The sea raged like a wounded beast.
Waves the size of mountains crashed around a small, battered caravel that groaned with every impact, its wooden frame shrieking against the pull of the angry ocean. The sky above was painted in pitch and lightning—an endless curtain of black clouds pierced by occasional blue-white forks of thunder, illuminating the chaos below for brief, terrifying moments.
Rain poured in thick, cold sheets, drenching everything in sight. Winds howled like banshees, snatching at sails and screaming through the rigging.
At the helm stood a young woman, her jaw clenched, her hands blistered from gripping the water-slick wheel. She was tall and lithe, wearing a ragged Marine coat over her shoulders—its insignia faded but still clinging to her back like a ghost of a former life. Her crimson hair clung to her face, soaked and tangled from the storm, and her eyes, sharp and fierce, burned with a fire that refused to die.
Bellemere.
Still barely in her twenties, but hardened by war, betrayal, and a dozen brushes with death. And yet, nothing she had faced—not the battlefield, not the weight of responsibility, not even the Oykot Kingdom's collapse—had tested her like this journey.
Behind her, near the shelter of the stern cabin, a small girl no older than three was huddled beneath a spare sail. She clutched an infant to her chest with the desperate care only a sibling could muster. Her dark hair was plastered to her face, her lips trembling—not just from the cold, but from fear. Nojiko. The older of Bellemere's two daughters. And the baby wrapped in canvas and prayers was Nami, still too small to understand the storm—or the danger hunting them.
"Thud!"
The entire vessel lurched with a sickening jolt, nearly sending Bellemere overboard. She slammed her body against the railing, grabbing hold of the slick wood before peering over the edge.
Her breath caught in her throat.
Beneath the surface, writhing within the storm-dark water, a massive shadow circled. Scales larger than sails shimmered faintly beneath the surface with each flash of lightning. A tail the length of the ship twisted the sea into a whirlpool, and Bellemere knew immediately what it was.
"The bastard followed us…" she hissed, her voice low but edged with fire.
A Sea King. One she had already encountered. She thought she'd lost it days ago—blinding it with a desperate, perfectly-placed shot between its enormous eyes using the last round in her old Marine musket. But now, it was back. And angry.
The timing was cruel. She was so close—two days away from Conomi Islands. From Cocoyashi Village. From home. But fate, it seemed, had other plans. It always had.
The road from Oykot had been drenched in blood and riddled with misery. Bellemere had barely escaped when civil war erupted and the Royal Army turned on its own people. She fled with Nojiko and Nami in the dead of night, only to find refuge aboard a merchant ship that turned out to be a slaver vessel. She fought her way out of that hell, stealing a lifeboat and jumping into the sea under cover of fog.
But that wasn't the end. Three days later, they were rescued by what appeared to be a fishing convoy—only for Bellemere to discover the fishermen were bounty hunters hunting for Devil Fruits across the East Blue Sea.
They tried to sell her and the girls to the black market. She'd barely made it out by overloading their powder stores and blowing half their ship apart. As if that weren't enough, a few nights ago, their supplies had been ruined by a rogue wave, leaving them starving and dehydrated for two full days before she managed to catch rain in barrels.
Now this. Now the Sea King had come again. Bellemere looked back at Nojiko and Nami. The girl held the infant tight, whispering softly—trying to calm her baby sister even as the world tried to tear itself apart. Nojiko didn't cry. She didn't scream. She believed in Bellemere; if not for her, both herself and Nami would have been cold corpses in the streets of the Oykot Kingdom.
She turned back to the helm, fire flooding her veins despite the cold rain.
"I'm not dying here," she growled to the storm, to the sea, to whatever gods might be listening. "Not when we're this damn close."
She reached for the emergency spear launcher bolted near the mast—a single-use harpoon she'd scavenged during their escape from the slavers. Her fingers tightened around the soaked iron handle.
If the Sea King wanted her, it would have to fight for her. She had two daughters to protect. A home to reach. A new life waiting beyond the horizon. And nothing—not the sea, not the storm, not the monsters of the deep—would take that from her.
The storm shrieked like a beast possessed as Bellemere clung to the helm, saltwater and blood stinging her eyes. The tiny caravel bucked and groaned beneath her feet, each wave a hammer threatening to splinter it into driftwood. Her vision blurred, not from fear—but from sheer exhaustion.
And then the sea shifted. The massive form of the Sea King erupted through the curtain of rain and mist, its serpentine body tearing through the water like a god of death. Its one remaining eye—huge and gleaming with vengeful intelligence—locked onto the caravel.
Bellemere was ready. With steely focus, she hefted the harpoon launcher and fired. The projectile shrieked through the air, aimed squarely for the monster's remaining eye.
But the beast had learned.
It twisted its head at the last second. The harpoon struck with a dull clang, skimming along its armored cheek and embedding only slightly in the dense scale, leaving a shallow, mocking wound.
The Sea King reared back—and roared. The sound split the storm. Before she could reload, it lunged—its massive jaws wide enough to swallow her, her daughters, and the entire boat in a single bite. She knew she was out of time.
She turned toward Nojiko and Nami.
"Hold on to her! Don't let go!" she shouted, already moving to throw herself over them in a final, desperate act of protection.
But then— CRACK!
The sky didn't flash. The Sea King's skull exploded.
A thunderous blast tore through the storm, but it was no lightning. It was focused, precise. The entire top of the beast's head detonated in a spray of flesh, brain, and bone. The Sea King's roar died in its throat as its monstrous body convulsed, its bulk crashing back into the ocean like a falling mountain.
And then it landed. The beast's massive corpse came crashing down on the fragile caravel. Timbers shattered like matchsticks. Bellemere didn't think—she threw herself over her daughters, shielding them with her own body as the world turned black.
Miles away, through the downpour, Yasopp lowered the smoking barrel of his long rifle—a custom-modded flintlock, impossibly accurate even in storm conditions. His sharp, golden-brown eyes narrowed, focused like a hawk's through the drifting mist.
Tall, lean, and deceptively relaxed, the young marksman tucked the gun over his shoulder. His dreadlocks were soaked and wind-whipped, and a sly smirk tugged at the edge of his lips.
"Didn't get the eye, but the brain's softer anyway," he muttered.
"Yasopp, you idiot!" Buggy shouted, gripping the railing of the Galleon with one hand and a spyglass in the other. "You were supposed to save them, not turn their boat into firewood!"
"Easy, Buggy," Yasopp called back, "I saved them from being Sea King chow. Boat's just... a little bonus damage."
Shanks, standing a few steps behind, said nothing. The storm curled around him, crimson hair whipping in the wind as he stared into the horizon, his expression unreadable. Something about that tiny ship had tugged at him. A whisper in his chest. A twist of fate.
He turned to his first mate. "Benn."
"Already on it," Beckmann said calmly, biting down on his cigarette as he vanished in a blur—Geppo propelling him high into the air, leaping through the storm toward the wreckage.
Bellemere's ears rang. She coughed, choked, and gasped for air as consciousness clawed its way back. The storm was still raging, though muffled now—like she was underwater. Her head pounded, and when she reached up, her fingers came away sticky with blood.
She blinked hard, forcing her eyes open. Wooden beams. A mast. Not her own.
The deck beneath her swayed—but not like the old caravel. It was larger. Sturdier. Someone had pulled her aboard. They'd stripped her of her coat, wrapped her in a dry blanket. A fresh bandage wrapped around her forehead, tight but not painful.
Her daughters. Bellemere shot up—pain lancing down her side—but she didn't care. Her eyes darted around wildly, panic clawing at her chest. "Nami! Nojiko!"
A soft whimper answered her. She turned and saw them—bundled together beneath another blanket, safe, clinging to one another. Nojiko looked up, her face still pale with fear, but her eyes brightened the second she saw her mother.
"Bellemere…!"
Bellemere crumpled forward, tears lost in the rain. She gathered them in her arms, holding them so tight it hurt.
"Thank you," she whispered to no one. But a voice soon answered.
"You're tougher than you look."
Bellemere turned, eyes narrowing on the tall man who approached, soaked but unfazed by the storm. A rifle hung on his back, and a cigarette glowed between his lips.
"Name's Benn Beckman. You're safe now."
"Pirates…" The word fell from Bellemere's lips like a curse. Her body froze, a reflex honed from years of discipline and trauma. Her eyes snapped to her surroundings—sharp, calculating, trained—and her heart dropped.
She was on a ship, all right. But not just any ship. A pirate ship. Her hand moved instinctively, one arm wrapping around Nojiko and Nami, shielding them behind her, while the other reached for the pistol on her hip—
"Looking for this?" came a calm, steady voice. Benn Beckman stood a few paces away, holding up an empty flintlock pistol between two fingers. Rain trickled down his face and jacket, though he seemed utterly unbothered by the storm. A faint trace of amusement danced in his eyes.
"You were going to bluff your way out with an empty gun?" he asked. "Relax. We're not going to hurt you."
But Bellemere didn't hear him. Her gaze locked on the weapon in his hand. Her breathing grew sharp, ragged. She scanned the deck—survivor's eyes, trained to look for exits, threats, leverage.
And there were plenty of threats. To her left, a garish man with blue hair and a red nose sat cross-legged on a barrel, a spyglass comically oversized for his face. His expression was twisted into a scowl as he muttered curses into the wind. His brightly colored coat and ridiculous makeup would have been laughable if not for the wicked glint in his eyes and the cannonball-sized bomb resting by his side. Buggy the Clown.
To her right, perched atop the crow's nest, a man with a long rifle slung lazily over his shoulder stared into the storm like it was nothing. His dreadlocks clung to his face, rain dripping from his sharp jawline. A calm predator, unbothered and unmoved by the chaos around him. He didn't even seem to blink. Yasopp. His rifle looked like it had more kills than most warships.
But it was the man at the center of the deck who made her hand tighten around her daughters protectively. The man who seemed to be in charge.
He stood tall and broad-shouldered, his crimson hair soaked and whipping in the wind, his black cloak fluttering like wings behind him. A half-finished bottle of rum hung casually from his fingers, and a long, slender sword rested at his waist. There was something deceptively easy in his posture—relaxed, like a lion sunbathing.
But Bellemere recognized danger when she saw it. His eyes were half-lidded, almost lazy, but beneath that casual facade was something primal. Power. Charisma. Confidence. She had only ever seen that kind of aura around the warlords, the admirals, and the monsters she'd fled from in the hell that was the endless seas.
Her jaw clenched.
"Shanks," one of the crew said casually, addressing the red-haired man. "She's awake. " So that was his name. Bellemere couldn't help but worry; she knew the name. Everyone in the Grand Line did. Red-Haired Shanks. A rising pirate lord. A man who had outright rejected the world government's offer to become one of the Shichibukai himself, they said.
And now she was on his ship. Damn it. She'd fought too hard. Escaped too much. From the butchers of Oykot, the slaver ship that had paraded as a merchant vessel, the bounty hunters who sold children for profit, the fake Marine base that had turned out to be a trafficking hub—and now, fate had dumped her and her daughters into the hands of one of the most infamous pirate crews on the seas.
She didn't trust pirates. Couldn't. Wouldn't. Especially not after what she had seen. Bellemere's voice was low and firm, almost a growl. "Stay away from my daughters. I don't care who you are, or what you've done. If you so much as look at them wrong—"
"You'll shoot us with the empty gun?" Beckman quipped again, his tone calm but serious. He gestured slowly with both hands, careful not to provoke her. "We get it. You've been through hell. We're not here to make it worse."
Shanks finally turned and met Bellemere's gaze. And just for a moment—beneath the pirate swagger, the unruly hair, and the easy grin—she saw something that made her falter.
Kindness. But not the soft kind. It was the kind earned in blood and storms, worn behind a mask of laughter. A wild, reckless kindness that saved people not because it was noble—but because it was right.
"You've got guts, lady." His voice was deeper than she expected. Calm. Measured. Not mocking.
"You held off a Sea King that size with a fishing harpoon and an empty pistol," he said with a grin, stepping forward just enough to be seen fully in the flickering lantern light. "And you shielded your kids when death was falling from the sky."
He stopped. His eyes locked with hers. "I've seen Marines run faster for less." Bellemere's grip loosened just slightly. Her breathing slowed. The storm was beginning to ease, though not by much.
"I was a Marine," she said, voice sharp and proud. "Before I saw what they were really like." Shanks nodded once, solemn. No mockery. Just understanding.
"Well, former Marine..." he said, stepping back with a smile. "Welcome aboard the ship of the future Emperor of the Seas. For now, you're our guest. Not a prisoner. Rest. Eat. We'll get you to land as soon as we can."
He paused, then added with a chuckle: "And if anyone touches your daughters, you have my permission to shoot them. Loaded or not."
"Well, now that the awkwardness is out of the way…" Shanks scratched the back of his head, crimson hair plastered to his scalp by rain. "Tell me, miss—would you like to join my crew?"
The deck fell silent. Even the storm seemed to pause. Every member of the Red-Haired Pirates froze in mid-motion, eyes darting between their carefree captain and the former Marine standing before him.
Bellemere's heart thundered. She'd expected a ransom demand, a mock execution, anything but an invitation to become a pirate. And not just any pirate crew—but Shanks's. A man whose name alone carried the weight of a Supernova, whose bounty had nearly cracked the World Government's coffers, and who'd been offered a seat among the Shichibukai itself.
Beckman buried his face in his hand with a soft thwack, while Buggy—seated on a barrel—doubled over in laughter, clutching his belly so hard he toppled off and landed in a heap of rope. Lucky Roux leaned forward, eyes alight with curiosity, as if Bellemere's answer would solve the greatest mystery of the New World.
Shanks's grin widened, genuine and a little sheepish. "So… what do you say, Miss?"
Bellemere stared at the tattered Marine coat draped over her shoulders—her coat—now looked upon as a trophy by these pirates. The irony twisted in her gut. A former Marine, sworn to uphold justice, now offered a place among the very outlaws she once hunted.
She glanced down at Nojiko and Nami, huddled against her legs, and back up at Shanks. The rain hammered the deck, thunder rumbled, and in that moment, Bellemere realized she had nowhere else to go.
"You're insane," she said at last, voice low but steady. "And… and what if I were to say no to your offer…."
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the drum of rain against the deck. Bellemere's refusal hung heavy in the air—until Shanks spoke, calm as the eye of a storm.
"Very well," he said, tilting his straw hat back, his goofy demeanor lost. "You remain our guest. We'll drop you off at the nearest inhabited islands. If I'm not mistaken, there's an archipelago about two days' sail from here…"
He glanced at Beckman, who nodded.
"The Conomi Islands," Beckman confirmed.
At the name, Bellemere's eyes sharpened—but her face betrayed nothing. They're fishing for my destination, she thought, heart pounding. If I tell them, they'll use it to burn my home to ash. Better to risk the open sea than trust pirates.
Shanks watched her cool calculation with a half-smile. He tugged at his straw hat's brim. "I advise against anything rash… for the children's sake."
She only stared back, unmoved. Shanks sighed, then turned to Beckman. With deliberate care, Beckman unstrapped a loaded flintlock from his belt and handed it to Bellemere.
"A gesture of good faith," he said quietly. "You're our guest. We'll land you at the next island—my word as a pirate." Bellemere's fingers tightened around the pistol. If they wanted to kill me, they'd have done it while I was unconscious. But could she trust them? Her mind raced—escape by sea, a desperate swim, or...
A sudden giggle cut through her thoughts. A little girl, no older than Nojiko, burst from the cabin, her soaked hair plastered to her face, laughter echoing over the storm. A burly pirate chased after her, arms outstretched to shield her from the rain.
Bellemere's chest clenched. Child traffickers… Without warning, she swung the pistol up and fired.
"Bang!"
The deck seemed to freeze at the sudden aggression—until Shanks calmly caught the bullet in his bare hand, his eyes never leaving hers. Time snapped back into motion when Beckman materialized behind Bellemere, the muzzle of his pistol pressed against her temple.
"That's enough," Beckman said, voice low and deadly. "You just shot the man who saved your life." Shanks stepped forward, the bullet still resting in his palm. Rain sluiced off his crimson hair as he regarded Bellemere with a mixture of amusement and grudging respect.
"You've got guts," he said, voice like distant thunder. "But your aim is terrible."
Bellemere's knees shook. Nojiko whimpered behind her skirt. The little girl, frozen in mid-laugh, stared wide-eyed at the unfolding scene. The pirate chasing her skidded to a halt. Buggy and Yasopp looked on, tension crackling in the air like lightning.
Shanks eased closer, careful not to spook her as little Uta ran over to him as she hugged his legs. "Let her lower the gun, Beckman," he ordered. Beckman's pistol remained pressed to her temple—but his finger eased off the trigger.
"Now," Shanks said, voice soft but unyielding. "Trust is earned. But killing me won't buy you freedom." Bellemere's grip faltered. She lowered the pistol, tears mixing with rain on her cheeks. Her daughters pressed closer.
"I… I'm sorry," she whispered as she finally realized that the little girl was not a captive as she had believed. Shanks exhaled, then turned to the little Uta, scooping her into his arms. The child buried her face in his chest.
"Everyone makes mistakes," Shanks said quietly, returning his gaze to Bellemere. "But this crew… we protect those in our charge." Beckman withdrew his pistol. Buggy muttered something about ransom, and Yasopp slid down from the rigging, rifle at the ready but lowered.
The storm raged on, but for a moment, Bellemere felt the first spark of something she hadn't known in years: hope. And somewhere in the thunder, the promise of land—and home—drew closer.