The smell of battle smoke aboard the Oro Jackson was quickly replaced by victorious cheers and the aroma of alcohol.
The crew sang off-key sea shanties at the top of their lungs, bragging about how they'd just made fools of the Navy.
That's right—Garp, equipped with his "Roger radar," had tracked them down yet again for another "friendly meeting."
Kyle leaned against the mast, holding a cup of fresh orange juice, taking a gentle sip.
So! Damn! Good! Ninety-nine percent perfect! This is exactly the taste!
His gaze inadvertently fell on Roger.
Roger stood with hands on his hips, arm-in-arm with Scopper Gaban, spinning tall tales with his usual hearty laughter.
But his non-sword arm was wrapped in thick bandages, dark red bloodstains slowly spreading through the white cloth.
Though it was Garp who'd broken through his defense, normally this kind of wound would heal immediately on the monster-like Roger if left untreated.
But Kyle keenly noticed that while Roger's laughter remained boisterous, if you listened carefully, his breathing seemed just a touch more labored than usual.
His hand holding the cup paused slightly.
No way... is it really... happening?
Kyle's heart sank. The sweet orange juice now tasted bitter in his mouth.
Night fell, and the banquet arrived as scheduled.
The aroma of roasted meat filled the deck as a massive bonfire painted everyone's faces crimson.
Roger had changed into clean clothes and held a mug bigger than his face, drinking competitively with Scopper Gaban.
"Cheers!"
"Ohhhhhh!"
Shanks and Buggy, those two little troublemakers, were the rowdiest of all. Each clutching a huge piece of meat, they chased each other around the deck, recounting how they'd "heroically" fought off three Navy soldiers that day, drawing roars of laughter from everyone.
The entire pirate crew was immersed in the celebration—the atmosphere hot and boisterous.
Only Kyle seemed out of place.
He sat in a shadowy corner with an untouched cup of orange juice before him, having avoided all the food and drinks by the bonfire, quietly watching his celebrating crewmates.
His gaze swept across each face before settling on Roger's spirited, laughing expression.
No, I have to do something!
During a brief lull in the drinking contest, the crowd momentarily quieted, leaving only the crackling of the bonfire.
Kyle stood up and walked to the fire.
"Listen up, everyone." His voice wasn't loud, but it reached every ear clearly.
All eyes turned to him, even Roger blinking curiously.
"I have a proposal," Kyle's expression was unusually serious. "It's time we found ourselves a ship's doctor."
The air fell silent for a moment.
"Pfft—" Scopper Gaban spat out his drink. "Cough, cough... Kyle, you running a fever? A ship's doctor? What the hell do we need one of those for?"
"Exactly," Nozdon thumped his solid chest. "As long as your head's still on your shoulders, everything else is just a scratch!"
"Haha! That's right! When has a doctor ever been more useful than rum!"
The crew erupted in laughter, thinking Kyle was telling some kind of joke.
Kyle smiled wryly, scanning the group. Those golden eyes seemed especially serious in the firelight, gradually quieting the boisterous laughter.
"Think about it," Kyle began slowly. "Every time we fight, we hold back, afraid of serious injuries, afraid of losing arms and legs. But what if we had a highly skilled ship's doctor?"
He paused, then dropped an extremely tempting scenario.
"Imagine this: we could charge into enemy lines without a care in the world. Even if someone hacks off your hands or feet, just pick up the pieces, and the doctor can reattach them! You could trade blow for blow with stronger enemies, knowing the doc's got your back! Fighting could become completely reckless, completely exhilarating!"
The mockery gradually faded from the crew's faces, replaced by a hint of interest. For this group of battle-hungry monsters, the proposal had hit their sweet spot.
Seeing the mood was right, Kyle flashed a "kind" smile and dropped his final trump card.
"And more importantly..." His voice lowered, filled with devilish temptation. "Don't you think it's a waste of time that every banquet ends with us sleeping off hangovers for a whole day? If we had a ship's doctor, he could mix the strongest hangover cure! We could throw a party tonight, drink ourselves senseless, then take one dose each and wake up tomorrow morning ready to... throw another party!"
"We could even have three parties a day! Breakfast party, lunch party, dinner party!"
"..."
The deck fell dead silent.
Everyone was stunned, Roger included. Their brains seemed to be processing this information overload of a proposal.
Three... parties... a day?
"Ohhhhhhhh!"
Add fuel to the fire!
"Genius! Kyle, you're absolutely brilliant!" Buggy's eyes lit up as if he could already see endless refills and never-ending parties.
"That's right! For the parties!"
"A ship's doctor is great! We need one!"
"I want to get plastered every single day!"
The crew's emotions ignited instantly. The same people who'd been mocking Kyle moments before now elevated "finding a ship's doctor" to their highest priority mission.
The entire deck erupted again, though this time the topic shifted from battle to beautiful dreams of endless future parties.
"Gu ha ha ha!" Roger laughed until tears came out. He grabbed Kyle around the neck and shook him vigorously.
"Kyle! What the hell goes on in that head of yours! Fine! It's decided! We'll find the world's greatest doctor to join our crew! For the parties!"
"For the parties!" everyone cheered in unison.
Amid all the fervent cheering, only Rayleigh didn't join the excitement.
He leaned quietly against the ship's rail, drinking his alcohol, but his gaze traveled over the boisterous crowd to settle on Kyle.
Though Kyle wore a smile and played along with everyone's cheers, deep in those golden eyes was little genuine joy.
Hidden there instead was something completely at odds with this carnival—a heavy, weighty concern.
Rayleigh said nothing, simply raising his cup quietly toward Kyle in a slight gesture.
Kyle felt his gaze and raised his wooden mug in return, drinking with him across the distance.
Both understood without words.
Some dire news couldn't be allowed to end this grand celebration early.