I steadied the rudder, the wood warm beneath my hands even as the air began to cool. The boat creaked gently as it aligned with my intended heading. Satisfied, I moved to the sail and began folding it down, binding it neatly with rope.
The sun had slipped below the horizon without much ceremony, leaving behind the faint glow of dusk. Now, the night took over, as inevitable as breath. Above me, the sky darkened into an ink-slick canvas, and stars began to flicker on, one by one. A crescent moon hung above like a sliver of silver blade, thin and graceful.
It looked peaceful. Distant.
And if the One Piece side tales were true, not just a moon, but a world. A sleeping civilization rested there—mechanical, ancient, long forgotten. Someday, Enel would fly there and become something like a god to machines and ghosts of an age long buried.
A wild story. But in this world, wild wasn't unbelievable.
Still, the moon wasn't my concern. My concern was here, on this modest boat, drifting in an ocean that felt larger than life and quieter than death.
I moved back to the cabin and opened the small metal stove bolted to the floor. I threw in a few chunks of coal, striking a flint until the embers caught and the orange glow licked up through the grating. I placed the pan above the flame, waiting for the metal to heat.
Then came the meat—wine-infused, semi-cured pork, sliced thin, still faintly pink in the center. I laid the strips onto the pan, one after another, and the sizzle that followed was immediate, loud, and oddly comforting.
The smell filled the cabin in seconds—earthy, sharp, and sweet from the wine, layered with the smoked herbs from the jungle and fat that was beginning to crisp at the edges.
I stood there, watching the meat darken and curl. I flipped each piece slowly, letting my thoughts wander, as they often did on long nights alone.
I'd been at sea for three months now.
One month before I stumbled across the monkey island, and now one full month since I'd left. Four weeks of blind sailing, following my gut—or what I'd started calling my sixth sense.
It had guided me to the monkey island, after all. Brought me face-to-face with drunk dancing monkeys, marrow trades, and wine that had somehow embedded itself inside me.
But now?
I was starting to doubt it.
Thirty days of nothing. Not a single island. Not a sail on the horizon. Not even seabirds. The only thing to break the monotony had been the News Coo, and even that had only visited five times in two months.
I wasn't a navigator. I knew that. But I wasn't that bad.
The East Blue wasn't the Grand Line. It had ports, villages, merchant lanes. It should have traffic. But for the past month, I'd been adrift in a still, empty sea. A kind of silence that felt… deliberate.
Something didn't want me to find anything.
That was the feeling I couldn't shake.
And now, the sense I had trusted so deeply was leading me in slow, aimless circles. I'd started to question whether it was guiding me toward something—or simply keeping me from returning to anything.
I shook my head and removed the pork from the pan, setting it on a dented metal plate. I left the cabin door wide open behind me, letting the breeze pass through, soft and salt-sweet.
I sat on the deck, the plate on my lap, and took a bite.
The wine came through immediately—bitter, fragrant, soaked into the pork fibers. But something was off. As I chewed, I could feel the wine being pulled—siphoned off somehow, like a taste that never reached my tongue fully.
Then the pressure began.
A gentle warmth in my chest.
Not painful. Just present.
The wine ball.
Still lodged in the center of my torso, silent but never absent.
With every bite I took, I could feel it drawing in the wine from the cured meat like a sponge. It didn't burn this time. It didn't churn or shift.
It just… consumed.
I let out a long sigh and took another bite anyway. The taste was good. The texture was crisp on the edges, juicy in the middle. But it was like eating in someone else's mouth. Like every bite had to be shared with an uninvited guest.
Still, I ate until the plate was clean. Then, on impulse—or maybe just resignation—I uncorked one of the gourds.
The wine was stronger now. Fermented longer, condensed through time and motion. I knew it the moment it touched my tongue.
But before it could reach my stomach, the wine ball drank it in.
I could feel the strange sensation again—like warmth dripping downward, only to be caught and held mid-chest. The same feeling as before, that strange fire blooming in my chest, but duller now, more familiar.
What came next was… something I hadn't expected.
Peace.
A wave of calm rolled over me, subtle and slow, like laying in warm sand after a swim. My limbs went soft. My breath slowed.
The wine wasn't just a flavor anymore. It was a drug, or a signal, or both. Whatever it was doing inside me, it was making itself comfortable.
And here was the strange thing.
I couldn't get drunk.
No matter how much I drank, no matter how strong the brew became, the wine ball pulled it all before it could cloud my mind. It filtered it, neutralized it—kept me clear even when I didn't want to be.
Good news: I couldn't get drunk.
Bad news: I couldn't get drunk.
I stared out at the ocean.
Stars reflected off the water like scattered glass. The boat swayed gently with the current. The wind whispered across the sail.
I wanted to feel something. Giddy. Melancholy. Tipsy.
But the clarity wouldn't leave.
And maybe that was the point.
Maybe this wine wasn't for forgetting.
Maybe it was for enduring.
A gift I didn't ask for. A curse I couldn't return.
Either way, it was mine now.
I leaned back against the rail, plate resting on my chest, empty. The moon was still there, watching.
Somewhere in the darkness, I imagined the outline of an island. Or maybe that was hope playing tricks on me.
For now, all I had was the sea, the stars, and a drink I could never feel.
------------
I saw it first as a shape—low on the horizon, framed by sea haze and sun-warped light. A silhouette at first, then detail. Masts. Sails. Hull. It wasn't large even by the Four Sea standards—no galleon, no warship—but it was big enough to dwarf my boat few tens of times over. A double-masted vessel, sails taut and full of wind. It flew a merchant flag, tattered slightly, but still clear.
That was the first lie.
Even through the blur of distance, I could tell the ship didn't carry the grace or polish of a proper merchant. The lines were wrong. The hull was patched in mismatched boards, the colors off from where fresh wood met aged grain. The sails held the wind, but they were stained—salt, smoke, maybe worse. Tar-black streaks along the folds, like someone had tried to mask fire damage and failed.
I lifted my telescope—Usopp's custom piece, a gift he claimed was made from "seven different kinds of lenses," none of which I could identify. But it worked better than anything I'd ever hoped to buy in a shop.
I could see the deck clearly now. The crew was visible.
They didn't walk like merchants.
Merchants moved with balance and intention—mindful of cargo, conscious of weight. Even the workers moved with cargo in mind. These men moved differently. They were loose, rough at the edges. Sun-dried and salt-bitten. Ragged beards, scorched skin. Their shirts hung open, revealing scars that didn't come from crates or coin-purses. I saw one man cleaning a blade that didn't look ceremonial or for defense. It looked used, rusted even.
Another leaned over the railing and spit into the wind, laughing so loud I could almost hear it across the gap.
Still, they flew a merchant flag. Brazen. Or foolish. Maybe both.
But the sea didn't favor the foolish.
Three months without a human voice. Just monkeys, wind, and my own breath bouncing off the waves.
You'd think I would've welcomed the sight of a ship, any ship. Company. Trade. Maybe news of the world.
But all I felt was suspicion.
Because the East Blue, for all its charm and having the title of the weakest sea, didn't forgive ignorance. A merchant vessel this far out, this deep in the quiet waters where even seagulls didn't bother flying, with a crew that looked more like scavengers than salesmen—that was no coincidence.
And the ship was turning toward me.
I could see the rudder shift. A slow adjustment. Lazy, almost. Casual. But deliberate.
I lowered the telescope. Blinked.
Then saw the flash.
A glint of light from their deck. Not sun on water. Not flare from polished brass.
That was glass.
Someone had a scope of their own. Watching me.
We were watching each other now.
I didn't move.
I let them see me. Standing tall. Unbothered. Unblinking.
If they wanted to guess whether I was armed, I'd make it easier for them.
I placed the gun in my hand, barrel tilted just slightly, the motion deliberate. I didn't aim it. Not yet. But I let it show. Let it glint as sun rays bounced from its metallic barrel. A warning.
At my hip, my sword hung steady, leather-wrapped hilt worn smooth. A familiar weight.
Daggers in the back of my belt. Hidden, but ready. Grenades inside the pouch strapped across my chest, alongside a flint and steel, dry cord for quick ignition.
If they boarded, they'd learn fast: I wasn't prey.
The boat rocked gently beneath me. Calm water. Deceptively so. I adjusted my stance, grounding myself better. Wind tugged softly at the sail, but I didn't bother adjusting it. Not yet.
My eyes stayed locked on the ship. It moved closer now. Slowly, deliberately.
Too slowly.
A true merchant would've signaled by now. Flags. Hails. A horn. Anything. Instead, silence. No bells. No crew moving to drop anchor. Just a quiet crawl across the sea, like a predator circling a sleeping thing.
I scanned the waters. No backup ships. No smoke from nearby islands. Nothing but the ship. And me.
And somewhere beneath it all—the unshakable feeling that the ocean itself was watching. Like it had arranged this for me.
I'd felt this before.
The gap between us closed inch by inch. A mile, maybe less now.
I took slow, even breaths. Rolled my shoulders once. Checked the line of sight to my grenades. Flicked my fingers against the fuse of the nearest one—short, dry, ideal for chaos.
Then I waited.
My mind ticked through scenarios.
I wouldn't aim to kill unless I had to.
But I wouldn't hesitate, either.
Because out here, morality didn't keep you alive.
Morality didn't have a place in these water and its wanderers.
And luck—well, mine had a habit of flipping a coin and walking away before it landed.
I raised the telescope again.
A new figure stood at the bow. Different from the others. Taller. Cleaner. A coat draped over his shoulders like a cloak, sleeves unused, the way high-ranking pirates wore theirs. His hair was tied back. He held no weapon. Either He didn't need one. Or He was close to one.
He was watching in my direction.
And he smiled. A half one.
Not wide. Not cruel. Just enough to show teeth.
He raised a hand.
The ship slowed.
Not stopped. Just slowed.
A sign of friendliness between merchants.
I smiled back.
I stepped into clear view, letting them see me fully from the approaching deck. I looked as relaxed as I could as I took a big sip from my gourd.
Let him wonder.
Let him guess.
Because my smile?
That was my first lie in our interaction.
The ship kept coming. Sun on the sail. Salt on my tongue. Gunpowder near my hand.
They would reach me soon.
I didn't pray.
One hand on the wine, one on the fire starter. We smiled as the waves swayed our ships.