The late afternoon sun was casting long shadows across the tavern. They are already back from their rescue mission. Hachi, attempting to lighten Lyre's mood, wiggled his two tentacles—the only ones he had left—making a series of funny faces. Lyre, as she often did, responded with a soft giggle, her eyes crinkling at the corners.
Thanks to Buggy's persuasive efforts, Hachi and Lyre had been granted permission to disembark from the Jumoi, though the villagers of Cocoyasi still regarded them with suspicion, especially him, their eyes filled with resentment and distrust. Something that Buggy didn't give a damn.
Lyre remained reluctant to speak, her silence a constant reminder of the trauma she had endured. She could only manage to utter her name, a single word that filled Hachi with concern. His worries had intensified after what he had witnessed inside the dream when they were aboard the Red Force.
Realizing that Lyre was no longer beside him, Hachi began to search for her, his anxiety growing with each passing second. He recalled the hellish dreamscape, littered with corpses and remnants of bodies, a scene that had left him deeply disturbed. Then, he spotted her. Lyre was kneeling on the ground, her small form hunched over, clutching something in her hand—a small, Black Orb—that she promptly devoured, swallowing it whole.
Hachi then glanced towards the center of the tavern, where two figures, each possessing immense and terrifying power, were engaged in a surprisingly mundane debate.
Guts, who was cradling Robin in his lap and spoon-feeding her, growled. "I don't get you." He gestured with his chin towards Shanks's empty left sleeve. "Just... why?"
Shanks looked down at his own missing arm, then back at Guts, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Why what?"
"That," Guts snarled, pointing at Shanks's stump with the spoon he was using to feed Robin. "This world has technology that defies belief. You could have a new arm. A better one. A weapon." His gaze was sharp and accusatory. "But you choose to walk around like... a cripple. A living monument to your own failure. Why?"
In his mind, he saw a flash of his own past—the cold, hard reality of his iron prosthetic, the cannon hidden within, the repeater crossbow strapped to its back. His prosthetic arm wasn't just a limb; it was a weapon, a vital component in his unending struggle for survival.
"You lose one," Guts said, his voice laced with a contempt he didn't try to hide, "you build a better one. You don't just... let it be gone."
Shanks looked at Guts, and for the first time, he seemed to truly understand the abyss of difference between them, the vast chasm that separated their worldviews. His expression softened, losing its usual lightheartedness, replaced by something somber and profound.
"It's not a monument to failure, Black Swordsman," Shanks said quietly, his voice devoid of its usual cheer. "It's a promise. A bet."
He stared into his drink, the amber liquid swirling within the glass, the memories replaying in his mind like an old, worn film. "There was a boy. A kid in a small village in this very sea who said the same words as my late captain. A boy with a ridiculous dream." He spoke of the mountain bandit, the jeers, and the moment a Sea King had appeared, its jaws snapping shut with terrifying speed.
"I bet this arm on the new generation," Shanks said, his gaze rising to meet Guts's, his eyes shining with an unwavering conviction. "I bet it on a boy who I believe will carry the future on his shoulders," he said, looking at his empty sleeve, "is a reminder of the faith I have in that future, a testament to the power of dreams."
Guts stared at Shanks with unblinking eyes, piercing the depths of his soul. He processed the story of the bet, the sacrifice, the unwavering faith in the future, turning it over in his mind like a cold, hard stone. He let out a short, sharp grunt, a sound of grudging acknowledgment, but not necessarily agreement.
"Fair enough," Guts conceded. "So it's not a monument to a failure." He leaned forward, the wood of the table groaning under his elbows. "But I still don't understand why you choose to stay like that. Crippled."
Shanks, who had expected his story to end the discussion, to finally bridge the gap between them, looked genuinely surprised, his brow furrowing in disbelief. "What?"
"It's foolish," Guts stated, not as an insult, but as a plain and simple fact, a logical deduction based on his own brutal experiences. "You're inconveniencing yourself for the sake of a memory, clinging to the past when you could be embracing the future. You lose one, you build a better one."
Shanks's eye began to twitch, a telltale sign of his growing annoyance. "Why are you so insistent on this topic?" he asked, his voice tight with barely suppressed irritation.
"Because it's not even a big deal," Guts pressed on, completely missing or ignoring Shanks's escalating irritation. "It's not like you'd lose the memories of your bet. In fact," Guts added, a flash of his old world's practicality showing through, "your life would become easier, more efficient, more... survivable. Especially with a prosthetic hand... with a cannon in it."
The suggestion was so blunt, so utterly devoid of sentiment, that Shanks was momentarily stunned, his mouth agape.
Then, his annoyance flared, igniting his temper. "And what would you possibly know about it?" he retorted, gesturing with his own mug towards Guts, his voice laced with sarcasm. "You're sitting there with both of your hands perfectly fine, lecturing me on sacrifice and remembrance."
Guts calmly looked down at his flesh-and-blood left hand, flexing the fingers as if seeing them for the first time, as if marveling at its very existence. "Well, my arm already grew back," he said, his tone utterly flat, devoid of emotion. "Before that, I used a prosthetic for years. It even had a very cool cannon."
The revelation hung in the air, thick and heavy, completely changing the dynamic of the argument, twisting it into something almost comical. Shanks stared, his mind struggling to connect the pieces, trying to reconcile the stoic warrior before him with the image of a one-armed swordsman wielding a cannon-laden prosthetic. He had thought he was being lectured by an outsider, someone who couldn't possibly understand his sacrifice, but he was being counseled by a veteran, someone who had walked a similar path, albeit with a decidedly more violent twist.
The idea of a hand growing back, of limbs regenerating like a lizard, was so alien, so impossible within his understanding of the world, especially after what he witnessed; his frustration boiled over into disbelief, bubbling to the surface like a boiling pot.
"That doesn't make any sense," Shanks snapped, leaning back in his chair. "What are you anyway? A lizard or something? Not everyone can regrow limbs like you, bastard!"
Then, suddenly, Yasopp burst into the tavern, slamming the door open with such force that it rattled the very foundations of the building. Genzo, startled by the sudden intrusion, glared at Yasopp and shouted, "Be careful with the door, you idiot!"
Yasopp, however, ignored Genzo's outburst, his face etched with urgency as he yelled at his crewmates, "Run!"
Shanks, who had been locked in a heated argument with Guts, stopped mid-sentence and looked at Yasopp in confusion. Then, his observation Haki picked up on something, a presence that sent a shiver down his spine.
"It's Garp! Run!" he shouted at his crewmates, his voice laced with alarm. He scooped up Uta, who was happily munching on a sandwich, slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and scrambled towards the back door, his movements surprisingly nimble for a one-armed man.
"Oi! You haven't paid!" shouted Genzo towards the scrambling Red Hair Pirates, his face turning red with indignation.
"Put it on my tab!" Shanks shouted back, his voice barely audible amidst the chaos.
Just as the last member of the Red Hair Pirates, Lucky Roux, disappeared through the back door, Garp appeared, bursting through the front door with such force that the doorframe splintered and cracked. "Shanks, you bastard! Where are you?!" he roared, his voice shaking the whole tavern.
"MY DOOR!" Genzo cried out in anguish, his voice filled with despair as he surveyed the mangled remains of the tavern door, the door he had painstakingly crafted with his own two hands.
Garp scanned the room, his nostrils flaring like a bison scenting prey. Then, his eyes landed on the small, adorable figure of Robin, nestled amongst the chaos.
"Robin-chan!" he exclaimed, his face softening into a warm smile. He scooped Robin from Guts's lap and hugged her tightly, rubbing his bristly cheek against her soft face, eliciting a giggle from the little girl due to the tickling sensation of his beard.
Guts, his protective instincts flaring, gripped Garp's hand with a possessive intensity. "Let go of my daughter!" he growled, his voice laced with a threat. But Garp was so strong that Guts's body was being pulled along with him.
"Come on, Guts, don't be a cheapskate!" Garp said jovially, completely oblivious to Guts's simmering rage. He then hoisted Robin onto his shoulder and patted Guts on the shoulder with such force that the impact cracked the plates of his Berserker Armor. "I always wanted a granddaughter, you know? A cute and sweet one like Robin-chan, but my blasted son just gives me trouble (Luffy) instead!"
"Do I care?" Guts retorted, his voice dripping with sarcasm. He lunged forward, trying to reclaim his daughter, who was perched on Garp's shoulder, giggling happily. "Dreshishishishishi!"
"Excuse me," Bogard, Garp's ever-composed right-hand man, politely entered the tavern and approached Guts. His expression was calm and collected. Then, he spoke in a carefully measured tone, "Garp-san, did you forget something?"
"What? My donut?" Garp looked at Bogard, his face scrunched up in confusion, a question mark seemingly materializing above his head.
"AH!" Garp shouted in sudden realization, his eyes widening in alarm. He then spun around and charged towards the back door, kicking it open with a thunderous crash, tearing the door off its hinges, and sending it flying. He dashed towards the direction Shanks had fled, with Robin still perched precariously on his shoulder, clinging to his hair for dear life.
"Put down my daughter, you bastard!" Guts roared, his voice filled with primal fury, and gave chase after Garp, his Dragon Slayer dragging along the ground behind him.