The evening had started slow, almost lazily.
The evening air, cool and kissed with the damp scent of riverbank earth and the distant, smoky promise of village hearths, settled around our little fishing spot like a comforting, familiar cloak. The earlier frenetic energy of lines cast with hopeful, exuberant shouts had gradually, almost imperceptibly, mellowed into a more companionable, shared rhythm, the silence broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the reeds and the chirping symphony of unseen crickets.
Ninjin, the one with the bravest heart of the three, cheered as he reeled in a decent-sized cod. His eyes sparkled with pride as he showed it off, the fish flapping in defiance. Tamanegi, cheeks round and always chewing something, somehow managed to pull a crab from the water—a confused crustacean clinging to the bait like it owed him money. The kids erupted into fits of laughter.
Then Piiman screamed.
His rod shot forward, jerked from his hands. A long, sinuous shape followed, thrashing with a gleam of pale scales and cold eyes. A snake. River-bred, narrow, and wildly out of place. Piiman had barely registered what it was before he dropped everything and launched himself behind Usopp, who in turn jumped back—only shaking slightly less than his younger shadow. They gripped each other like survivors of some battlefield.
I laughed at the three huddled up behind Usopp.
Stepping forward, I caught the snake mid-lunge, two fingers around its head before it could do more than hiss. Cold. Quick. I gave it one look. Not poisonous—probably. With a practiced flick, I tossed it back into the water.
The kids clapped. Even Usopp relaxed.
For a while, it was peaceful again. Rods dipped into water. Ripples stretched lazily outward. One bucket filled, then another. The kids' chatter softened as fatigue crept into their limbs, their earlier energy now faded to murmurs and yawns.
Meanwhile, my line remained untouched.
Not a bite. Not even a nibble.
One hour passed. Then another. The sun dipped low, giving the sea a crimson kiss before vanishing beyond the horizon. Shadows grew long, stretching like fingers across the sand.
Still nothing.
The kids had nearly filled all the buckets they'd brought. Usopp, ever the improviser, had fashioned a few more from scrap wood and tied cloth, and those too were filling fast.
I sat quietly, staring at the water. My rod still. The line barely moved, suspended like a breath that refused to exhale.
I heard the teasing.
Ninjin whispered something to Tamanegi—probably a joke about myluck—and they both giggled into their sleeves. Piiman lost in his own thought laughed upon hearing the laugh. Even Usopp gave me a look which he took back after I gave him the side eye.
I stood up.
Because I felt it.
A tremor.
Then another.
A tug—no, a pull. Vicious. Sudden. Like the sea itself had taken offense to my presence and wanted me gone.
In the next instant, my rod bent nearly in half. The line screamed from the reel, hissing through the guides as it flew outward with impossible speed. My feet skidded, dragged through sand like I weighed nothing. My muscles locked. I planted my heels, dug in, and felt the ground tear beneath me.
It wasn't just a fish.
It was a monster.
I burned a count of blood. My body surged with borrowed strength—pain blooming in my ribs, my back, my shoulders. I could feel it. My own heartbeat roaring in my ears as I locked both hands around the rod and pulled.
Usopp moved first.
Without a word, he dropped his rod and bolted to my side, pulling me from behind. The kids, startled by the chaos, scrambled to their feet, sand flying from under them. Their exhaustion forgotten.
They ran to us, small hands gripping my coat, my belt, my arm—anything they could reach.
Together, we became an anchor.
The fish thrashed, unseen below the surface, the tension in the line threatening to rip it clean from the rod. I gritted my teeth. The rod groaned. My legs ached. Sweat traced cold rivers down my neck.
Then Usopp shouted.
He ran. Fast. Faster than I'd seen him move since I'd come back.
From his bag, he pulled out his slingshot and a dark sphere. He tied a rope to it and held his breath, calculating. His fingers danced through the air, adjusting, measuring.
Then he let it fly.
The capsule soared over the water, arcing beautifully before bursting mid-air. A massive net unfolded, landing just behind the flailing monster beneath the surface.
Usopp didn't stop.
He sprinted for the nearest tree, anchoring the rope to a metal winch —clever bastard. Wrapping it tight, he began to crank, using the pivot of the tree for leverage.
The pressure on the line eased just enough. I roared through clenched teeth and began to reel, inch by painful inch.
Usopp called the kids over. They ran to the winch and pulled on the rope alongside him, tiny arms straining, bare feet slipping in the sand.
Minutes folded into an hour. The sky turned indigo. Stars blinked to life above us, and the moon climbed its lonely arc. The line still held, taut as wire. The net, now visible near the surface, dragged a churning shadow with it—something massive, gleaming faintly beneath the dark water.
Finally, finally, we saw it breach.
A dorsal fin first. Then a back. Then the full monstrous length of it—scales flashing silver-blue under the moonlight, muscles twitching in protest. It slapped the water with a tail the size of a canoe.
We all fell back.
Usopp scrambled up, struck a match, and lit a makeshift torch. Fire bloomed in the dark, casting long shadows across the beach.
I stopped Usopp taking the torch in my hand. The fish was thrashing, sand flying with every slam, a last struggle before death. He understood my gesture.
He pulled another capsule from his belt. A thin needle, hidden in a rubber casing. He loaded it into his slingshot, aimed without hesitation, and fired.
The dart found its mark near the base of the skull.
The creature jerked.
Then stilled.
The tide lapped at the shore. The flame in my hand flickered.
"Suimin chūsha." Usopp whispered beside me, barely able to contain his pride. Sleep injection.
I nodded and stepped forward, drawing my dagger in one motion.
The blade found the spot—soft cartilage just beneath the gill. I drove it deep, firm, fast. No suffering. The fish gave one last, sluggish twitch and lay still.
Silence settled around us.
The kids dared to breathe again. One by one, they stepped closer, gazing in open-mouthed awe. Usopp walked forward and placed a hand on the fish's hide. The scales gleamed under the torchlight like armor.
The fish.
It was a tuna. But not just any.
A bluefin.
And it was colossal.
Longer than a house. Its eye alone was the size of my palm. The kids shrieked and dove behind Usopp again. He, for once, didn't flinch.
His voice cracked as he measured it aloud. His measuring tape was used thrice to get an accurate length.
He shouted out the word. Sixty meters.
The words barely seemed real.
A record no doubt even among the legend of the villagers.
And we'd caught it. Together.
I let the torch drop into the sand. Its flame danced at the base, flickering with the wind. I dropped beside it, body aching, lungs burning.
The kids slumped beside me one by one. Dirt-streaked, exhausted, but glowing.
Usopp sat last, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. He didn't boast. Didn't pose.
He just smiled. Tired. Satisfied.
We looked at the fish together.
A beast from the deep. Proof of effort. Of teamwork. Of one impossible catch that would feed a village and fuel stories for years to come.
We laughed.
------------------
"Binkusu no sake wo, todoke ni yuku yo…"
The melody drifted over the cobbled paths like morning mist.
We walked in rhythm, singing Bink's Sake, the ancient pirate tune that had followed us with every good fishing trip we had. Usopp's voice was the loudest—unabashed and cracking with joy. Mine followed behind, smoother, quieter, but no less genuine. The kids chimed in, singing half the words wrong and half the notes off-key, but none of that mattered.
"Shio no mukō de, yūhi mo sawagu…"
Our feet scuffed dust from the roads, the great cart creaking beneath the massive tuna we'd hauled in. The scent of brine and iron hung thick in the air, mingling with the cold, silent breeze.
Doors began to creak open around us. Windows slid ajar. The village, slowly stirring from slumber, heard our song before they saw us.
One old man grumbled from a window above the general store, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
Then he saw the fish.
His complaint died in his throat.
Another joined him, then another, until faces began filling the doorways. No more scolding. Only silence—and then action.
Someone brought out a long pole to help balance the cart. Another rushed forward with thick gloves to steady the tail. Without a word, without being asked, the villagers joined in, as if the sight of that tuna had switched something on in them.
The kids, riding high on top of the cart, grinned and raised their bowls. "Gochisō!" they shouted.
A feast.
The adults echoed it. 'Gochisō!' they repeated, laughter following—real, full of joy.
We reached the square, where the village chief sat with a heavy blanket across his knees. His son, younger and sharp-eyed, tended the flames with practiced hands. A few older villagers were gathered there, watching the smoke rise in lazy spirals. When they saw us and the glistening tuna, every single one of them blinked in disbelief.
"Gochisō!" the kids called again, triumphant.
The old men sighed, nearly in unison, and stood slowly, brushing ash from their sleeves. No one even questioned it. At this point, it was just tradition.
From the side paths, the women of the village appeared like summoned spirits—baskets in hand, sleeves rolled up, eyes already evaluating the task ahead. Their chatter rose like birdsong as they began setting out utensils, knives, cutting boards, spices, and more bowls than I'd ever seen in one place.
This was a celebration.
This was a feast.
Usopp and I rolled up our sleeves without hesitation. We didn't need instruction. We knew what to do.
The fish was lowered with care, ropes tied and looped over beams as villagers helped guide its weight down. Then the heirloom appeared—a sword, older than any of us, taken from the chief's family vault. Its blade shimmered with oil, still sharp.
It was reverently handed to one of the elder men, who approached the fish as if preparing to duel with a giant. With slow, precise strokes, he carved down through the thick skin, exposing dark, glistening flesh beneath. Gutting came next. The smell turned a few stomachs, but no one left. Large wooden tubs were brought forward to collect every part—guts, intestines, blood, organs. Nothing would go to waste.
We worked in stages. The most experienced took the first cuts, severing the head, separating the tail. Then came the large portions, thick as barrels, sliced clean with the heirloom blade. Those were passed down to the younger men, who broke them into manageable fillets. Each cut revealed layers of deep red meat marbled with fat, clean and fresh.
I took the tail section and the rear cut—almost twenty meters of pure tuna—and placed it into a reinforced cart with the help of a few strong hands. The weight was immense, but the cart groaned and held.
All the villagers knew exactly where that cut was headed.
"Usopp."
His head snapped up from where he'd been helping Piiman with a particularly stubborn tendon. His eyes widened when he saw the tailpiece in the cart, and before I could even finish the sentence, he had dropped everything and rushed to the handle.
No question.
No hesitation.
I had an idea as to why.
Kaya.
His face was red before I even looked at him. A deep, burning blush that reached the tips of his ears. Even in the dim light of early morning, it stood out like fire.
I grinned, letting the expression say all the things I wouldn't tease him about out loud. Not yet.
"Ninjin. Tamanegi. Piiman." I called.
They were crouched near the fire pit, each clutching a small bowl of fresh sashimi. At my call, they sprang to their feet, nearly spilling their portions.
"Kaya?" Ninjin asked, eyes wide.
I nodded.
All three cheered as they scrambled toward the cart, hopping up and grabbing the sides as if they'd been summoned to battle.
I waved to the villagers as we began pushing the cart away from the square. They waved back, most of them preparing the fish or tending the fire.
The road to the mansion was easier with five sets of hands. Even so, the cart wobbled with every bump. The kids shouted instructions like they were commanding a ship. Usopp pushed harder than necessary, muscles tight with nervous energy. Every step closer to the mansion made him stand straighter. Anxious. Hopeful. Terrified.
Merry opened the gate with his usual calm, though his eyes looked a little tired, as if the day had begun earlier than he'd hoped. The first thing he saw was Usopp—sweating, flushed, gripping the cart with both hands like it was all holding him together.
I pointed.
First at Usopp.
Then at the fish.
Merry's gaze didn't linger on the tuna.
He stared at Usopp. Quiet.
Then, without a word, he stepped aside.
Usopp swallowed hard and pushed through the gate like a knight marching into the lion's den.
The guards saw us coming and moved quickly, two of them jogging ahead to help us maneuver the cart to the side entrance leading to the ice room. We followed them down into the cool cellar, a thick layer of frost covering the stone walls.
We hung the fish there—bound with hooks and heavy wire, the tail swaying slightly in the cold.
I reached into one of the ice bins and tossed a cube at Tamanegi. He caught it with a squeal and pressed it against his cheek. I tossed another to Ninjin and then to Piiman. They crunched on the ice like candy.
Usopp barely noticed.
His eyes were somewhere else.
Or, more accurately, upstairs.
I turned toward the staircase.
All three girls, leaning over the railing of the second-floor balcony.
Nami, arms folded, hair tousled from sleep but eyes curious.
Carina, chin resting on her hand, gaze half-lidded with amusement.
And Kaya.
Not as lively as the other two. Not as knowing. But brighter. Her smile, hesitant but real, bloomed when she saw Usopp below.
I met their gaze and I waved them.
And then, subtle and slow, raised one hand.
Middle finger extended—just enough—for the shadow lurking behind the curtain in the far window.
For the cat-eyed bastard.