He sat on the deck with the boy, the sun dipping low against the endless water. The breeze smelled of salt and smoke, the last warmth of daylight fading from the boards beneath them.
They ate in silence at first. The man had found a crate of salted fish and dry bread below deck, laid out small portions, and—almost as an afterthought—had fused together two simple forks from scrap metal.
The boy poked at the fish with a tentative hand before finally picking up the fork, glancing at it as though it might bite.
After a few quiet bites, the boy shifted closer. His eyes flicked toward the strange pistols and the Repeater Musket propped against the mast.
"...Those weapons you used," he started, voice thin. "They… weren't normal. Where did they come from?"
The man paused, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth. He looked at the weapons, then back at the boy, the corner of his jaw tensing.
"They came from me," he said simply.
The boy frowned. "But... how?"
The man set the bread down, turning slightly so he could rest an elbow on one knee.
"The fruit," he said, tapping two fingers lightly against his temple. "That Devil Fruit below deck. It lets me fuse things—metal, wood, whatever I can hold—into new shapes. But only if I know exactly what I want to make."
He lifted his hand, flexing the fingers slowly as if feeling each tendon and joint.
"If my intent is clear, the result is stronger, smoother. If it's muddy... I get something useless. Something that might break in my hands."
The boy's eyes were wide, his fork forgotten in his other hand.
"Can you… undo them too?"
The man nodded. "I can. But it drains me more than putting things together. The cost isn't small."
The boy swallowed, his voice dropping low. "So… you could make anything?"
The man's gaze turned distant, drifting over the waves beyond the railing.
"Maybe. I don't know the limits yet."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the rustle of the tattered sails.
---
After a while, the man stood, wiping his hands on his trousers.
"Come on," he said. "We need to see what's left."
They went below deck together, the boy trailing hesitantly at first.
In the dim lantern light, the man began opening crates, checking barrels. His movements were methodical, each step careful but certain despite the exhaustion still dragging at his bones.
The boy hovered nearby, peering into each crate.
"Food stores," the man muttered, counting loaves of hard bread and bundles of salted fish. "Enough for a few weeks, maybe longer if we ration."
He pulled open another crate, sniffed inside. "Potable water. Not much."
Nearby barrels clattered slightly as he moved. "Gunpowder… not enough for a real siege."
He tapped a small pile of cannonballs, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"Musket rounds, spare flintlocks, a few extra pistols… tools. Armor plates, bits of scrap."
He lifted an old liquor bottle, sniffed, then set it aside. "Medicine… not nearly enough."
The boy shifted from foot to foot, glancing from one pile to the next.
"Do you think we'll need more guns?" he asked, voice small.
The man glanced over, a faint edge of amusement touching his eyes—just for a second.
"We'll need everything," he said. "But especially a navigator. Without one, we're stuck drifting."
The boy's mouth twitched. "I… don't know anything about navigation."
"I guessed as much," the man replied evenly.
The boy shrank a little, rubbing at his sleeve.
"But," the man added, standing straighter, "we'll find one."
---
They carried a few crates back up, arranging supplies in a rough line against the mast. The sun was nearly gone now, the horizon a smear of dying red.
When they finally settled again, the boy picked at his sleeve, staring into the darkening sea.
"Do you… do you have a name?" he asked suddenly, glancing up.
The man paused. His eyes turned toward the horizon, the wind teasing a few stray strands of hair across his forehead.
"Who I was before doesn't matter," he said. His voice was low, almost reflective. "That man… was nothing. He lived and waited to die."
He flexed his fingers again, as if testing the joints.
"This fruit… it didn't just give me power. It gave me a way forward. A chance to make the things I saw only in dreams."
He looked down at the boy.
"From now on… you can call me the Artist. Or Art, if you like."
The boy's eyes widened, his lips parting.
"The Artist," he repeated, almost to himself.
"And you?" Art asked, tilting his head slightly.
The boy hesitated, fingers curling against his knees.
"...Nico," he said finally.
Art gave a single, small nod.
"Good. Nico, then."
---
A hush settled over them again, but this time it felt different — not empty, but expectant.
Art leaned back, resting against the battered mast. His gaze drifted across the broken deck, the patchwork repairs, the thin new sails fluttering above.
"We have a lot to do," he murmured. "Materials. Crew. Repairs. And after that… new things to build."
Nico watched him, brow furrowed, fingers twisting together.
Art continued, his voice steady but distant, as if he were reciting something only he could see.
"I want to make all the shapes I used to imagine. Things no one has ever seen before. To do that… I need to go everywhere. Gather everything. Break it down and rebuild it."
Nico swallowed, his eyes wide. "That sounds… big."
Art's lips curved faintly, the smallest echo of a smile.
"It is," he agreed. "But that's the point."
---
They sat like that as the stars slowly blinked alive above them.
Nico leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes tracing the dark line of the horizon.
Art watched him for a moment, then let his head tilt back, exhaling a long, quiet breath.
Above them, the patched sails strained, whispering of distant lands.
A single thought thrummed at the edge of Art's mind, steady as the tide:
From here on… everything I shape is mine.