The morning sun pierced through the lingering clouds, spilling golden light over the messy, battle-scarred beach. The aftermath of last night's chaos had settled into an unexpected, almost surreal harmony. Pirates and Marines—once mortal enemies—lay scattered across the sand in what could only be described as unprecedented peaceful coexistence.
Miller Pine, the burly pirate with the ever-present hammer, had half a roasted fish tangled in his beard. Surprisingly, his formidable iron hammer had become a makeshift pillow for a young Marine, both of them emitting soft, synchronized snores. The sight was absurd, yet strangely peaceful.
Nearby, Colonel Mu Gulian's prized cigar had rolled into the sand. His pistol lay neatly beside him as he leaned lazily against a rum barrel, completely passed out. Spencer's noble suit had collapsed into a crumpled heap, and several Marine officers lay beside him. From the night before, they had apparently shared long discussions ranging from poetry and prose to the philosophy of life, eventually collapsing together into drunken exhaustion.
The entire beach reeked of barbecue embers, the sharp tang of rum, and… the undeniably potent aroma of manly body odor.
Kyle sat quietly atop the ship's figurehead, dark circles under his eyes. He observed the bizarre tableau with an expressionless gaze, as if cataloging a rare and dangerous species for study.
He had gradually come to understand the truth: this so-called "adventure" was less about treasure or glory and more about a group of passionate, burly men simply enjoying life to its fullest.
His Boba Fruit ability gave him a clever advantage outside combat: by stimulating his brain with specific sound wave frequencies, he could stay awake indefinitely. The downside? He was forced to witness everything, from shouting and fighting to arms-around-each-other camaraderie, and finally, collective collapse into slumber.
Kyle's gaze swept across the beach, eventually resting on the center of the bonfire. There, the future Pirate King, Gol D. Roger, and the future Marine Hero, Monkey D. Garp, lay head to head in the most undignified positions imaginable, drooling quietly in sleep.
Kyle felt his temples throb. This is called arch-rivals? he thought. Clearly, they're just long-lost brothers!
"Ugh… water…"
Jabba's muffled groan broke the morning's fragile tranquility. He struggled upright, rubbing his wild, bird's-nest-like hair. His eyes immediately reddened as they fell on a burly Marine sleeping with his rum barrel nearby.
"Bastard! Give me back my alcohol!" he roared. The sound echoed across the beach like the clarion call of war.
Instantly, the slumbering pirates and Marines stirred. Heads throbbed, legs were numb, and every muscle complained. Zombies in human form, they swayed as if activated by some invisible switch, eyes blinking in confusion as they tried to reconcile their new surroundings.
The camaraderie of last night faded like mist in the sun, replaced by a tense standoff fueled by lingering hangovers and instinctive animosity.
"Kuhahaha… I slept so well!" Roger stretched broadly, slapping Garp on the back with a dull thud.
"Oh… it's you, kid!" Garp jolted awake from the slap, sitting up abruptly. He rubbed his eyes, then grinned with a smile full of gunpowder mischief. "It seems your doomsday has arrived!"
"That's not for sure! Maybe it's you, you bastard, who's going to get shaken off by us again!" Roger retorted. Both men rose to their feet, eyes burning with the same unyielding flame that had fueled their legendary rivalry.
With the "friendly greetings" of the two commanders complete, both sides automatically assumed battle formations. The pirates returned to their ship while the Marines re-formed ranks. The harmony of last night had vanished, leaving only crackling tension in the morning air.
The new crew members—Nozdon, Isaac, and Punk Rock—followed mechanically, their minds overloaded with confusion. How could enemies share beds one night and attempt murder the next? Their brains struggled to process the contradictions, constantly glancing between Roger and Garp.
"Alright, lads! Pack up and prepare to set sail!" Roger called cheerfully, waving his hand as if the formidable Marine fleet across the water were nothing more than a bothersome mosquito.
"Mr. Garp! Should we launch an immediate attack?" a young Marine Lieutenant Commander asked nervously, hurrying toward his superior.
Garp, still wiping sleep from his eyes and picking absentmindedly at his nose, waved dismissively. "Attack what? Go die? Everyone back to the warship. We'll deal with them next time!"
"Yes, sir!" the Marines answered in unison, their confusion barely restrained.
And so, a battle that could have reshaped the seas ended in abrupt stalemate, simply because the timing was… off.
As the ships drifted apart, the familiar ritual repeated itself.
"Roger—!" Garp bellowed from the bow, his voice loud enough to stir the waves. "Next time we meet, I'll personally throw you into Impel Down!"
"Kuhahahahaha!" Roger replied, his laughter bold and unrestrained. "Then try it, Garp! Don't get taken out by some small fry first!"
The wind carried the words of the two legends across the sea—a tacit understanding, incomprehensible to anyone else. Kyle, standing behind Roger, could only mutter under his breath:
I know, I know… it's always like this. Checking in, right? Impel Down… feels more like a wedding chapel than a prison.
Just as he was musing, Garp's booming voice singled him out.
"Hey! You, kid over there!"
Kyle stiffened. Ominous premonitions filled his chest.
Garp's smile, bright enough to hurt, revealed gleaming teeth as he continued:
"Next time I'll definitely drag you to Marine Headquarters! Clean your neck and wait for me! Hahahaha!"
A hush fell over the Roger Pirates' ship. Every gaze, like a spotlight, focused on Kyle.
The old crew members barely suppressed laughter, while the newcomers—Nozdon, Isaac, Punk Rock—stared, mouths agape, utterly bewildered.
"Pfft…" Jabba burst into laughter first. "Little Kyle, did you hear that? Garp personally wants to 'arrest' you!"
Miller Pine roared in agreement, his deep voice echoing across the deck. "A special invitation from the Marine! That's a huge honor, Senior Kyle!"
Nozdon's head spun with question marks. Why would a Vice Admiral obsess over a pirate kid? he wondered.
Spencer adjusted his collar elegantly, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "Perhaps, in Mr. Garp's eyes, Kyle is the only lost lamb that can be… 'saved.'"
Kyle's face turned as black as a cauldron bottom.
Lost lamb? Old man, maybe worry about your own son, the Legendary Sweating King is about to appear!
And what does 'clean your neck and wait' even mean? This is… bizarre!
Despite the embarrassment, Kyle felt his "senior" prestige solidify—albeit in a strange, almost ridiculous way.
He exhaled and, facing the retreating warship, shouted back as loudly as he could:
"I refuse! Go eat your senbei!"
The words carried across the waves, Garp's reception unknown. On the Roger Pirates' ship, however, laughter erupted.
"Kuhahaha! Well said, Kyle!" Roger clapped his shoulder, laughing until tears nearly appeared.
Rayleigh approached, shaking his head with a fond smile and offering Kyle a glass of orange juice. "You worked hard. Dealing with Garp's cannonballs and his… recruitment simultaneously is no small feat."
Kyle drank deeply, the tension in his chest finally easing. Around him, his companions laughed so hard they swayed, their joy infectious.
Yesterday, he had used "Oni Giri: Baku Homing" to counter Garp's cannonballs and "Vortex: Azure Dragon Twister" to disrupt the Marine fleet, proving his strength to the new crew. Now, Garp's distant threat had solidified his position in another, more… humiliating sense.
Isaac, the taciturn swordsman, silently approached and handed Kyle a clean cloth.
"Hmm?" Kyle asked.
"Yesterday… very strong," Isaac said simply, his eyes betraying genuine respect.
Nozdon stepped up, face alight with admiration. "Sugoi! Senior! Take me with you next time!"
Kyle's heart swelled at the recognition. All contempt had vanished; in its place were trust and acknowledgment.
He wiped his face, allowing a sly, fox-like smile to return. Though the path had been winding and embarrassing, his reputation—and his connections—were intact.
"Time to party!" Roger bellowed.
"Captain! We just finished one!" a voice protested.
"Celebrating surviving Garp again! Isn't that reason enough?" Roger shot back, laughter booming.
The crew erupted anew, clinking cups, shouting, and reveling. Kyle pressed his forehead to his palm, yet couldn't help but grin.
This was… undeniably, ridiculously happy.
Ãdvåñçé çhàptêr àvàilàble óñ pàtreøn (Gk31)