They were now at the town of the island, which—at least from his now three-year-old perception—seemed to hold a few thousand people. He had tried to count yesterday while they were traveling, watching the clusters of homes, boats pulled up along the coast, and the steady movement of carts, workers, and bundled families. He was guessing—he wasn't sure—but the number felt right. Bigger than anything the anime had shown. Bigger in land, in size, in people.
Most of the buildings weren't cabins like the one he knew. They were lodges—wide, tall, built with heavy beams and steep shingled roofs that ran rain and snow clean off. Thick walls, double chimneys, smoke rising in steady streams. Their cabin had charm, but these places looked heavier. Meant to hold more people. Hold heat longer. Built for function first, with neat stacked stone foundations and deep porches lined with boot tracks.
There were shops too. Signs painted in deep reds and browns. He passed a bakery with rising steam on the windows, a leatherworker's shop with cured hides hanging just outside the door, and what looked like a smithy, the iron tang already clinging to the cold air. Snow had been cleared from the main streets, pushed up into long mounded ridges where children played, bundled thick and red-cheeked. Older men stood near the harbor, smoking and pointing out at the boats. There was movement in every direction.
It had been exactly a week since they first heard about Roger's execution being broadcast. His parents had made the decision the same day. They packed, prepared the homestead, and left once everything was squared away. Today, while they traveled, James turned three. No one had made a fuss, but his mother had tucked a few sweets into his coat pocket that morning without saying anything. He didn't need more than that. The town alone felt like a gift—so much to look at, so many voices and smells and sounds layered on top of each other.
And that made sense.
All the fighting in One Piece—the sheer number of pirates, Marines, bounty hunters, revolutionaries—had to come from somewhere. That kind of chaos needed structure underneath it. Ships didn't sail themselves. Towns needed ports, carpenters, tanners, smiths. Fighters came from people, and people needed food, trade, places to grow and gather and recover. You couldn't have constant war with tiny villages and no infrastructure. A few thousand here. A few thousand there. It added up.
It wasn't just spectacle—it was a world that lived with that level of violence baked into its rhythm.
And considering the amount of battle and bloodshed he was expecting, it made sense.
What was ironic was, being a cop, he had seen a lot of bad—but humanity was limited by their fragility. Even the worst men had breaking points. They bled. They gave out. Death was easy- there was no taking molten hand through the chest and living.
In One Piece, you could blow ships away with the power of haki. At least, that's what Shawn had said. James had only caught a glimpse of haki—only watching Luffy fight the flamingo person with the smug face and the strange pink coat.
They finally made it to his grandparents' house.
His grandfather, Edgar, stood by the front steps with a cane in one hand and a broad, knowing smile. He had thick gray hair combed neatly back, and his emerald-green eyes—same as James's mother's—still held their shine. The lines on his face ran deep, but there was strength beneath them, the kind earned over decades of steady work and sharper decisions. His coat was fine wool, dark and well-fitted, with silver buttons and a fur collar that marked the difference between wealth and simple warmth.
Edgar moved with a slow, deliberate gait. His back had a bend to it now, and the cane met the stone walkway with a steady rhythm, but his posture carried authority. Even in spring, with snow melting in rivulets along the gutters and the smell of thawed earth in the air, he kept his collar up and gloves on. He was a merchant by trade—an oil man, a pelt man, a man who knew how to buy in one port and sell in another for three times the value. And he hadn't just done well. He had done very well.
His grandmother, Ellen, stepped out behind him, wiping her hands on a thick wool apron. She was taller than Edgar now, thanks to his stoop, and still had more black than gray in her hair. It was pulled into a tight braid that hung over her shoulder. Her hazelnut eyes scanned the group with quiet focus. Her figure was soft and full in the way people expected from a proper grandmother—wide hips, soft arms, and a large chest that strained the fabric of her blouse. His mother had inherited that, same as the curve of her cheek and the shape of her mouth.
They smiled as the family approached. His grandmother called out first, her voice smooth and clear, while Edgar stepped aside, waving them in with the ease of someone used to having a full house.
Inside, the room buzzed with voices. His mother had come from a family of five—four older sisters, each beautiful, each different.
His mother had a bit fairer skin than her sisters, with a smooth, even tone that caught the light more easily. Her chest was fuller too—perkier, heavier—something that turned heads even when she wore thick winter layers. Among the five daughters, she was the only one who had inherited their father's emerald-green eyes, vivid against her pale skin and black hair.
Even standing among her sisters now, she stood out. The youngest, but the one who always drew attention without trying.
Cousins ran through the room in loose groups, shouting and laughing. James recognized some of them, barely. They tugged at his coat and called his name, but he didn't feel much toward them. He didn't dislike them. He just didn't know them as he hardly came to town.
His mother held him in her arms as they stepped onto the stone path. Her coat was buttoned to the neck, the fabric thick and slightly rough against his cheek. The air smelled of melting snow and distant woodsmoke. Her boots made low, solid sounds on the walkway as they moved past the open gate.
The buildings framed the yard—sheds off to the side with hung tools, bundles of tied fur, and stacked crates along their walls. A small group of men crossed between structures, one carrying a bucket, another with a ledger tucked under his arm. The smokehouse let out a slow, steady stream from its chimney. A pair of dogs watched from under the porch, their ears flicking.
She adjusted her grip slightly as they climbed the three stone steps. One hand beneath him, the other pressed gently to his back. His arms hung loose around her neck. She shifted her shoulder once and pushed the door open with her hip.
Inside, the floorboards had a faint give under her boots. The hallway carried warmth from the hearth deeper in the lodge. She paused long enough to kneel and untie his boots. The laces dragged quietly against the wood. She set them neatly to the side, lifted him again, and stood.
They moved through the entry. The rugs muffled her steps. A coat hung near the stair rail—brown wool, a missing button at the cuff. Along the wall, a wooden bench held a folded blanket and a child's cap.
James leaned into her shoulder. Her hand rested over his back. The glow from the hearth lit the far wall in a long amber stretch. Oil lamps along the beams flickered without sound. The loft above showed carved railing—seals, ships, lines worn smooth from passing hands.
They passed beneath it. A door opened softly in the next room, and a voice called a name. She didn't slow. Her steps stayed even as she walked forward, turning left toward the common room.
As they walked through the house, the thought crossed his mind—how his mother had gone from this… to what they had.
She'd grown up here. Big house. Multiple buildings. Center of town. Her father had been rich. There were servants once—staff that handled meals, firewood, laundry. She'd had help.
Now she lived in a small homestead with a hunter for a husband. No servants. No staff. Just her. She cooked. She cleaned. She made clothes out of what his father brought back from the field.
All he could think was love.
Well, that—and how his father had to be amazing in bed, judging by his mother's screams and how long it lasted. God, it was too much sometimes.
They had dinner. It was good—caribou, steamed vegetables, and home-cooked bread. The bread was still warm. The meat had been cooked slow, the fat rendered clean. There was butter on the table. Someone passed him a bowl twice.
The execution would be tomorrow.
James ate a lot. He always did. "Playing" Marine every day kept his appetite up, and even in a three-year-old body, he could pack food away. Honestly, he was impressed. A lot of people here could eat. Luffy probably still held the crown, but appetites were no joke in this world.
He figured it wasn't just that people were healthier. The world itself seemed richer. The meat had more depth. The vegetables had flavor. Bread was thick, filling. Even in town earlier, he hadn't seen much poverty. Most people looked fed—even the ones working the docks or sweeping the roads. Rough clothes, sure, but strong bodies and steady hands.
Resources seemed to go further here. At least on this island.
And this island clearly had enough.
They ended up outside on the estate, running and tackling each other, yelling out pirate lines and pretending to be Marines. Wrestling mostly. Some pushing. A few rough falls onto the hard-packed dirt.
The parents were inside. No one came to stop them. Roughhousing didn't seem to bother anyone around here. The culture leaned a little rough—James had noticed that. Kids didn't cry over scrapes. They just wiped their noses and kept going.
He used it to train.
At first, they split into teams like before. But James kept egging them on—getting them riled up, talking just enough to push their buttons without sounding like he was trying. He'd say things like "You call that a throw?" or "Pirates are cowards anyway."
Eventually, they all teamed up against him. Pirates, every one of them.
He didn't complain.
They kicked his Marine butt. Took him down again and again. They dragged him, pinned him, buried him in arms and legs and laughter.
What they saw as a game, he saw as training.
He was smaller. The youngest. But he tried the hardest, gave up the least, and didn't stop moving even when they piled on.
He went down swinging every time.