We were approaching the shores of Graveharbor. First, a faint shadow appeared on the horizon, then the silhouette of a grim island with steep slopes and sparse buildings shrouded in mist. The sea around us grew restless — waves rose higher, the air thickened with dampness and the scent of salt.
"Land!" Hepoko shouted from the helm. "Dead ahead!"
I walked to the railing, eyes fixed forward. A narrow bay, flanked by dark cliffs, led to the port — not the most welcoming place, but it was our destination.
"Slow us down," I said. "Easy on the approach."
Peppoko and Poppoko rushed to the rigging, deftly loosening the sails. The ship began to slowly crawl into the bay. People were already visible on shore — some hustling around the dock, handling cargo, others just watching the unfamiliar vessel draw near.
Sabo stood next to me, adjusting the collar of his cloak.
"Suspiciously quiet for a pirate island," Sabo said.
The ship touched the pier.
"Well, we've arrived," I said, glancing at the three pirates.
I grabbed my things — eyeing the massive backpack next to me, packed tightly with everything we'd need.
"All right, let's go," I said, jumping overboard before anyone could lower the gangplank. We'd been at sea far too long — I was eager to feel solid ground underfoot again.
Sabo leapt down right after. In the past few days, he had recovered well — the way he landed, smooth and light, you'd never guess he'd been injured.
"Let's move," I said, looking at the street ahead.
Graveharbor was noisy, bustling, filled with the scent of salt, smoke, and fried fish. Narrow streets wound between stone houses and wooden taverns. Shouts, laughter, clinking coins, and slamming doors blended into a constant hum.
"Looks like you can find anything here," Sabo muttered, scanning the signs: Sea Fang, Three Rums and a Rat, The Sea Map, Guild of Winds.
"Main thing is not getting lost," I added. "First, we find a place to stash our gear and eat properly. Then, we start digging for info."
Fifty thousand Beli in hand… that should last us a couple of months, if we don't live large. Food and lodging included.
Sabo stopped, nodded toward a building, pointing:
"Well, this one looks decent."
Ahead stood a modest but sturdy stone-and-wood structure with a neat sign: Hotel "Calm Haven." The doors were half-open, the scent of grilled meat and fresh bread drifting out. Curtains hung in the windows, and a fat cat napped by the entrance, lazily opening an eye at us.
"Cozy," I noted. "Doesn't look like a drunkard's den. That's a plus."
"Let's ask the price," Sabo nodded, climbing the steps.
I followed him. Inside, it was warm — almost homely. Behind the counter stood a woman in her forties, businesslike gaze sharp. She noticed us the moment we entered.
"Got any rooms?" I asked.
"Yes," she nodded. "12,000 Beli per month, meals included. Breakfast and dinner. Room for two."
Sabo and I exchanged glances.
"We'll take it for two months," I said, pulling out the money. "If we stay longer, we'll renew."
She jotted something in a ledger and handed us a key labeled Room 3.
"Welcome. Kitchen's downstairs, meals are on schedule. Don't be late — the cook hates reheating."
"Thank you," Sabo nodded.
We climbed creaky but solid stairs. The room was simple but clean: two beds, a small wardrobe, washbasin, and a window overlooking a narrow alley.
I flopped onto the mattress and sighed.
"Well, now we can say — it begins," I said, staring at the ceiling.
Sabo sat on the other bed, stretched out his legs, and turned to me.
"So, what now, Bellamy?"
I sat up, waved him over.
"Come here," I said, gesturing to the window.
He stepped over, stood beside me, and I pointed down at the street, where a crowd bustled — merchants, mercenaries, odd characters with swords and rifles.
"Get information on which pirates are lurking on this island," I said, eyes fixed. "Find out who's in charge, who's got a name."
Sabo nodded silently, watching the passersby.
"And training. We need to get stronger," I added, turning to him. "And I've got something for you."
He raised an eyebrow.
"What is it?"
"You'll see," I replied with a smirk. "But first — we eat. And pick up some info while we're at it. No plan gets far without proper food and news."
Sabo nodded, patting his stomach.
"Agreed. I'm starving."
We left the hotel, sunlight hitting our eyes. The streets were loud, full of unfamiliar scents. The island was alive.
We turned onto a side street and, after a few minutes, came across a small eatery — a simple place with a faded sign and open windows. A few tables were already occupied — two men arguing in the corner, someone in a long cloak hiding their face by the window.
Behind the counter stood a stocky, mustached man in a stained apron. He glanced at us briefly and nodded.
"What'll it be?"
"Anything hot and edible," I said.
"And something to drink."
The owner nodded and silently began scooping food from large pots behind the counter — meat, stewed vegetables, gravy rich with spice.
"We're new around here," I said, glancing at Sabo. "Mind telling us what's going on on this island? Who runs the place? Anything we should watch out for?"
The man gave a quick look around, checking for unwanted ears. Satisfied that everyone was busy eating or chatting, he lowered his voice and kept talking while piling meat on plates:
"Things are calmer now. Three months ago, it was chaos. Every other pirate thought they owned the port. Fights, raids, lawlessness."
He placed the plates in front of us, added bread, then dropped his voice to a near whisper:
"But that all changed when he showed up. A strange guy. At first, we thought he was a clown — dressed like a lady, dancing, spinning, yelling 'Oden!' and doing splits. Circus act, we figured. Then he took out the whole top of the local gangs. Alone."
Sabo froze mid-spoon. I tensed up.
"What's his name?" I asked.
The owner snorted.
"Bon Clay."
I raised an eyebrow.
"A pirate?" I asked, leaning on the table.
"Yeah, a pirate," the owner confirmed, pouring water into clay mugs. "But not like the others. Walks like a ballerina, voice like an actor, yells 'Oden!' and bam! splits again. But don't laugh, kid. Beneath that act is one hell of a fighter. They say he's got some weird style — fights like putty, always twisting, and hits hard enough to crack bones."
That's Bon-chan… Mr. 2, flashed through my mind. I never expected to find him here — in East Blue.
"And why'd he come here?" Sabo asked, setting his spoon aside.
"No one knows for sure," the owner shrugged. "Says he's looking for someone."
Probably Ivankov, I thought. Everything fits — the style, the weirdness, the strength. But no confirmation yet.
The owner leaned in closer, lowering his voice again:
"But take my advice, boys. Nights here aren't safe. Too many pirates come through. Better stay inside unless you have a reason to be out. Especially you newbies."
Sabo nodded, glancing at me.
"Thanks for the warning," I said, finishing the bread. "We'll keep that in mind."
I placed a few bills on the table and stepped outside.
"Shall we hit the pirate market?" Sabo asked, catching up.
"Yeah, I want to see what they sell there," I nodded. "They say you can find anything."
We followed a cobbled street, weaving through stalls and strange-looking buildings, until the bay came into view. There, by the water, stood docks, crowded with merchants, dockhands, and sailors. Cargo boats pulled up to the piers, unloading right at the base of a massive market — a true pirate anthill.
The pirate market stretched along the shoreline, almost merging with the docks. Warehouses, tents, and rough wooden stalls stood by every pier. Some vendors sold straight from barrels, crates, or fabric laid on the ground.
"Everything's really mixed together here," Sabo muttered, looking around.
We passed a vendor displaying cannons and muskets, beside someone hawking "rare books."
"You were planning to pick a weapon anyway," I said.
Sabo nodded hesitantly.
"I was. But…" He eyed the nearest stalls, where among rusty swords and oddly darkened daggers, there were also more serious pieces: revolvers, brass knuckles, even polearms. "Honestly, none of this feels… right for me."
He picked up a short sword, ran his fingers along the hilt, twisted it a bit. Then, unimpressed, put it back.
"Too heavy. This one's too light. That one — crooked, like it was used to wedge open a door."
"Still, this place is something," I said, eyeing a display of weapons. "Weapons, medicine, maps... even some weird animals..."
Sabo lingered at a cage with a horned rabbit-like creature. He quickly stepped back.
"Yeah, definitely not for me."
I laughed.
"Admit it — not boring, though."
"No argument there," he snorted.
A shout erupted nearby — two pirates clashing at a booth selling fake bounty posters. One grabbed the other by the collar before a massive man with a club, clearly the market guard, intervened.
"Well, since you didn't find anything, I need bullets," I said, scanning for ammo stalls.
Sabo followed, still eyeing all the oddities — from "treasure maps" to decorative harpoons.
We reached a stall where a short, burly man in a grimy apron and sun-glinting bald head was moving cannonballs from a wooden crate into a sack. Boxes of musket cartridges, flints, and even a couple of fuses were neatly stacked nearby.
"I need musket bullets. Got any?" I asked.
The vendor didn't even look up, just grunted:
"How many?"
"Ten packs. And… a couple of cannonballs."
He nodded and started counting. I glanced around — old powder horns, rusty flintlock pistols with ornate engravings, clearly unused for a long time.
"Bullets — three thousand. Cannonballs — a thousand each. That's five total," the vendor said, placing a pouch of ammo and two heavy cannonballs wrapped in oiled cloth on the counter.
I nodded, pulled out some bills, and set them down.
"Careful with the balls, unless you want them punching through your deck while you carry 'em," he grumbled.
"Thanks," I said, taking the goods.
Sabo tilted his head, watching me.
"What do you need cannonballs for? We don't even have a cannon."
"Come to the forest. I'll show you," I said, slinging the bag over my shoulder and heading away from the noisy market.