Three months after Crocus joined the crew, the Oro Jackson had just finished a "friendly exchange" with some kingdom's fleet.
On deck, a long line had formed outside the medical bay, filled with distinctly pirate-flavored wailing.
"Mr. Crocus! Quick! There's a bullet stuck in my tooth!" Nozdon opened his cavernous maw, revealing a smoking dud embedded between his molars—both comical and horrifying to behold.
"You idiot! Who told you to catch bullets with your teeth?!" Crocus's temple veins bulged as his forceps creaked in his grip, but his movements remained rock-steady as he pried out the dangerous "cavity" in just a few moves.
"Next!"
Taro shuffled forward miserably, presenting his limp right arm: "Um... Doctor, I think it's dislocated, and also fractured in three places." During battle, he'd found his weapon unwieldy and had simply used his own arm as a flail.
Crocus's eye twitched as he practically roared while shoving him into the medical bay: "Do you people treat your bodies like disposable goods?! One of these days, I'm going to tear you all apart and rebuild you out of iron!"
Shanks and Buggy, the two little rascals, were peeking around nearby. Buggy pointed to a barely visible speck of blood on his nose tip, making a huge fuss: "Dr. Crocus! Me! Right here! I got grazed by the enemy's killing intent! I think I'm dying!"
Shanks clutched his stomach with a serious expression: "It's all Buggy's fault—I laughed too hard and got stomach cramps."
"Get out and go scrub the deck!" Crocus's bellow sent both kids vanishing instantly.
Kyle leaned against a nearby railing, watching this chaotic but orderly scene with amusement.
Once upon a time, injuries like these would have laid crew members up for days, even canceling celebrations.
But now, under Crocus's skillful hands and roaring voice, everyone could bounce back the next day at full strength. He'd become second only to rum as the ship's most reliable comfort.
Roger stood with hands on his hips, watching Crocus's busy figure, and burst into laughter: "Gu ha ha ha! What a dependable crewmate!"
Crocus shot him an annoyed look, especially when he saw Roger using his freshly bandaged hand to lift a barrel of liquor again. His blood pressure spiked to dangerous levels as he gripped his harpoon tightly.
That night, as the commotion died down and the sea remained restless, the crew didn't hold their usual party. After an afternoon of "repairs," everyone carried the scent of medicine and enjoyed a rare moment of peace.
By the campfire, Roger suddenly looked at Crocus, who was cleaning his medical instruments beside him. Dropping his usual carefree demeanor, he asked seriously: "Crocus, tell us about it—about Laboon, and that... Rumbar Pirates business."
The crew's chatter gradually died down as all eyes focused on this ship's doctor, whose combat prowess was no less than that of any fighting crew member.
Crocus paused, the dim firelight reflecting off his glasses, obscuring his expression. He remained silent for a long time, as if organizing those buried memories.
"They were..." Crocus's voice was hoarse, heavy with nostalgia, "like you... no, like us—a bunch of hopeless optimists, a crew of cheerful musicians."
He began telling the story of music and promises.
How a little whale fell in love with music and stubbornly followed a pirate ship full of musicians' dreams.
How a captain named "Yorki" and his companions, before entering the Grand Line, made a promise to young Laboon—that after sailing around once, they would definitely return to Twin Cape to get him.
"They entrusted Laboon to me, trusting I could take good care of him, and trusting they would definitely return." Crocus looked down at his weathered hands. "That wait... has lasted over twenty years."
Over twenty years.
Those words fell like a massive stone, weighing heavily on everyone's hearts.
"Laboon was obedient at first, but after a few years, he realized his companions wouldn't return easily." Crocus's voice carried helplessness and heartache.
"He started ramming the Red Line with his head, trying to smash through that barrier to find his companions. Day after day, year after year, bloodying his head, covering himself in scars, but never stopping."
The deck fell silent except for the crackling campfire and distant waves.
Buggy's red nose twitched, his eyes reddening too. He rubbed them hard, stubbornly saying: "Damn it, there's too much smoke..."
Shanks gripped the sword at his waist, his young face showing seriousness beyond his years.
"Those bastards..." Scopper Gaban slammed his cup heavily on the deck, fire blazing in his eyes. "They promised to return—how can they not keep their word!"
"Exactly!"
"What kind of promise is that!"
The crew erupted in indignation. They might not understand complex medical theory, but they knew the weight of "promises" and "companions" better than anyone.
"Gu ha ha ha..." Roger's laughter rang out again, but this time it lacked its usual boldness, carrying instead a somber determination.
He stood and walked to the bow, facing the sea breeze with his back to everyone.
"Crocus," his voice carried across the entire ship, "I promised you, and I will definitely deliver."
"Listen up, everyone!" Roger spun around suddenly, his gaze blazing as it swept across every crew member's face.
"Starting today, finding the Rumbar Pirates becomes one of the Roger Pirates' sailing objectives! We'll find them, dead or alive, then grab them by the collar and demand answers for why they left their companion waiting for decades!"
"Yeah!"
"Beat the hell out of them!"
"For Laboon!"
The crew's passion ignited instantly, sweeping away the earlier gloom with thunderous cheers.
Amid the passionate declarations, Kyle remained silent.
He sat quietly in the corner, watching his companions' faces filled with determination, watching Crocus's slightly trembling shoulders, watching Roger's towering figure.
He knew better than anyone the fate of the Rumbar Pirates.
It wasn't an ending where you could grab someone by the collar and demand answers.
It was a slow, desperate annihilation in the Devil's Triangle of the Calm Belt, brought on by enemy attacks and plague.
No betrayal, no forgetting. Only undying loyalty, and using their last strength before death's arrival to perform one final farewell song, trying to fulfill their promise.
That song was recorded and preserved in a Tone Dial, hoping it might one day drift across the seas to reach that foolishly waiting whale's ears.
And those cheerful musicians—now only a skeleton revived by the Revive-Revive Fruit remained, playing solo day after day on a ghost ship in that misty sea.
It was a... never-ending solo concert held for the dead.
Kyle lifted the orange juice before him and drained it in one gulp.
An indescribable bitterness spread from his tongue to his heart. Looking at these companions making passionate vows to get justice for Laboon, he felt for the first time the weight that came with "omniscience."
This cruel truth—he couldn't speak it.
It would shatter Crocus's last thread of hope and turn his companions' burning oaths into a cold, hellish joke.
Kyle silently clenched his fists.