After all, the scene in front of me was too horrifying, surpassing what most people present could handle psychologically.
Larson said calmly, "Whether they are humans or ghosts, you'll know by looking at them."
In the future, he will roam the seas alongside Whitebeard. He will witness events far more terrifying than the one unfolding now. He doesn't know how much he will encounter down the road, but it's enough to ensure that these current events won't faze him.
Having read the original work, he also knows that this world contains abilities capable of reviving the dead.
Take Brook from the Straw Hat Pirates, for example—his Devil Fruit power is essentially resurrection from death.
So, the idea of someone returning from death isn't particularly shocking here.
Of course, to accept such things, one's mental endurance must be strong.
The others who stood unfazed by the grim spectacle were Whitebeard, Roger, and Rayleigh.
For Whitebeard, fear has yet to find a foothold in this world.
As the future Pirate King, Roger embodies unparalleled courage, and Rayleigh—serving as Roger's trusted first mate—is not much different in terms of bravery.
They were momentarily surprised by the sight, but the initial shock passed quickly. As they looked upon the figures again, any fear they felt melted away.
Larson walked toward one of the writhing men sprawled on the ground. Kneeling beside him, he calmly asked, "Who are you?"
The injured man clutched his wound, ignoring Larson's words entirely.
Marco, standing nearby, picked up the sword lying beside them and pressed it deeper into the wound. The man shrieked in pain, sweat pouring from his face.
Larson grinned. "Can you hear me now?"
"Devils, you're all devils!"
The man's face twisted in terror as he stared at Larson.
From a distance, Whitebeard and the others exchanged amused glances.
"If this guy is a ghost, Larson just scared the ghost out of his skin," one of them muttered.
Larson coughed lightly and smiled. "Since you can answer, let's get to the point. I ask, you answer. If not, the next stroke of this sword will be much worse."
The man gritted his teeth, glaring at Larson without saying a word.
Unfazed, Larson let the sword dance on his fingertips like a playful butterfly. "Where do you pirates come from, when did you arrive, and what did you do here? Start talking."
Rayleigh and the others couldn't help but chuckle to themselves. Brother, your questions don't even align. How is he supposed to answer that properly?
The pirate kept his mouth shut, defiantly refusing to respond.
Larson tilted the sword so it hovered just above the man's skin, letting the edge graze threateningly. The man's resolve cracked as fear seized him, and he finally broke down.
"We—we are pirates from the South Blue!" he blurted, his voice trembling.
Realizing Larson wasn't bluffing, the man gave up resisting.
Larson raised an eyebrow, the sword continuing to dance elegantly across his fingers.
"We arrived here yesterday and made our way to this island today. After landing, we encountered some strange beasts. No matter how many times we struck them, those creatures wouldn't die. We had no choice but to run—fast—until we ended up here."
The pirate spilled everything, panting as if the words weighed heavy on his soul. Whether he held back any crucial details, Larson couldn't yet tell.
"Anything else?" Larson asked, his voice calm but sharp.
The man blinked in confusion. "What else? That's it!"
Larson narrowed his eyes, studying the man's expression closely. As the pirate met Larson's unyielding gaze, sweat dripped from his brow, and a hint of panic flickered in his eyes. However, Larson detected no signs of deceit—his fear seemed genuine.
Larson frowned slightly. "Are all the members of your pirate crew accounted for here?"
"They're all here," came a sudden voice from behind him.
Larson froze for a moment—this voice wasn't from the man in front of him.
He turned and spotted another man standing nearby, clutching a wound on his arm. Blood trickled down, his complexion pale from the loss.
"Captain!"
Hearing the injured man call out, Larson shifted his gaze to the one who had stood up. "Are you their captain?"
"Yeah," the man replied with a faint nod.
His eyes briefly darted toward Whitebeard and the others nearby. The corners of his mouth twitched involuntarily, and though he tried to maintain his composure, his legs trembled ever so slightly.
"Ask me whatever you want, but leave my crew out of this. Don't embarrass them."
Larson chuckled. "Hah, you've got some guts."
The captain's lips curled bitterly. He and his men had already been beaten by this child—what choice did he have but to comply now?
He took a deep breath, then began to speak even before Larson could prompt him further. "All our men are accounted for, and that guy already told you the truth. That's everything we've been through on this island. But the real reason we came here... was because of a shell."
"A shell?"
Larson's eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"Yeah, we lost it when we landed on the island. I searched everywhere, but it's gone."
Larson's expression turned thoughtful. After a brief silence, he fixed his gaze on the captain and said something unsettling: "Have you considered the possibility that... you're all already dead?"
The captain's eyes widened in disbelief. "Dead?"
Then, as if Larson had told him a bad joke, the man let out a forced laugh. The fear that had gripped him only moments ago eased slightly. "You're kidding, right? If we were dead, how could we still be standing here? How could I be talking to you right now? What—are we ghosts or something?"
Larson didn't answer. He simply looked at the captain, his eyes calm and unwavering.
The captain's amusement slowly faded as Larson's silent stare gnawed at his nerves. The man shivered under the weight of that gaze—because he saw something chilling.
Compassion.
There was pity in Larson's eyes.
"No... No, that's impossible," the captain muttered, his voice growing frantic. "We're alive. I know we are. How could we be dead?"
His hands gripped his head as if trying to hold his sanity together. "No... No, we're not dead... We can't be dead..."
He repeated the words again and again, his voice cracking, his mind unraveling with each passing second.
From a distance, Larson's expression grew more solemn. This was no ordinary encounter. The events unfolding before him were stranger and more unsettling than he had imagined. And only now did he grasp the true horror of Yerug Island.
"Larson, what's happening to him?"
Rayleigh walked over, his expression puzzled as he studied the panicked captain.
Larson exhaled slowly, his brow furrowed in thought. "I'm not sure... But I think we'll understand soon if we wait a bit longer."
Meanwhile, the pirate kneeling under Larson's gaze stared at his captain with lifeless eyes. The man's words echoed in his mind, looping like a curse.
"No... We're not dead... We're not dead..."
The pirate muttered to himself, as if by saying it enough, he could will it into truth. His eyes were vacant, his mind teetering on the edge.
"No... No..."
"I'm alive... I'm alive... I'm not dead... I'm not dead..."
He kept repeating it, his voice hollow, each word dragging him deeper into madness.
"I'm not dead... I'm not dead... I'm not dead..."