Lale spread a water-stained chart across the Moby Dick's deck. The corners fluttered in the wind. The crew gathered around, squinting at the ink-blurred islands and confusing compass marks.
"That's not a map," Ace said, poking it. "That's a drunk seagull's doodle."
Lale smacked his hand away. "It's mysterious. Look—" She pointed to a smudged X near a crescent-shaped blot. "This could be anything. Treasure. A secret bathhouse. A really aggressive seagull colony."
Thatch scratched his head. "Or maybe it's just a coffee stain."
Whitebeard's laughter boomed across the deck. "GURARARARA! Navigation is an art, my sons! Let's see where fate takes us!"
The crew cheered. Ace grinned at Lale. "Bet you five berries it's a volcano."
She rolled her eyes. "Deal. But if it's a bathhouse, you're scrubbing my back."
Ace choked on his own spit.
The next morning, they anchored near a tiny island shrouded in mist. The air smelled like wet moss and something suspiciously like burnt cookies.
Lale's sandals sank into the spongy ground. "This is either paradise or the world's worst bakery."
Ace sniffed. "I vote bakery. Also, I'm hungry."
They walked inland, pushing through vines that twitched when touched. A chorus of high-pitched squeaks erupted from the trees.
Monkeys.
But not just any monkeys—these wore tiny leaf hats and held sticks like swords.
Lale froze. "Oh no."
Ace lit his fists on fire. "Oh yes."
The lead monkey screeched and pointed at Lale. The troop erupted in monkey war cries.
"That's the same noise from the last island!" Ace gasped. "They've been following us!"
Lale grabbed his wrist. "RUN."
They ran as the monkey army chased them, throwing acorns and what smelled alarmingly like actual poop.
Dodging into a cave, they collapsed behind a boulder, out of breath. The monkeys' chittering faded outside.
Ace wheezed. "We're being hunted… by monkey pirates."
Lale wiped sweat from her brow. "Worse. They're organized."
A dim glow pulsed deeper in the cave. They glanced at each other and crept forward—only to find a cavern lit by glowing mushrooms. At its center stood a crumbling stone pedestal… and on it, a single, perfect melon.
Ace reached for it. "Snack time—"
Lale yanked him back. "It's a trap."
Too late. The ground rumbled. The melon split open, revealing a tiny monkey king wearing a crown of seashells.
The creature pointed a twig scepter at them and squeak-roared.
Ace blinked. "I think we just got declared war on."
Lale groaned. "We're gonna die because you tried to steal a monkey god's lunch."
After a very one-sided battle (involving more poop projectiles than either cared to count), Lale negotiated peace using the universal language: fruit offerings.
She bowed, presenting a stolen crate of Whitebeard's oranges. "We apologize for trespassing, Your Tiny Majesty."
The monkey king sniffed, then nodded. The troop cheered and started a feast.
Ace whispered, "This is the weirdest day of my life."
Lale smirked. "Just wait."
As they sailed away at dusk, the monkeys waved from the shore, their leaf hats bobbing. Whitebeard clapped them on the shoulders. "Fine diplomacy, my children! Even kings must respect the power of snacks!"
Ace flopped onto the deck. "Next time, let's find an island with normal problems. Like sea kings. Or Marines."
Lale laughed, leaning beside him. "Where's the fun in that?"
The stars blinked overhead, the sea stretching endlessly—no maps, no destiny, just nowhere and everywhere all at once.
To Be Continued…