I took the dried fish from the treehouse.
Most of our excess catch from the past weeks had gone up here—strung from the beams, salted and left to the wind and sun. It had become routine: fish, dry, store. Sometimes the kids snuck up and took a few pieces as snacks, too impatient to wait for dinner. I never stopped them.
Today, though, I took almost all of it.
I packed the dried strips tightly into a dented metal container, the kind we used for rice or flour during storms. I added some of the condiments we had: a bit of dried chili, sea salt, a tiny pouch of crushed herbs I'd traded for with the merchant convoy. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep the journey from tasting like ash.
The sun slanted through the open hatch of the treehouse, casting long shadows across the floor. I gave the place one last look—the hammock hanging in the corner, the fishing lines coiled neatly near the wall, the drawings Piiman had tacked to the wood beams. One of them was of me, holding a fish bigger than my body. It was absurd. I loved it.
I turned to my gear, did a final check—daggers secured, pistol wrapped and tucked in cloth, short sword tugged in its sheath, grenades separated and cushioned to avoid jostling. Food, tools, extra rope, flint, a small water barrel. Nothing forgotten.
I nodded to myself. Everything was ready.
I climbed down the rope without looking back.
My feet hit the ground softly, and I headed toward the village chief's house. It was quiet this early—most of the village was either cooking breakfast or hauling baskets of shellfish toward the market stall near the well. A few people gave me curious glances as I passed, noting the weight of my pack, the way I walked with purpose.
I knocked on the door twice.
It opened a moment later. The chief's son—a wiry man with a sharp jawline and a cautious smile—took one look at me and shouted.
"Kare ga tōchaku shimashita." announcing my arrival.
He has arrived.
The elder stepped out slowly, cane in hand. His white hair caught the light. He looked me over—not in judgment, but in quiet consideration.
"Taizai shite mimasen ka?" he said simply. "Naze kaijō de inochi o kiken'nisarasu nodesu ka?"
Why not stay? Why risk your life at sea?
I didn't answer. I knew it was safe here. I could farm here and love my life normally. But I could not live normal. Not after all this. I just shook my head.
He sighed. It wasn't exasperation. It was resignation.
He didn't say anything else. He knew better. He'd seen this before—wanderers with something burning in their bones, something that wouldn't let them stay still. I was just the latest. Maybe the last.
He stepped out, leaning heavier on his cane than usual.
I followed.
The path to the docks wasn't long, but it felt like a march. A dozen villagers we passed nodded to the chief and gave me the sort of look people save for those who are leaving and might never return. Half respect, half sorrow.
Children peeked from behind crates. One old woman muttered something about the sea not being gentle.
The chief talked as we walked. Not lectures. Just stories. Tales of his younger days when he braved rough waters and traded with the lawless people from the West Blue. He spoke of tides that came in strange patterns and the way the sky looked before a storm. How to read a seagull's path. How to tell a lie from a sailor's mouth by how quickly he blinked.
I didn't interrupt.
Knowledge was knowledge. And this was from an elder.
We reached the dock just as the ship creaked into place. A modest vessel—a single-masted merchant ship, its sails folded, deck already bustling with movement. Crates were being offloaded: oranges still bright and fresh, apples with waxy skins from distant islands, jars of oil and vinegar, thick paper sealed in wax, lengths of cloth, boxes marked with Kaya's family emblem.
It was her ship. I knew that much.
The villagers gathered near the unloading crew, making polite conversation, trading gossip and market rates. One of the boys offered a sailor a peeled banana in exchange for a tale about sea kings. The sailor obliged.
I waited at the edge of it all.
I saw him next.
Merry.
He stood beside a stack of crates, clipboard in one hand, pen moving in tight, sharp motions. He was thorough. Always was. His back was straight, eyes flicking over each line like they might vanish if not recorded fast enough.
Then he saw me.
There was a flicker—some slight change in posture.
Acceptance.
I had already made my mind. In these waters, the hardest thing to keep was someone who had made his mind.
Without a word, he handed his clipboard to a crew member and turned toward around.
He returned a moment later pushing Kaya in her wheelchair.
She wore a light shawl over her shoulders, her hair tucked back neatly, face paler than usual but smiling. The breeze tugged gently at the hem of her dress. She looked tired. She also looked like she wouldn't have missed this for anything.
"Kaya." I said.
"Modottekimasu ka?" she said, voice soft but clear.
Will you return?
I nodded.
She looked down at her hands folded in her lap.
Merry placed a hand gently on her shoulder, steadying her.
I had planned to come back. How could I not?
Plans were made here. Plans for future.
I had memories here.
As much as I wish I didn't, the memories would have brought me back here.
----------
Usopp placed the last barrel onto the ship with a heavy grunt, nearly stumbling backward as the weight left his hands. He straightened, panting hard, shoulders rising and falling. Sweat slicked his hairline, his nose crinkled with exhaustion—but he didn't stop. Not yet.
The three kids—Ninjin, Piiman, and Tamanegi—weren't far behind. Each of them carried a bundle of firewood in their arms, wobbling under the weight, faces scrunched with effort. They marched like little soldiers and delivered the firewood deep into the captain's room—the cramped, dark belly of the ship that would double as my storage, galley, and sleeping space for however long this journey lasted.
I stepped into the room once they were done.
Everything was in place. Three barrels of fresh water lashed to the sides. Dried food stacked in burlap sacks and sealed with waxed string. A small burner had been bolted to the corner of the floor, insulated carefully to avoid turning the ship into a floating pyre. Someone—probably Merry—had added padded metal plating beneath it.
My fishing rod leaned against the wall beside a rolled blanket. Firewood had been tied and tucked into netting on the ceiling. Oars rested on one side of the room, out of place on a vessel this size, but still there. An odd detail, but thoughtful. Just in case.
I didn't linger. I wasn't the type to marvel at comfort, especially when I knew how easily it could vanish.
I stepped back out and onto the warm beach. Sand shifted beneath my feet. The breeze caught the sail gently—it wasn't raised yet, but the canvas flapped like it was eager to leave.
The ship was small. Nothing glorious. Function over flair. A compact vessel with just enough room for one person and a dream. It had a single sail, no cabin save for the boxy hold in the middle, and an unpainted hull that bore the scuffs of hurried assembly.
Still, this was no discount rowboat.
Kaya had given it to me.
And despite its humble design, I knew exactly what it cost—400,000 berries. Even with her connection, even with the favor she called in, that price tag was no small gesture. It would've taken me months—maybe longer—to buy something even half as seaworthy.
She had given me a vessel, a future, and a chance to leave on my terms.
I looked back toward the treeline. The village behind it buzzed with morning life. I saw faint trails of smoke from cooking fires. The echo of voices. The rhythm of a place still waking up.
I'd prepared everything I could.
All that was left now was to say the only words that ever fit these moments.
See you soon.
Goodbyes were too final and they didn't suit me.
I walked toward the village chief, who stood at the edge of the crowd, cane in hand, face unreadable.
"Nanika adobaisu wa arimasu ka?" I said softly.
Any advice.
He met my gaze. No long speech this time. Just a breath. Then a sigh.
And a nod.
"Sotode wa tsuyo-sa ijō no mono ga hitsuyōdesu." he said.
I needed more than strength in the waters.
I didn't respond. I already knew. I had scars to prove it.
Then came the stampede.
Ninjin was first—fastest of the trio. He wrapped his small arms around my legs, clutching tight, burying his face in the side of my pants.
Then Piiman—who, in typical fashion, wiped his nose straight onto my shirt as he cried loud and shamelessly. "Ikanai de 〜!" he wailed, fingers gripping the edge of my belt. Don't go.
Tamanegi followed, fists pounding against my thigh in angry, choked sobs. He sniffled. "Taizai shite kudasai."
Please stay.
All three of them were crying.
Tears streaked their cheeks. Their voices were raw, breaking between hiccups and sobs.
In just a few months, I'd become something more than a stranger. More than someone who they followed behind. Somehow, with both intending to and without intending to, I'd become a figure they looked up to. Even admired.
Despite everything.
I crouched down slowly, my knees creaking under the strain. I ruffled their hair, each of them in turn—Piiman's curly mess, Ninjin's soft mop, Tamanegi's wiry strands.
"Nakanaide, Usoppu Kaizoku-dan," I said with a small grin.
Don't cry, Usopp Pirates.
"Itsuka mata aerudarou."
We'll meet again someday.
They were Usopp's crew, after all. They had to be brave. Even when it hurt.
They sniffled and nodded, wiping at their eyes, trying to stand tall. Trying to live up to the name they'd given themselves. Even Piiman straightened his back and gave a crooked salute.
Then Merry approached.
He walked calmly, hands behind his back, posture perfect even on uneven sand. His eyes held the usual calm, but there was something else behind them today. Something quieter. Maybe even gentle.
He stopped in front of me and extended his hand.
In it was a log pose.
My breath caught in my throat.
This wasn't a trinket. It wasn't just a gift.
A log pose meant direction. It meant purpose. It meant travel. But more importantly—it was traceable.
If pirates found this, if they recognized where it pointed... they'd trace it back here.
To the village.
To Kaya.
To him.
I didn't move at first.
Then I looked at Merry.
And he looked back without flinching.
His face was still, but I could see it in his eyes. He knew the risk. And he had already accepted it.
For Kaya.
For me.
I took the log pose, fingers brushing his gloved hand. I bowed my head slightly in silent thanks.
People here sure knew how to place others in debt.
Then she came.
Kaya, flanked by two of the mansion staff, was pushed forward in her wheelchair. She looked better—healthier. Her cheeks had more color than before. Her hands, once trembling, now rested calmly on her lap.
She gestured to the staff.
They carried crates to the ship—stacked high with citrus fruit. Oranges, lemons, even a few limes. Preserved in cool barrels, their bright colors a splash of life against the ship's drab wood.
My eyebrows raised. She smiled.
She was learning, no doubt. A step closer to her goal.
I ruffled her hair gently.
"Tsudzuki o yomu."
Keep reading.
That was the only thing I could wish for her. Her mind was her sharpest weapon.
And then there was Usopp.
He stood at the edge of it all, fists clenched, jaw tight, trying so hard not to cry. His shoulders shook once, twice. I raised a hand.
He froze.
"Yūki o dashi nasai, Usoppu." I said, voice firm.
Be brave, Usopp.
I walked toward him and flicked his nose gently. A small gesture, but it made him blink hard and sniff, blinking away the tears.
"Kaya ni wa tsuyoi otoko ga hitsuyō da."
Kaya needs a strong man.
Not someone to cry at the pier.
Their future needed Usopp to be brave.
He swallowed hard and nodded. Just once.
He looked back at the blushing Kaya and at me. Then he gave me a salute. The kids followed.
I gave them a salute back.