The wooden training dummy stood rooted in the earth, weathered and scarred from years of use. I faced it barefoot, sweat rolling down my back, shirt discarded, the morning sun cutting sharp lines across my shoulders.
I kicked the dummy's side.
My leg stretched higher than usual—too high. I felt the pop before I heard it. A tearing sensation deep in the muscle. Something shifting where it shouldn't.
Pain followed. A bright, sharp scream that shot from my thigh into my spine.
I didn't stop.
I kicked again, letting the torn muscle strain further. The nerves fired again, louder now, angrier. I welcomed it. The pain, the rupture, the heat in my leg like a fire trying to cauterize itself.
I kicked until I couldn't feel anything new.
Until the pain stopped being surprising.
Until it spoke in a voice I recognized.
Pain had always been the most honest language I knew.
It didn't lie. It didn't flatter. It didn't ask for permission.
I gritted my teeth and drove my foot into the wood again.
Then again.
And again.
Not out of anger.
Not exactly.
More like… searching.
My mind wandered as my body kept striking.
It drifted—slipped sideways into the memories I hadn't quite unpacked yet. My voyage. The bounty hunting.
It had all been too easy.
That was the part that didn't sit right. Not the violence. Not the blood. But the ease.
Money, pirates, loot—it all came faster than it should have. Even seasoned hunters in East Blue, the ones with decades of experience and blood-stained journals, struggled to touch a hundred million bounty in a year. And we'd scraped just shy of 200. In four months. With just the three of us.
That wasn't luck. I didn't believe in it.
That wasn't even skill.
Sure, if I rewound the story, I could rationalize it. The first month had been a complete disaster—I got lost at sea. Maps didn't work. Nothing did. Just me, floating aimlessly like a piece of driftwood. Then came Monkey Island. Then two more months of silence and drifting. Then Nami. Then Carina.
If the world was trying to write me into something… it was doing it in strange chapters.
Because the gaps didn't make sense. The detours were too specific.
People say in the East Blue, with a decent map, even an idiot could sail and eventually hit something even without a compass. A town. A Marine base. Another ship. Anything.
But I didn't.
Not for a three whole month aside from an island.
Not a soul.
Just ocean and silence and the taste of copper in my mouth.
Then came the island. The girls. The pirates.
And everything clicked into motion.
Like a gear being forced into place.
I punched the wooden dummy with a closed fist.
Knuckles cracked.
The dummy thudded in place.
My head burned with memories.
That wine ball in my chest had changed all that. It gave me something. A sixth sense. A thread to follow. It had pulled me toward the pirates. It had pulled me to the girls.
Even now, it still hummed faintly, like a compass locked on a direction it refused to explain.
It hadn't stopped since Monkey Island.
Where was it pointing?
Why?
No answer.
Just instinct.
Just motion.
It was useful, sure. When I tuned into it, I could feel things. The presence of threats. A pulse in the world like sonar.
But it had limits.
Everything did.
I punched the wood again, harder. Then again. My knuckles split on the fourth strike. Skin peeled. Blood warmed my hand.
I didn't stop.
The blood inside me—the one I'd called a curse disguised as a boon for months—had its cap. I'd found it. At first, I thought it was endless. It could heal wounds that should've killed me. It let me push past human strength, jump farther, fight longer.
But it had its limit.
I tried upon just pushing the single masted ship. The blood had all but burned after a little push.
The blood burned, yes—but only so much.
It couldn't rewrite physics.
I would become strong. Stronger than I should've been.
But in the grand scheme of the world? I wasn't at the top.
Not even close.
Middle tier, at best even in East Blue.
The gap between me and the monsters of this world? The real monsters?
It was still wide.
And I wasn't closing it fast enough.
Even my training had plateaued. I pushed harder, lifted more, fought longer. And yet—every gain was marginal. Every improvement felt like a drop in the ocean.
So I needed to adapt.
If my blood had a ceiling, I had to find another lever.
Devil Fruits were out. I wasn't foolish enough to think I'd stumble into one like it was lying in a fruit stall. And even if I did—was it worth it? Becoming a Devil Fruit user was a gamble. A price for power. One I wasn't sure I could afford.
The sea, after all, was still my only constant.
So that left technology.
Strategy.
Gadgets.
Ruthlessness.
Usopp's mind.
He was smart. Stupid sometimes, but brilliant where it counted.
He made tools from scrap, weapons from trees, plans from nothing. If I could give him resources, blueprints, time—he could fill the gaps I couldn't.
I ruffled my hair.
My thoughts were spinning too fast.
I punched the dummy again. Then again.
Harder.
More desperate.
A thought rose in the back of my mind.
Dark. Unformed.
I crushed it before it took shape.
Now wasn't the time to think like that.
I wasn't in control. Not enough to have thoughts like that. Not enough to trust them.
I slammed my fist into the dummy. My shoulder screamed. My wrist bent wrong.
Didn't care.
I headbutted it next.
A hard, ugly sound.
My forehead split open slightly. Blood trickled down my brow.
Again.
And again.
The world blurred slightly. Pain bloomed in waves. My skull felt fractured.
Still—better than silence.
Better than wondering if you were living a life that wasn't yours.
If your story had already been written.
And you were just walking the lines.
I dropped to my knees, the world spinning around me.
Pain surged up from every part of me.
I could've stopped it.
Could've healed myself.
I didn't.
I wanted to feel it.
I needed it.
The last few months had been… too soft. Too convenient. Too lucky. Things had come easy after years of knowing the world as sharp and uncaring.
But this? This pain? This was familiar. This made sense.
This reminded me I was alive.
The blood on my hands, my head, my knuckles — it was real.
Earned.
It didn't come from a glowing orb or a stroke of fortune.
It came from me.
I sat back on the dirt, chest heaving.
The dummy stood still, scarred but unbroken.
I stared at it, vision swimming, and laughed softly.
Not because anything was funny.
But because I had remembered something important.
The world had throw softballs after softballs to me. But that just meant the hard ones were coming next.
And when it does—
I'd swing for a home run.
----------------
The towel was stiff with blood and iron, and no matter how hard I scrubbed, the sharp scent lingered in the fibers. It had seen too much. That brutal workout left its mark every time.
By the time I hung the towel and my sweat-drenched clothes on the line, my breath had evened out. The wind felt softer, gentler brushing over the grass with a whisper instead of a howl.
Syrup Village looked the same, but something had shifted. The place felt smaller somehow. Like I had grown too big for it in all the wrong ways. My heart didn't settle here like it used to. It hovered. I kept waiting for it to feel like home again. It didn't.
Off in the distance, someone danced like an idiot. Legs kicking up in the air, arms flailing with joy that didn't need a reason. Usopp — recognizable even from that far. He moved with the wild abandon of someone who never forgot how to be a child. The moment he noticed me watching, he froze, stumbled through a recovery, and tried to walk like he'd been serious and nonchalant all along. It didn't work. He was transparent, as always.
I motioned to him silently, and he jogged over. We walked together toward the shack.
The shack still smelled of the aged wood, salt and rotting steel. Time had passed here but nothing had moved. Despite all the cleaning Usopp and the kids had done.
I handed Usopp the futons without ceremony. They'd been stuffed into a corner for months, growing heavier and smellier with dust and age. He didn't complain. Just carried them out and started airing them in the yard.
He returned, wiping his hands on his pants.
His eyes flicked toward the barrel in the corner, noting the package placed neatly on top. He didn't ask. He still had restraint on him.
When he was finished, I handed him the package. He caught it, surprised by the weight, and opened it right there on the floor.
It was a slow unraveling. At first, curiosity. Then wonder. Then the kind of silent reverence that only came when someone realized they were holding a dream made tangible. Tools, parts, instruments of creation — all tailored for someone with a builder's heart. Precision welders, high-grade alloys, I was able to procure, miniature engines, gearboxes, and fine tools that would've made any craftsman fall silent.
Usopp didn't speak. He didn't need to. His hands moved through the contents like he was afraid they might vanish. There was a quiet tremble in his fingers. Excitement, gratitude, disbelief — all wrapped up in the same quiet motion.
I handed him another gift, smaller this time. Wrapped carelessly in local newspaper. He opened it with the same enthusiasm, though this time the excitement burst through faster. A Den Den Mushi blinked up at him, its shell still pale, its antennae twitching softly. Freshly acquired. A communication lifeline.
Den Den Mushi weren't common here. Aside from the mansion, the whole village had three—two in the chief's house, one with the guards for security reasons. This made four. I handed him a slip of paper with my number. Letting him know he could reach me now. No matter where I was.
He toyed with the dial, his grin pulling wide, like a kid unwrapping a new toy on a birthday morning. There was something in the way he held the snail — not just joy, but the feeling of being trusted.
He called my number right in front of me. I didn't pick up the phone. I just kicked him away.
He sprinted out of the shack, the Den Den Mushi tucked in his arms, already brimming with plans.
He hadn't changed much. Still wore his heart on his sleeve especially after his relation with Kaya had upgraded. He had become much more free.
I picked up the den den mushi. "Moshi. Moshi." came the vice from the snail that had taken Usopp's feature along with his long nose. "Hai." I just gave a short reply. Usopp spoke more and more and I just replied hai everytime.
But I called him back with a glance. He stopped sentence and came running the den den mushi in his hand. He reluctantly closed the call. The den den mushi falling asleep with his action.
I needed to get Kaya's number for Usopp.
When the shack was quiet again, I tapped the top of the barrel with my knuckles, and he looked over.
A crowbar sat nearby. He grabbed it, I stepped back and nodded toward the lid.
The lid gave with a metallic groan. Inside, gunpowder. Not the cheap kind. This was refined, dense, dangerous. His eyes widened, drawn into the soft shimmer of potential destruction. He glanced at me, confused but intrigued.
Another barrel came next. Metal fragments. Higher quality. Denser. Stronger. Deadlier.
He opened a few more barrel I pointed. They had everything a explosion lover would dream of. Detonator, Fuses, Chemical Compounds, Charges.
He looked stunned. Overwhelmed with what I had given him.
I didn't explain. Usopp had always loved making things. I just gave him permission to make louder, deadlier, more useful things.
He turned again to run, eyes bright with feverish inspiration. This time I grabbed the back of his collar.
Not yet.
I pointed again to the wrappers. His shoulders slumped, but he turned around and started picking them up one by one. A builder who still had chores. A dreamer with dust on his boots.
When he was done, I handed him one final box. Inside were three smaller snails — not full Den Den Mushi, but communicators that could piggyback on Usopp's. Meant for short-range, selective use. Perfect for the three kids who followed him around like ducklings.
He held the box for a while watching the three small Den Den Mushi. But he gave me salute as he took them. In a way I had given him responsibilities. And he had an inklings as to why.