Fish talk happened.
Not all at once, not in any language I could grasp, but in waves—low grunts, thick clicks, syllables that bubbled from deep gills. It came from every corner of the newly rebuilt park, filling the space like the sound of a restless tide. I didn't understand it, not even close, but I didn't need a translator. You could feel the tension, the shifting mood in every glance they threw our way.
They looked at us—me, Nami, Nojiko—with mixed expressions. Some with disgust, others with curiosity. A few, strangely, with a trace of something gentler. Pity, maybe. Resignation. But something like recognition.
The small golden fishman, the one I'd helped before, stood among them. He had the look of a prince born from peace, not conflict—polished, young, inexperienced. His voice rang out once or twice, crisp and clear, but he wasn't the one in control.
That honor belonged to the older golden fishman beside him—tall, broad, carved by years and tide. He wasn't just a figurehead; he was weight. You could see it in how the other fishmen leaned when he shifted, how they paused when he spoke. The young prince might've worn the color, but the older one carried the authority.
It reminded me of those bring-your-kid-to-work days back home. The kid walks around feeling important, but it's the father who gets the job done. That's what this was. The older fishman was doing the heavy lifting. The younger? Just learning the ropes.
The little gold one gave suggestions—earnest, sincere—but they were more like pebbles tossed into an ocean. They made ripples, but nothing moved. Not really.
Then Arlong appeared.
They brought him in like a performer taking center stage. Not bound, not bruised. His voice carried through the court like a damn opera singer. He moved his hands with flair, every sentence draped in drama. He didn't just speak—he acted. A theatrical tragedy, monologuing about pain, betrayal, and his eternal grudge against humanity.
I swear he must've studied K-dramas or binge-watched Indian soap operas in his spare time. The way he clutched at his chest, the high notes of sorrow in his voice, the slow, deliberate pauses—Oscar-worthy stuff.
The older fishmen watched without interrupting. Stoic, unreadable. Maybe they believed him. Maybe they were just letting him finish. Either way, Arlong spun his tale like a master. If I hadn't known better, I'd have believed him too.
When Nami tried to speak—just a few words, a cry for truth—a whale fishman shut her down instantly.
No warning. No hesitation.
A water bullet ripped through the air. I reacted without thinking.
I took the hit.
The force slammed into me, tore through my hand, cut clean through muscle and bone, then into my chest, through ribs, and out the other side. The wall behind us shattered in a violent spray of stone and splinters.
The pain was sudden, white-hot, but clean.
I looked down at the mess. A line carved across my body like I'd been skinned by a blade made of ocean. Blood pooled fast, but the healing had already started. Slow, but it worked.
The girls rushed to my side. Hands on my arm, my chest. Eyes wide with fear. I gave them a grin—bloody, cracked, but honest.
Still alive. Still here.
I pulled them in gently. Wrapped one arm around each of them. Let them feel the heartbeat that refused to stop. Let them rest against me like I wasn't dying inside.
More talk followed. Fishmen murmuring in their own language, discussing whatever verdict they were building toward. I heard none of it.
Couldn't care less.
Because Nami and Nojiko were sitting on my legs. Their thighs pressed against mine, the warmth of their bodies grounding me more than any chain ever could. Their skin was soft, their presence solid. My senses, dulled by months in a cage, lit up like fireflies.
Every shift of their weight, every brush of their hands—I felt it.
Too well.
A part of me I hadn't felt in months stirred.
And yeah, I was a second away from pitching a tent. Or maybe I already had. Who knows? It's hard to keep track when you've been deprived of contact for so long.
I sighed, quiet and slow, into the space between them. The kind of sigh that says this is enough, even if it's the last moment I get.
Then, like thunder, a single sound tore through the chatter.
'Ahem.'
The older golden fishman had cleared his throat, and the entire park went dead silent. No wave dared crash. No bird dared cry. All eyes turned to him.
He looked at my raft. The others followed suit. Fishmen murmured their opinions, but he didn't nod. Didn't move.
His eyes landed on the younger golden fishman, who offered a suggestion. He nodded.
His gaze fell on me. Stern. Final.
He pointed to something beside us. My raft.
Still intact. Slightly charred, maybe, but floating and whole.
He spoke—firmly, clearly.
"Sore wa anata no monodesu."
It's yours.
I blinked.
Didn't flinch.
Didn't blink.
Didn't breathe.
He repeated it, louder now, more forceful.
"Sore wa anata no monodesu."
I felt Nojiko pinch me. Sharp. Grounding.
I snapped out of it, turned to her, then back to him.
Third time.
"Sore wa anata no monodesu."
I nodded slowly.
"Oh."
That's all I said.
A flat, dumb, "Oh."
The response was immediate. Fishmen grumbled. Some stood. One flexed his knuckles like he wanted to break me open.
Even the young goldfishman looked let down—not furious. Just disappointed.
I shrugged.
What do they expect?
I had soft, beautiful women resting on me, holding me, anchoring me to the only thing that felt real in this mess.
Let the rest rage.
Let the politics sort themselves out.
For now, I had what mattered.
Warmth. Contact. Life.
Everything else could wait.
------------
I bit the cooked octopus.
These fishmen were really something. All that pride, all that self-righteous talk of superiority and honor, yet every damn one of them had the uncanny ability to cockblock a man. Truly gifted.
Now I was munching shark fin like a low-tier guest while the girls sat five feet away with the big boss. Their chairs conveniently repositioned. Not cool. Not cool at all.
But hey, it wasn't all bad.
The rat guy from the prison—the one who survived, the one who stared at death and chose to live on scraps and loyalty—he was here too. Released with me. No one said why, but I didn't object it. Maybe the older fishmen saw something in him. Maybe they just didn't have the stomach to keep anyone else in that hellhole.
Anyway it was much better than rotting in the hellhole while eating human flesh.
Now he sat nearby, hunched and silent, tearing into a piece of grilled shark fin like it owed him money. His jaw worked in tight, furious motions. He chewed hard. Fast. Like someone who still didn't trust the food would stay on the plate long.
And his eyes—those eyes didn't leave Arlong.
The bastard himself had been shoved off to the side. No seat. No plate. No honor. Arlong, who once held court in this place like a king, now sat away from the firelight like a leper. He didn't speak. Didn't move. Just growled low in his throat when the rat man's gaze cut into him.
But he didn't look back.
Not after the older golden fishman gave him a single, sharp glare. Arlong, dropped his head like a beaten dog.
I picked up another shark fin from my plate—crispy, with just the right amount of char—and dropped it on the rat man's dish. He paused. Looked at me. No words, just a simple nod.
I didn't return it. Just tilted the plate toward him. Then, for good measure, I tossed a few scraps down toward the rats huddling near the fire.
They came at it fast. Hungry. Grateful. Tiny paws scraping the dirt as they tore into the fish like it was a feast for kings.
I caught the looks from the other fishmen.
Scowls. Disgust. Eyes narrowed like I'd insulted their bloodline by feeding vermin at their sacred dinner table.
I yawned.
This was getting boring. Painfully boring.
I had come here expecting a final battle. A fight. Fire. Blood. Glory. Something worth burning my last reserves for. Instead, we were all sitting here like Wall Street brokers discussing property lines and bloodlines over roasted sea beast.
Even the girls were in full diplomat mode—talking to the older golden fishman, gesturing with open palms, their voices calm but firm. Respectful, afraid but sharp. They knew what was at stake, even more so than me. They were trying to carve a path out of this mess with words instead of weapons.
And me?
I was scratching my balls and poking at grilled meat.
I glanced sideways at the rat man again.
He was eating faster now. More hungrily. With each bite, I could see the definition returning to his body. A little more weight in his shoulders. A little more structure to his face. His sunken eyes lifted. His posture straightened. He was rebuilding himself one bite at a time.
There was something... familiar about him.
I furrowed my brow. Took another bite. Watched.
And then I started piling food on his plate.
Not casually. Aggressively.
I took the calorie-rich stuff—the fatty fish, the salt-heavy slices, the energy-packed meat—and stacked them on his plate. Every time he hesitated, I nudged the plate closer.
He gave me a few looks. Quizzical. Then wary.
But he ate.
And with every bite, I saw the picture in my head grow sharper. I _knew_ this face.
I glanced around. Saw the young and old golden fishmen chatting with each other, their attention momentarily elsewhere.
I reached out and snatched food from both their plates—quick, quiet, deliberate—and dropped it all in front of the rat man.
He blinked at me.
Then kept eating.
And then it clicked.
The face.
It was him.
The guy from the locket.
The picture the red-haired girl kept in her necklace. The same angle, the same curve of the jaw. Cleaner now, but unmistakable.
I stared. A thousand thoughts rushing my mind. A thousand memories, questions, possibilities. But only two words made it out.
"Akage no on'nanoko."
Red-haired girl.
He froze.
His eyes shot to mine, wide and raw. His fingers gripped the edge of the table.
Then, slowly, his hand wrapped around my throat.
Not to crush. Not to kill.
To confirm.
"Sore wa watashi de wa arimasen deshita." I whispered.
That wasn't me.
I met her by chance. I hoped I did right by her, and the others.
"Watashi wa kanojo o umi ni maisō shita."
I buried her at sea.
His grip loosened.
His hands fell away.
And then he dropped to his knees.
Just like that.
Collapsed, not from pain, but from everything else. Grief. Regret. Memory.
His shoulders shook. His face turned to the ground. Silent sobs. No dramatics. No screaming. Just the quiet collapse of a man who had carried too much for too long.
The park went dead quiet.
I didn't need to ask why.
The older golden fishman stood tall, one hand raised high in the air. A gesture of silence. Of respect. Of control. Or something else.
Even Arlong didn't move. His fingers twitched against the dirt—then stilled.
I looked back down at the rat man. At what remained of him. And I didn't say anything else. Didn't offer comfort. I'm not good at that part. Emotions aren't my battlefield.
But I knew one thing.
He deserved something stronger than words.
My head buzzed.
The wine core inside my chest began to spin—fast, furious. A pulse of heat spread through my veins. I felt the shift before I saw it. The change. The ripple in the air.
The gourd materialized in my hand.
Dark red. Bound in a chain.
And at the center of that chain—dangling loosely—was a small silver locket.
I stared at it for a second.
Didn't ask how.
Didn't care.
Some things don't need questions.
I poured a cup.
No fanfare. No ritual.
Just poured.
Then I held the cup out to him.
And dropped the locket into his palm.
He took both with shaking hands.
Opened the locket slowly.
Inside: a picture.
Her face. Her red hair. Smiling.
His thumb brushed over the picture like it was sacred.
I said nothing. Just drank.
A cup for grief.
A cup for love.
A cup for the broken heart.
A cup for the ones who would meet in the afterlife.