat down, leaning in.

“So… you wanted to stir up chaos here? Delay Baroque Works’ plans in Arabasta? And maybe gain access to the inner circle?”

“Yes. I was hoping Davy Jones’ crew would trigger a fight here.”

“So I shouldn’t have stopped Mr. 9 earlier?”

“No, you were right. That fits your cautious persona. If you hadn’t stopped him, Miss Monday might have suspected something. Still… it’s a shame. Without a threat, HQ won’t send Mr. 6 or Mr. 7 here.”

“You were planning to take out Mr. 6 or Mr. 7? That’s too risky…”

“That man is too careful. He’s never left any proof of his ties to Baroque Works. He executes every plan flawlessly.”

Vivi frowned.

“We can’t play by his rules. We have to force something. Create pressure. Divert attention.”

“But that puts us at risk,” Igaram warned. “We might blow our cover.”

“It’s a gamble. But Baroque Works only allows promotion when there’s a vacancy. If we want to get closer to the core, we need someone like Mr. 6 gone. Then we might access more crucial intel.”

“Even if they send Mr. 6 or Mr. 7 here… how would we eliminate them and take their place?”

Vivi rubbed her temples in frustration.

“We’ll just have to hope that all the hype about Davy Jones’ crew isn’t entirely exaggerated. If they can draw enough attention and take the heat up front, we can strike from behind. Then we can blame everything on them.”

“And what makes you think Davy Jones will play along?” Igaram asked. “He doesn’t strike me as the type to be someone’s pawn.”

“If there were any other way, I wouldn’t consider it. But we’re out of time… and options.”

Vivi bit her lip.

Igaram tried to comfort her.

“We’ll get another chance. Don’t panic.”

“I’m just afraid… that the people of the kingdom can’t wait much longer,” Vivi said softly.

Meanwhile, aboard a ship at sea…

A man with an afro, dark skin, and sunglasses was speaking into a Den Den Mushi.

“Mhm. Yeah, I told Mr. 7 to respond that way. They didn’t suspect a thing… Yep, Davy Jones’ crew’s there too… Understood.”

After he hung up, some time passed before a woman emerged from the cabin—wearing a yellow hat and carrying a small frilly parasol.

“Mr. 5, what did HQ say?”

The man with the afro grunted.

“Miss Valentine, they want me to summon all agents from Mr. 6 to Mr. 12, along with their partners, to Whiskey Peak. They’ll act under our command.”

“Also—if Miss Monday and Mr. 9 are confirmed traitors, they’re to be eliminated.”

Most of the agents from Mr. 6 to 12 were stationed near Reverse Mountain. They rarely moved unless directly ordered. Summoning them wouldn’t be difficult.

“All this just to catch one little princess?” Miss Valentine said, tilting her parasol as she gave a stiff, sarcastic smile. “Aren’t we enough? Why bring in a whole army?”

“HQ is more concerned about Davy Jones’ crew. They don’t know his true intentions,” Mr. 5 explained. “This mission must succeed. No mistakes.”

“Fine.” She lifted the parasol to shade herself from the sun. “HQ’s being way too cautious…”

“Well, have you read the headlines?”

“Since when has the news ever told the truth?” Miss Valentine scoffed. “They’re saying Davy Jones’ crew has Emperor-level power. Yeah, right. If they get in our way, we’ll take care of them too. Then HQ can stop worrying.”

“Doesn’t bother me either way.” Mr. 5 waved dismissively. He clearly didn’t take the papers seriously either.

After all, with titles like:

“Punching Garp, Kicking the Emperors!”

…it all felt more like Morgans was on Davy Jones’ payroll than journalism.

Their ship continued on its way—heading toward the Cactus Island of Whiskey Peak.

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