The wind blew past, ruffling my hair with an insistent hand.
The sail had been fully opened just minutes ago, and now it caught the wind with ease, pulling my modest vessel forward, deeper into the sea. The hull creaked gently under the pressure, but the ship moved with purpose. Steady and sure.
I stood at the helm, one hand loosely gripping the edge of the rudder, though the current needed little guidance right now. The sea welcomed me. The water was calm, the tide gentle. Even the gulls in the distance seemed to cry a little softer this morning.
I didn't look back.
I'd promised to return, and that was that.
Looking back wouldn't have helped anyone. Would've only made it harder to put my feet where they needed to go. Would've stirred things that were better left still—like the way Piiman's nose crinkled when he cried, or how Kaya's fingers trembled slightly when she handed me that last book.
So I faced forward.
The wind whipped through my shirt and tugged gently at the ends of my sleeves. I raised a hand and brushed a loose strand of hair from my eyes, blinking as sunlight reflected off the calm sea, slicing the horizon with shimmering gold. The sun had climbed to its zenith, bright and blinding above me. I squinted and turned away from it slightly.
It was time to rest.
I ducked into the cabin and closed the wooden door behind me. The temperature dropped almost immediately. The inside was dim, cool, and still—thick wooden walls muting the sounds of the sea outside. The only noise was the occasional creak of the wood and the distant flap of the sail catching wind.
I sat on one of the water barrels.
The room smelled of salt, rope, and wood. A little like the treehouse back in the island.
I leaned against the wall, arms folded across my chest.
It hadn't even been half a day since I'd left, and already a strange tightness was settling into my chest. I tried to ignore it at first. Just the usual nerves, I told myself. The early jitters of solo travel. But it wasn't just that.
I missed them.
Already.
The noise. The clatter. The voices.
I missed the sound of Ninjin shouting about how pirates should always eat meat for strength, or Piiman's wild plans to build a flying boat out of empty oil drums and balloons. I missed Tamanegi's way-too-serious tactical diagrams in the sand and his furious debates with birds that stole food.
I missed Usopp. Loud, reckless, loyal Usopp.
Even when he was full of bluster and nonsense, he had heart. And somehow, over those strange few months, that heart had made space for me.
And the villagers… kind, nosy, warm. They treated me like I'd always been there, even when I kept my distance. They asked about my health, scolded me for skipping meals, offered leftovers without being asked.
Even Merry.
Stoic, silent, sharp-eyed Merry, who always knew more than he said, who kept his distance but never let me fall. There was respect there. And resignation.
And Kaya…
Her care wasn't loud, but it was constant. Even if I was one of the worker of the mansion. She cared for all.
I even missed Klahadore. That sour, twitch-eyed menace.
I chuckled once under my breath.
He probably hated that I'd made it into their orbit. Hated the unpredictability. Hated how I trained with the kids and handed Kaya plates of grilled fish like I belonged there.
I sighed and sat up, pulling my pack close. A salty bite of dried fish filled my mouth, tough and briny. I didn't take more than a small piece—dried fish was efficient, but it demanded water. And water, despite the barrels, was still precious. Fresh water was the only thing the sea couldn't offer.
I pulled out the bag I'd packed before leaving. I hadn't brought much outside the essentials, but this was the one part I'd allowed myself to overprepare on.
Books.
The first one I pulled free was bound in cheap blue cloth, pages dog-eared, full of smudged ink and cross-outs.
Usopp's Beginner Guide to Kanji – Revised (Again)
He'd written it by hand. There were notes in the margins: pronunciation reminders, grammar hacks, even a few drawn stick figures meant to represent vocabulary words.
I opened to a random page:
> 食べる = taberu = to eat
> "I _taberu_ fish every day" – That's not how grammar works, fix this later. – Usopp
I smiled.
It wasn't polished, but it worked. I'd used it for weeks now, slowly but surely teaching myself how to navigate the language around me. I still fumbled, still stammered, but progress was real.
The next few books were old story collections. Folk tales from nearby islands, stories of sea gods, tales of pirates long before Gol D. Roger's era. Most were exaggerated, embellished. Some were likely lies.
But lies had power. I'd learned that from Usopp.
And then I saw it—wedged between the bindings of two books, wrapped in soft cloth.
I hadn't packed this.
I unwrapped it slowly.
A pair of gloves.
Leather. Compact. Carefully stitched. One glove had only three fingers—middle, index, thumb. The other two segments were sealed, sewn tight with extra padding for impact control.
I turned them over in my hands. The stitching was clean. Reinforced where it counted. Slight flex in the wrist for better grip. There was a small mark on the outside of one glove; "L."
He must've slipped them in when I wasn't looking. Probably during one of the loading trips or while I was double-checking the firewood.
I slipped them on.
Perfect fit.
The leather hugged my skin, soft but firm. I closed my hand into a fist. No pull. No stiffness.
Just right.
Usopp had a thing for building. Always had. Even if he couldn't stop talking for five seconds, his hands never lied. He built things with care. With purpose.
These gloves weren't just a gift.
They were armor. From him to me.
A quiet way of saying, We will be waiting.
I leaned back against the wooden wall, hands folded in my lap, gloves still on.
The ship creaked gently.
The wind outside kept blowing, pushing me toward a sea I had yet to see.
And yet, somehow… I didn't feel entirely alone.
The voices, the memories, the objects they left behind—they traveled with me now.
The glove on my hand.
The kanji scribbles on the page.
The dried fish I was still chewing slowly.
They were reminders.
That there were some who were waiting for me.
And when the time was right—I'd go back.
I closed my eyes for just a moment, letting the rhythm of the waves rock through the hull and into my bones.
The wind pushed the ship and me forward.
----------------
I pushed a 50 berries note into the feathered hand—er, wing—of the seagull that had landed smartly on the railing of my ship. Its little leather bag bounced at its side as it dipped forward and received the payment with all the professionalism of a lifelong civil servant. What a smart bird.
It gave me a crisp newspaper in exchange. Fat stack. Multiple inserts. The kind of edition that meant something big had happened somewhere.
Then, just as quickly, the News Coo saluted me with one wing, flapped its wings wide, and took off into the sky. It circled once overhead—maybe to catch another gust—then vanished toward the east with a lazy rhythm in its flight. Like it had all the time in the world.
The sky was clear. The sea calmer than usual. The breeze gentle enough to flip a page if I wasn't careful.
One Piece really had its charm.
I sat down cross-legged at the base of the mast, the newspaper tucked under one arm and my back pressed against the thick wood. I took a breath, steadying myself. This wasn't just idle reading.
This was intel.
I cracked open the front page. Fire Fist Ace.
There he was.
Smiling like a devil as flames danced around him, half a chicken drumstick shoved in his mouth like it was part of his soul. The photo was chaotic—his feet were mid-stride, one hand alight, Marines either ducking or screaming in the background.
Typical Ace.
Always grinning in the middle of the fire.
I couldn't read much of the headline—Kanji was still a barrier. I was improving, yes. I could speak basic Japanese, get through simple sentences. But reading? Especially when the characters danced and swirled like abstract art?
That was still a wall I was climbing.
Still, I knew enough to put the pieces together.
Ace showing up in East Blue news meant his presence was big enough to echo here. And that meant one thing: the countdown had started.
If Ace's bounty was at 55 million, and his escapades were being passed down this far from the Grand Line, Luffy's voyage had to be just around the corner.
Maybe a year and a half. Two, tops.
Time was ticking.
I had to hurry too.
I flipped through the paper, looking for what mattered most.
There weren't many photos—just the Ace feature, a blurry shot of a naval vessel, and a grainy image of what looked like a ruined port. Most of the paper was blocks of text I couldn't fully parse, just a blur of unfamiliar strokes and polite, professional print.
But then I reached the middle section.
There they were.
The bounty posters.
News Coo printed a few of them with each edition. Only local ones, mostly—who was active in the area, who the Marines were flagging, who had made a big enough mess to get a price on their head.
Normally, they printed five.
This time, there were seven.
I raised an eyebrow.
That wasn't standard. Bounty posters cost ink, and ink cost money. If they ran seven, that meant two people had pissed off the Marines hard enough to demand extra attention.
I studied them.
The first five were expected: bounties ranging from 530,000 to 3 million berries. Decent, mid-tier troublemakers. Pirates who'd probably sunk a merchant ship or two, maybe extorted a village or smacked around a Marine patrol.
Then came the big two.
18 million for one.
7 million for the other.
Their posters were clearer. Sharper. These weren't just outlaws. These were local legends—or nightmares—depending on who you asked.
That kind of bounty didn't come from just being a nuisance. That came from turning Marine pride into Marine embarrassment.
But the posters didn't say why.
No incident report. No list of crimes. No mention of where, how, or when. Just their faces, names, and the reward for bringing them in—dead or alive.
I sighed and folded the newspaper across my lap, flipping through the rest as I chewed on the edge of a dried fruit strip. The salt stung slightly against my tongue. I paced myself. These rations weren't infinite.
I scanned what I could. Read what little I understood. Some of it was politics—territory shifts, noble family names, merchant deals. None of it immediately relevant.
So I took what I needed.
I carefully tore out the seven bounty posters and slid them into a protective folder. I had a growing pile of them now, sorted by region and estimated proximity. Most were faded, a few crumpled from use.
From the pile, I'd already separated seven. Seven pirates that my network of merchant crews, dock workers, and loose-lipped sailors had placed within a few days' reach from my current heading.
The lowest among them had a bounty of 700,000 berries. The highest sat just over 5.2 million—oddly specific. 5,200,040 berries. That "40" had to mean something, but bounty math was rarely poetic. Likely tied to property damage, stolen goods, or some unfortunate noble's decorative tea set.
I had notes beside each name. Places they docked, habits reported by crewmen, what kind of ship they sailed. If they had Devil Fruit users among them. If they traveled with pets. You'd be surprised how many pirates had emotional support beasts these days.
I didn't need to hunt every name that crossed my path.
I chose selectively. Strategically.
It wasn't just about testing myself. It was about being seen. Establishing a reputation strong enough that, when Luffy did set sail, I wouldn't just be some name in the background.
I'd be a part of the story.
I tucked the posters away and laid back on the sun-warmed deck. The sail groaned gently in the wind, the ship bobbing in slow rhythm. Gulls cried faintly in the distance, wheeling in the open sky.
There was nothing to do now but wait.
Wait for wind. For current. For fate to bring me closer to one of the seven.
I stared at the sky, watching the clouds pass.
Not aimlessly. Never that.
I stared at the calm. The sea wouldn't give me much of that later.
And all I could do was thrive in it.