My sixth sense had whispered of three directions.
Cocoyashi Village was one of them. When I felt it even the storm aided me to reach there. The waves carried me while the stormy winds blew me in the direction.
But the other two…
I never figured them out.
One hadn't moved an inch since I first sensed it. Not once. Like it was nailed to the fabric of the world. Whatever it was—an island, an object, or something stranger—it remained still. Watching. Waiting. Dormant.
But the third…
The third was different.
It moved.
No—twitched.
It shifted left, then right. Took a few steps forward, then reversed. Erratic. Aimless. Restless. Like someone pacing in a locked room, or a compass spinning with no true north. The sense was bright, violent, kinetic. It didn't move far, but it never stopped. Never settled.
It didn't feel like an island.
It felt… human.
I watched it through the inner eye for as long as I could, following the erratic dance of its motion like a moth caught in a jar. But eventually, even that became exhausting. No amount of staring would give me more than what was already there.
So I let it go.
No point overworking a brain trapped in a cage.
Besides, there were other things occupying the cell now.
The second corpse—what remained of it—was finally gone. Eaten by time, by rats, by itself. Nothing left but a soupy puddle of rot and bones too soft to snap. The stench was a thing of nightmares—acrid, meaty, like ammonia and death fused together. A natural-born chemical weapon.
But you get used to it.
If you're stuck in a hole long enough, even poison becomes just a drink.
Still, I wasn't the one suffering from it the most.
The living man—him.
The one who clung to life in the corner.
He hadn't eaten in days.
I could feel it in the air, in the change in his breathing, in the strained sounds of his chest when he exhaled. Desperation crept off him like heat. The rats couldn't find anything new. Not anymore. Not in this sealed pit of rot and old blood.
He was starving.
I heard him—quiet, pathetic—slurping the last dregs of his own saliva as he watched a rat scurry past. His head tracked it, slow and hungry. He wasn't even blinking. He wanted it. Wanted to catch it.
But he didn't move.
Didn't lift a finger.
He would rather die than hurt them.
Idiotic, sure. But honorable. And rare.
He was the kind of man you'd want as a friend. Someone solid. Rooted. A foundation to rely on hard times. A trustworthy fella.
But you wouldn't want to be him.
There was too much pain in that frame. Too much held in.
He wasn't surviving for himself. That much was obvious. People like him don't cling to life out of fear of death. They do it because of the 'who'.
"On'nanoko?" I asked
A girl?
He said nothing and that spoke everything.
I didn't know who she was.
But I knew the shape of her in his mind.
You can feel it, when a man carries someone that way. The devotion. The memory. The weight.
And the hatred.
The reason this man lived wasn't vengeance—but vengeance had become the fuel. Arlong had taken something sacred from him. Not just freedom. Not just pride.
Her.
And now this man—starved, broken, buried alive—was willing to crawl through hell if it meant seeing Arlong bleed.
He wasn't angry because he was imprisoned.
He was angry because someone he loved had suffered.
He was angry at himself.
That's what makes monsters out of men.
And he was becoming something close.
But he was also fading. Slipping. I saw it in the way the rats moved near me. They scurried faster now, more erratic, less confident.
They wanted to keep him alive.
They started inching closer to me.
I sighed.
For a moment, I considered doing nothing. Let instinct take over. Let the blood snap out and consume the intruders.
But then I didn't.
I let go.
Pulled the blood back.
Told it—not this time.
The rats hesitated. Felt it. They were cautious, but not stupid. After a few tries, they leapt onto the small patches of me that weren't wrapped in chains. My thighs. A shoulder. They bit.
Small, careful pieces.
And they ran.
Straight to the man.
I watched him in the dark.
He sat up, barely.
Eyes wide.
He stared at the morsel.
Then he looked at me.
Our eyes met for the first time.
I gave him a grin—wide, toothy, exaggerated.
Cheeky.
He stared.
Then, slowly, he smiled back.
Not joy.
Not relief.
Just acknowledgment. Complicated. Half-shame, half-thank you.
Then he ate.
One slow bite.
Chewed. Swallowed. Didn't cry. Didn't look away.
Every so often, the rats would return with another piece.
He had gained energy. I could see that.
Yet, He never reached for the source.
He respected the line.
That was the kind of man he was.
Willing to survive. Willing to fight. But unwilling to become a beast in the process. Not till it was the final choice.
And I…
I saw myself in him.
Not the weakness.
The stubbornness.
The refusal to die when the world wants you to die.
We were the same in that way. Men broken open but not hollowed out. Just filled with different things now. Fire. Hate. Memory.
So I let the rats feed him.
I let him live.
And I smiled.
As they nibbled at me, I closed my eyes and leaned into the only freedom I still had.
Meditation.
Inside, the world spun. The wine cores—one in my chest, one in my abdomen—rotated like planets caught in an endless orbit. At first slow, patient, steady.
But with time and focus, they picked up speed.
Their heat spread outward, warming my skin, then the chains, then the air around me.
The blood responded in kind.
It surged, like rivers swelling from a storm. Fast, hot, precise. It didn't lash out this time. It simply moved. Circulated. Strengthened.
When both forces reached their peak, I could feel the change.
Power. Real power. More than the blood burning. More than instinct.
This was engineered strength.
Frightening. Expensive.
Every second of it drained my reserves like water from a cracked jug.
But it was real.
And I had it.
Only in stillness.
Only in silence.
I gave the man a glance again.
"On'nanoko?" I asked again.
A girl?
He just blinked.
-------------------
Chains rattled across the ground, scraping stone like jagged teeth, as Arlong tugged. Hard. No ceremony, no care.
I lurched forward, and my chin barely cleared the first step before gravity took over. My body smacked the staircase with force that cracked more than just ribs. Solid stone—wet, rough, and unrelenting. Every edge of it met my face, my elbows, my knees. I think Arlong pulled harder just to make sure I hit each one, one by one, no mercy.
I wasn't sure how long I'd been in the dark anymore, but the second my head tilted skyward at the base of those stairs, I knew.
Sunlight.
Real, warm, unwelcome to the eyes but oddly comforting to the skin. My face turned instinctively toward it, eyes half-shut, soaking it in. The heat against my jaw. The faint salt in the wind. Even the sting on old wounds—it was alive, and after so long in the dark, it might as well have been a blessing from the gods.
I smiled. Just a little. Couldn't help it.
So of course, Arlong ruined it.
A sharp yank on the chain, and I slammed face-first into the mud.
Figures.
Not even ten seconds of sunshine before Captain Arlong reminded me who held the leash. I let out a breath. Low. Dry. It wasn't anger. Just... irritation. But not for long. I leaned back as he dragged me across the new park.
I blinked.
New structures. Cleaner stones. Strengthened walls. The architecture of pride—freshly rebuilt arrogance. More fishmen, too. At least twice as many as before. Some stood with arms crossed. Some leaned lazily against the gate. Most looked at me like I was something they'd rather flush into the land.
I counted at least ten. And that was just patrolling the park.
Who knew how many were outside or inside?
But I didn't care.
What use was counting anymore?
So I relaxed.
Let Arlong drag me by the chains. I didn't fight it. Didn't resist. Just watched the world pass by upside down. Mud painted my back. My legs hit every rock, debris. My cheek dragged across the gravel.
I would've napped, maybe, if not for the sudden sting of a small water pulse to the ribs.
I coughed.
Not from pain—more from surprise.
I blinked again, rolled my head toward Arlong.
Huh.
Was the sun rising from the north today? The bastard was being almost gentle. The water pulse had barely stung. I glanced up, squinting against the light.
He looked annoyed.
Really annoyed.
I tried to piece it together as I was pulled across the courtyard—Arlong, annoyed and holding back? Something didn't add up. It wasn't guilt. That fish had no soul left for guilt. But maybe… obligation?
I didn't have time to think much more before he stopped.
And threw me.
My body slammed into the stone courtyard. Hard. The breath knocked clean out of me.
I didn't move right away. Just lay there, catching my breath, letting the pain settle.
Then I sat up. Slow.
The world tilted again.
I was surrounded.
Not just grunts. Old fishmen. Veterans. Real soldiers. Their muscles didn't move with flex, but with confidence. Their scars weren't for show—they told stories. Each one wore history like armor.
They were what Arlong wished he was.
One looked like a whale. Giant, thickset, breath visible in the sea air. Another looked like a whale shark—eyes too intelligent, posture like a battle hardened general. Others were more slender, less defined, but no less dangerous. Sharp fins. Deep gill slits. Broken teeth. Silent gazes. Basically all the top food chain.
And would you look at that in the distance behind there is a clown fish. Oh, its Arlong.
And right in the middle of them—bright orange-red, unmistakable—was him.
It clicked the moment I saw him.
I'd helped him.
Helped them, even—him and Nojiko. Helped them escape. And by the look on his face, he remembered. His eyes flicked to mine. Recognition passed between us like a torch in the dark.
He gave an order to the massive whale fishman.
The whale grunted, stepped forward, and began to loosen my chains.
It was by no means; gentle but hey even if I ask them to be they won't. So why bother?
The moment the chains started to fall away, I felt it—bone cracking. Joints dislocating. The metal had wrapped around my limbs so tightly for so long, even easing them loose felt like being shattered and rebuilt from the inside.
Would you look at that? He would make a perfect policemen back home.
I gave him a grin. Blood pooled in my gums. He didn't smile back.
Probably still sore about the 20+ fishmen I'd personally turned to ash.
When he was done, I stood.
Stumbled at first, then found my footing. Bones popped. Muscles twitched. My joints cracked like dry branches. Every movement brought a new wave of dull, grinding pain.
I stretched anyway. Arms wide. Head rolling.
The older fishmen didn't take kindly to it. I saw it in their eyes—the bristle, the anger. They stared forward, as if I'd just spat at their feet. I hadn't bowed. Hadn't groveled. I had stood. That was enough to insult them.
But before they got far, the golden one raised a hand.
They stopped.
Would you look at that.
A high-ranking fishman, and one with sense.
He let the moment breathe.
Let me stretch. Let them stare.
Then he waved again, and to my surprise, they offered me a seat.
A bone chair, something incredibly fancy, but a seat all the same. Fishman etiquette.
And food.
They laid out grilled fish—fresh-caught, lightly charred—and poured some saltwater wine into a chipped cup. Ceremonial, maybe. Or maybe they wanted to show they could be civilized.
I didn't trust it, but I wasn't going to insult them by refusing.
Before I could move, another fishman—older, also golden-hued—rose from the sea behind me, dragging something familiar behind him.
My raft.
My eyebrows twitched upward.
They'd kept it?
And then came the final blow.
Two more fishmen emerged from a shaded entrance.
Dragging Nojiko and Nami behind them.
Both weren't touched or harmed but the hospitality wasn't good for neither of us.
I glanced at the goldfishman again.
His face was unreadable. His eyes darted between me, the food, the girls.
Then he shook his head.
Slowly.
As if to say: I can't help you now.
Yeah. I figured.
Still, I let the moment linger. Then, slowly, casually, I sat.
Leg crossed over the other.
One hand resting lazily on my knee.
The other—chained, but loose—lifted just slightly.
"Nami. Nojiko." I said, voice steady.
Then I patted my thigh.
Right side. Twice.
"Suwaru."
Sit.
Even if death was coming, I was going to do it with posture.
A little flare. A little theater.
Because dignity, in the end, is all they can't chain.