The scent of fire-grilled fish clung to the air like mist over warm water. Smoke curled from scattered cooking pits in the village square, where the bonfires had long since transitioned from heat source to community gathering. The great tuna — the center of today's celebration — lay half-cut, surrounded by villagers in aprons, gloves, and smiles.
Even with part of the fish already stored in the mansion's ice room, what remained was staggering.
Whole sections of the tuna — thick and glistening with a deep red hue — were still untouched. Massive. Towering. Laid across benches like monuments. Knives slid through them, sharp and steady, guided by experienced hands. Even then, the villagers had barely worked through five meters.
The chief's son was barking orders, sleeves rolled up, face flushed from smoke and duty. He directed each villager with precision, making sure nothing was wasted. He was a fishermen so he knew the best way to preserve the fish. The fish would feed the village for a week, maybe more, if they handled it right.
Women hummed old tunes as they salted slabs of meat with practiced efficiency, while younger men carried buckets of blood, bones, and organs to bury or repurpose. A few people stirred large vats of broth, steam rising and dancing beneath the flickering torchlight. Children ran by barefoot, giggling, cheeks puffed with stolen bites of sushi.
Among the chaos, I sat on a worn bench beside a small wooden table covered in ceramic plates.
Sashimi, sushi, grilled cuts, fried slices, tuna stew — every imaginable dish made from the great fish had found its way to me. One of the old village women handed me a bowl of something steaming. "Taberu." she said sternly, as though my appetite was a duty. Another passed me plate brushed in thick soy sauce glaze.
I picked up a slice of sashimi with my fingers and popped it into my mouth.
Raw. Cold. The texture was soft, fatty, clean.
I didn't like it.
I never had.
Still, I gave it a second try. Then a third, as if willing my taste to evolve out of respect for the occasion. It didn't. With a quiet sigh, I shifted my attention to the grilled and pan-fried options — rich, savory, crackling with edges kissed by fire. That was more my language.
From the edge of my vision, I saw two figures making their way toward me.
Nami and Carina.
The girls were being treated like visiting nobility.
Old ladies flocked to them, offering plate after plate, each better than the last. Choice cuts of otoro belly. Delicate rolls of sushi dressed with seaweed and lemon. One elder even fanned Carina while she ate, like she was royalty sitting for a portrait.
My eye twitched.
I'd lived here for months.
And not once had I ever been this cherished.
Still, I didn't complain.
I just shrugged, grabbed more food, and carried the spread over to our little gathering beneath the largest bonfire.
The kids cheered when they saw the trays. "Sashimi!" "Sushi!" "Look at that one—grilled!" Their hands shot out in all directions, grabbing indiscriminately, piling small mountains onto banana leaves and ceramic plates. Ninjin stuffed his cheeks like a squirrel. Piiman made a game of stacking sushi pieces. Tamanegi dipped his food into every sauce he could find, claiming he was a "flavor scientist."
Usopp wasn't eating.
He sat cross-legged, staring across the fire at Kaya, completely gone in his own head. Every few seconds, he'd blink slowly like he'd just remembered how to breathe, then stare again.
Kaya, for her part, was still red from earlier. Her hands hadn't left her cheeks, and she peeked through her fingers like a child trying to hide from the world and watch it at the same time.
Neither of them said anything.
But their silence was louder than the laughter.
Nami, Carina, and Merry soon returned, balancing bowls and trays of new dishes.
Merry, ever the gentleman, had cooked some of it himself — thin slices of pan-fried tuna crisped just enough to lock in the moisture. He'd even brought a portable wooden board and placed it across the armrests of Kaya's wheelchair, crafting a makeshift dinner table. Gently, with his usual care, he placed a bowl of stew and the freshly cooked tuna in front of her.
Kaya blinked, then gave him a grateful smile.
He nodded back, tight-lipped, clearly still recovering from the evening's earlier emotional overload.
Carina plopped beside me, holding a plate in one hand. Without a word, she picked up a piece of sushi and held it in front of my mouth.
I blinked.
She smiled, her eyes glinting with playful triumph.
I leaned forward and let her feed me.
The moment her fingers left the sushi, they lingered on my lips a second too long — then slipped away with a light touch and a teasing giggle.
The kids exploded with teases.
Even Merry looked shocked.
Usopp and Kaya looked up just in time to catch the tail end of it. I met their gaze and gave them an exaggerated wink.
Kaya flushed deeper.
Usopp looked ready to combust.
Their eyes shifted away instinctively — and in perfect sync, they accidentally looked at each other.
That did it.
Usopp blushed so hard his nose turned pink. Kaya's fingers returned to her face. The flickering bonfire light made their embarrassment glow.
Around them, the kids collapsed in fits of laughter. Merry stood frozen, likely reevaluating his entire career path and much much more.
I just grinned.
Carina, not to be outdone, leaned in feeding me even more. Not to be outdone, I picked up a piece of sushi and fed her in return. She didn't just take it—she savored it, pausing to suck gently on my finger before pulling away.
The kids screamed and covered their faces with their hands, peeking through fingers like they were watching a horror movie.
"Sukyandarasuda!" Ninjin whispered. Scandalous!
"Hentai." Tamanegi gasped.
Nami, meanwhile, sat a little apart from the chaos, legs crossed, arms folded. She stared off into the distance with a plate balanced on her knees. The light from the fire cast soft shadows on her face, highlighting the slight curve of a smile playing at the corner of her lips.
Pushing Carina aside, I walked over quietly and sat down beside her.
She didn't say anything.
I grabbed a piece of grilled tuna from her plate and took a bite.
She turned slowly, expression deadpan.
"10,000 berī." I replied smoothly.
I picked a piece of the pan-fried fish from my own plate and held it to her mouth.
Her eyes narrowed with suspicion.
"9,000 berries."
She rolled her eyes but leaned forward and took it.
As she chewed, her gaze softened. "20,000 berries."
I just shrugged and nodded.
Just then, Carina appeared beside us, arms folded behind her back. She leaned down, lips parted in mock demand, eyes gleaming.
I laughed and picked up another bite.
She opened her mouth like a pampered princess.
I fed them both.
They leaned into it — laughing, teasing, throwing jabs at each other. For a brief, perfect moment, the tension of the day melted into the smell of firewood, grilled tuna, and soft laughter.
Usopp and Kaya were talking now — quietly, shyly.
Their food sat forgotten in their laps as they leaned in just a little closer, word by word. Their knees brushed. Kaya was smiling again, fully, her cheeks flushed but her eyes bright. Usopp was fidgeting with the hem of his sleeve, but his grin wouldn't quit.
They didn't know it, but every villager nearby had quietly stopped to look.
For them, this wasn't just a couple of kids talking.
It was a victory.
The celebration might've started with a fish.
But it was ending with a moment of peace.
And I?
I leaned back, stretched my legs, and let myself exhale.
Carina lay her head against my shoulder, humming the earlier tune. Nami leaned back against a crate, nibbling a skewer. The kids were stacking sushi rolls like dominoes. Merry was sipping broth, keeping a watchful but tired eye on Kaya.
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Morning unfolded slowly, as if reluctant to disturb what remained of the night's celebration. The sun rose gently, its golden fingers brushing the village rooftops, warming the embers still flickering beneath blackened firewood. Light spilled over the square, catching on discarded plates and half-buried cups, on the curled bodies of those who had danced until their legs gave out and the wine ran dry.
Here and there, the early risers stirred — women with rolled sleeves and quiet focus, collecting the leftovers of joy and sorting them into duty. They worked in clusters, wrapping the salted tuna cuts in woven cloth, portioning them into neat bundles to bring back to their homes. Their chatter was soft but constant, like the sea whispering against a pier.
The skeleton of the tuna lay at the heart of it all, picked clean and gleaming under the sunlight. What remained was a pale, elegant arch of cartilage and bone — oddly beautiful in its own right. The villagers had planned to take it apart by morning, but I'd stopped them the night before.
I had a use for it.
Near the fading embers of the main bonfire, the kids lay bundled together in a tangled nest of blankets and limbs. Ninjin had one arm slung protectively around Tamanegi. Piiman was curled at their feet, half-covered by a cloth that looked like it had once been a table runner. Their faces were peaceful, dusted with ash and sleep. You wouldn't guess they were the same chaos incarnate that had turned the village square into a miniature war zone of flying sushi and stolen stew.
Not far from them, Usopp sat slumped against Kaya's wheelchair. His head rested against the wooden frame, mouth slightly open, one leg tucked beneath him. Kaya was asleep, wrapped in two layers of blankets, her hand resting near his. They weren't holding hands, but their fingers brushed — a quiet, unconscious closeness that said everything.
Their smiles mirrored each other's, faint and steady. Even in dreams, they seemed to be aligned.
A few paces behind them, Merry sat with a blanket over his shoulders and a look on his face that bordered on existential collapse. The man hadn't slept. That much was clear. His eyes were ringed with fatigue, and his back held its usual poise only through sheer discipline. He had spent the entire night on watch — not because he didn't trust anyone, but because he trusted no one enough.
I walked over with the pot of reboiled stew, ladled some into a clay bowl, and handed it to him. He accepted it with a faint nod, his fingers trembling slightly as they wrapped around the warmth.
He had questions. Of course he did.
But before his lips could part, I gave him a small shake of my head and walked away.
Merry was a smart man. Smart men believed themselves more than they did others. He would patch his own stories. If I told him the truth, he would be skeptical.
Better to leave him with what he'd seen. Better to let him write the version of the story that made sense to him. Because at least then, it would feel true.
Beside I had given him enough clues.
And now, three pairs of eyes would be on Klahadore.
That was enough.
I took a sip of the stew. The taste was rich and earthy, the broth thick with marrow and sea-salt. There was something oceanic in it, but not fishy — more like the smell of clean docks after rain. It lingered on the tongue, comforting and strange all at once.
It was good.
Surprisingly good.
The villagers hadn't used much spice — they rarely did — but somehow, what they had was enough. They had made something beautiful from so little. It reminded me of why I'd always had a soft spot for this place.
I stretched.
Bones cracked. Joints groaned like tired wood. The ache was real, but not unpleasant.
I placed the empty bowl on the ground near the fire and made my way toward the path leading to the women's circle.
Nami and Carina stood in the center of it all, sleeves rolled up, hair tied back, faces bright in the early light. They laughed with the old women like they'd lived here their whole lives. Traded jokes, shared recipes, offered lifting hands where needed. One of the elders handed Carina a cloth pouch — probably herbs or pickled vegetables. Another gave Nami a beaded bracelet.
In a single night, they'd gone from outsiders to beloved guests. Revered, almost.
Even I had never been treated with that kind of affection. And I did all the odd works for them.
I stopped at the edge of the path, watching them.
It could've been their charm. Their wit. Their beauty. Or maybe it was something simpler — the way they'd folded themselves into the rhythm of the village, without pretense or distance. The way they'd listened.
They had become a part of the villagers story.
Nami's laughter rang out again. It was sharp. Confident. Free. But beneath the note of joy, there was something else — a tension just beneath the surface. A shadow that hadn't faded yet.
I watched her for a moment longer.
Then I turned and walked away.
To my old shack.
The boat still sat out front, its frame gently swaying in the breeze like a cradle waiting for motion. The flowers surrounding it were in full bloom — vibrant, healthy. My fingers brushed over one of them.
They had flourished.
Usopp and the kids had taken care of them.
Better than I expected.
I climbed aboard the boat, opened the cabin door, and began the slow task of unloading what was left inside. Supplies. Small crates. Wrapped bundles.
One by one, I carried them into the shack.
The door creaked open. Inside, it was clean. Too clean. The dust had been swept. The floor polished with oil and cloth. The windows wiped of grime. Even the old storage shelves had been dusted.
They had cleaned it for me.
I placed each item in its corner. Stacked crates in one section. Laid out tools on the low table. Set down a few precious items near the window where the sun would warm them.
Finally, I unwrapped the last box.
Usopp's gift.
I set it atop a sealed barrel in the back of the room.
He would like it. He always wanted it.
If Usopp made the most of it, he'd go even further. Rise even higher.
Taking me with him. Even the blood had limits, Usopp didn't.
Before leaving, I paused at the wall.
There, hanging from a nail, was an old locket.
I reached up, took it gently, opened it with a careful thumb.
Inside were two face.
Black Hair. Bright eyes. Happy smile. A man.
And.
Red hair. Bright eyes. A smile full of fire and mischief.
The kind of smile you never forget.
I closed it slowly and held it in my palm as I stepped out into the light.
The locket flashing in the light.