BOOM.
The thermite grenade exploded with a tight, ferocious roar.
The sound cracked across the clearing like a war drum. Fire licked outward from the blast site, white-hot and focused, eating through bark and root. The tree caught in the center of the blast—it curled inward as the flames turned it inside out, reduced it to an embered remains within seconds.
Usopp scribbled something into his notebook, and I stood back, watching the fire dance. The heat still tingled across my face.
Eight meters.
We measured the radius again. This was no wild inferno like the dry thermite had given us. The wet thermite grenade didn't behave like smoke or hellfire. It didn't spread. It concentrated. Gave a focused blast.
We recorded the detail carefully.
Dry thermite: chaos incarnate. Ten-meter kill zone. One toss and they melted, screamed, or ran.
Wet thermite grenades: slower burn, tighter blast. One point of impact. The perfect tool for high-level enemies—those who didn't flinch at fire but couldn't survive it chewing into their bones all at once.
We stared at the crater for a moment, silent. It was perfect if it burst right in front of the face.
I nodded. Timing would be everything.
With the grenades done, we moved to the guns. I loaded a thermite bullet into the old, scorched barrel of a musket. Cocked it. Aimed low.
Fired.
The bullet surged, trailing a hint of smoke before exploding at about twelve meters, unleashing a blooming cloud of white-hot thermite that rolled forward like a beast exhaling. Anything within its path would be left without skin or dignity.
I tried again.
The gun stuttered, jammed, then splintered at the grip. Wood cracked. The barrel hissed.
I dropped it before the remnants could burn my hand. Two shots. That was all this gun could handle before the metal started to melt.
Usopp noted it all down, adjusting the trajectory charts and reinforcing the obvious:
Dry thermite bullets were great for shock-and-burn at close range, but each shot shaved time off the weapon's life.
Next, I loaded a wet thermite bullet into a different gun. This one was newer, untouched by fire—still reluctant to die.
I aimed high and fired.
The shot flew silently across the distance and embedded itself in a thick oak trunk. For a moment, nothing happened. Then: burst—a compact, vicious flash of light. The flames chewed through the wood like acid-laced termites, and the tree shook from within.
Second wet bullet.
Forty meters.
The ball hit another tree and detonated into a concentrated inferno, like a flamethrower had kissed the spot.
We exchanged glances.
Wet bullets were dangerous, yes—but precise. They didn't kill nearby. They killed exactly where they hit. And with enough distance to matter.
Control and chaos.
Wet and dry.
Targeted death versus ambient destruction.
Both had value.
But as I looked back at the remaining barrels, I sighed.
Two barrels of thermite had dwindled to half of one.
I turned to Usopp, who had already noticed.
He glanced up at me, shoulders tight, scribbling more notes, his hands streaked with soot.
I gave him a look. He knew what it meant. No more tests. We'd run through too much material. What remained would be used strictly for production—bullets and grenades only.
He gave a reluctant nod, then tucked the notebook under his arm.
I stared out at the forest.
Our testing field had turned into a wasteland. Trees were either ash or fire. The dirt had been carved into a honeycomb of craters. The smoke rose in streaks—thin, white, like smoke signals no one would answer.
Good thing we were miles from the village. If anyone had seen this? We'd be lucky to get chased out with pitchforks. More likely we'd be locked up or banished outright.
I let out a breath and rolled a still-unused grenade between my fingers.
Warm. Smooth. Violent.
Then, carefully, I placed it into the padded chest we had prepped. Layers of cloth and sponge—the best we could do without risking it going off just because it bumped against the ground wrong.
Neither Usopp nor I said it aloud, but we were both thinking it:
We were one bad drop away from becoming fire ghosts.
I turned to him, clapping the dust off my palms.
I needed them.
Grenades. Bullets. Use what's left to make them.
His lip twitched, caught between a grimace and a grin. He nodded.
And he bragged about how he would make the most exceptional stuff for me.
Of course he would. This was Usopp, after all. Behind the nerves and bluster, I knew he'd made weapons that would terrify anyone with sense. Why because he lied about it to my face.
I left him to work, stepping over the scorched border we'd created at the forest's edge. The earth here was still solid, unbroken. Grass still grew. I jumped up onto the barrier of logs and sandbags we'd set up for safety.
And found Nami waiting for me.
Arms crossed. One eyebrow raised. A mischievous smile curling on her lips like smoke from a match just lit.
Her hand stretched forward, her palm open. She opened her mouth to ask for waiting fees. i didn't even ask her to wait for me.
I sighed. Loudly.
This had become routine since last week.
Nami had always cared about money, but recently it had gone from amusing quirk to full-blown obsession. I'd watched her count receipts in her sleep. Just last week she charged me for sitting too long at a chair because it was "prime seating."
She didn't ask Kaya for a single coin.
But me?
She had an invoice for everything. And Usopp?
He owed her a million berries. Even he didn't know how. I doubt Nami would tell. But I had a guess. It was probably because Nami had arranged the date for them. And Nami being Nami snowballed the figure to the current amount.
I told her I'd cover Usopp's debt—on one condition.
Don't mess with him.
She agreed.
Then asked me for five million on top of it.
Naturally.
But behind her teasing smile, something didn't sit right.
A flicker of something behind her eyes—tightness at the corners, a shadow just beneath the grin. Something desperate. Quiet.
I knew that look.
And I had a guess.
She was planning to return to Arlong.
I could see the desperation behind her actions.
She had been out for a long time. If she didn't return, Arlong would harm the villagers.
She was always saving. Spending others money for her needs. But she did it because she had to. She was after all just a little girl in this dark world.
I wanted to tell her about Nojiko and that I met her but I kept quiet. I wasn't ready to face Arlong yet.
I met her gaze and agreed to pay.
She smirked as her steps jumped. Happy that she won.
After all the money wasn't just for her.
It was a ransom Arlong had asked her for.
She wasn't just trying to get rich. She was trying to buy something.
Freedom.
Behind me, thermite clouds still rose in the distance and settled down mixing with the sand.
Weapons, plans, tests, contracts. All of it felt sharp, dangerous, forward-moving.
But here, standing in front of Nami, I felt still.
And the only thing I could think was—
How much longer do we have before the world and its plot starts pulling us apart again?
-----------------
She answered the question herself.
Three days.
That's all it took for the world to begin unraveling.
In the still hours of the night, when even the waves seemed too tired to make noise, Nami vanished.
No grand farewell. No dramatic send-off. Just a clean cut from everything we'd built. She slipped into my shack like a shadow, stole every last coin I had tucked away, took the vessel I'd been preparing, and sailed into the dark without a trace of hesitation.
She left only one thing behind—a note addressed solely to Kaya. Not me. Not Usopp. Not even Carina.
That silence said more than words ever could.
When Carina found me in the early gray of dawn, she didn't need to explain much. The guilt was in her voice, the weariness in her eyes. She'd known. Not all of it, not the plan, but enough to know.
Nami had told Kaya part of her story the night before.
When Kaya fell asleep—exhausted, likely overwhelmed—Nami had stood, left the note behind, and disappeared before the sun could rise to stop her.
I didn't ask Carina for details. There wasn't time. I sent her back to Kaya with a single instruction: Whatever comfort could be offered, offer it. Kaya would need it.
I ran.
Straight to Usopp.
He was still asleep, tangled in blankets and drooling into the pillow like a kid with no idea the world was breaking around him.
I kicked him awake.
He jolted upright in confusion, still blinking sleep from his eyes, trying to speak—but I offered him no words. Just grabbed his wrist and pulled.
We moved quickly, the morning mist curling around our feet as we made for the mansion. I could feel his questions tightening behind me, could hear his breath rising with each hurried step, but still—I said nothing.
There were no words that could prepare him.
By the time we reached the estate, the first light of morning had begun to stretch across the garden walls. The flowers didn't know anything had changed. The trees still rustled like the world was fine. But inside, nothing was fine.
At the front door, Merry paced.
Back and forth, his face pale, his movements twitching with quiet panic. His hands wrung against his waistcoat, the same way a man clings to routine when everything else begins to slip.
His voice, low and strained, carried enough weight: Kaya had skipped breakfast. She was locked in her room. She hadn't stopped crying.
The pain was visible in his stance—shoulders curled inward, head lowered. Merry, the constant, the unshakable, had found something he couldn't fix with order or protocol.
I didn't respond. Just nodded and marched forward, dragging Usopp with me like a man hauling a last hope.
At the top of the stairs, Klahadore met us with the breakfast tray. His mouth opened, no doubt to protest, but I took the tray from him and shoved it into Usopp's hands before he could say a word.
Then I opened the door.
The room smelled of morning and salt—tears.
Kaya was curled on the bed, body turned toward the wall, shoulders trembling. She held the note like it was all that remained of a limb torn away. Carina sat at her side, eyes red, arms wrapped gently around Kaya's waist, whispering whatever comforts she could find.
They both looked up when I entered.
I didn't pause. Just pushed Usopp in, set the tray in his hands, and closed the door behind him.
The latch clicked softly.
I leaned my forehead against the wood for a second.
So much silence. So much weight.
Outside, Merry had followed. He didn't speak. The sorrow in his posture, the way he glanced at the door like it might shatter any second—he was breaking too.
So I gave him what I had: a tired sigh.
Nami. I thought.
You could've said goodbye.
Not to me.
To Kaya.
The one person who never expected anything from you.
The one gentle soul in these waters that had yet to be corrupted.
You didn't owe me anything. But Kaya?
You owed her kindness.
Now all I had was a headache. One only she could've given me.
I rubbed my temples as Merry turned to me, something conflicted flashing in his expression. I knew what was coming.
He would object to Usopp staying here. Honor, reputation, social standards—all the things Merry upheld like scripture. He would argue that a boy sneaking into Kaya's room at her most vulnerable would stain her image, would raise questions in the village.
And of course, Klahadore would contest it too—for his own reasons. Control. Jealousy. The way he always seemed just a little too involved in the structure of Kaya's life.
They both spoke, not in unison, but close enough.
But I held firm.
We negotiated. I offered compromise. Visiting hours.
Breakfast. Lunch. Supper. Dinner.
Not a second more.
Merry, ever the man who balanced heart and duty, finally relented. The look in his eyes said it all—he couldn't bear to see Kaya cry another day, no matter what the village whispered.
Klahadore didn't agree. His silence was venom.
But I didn't care.
If Usopp couldn't fix this, no one could.
Kaya didn't need tradition right now. She needed someone who could hear her when she cried and make sure the tears never fell.