The rope hit my deck with a thud. Thick, worn hemp—frayed at the ends, but still strong. I leaned over, grabbed it lazily, and looped it once around the cleat on my boat's edge. No knots. No effort. Just enough for them to pull me in.
Then I took another drink.
The wine was sharp on the tongue, wild and strange as ever. But like always, it didn't go far. The warmth started in my throat and vanished the moment it reached my chest. Siphoned. Pulled. Absorbed by the cube of warmth that sat behind my sternum like some quiet, waiting god.
I heard the shouts from the other ship. Commands. Orders. Arguments. Some angry. Some impatient.
They wanted me to pull.
I didn't lift a finger.
I stood still, watching from the edge of my boat as a dozen rough hands dragged the rope, grunting, sweating, snarling through gritted teeth. Their muscles strained, their brows furrowed. Some cursed me under their breath loud enough to hear.
I didn't take it personally. They could curse me for all they liked. They were free labors after all.
The boat rocked gently as it neared their hull—tall, imposing, carved from oak, sanded smooth long ago but now pitted with age. My fingertips ran along its side.
Expensive wood. Durable. Noble. Once part of something fine, something regal.
Now? In the hands of men who barely remembered to scrape barnacles off the rudder.
How unrealistic. A ship like this should have a crew polishing every board. Instead? Barnacles. Rot. Laziness.
How idiotic of them to not care of this beauty.
I pulled my bag from the cabin just as the two vessels touched. A heavy canvas thing, packed tight. Nothing fancy—just survival needs. A few oranges. Bottles of water. Dried meat, still warm from the sun. Bandages, A soap made from pork fat.
Basic supplies. The kind of things you didn't trade. The kind of things you needed when your luck ran out.
I hoisted it over one shoulder and climbed the rope.
It was a hassle to climb but I took my time. When I climbed the rope, I stepped on the railing, not even bothering to jump to the deck, gazing on the ship condition.
From up here, the state of the ship was even clearer. Splintered wood along the rail. Cannon ports rusted in their hinges. Netting tangled and left to rot in the sun. Crates that once held goods now cracked open and used as makeshift stools. Their cargo hold probably had more rats than bread. The deck was basically empty aside from the broken crates, battle scars and bullet holes with garbage that the crew didn't even bother to throw out on the waters. How lazy, they could at least beautify the ship if they were acting as merchant. I looked at the people.
I could see them now—men leaning on ropes, crouched behind crates, perched near barrels. Men lounged on crates and barrels, ragged and salt-burnt, eyes gleaming too brightly—not at the goods. At me.
I saw it in their expressions. The half-hidden smirks. The clenched jaws. The way one man rolled his shoulders and let his hand rest near the hilt of his cutlass.
They'd smelled blood the moment they saw me. A lone traveler. Small boat. Good supplies. Exotic wine.
They hadn't sunk me because they wanted to take more.
They let me come to them. Invited me to walk straight into their teeth.
They let me come aboard without protest.
That was mistake number one.
The hardest part of naval combat was boarding an enemies ship.
I stepped onto their deck.
Now they had let me in that easily.
They marked me easy prey the moment I climbed aboard. Not watching me—watching the bag. And the boat."
I made a show of taking another long sip from the wine gourd.
The smell bloomed in the air instantly—fermented fruit and bitter herbs, rich and ancient, like something plucked from a time before maps. It moved through the space like a ghost, curling into the corners of the deck, slipping past breath and memory.
I heard it.
The gulp.
Not mine.
Theirs.
The man with the hat stepped forward. Tall, cleanest among them, though that wasn't saying much. His coat was once fine—buttons missing now, lining torn—but it still carried weight. The kind of weight that said he was the one who barked orders, not followed them. He looked much more commanding from the telescope.
He pointed at the gourd in my hand.
"Sono wain wa doko de teniireta nodesu ka?"
Where did you get the wine?
His voice was hoarse from salt and command. He didn't look away from me once.
So that was it. That was the hook. The reason I wasn't shot already. Not the boat. Not the supplies.
The wine.
He wanted to know the source. The island. The recipe. The secret. Something.
I grinned and took another sip—exaggerated, slow, letting the wine glisten in the firelight as it poured past my lips.
His mouth twitched. I took my time. When I heard a gulp come from him.
I pointed casually to the nearest cannon. It was rusted but still functional. Muzzle black with soot, ropes still coiled near its base.
"Bōeki?" I tilted my head. A question with teeth.
Trade.
A few of the crew laughed. A harsh, ugly sound. The kind that didn't reach the eyes.
The captain didn't laugh.
His jaw clenched. His hand raised.
And steel sang.
All around me, weapons were drawn—blades, axes, pistols. Swords rasped free of scabbards. Muskets were hoisted, cocked, aimed. The clink of a cocked pistol. The squeal of boots sliding on wet deck. The creak of a ship straining to hold breath. One pirate in the back had a harpoon, though he didn't look strong enough to throw it more than five feet.
I sighed.
Figures.
They couldn't even act a bit more.
I slipped it from my shoulder and tossed it behind me. It thudded onto the deck of my boat below—out of their reach.
That got a reaction. Several of them swore. One lunged forward, stopped only by a barked command from their captain.
And would you look at that. They weren't just greedy. They were desperate. But it was natural seeing the state the ship was in.
"Odorimashou ka?" I said it softly. Not a threat. A promise. Let's dance, then.
-------
I sneezed again—loud, ugly, involuntary. My ribs shook with the force of it, tears blurred my vision, and a strand of snot dangled somewhere I wasn't going to bother checking. The damn chili frag had gone off harder than I expected. Much harder. Usopp's earlier version was enough to irritate the sinuses, sting the eyes, maybe send a few unprepared foes coughing into the floorboards.
This one?
This was war in powder form. Industrial-strength capsaicin mixed with powdered sea salt, shattered shell fragments, and a little something I'd borrowed from the monkeys' spice stash. An afterthought when I'd packed it. A versatile yet joke grenade. Something to test.
Now it burned through the air like fire made of mist. I couldn't breathe without sneezing, couldn't blink without pain. My tongue felt like it was lined in embers, my lungs were drawing in acid.
And still, the wine clung.
Earthy. Herbal. Bitter and slow, its fragrance didn't fade, not even in the red haze of powdered spice. It clung to the air like memory. Every breath I took was a mix of heat and roots, a drunken forest fire crawling through my chest.
I took a long gulp from the wine gourd, letting the liquid scald its way down my throat. It didn't help. It only pushed the powder deeper, dragging the burn inside me, down toward the wine cube that sat unmoved behind my ribs.
At least it cleared my head.
Around me, the deck was carnage. Blown crates, shredded rope, blood pooling on wood. Bits of crewmen were plastered across the railings, smoking quietly, sticky where they'd landed. Some were still whole—if being skewered with metal shards counted as whole.
The ones who'd survived the blast were worse off in some ways.
Alive. Which meant conscious.
Which meant they could feel.
It was by no means fun that I could tell you.
One man was screaming with his back arched off the deck, a hunk of splintered metal stuck in his thigh. Another was whimpering beside a barrel, bleeding from the ears. One crawled slowly past me, dragging what was left of his legs like broken tools.
And then—movement.
Faster than I could react.
The hat.
That bastard with the coat and the captain's glare tackled me into the deck with a grunt, his whole weight slamming into me like a wave. His fists came down before I could even curse.
One.
Two.
Three.
Each hit sounded like a drumbeat in my ears. My cheek split open on the first. My nose popped on the second. The third knocked something loose in my jaw. I tasted blood—mine—and salt and chili powder.
His tears were dropping onto my face now, mixing with the red haze still hanging in the air. His nose was running in rivers, snot smearing across my collar as he snarled and spat and punched like a man who'd already died once and hadn't liked it.
Each punch rocked me. Bones cracked. Ribs bent. My arms were trapped beneath him. The sword at my hip was unreachable. The daggers hidden at my back were too deep under me now. The pistol didn't matter. I'd already used the one shot worth taking.
The frag grenade I'd thrown at him—beautifully timed, perfectly placed—had only peppered his chest. Black burns scarred his skin. A few shards stuck out like sharp medals, but none had hit deep enough to stop him. They'd just made him angrier.
And now I was going to die beneath a man who was half blind from chili powder and fully insane from rage.
Unless—
Unless I burned it.
I gave it permission.
The shift was instant.
Heat surged through me. Not fire—but pressure. Expansion. As if my blood had grown thicker, more substantial. Bones reknit. Ribs realigned. Cuts sealed, muscle reformed, skin stitched together from the inside out. My breath returned, full and clear.
I pushed.
One violent shove.
He flew back, rolled across the deck.
I followed.
I didn't draw a weapon. I didn't need to. The blood had filled my limbs now, heavy with power. My fists closed, knuckles cracking, and I slammed them into him before he could rise.
One punch.
His jaw snapped sideways.
Second punch.
His cheekbone caved in slightly.
Third.
He tried to scream, but all that came out was a wet gurgle.
I hit him again and again, my fists thudding into flesh and bone. Each blow was deliberate. Methodical. His chest took the worst of it—my punches driving the embedded shrapnel deeper, each hit cutting my own fists but forcing those jagged edges further in.
Blood covered us both.
Mine, his—who could tell anymore?
Behind me, I felt the first impact.
A bullet.
Then another.
Gunfire from behind. Sharp, panicked, untrained. Some had adjusted through the chili cloud. Lucky for them. Unlucky for me.
The first round slammed into my shoulder, the second grazed my back, the third punched through my side.
I didn't flinch.
I didn't stop.
The blood kept healing. Kept burning. Kept roaring like a forge.
I was tackled again.
This time, by two men.
One came from the left—arm around my throat. The other from behind, locking his elbows around my waist. A third joined in. Then a fourth.
They dragged me to the ground.
Steel scraped against my arm. A blade. Sloppy. Not deep.
The weight pressed down hard. Knees on my back. Elbows in my ribs. I could feel their breath. Taste the sour sweat dripping from their faces as they screamed for each other to hold tighter.
The smoke had cleared.
The red haze was gone.
I saw them now—half the remaining crew. Their eyes bloodshot. Snoot dripping. Faces contorted in fury. They'd recovered fast. Reorganized.
I didn't care.
I smirked.
My hand slipped into the pouch.
My fingers found it.
Another grenade.
Another chili frag.
I struck the match against my boot.
It flared.
Their eyes widened.
Some started to shout. Others reached for the grenade, too late.
I lit the fuse and let it burn.
Then I said it.
Soft. Almost conversational.
"Mada owatte inai."
It's not over yet.
The fuse sizzled.
I threw it.
And the red came again.