The hammering in the docks continued day and night, as the Oro Jackson's wounds slowly healed under the craftsmen's skilled hands. The crew had settled back into their familiar rhythm—drinking, card games, shooting the breeze—as if that earth-shattering naval battle was just a fuzzy memory from a bad hangover.
Only one man was different.
Douglas Bullet, that guy who radiated "stay the hell away" vibes, had become even more silent than before.
He no longer picked fights with anyone, spending most of his time sitting alone in the shadow of the ship's figurehead, like a wild beast lying in wait.
The crew went out of their way to avoid him, turning that shadowy spot into an invisible no-go zone.
Kyle leaned against the second deck railing, sea breeze tugging at his clothes. He looked down at Bullet and let out a quiet sigh.
Damn, did we beat the kid into a depression?
Actually, he couldn't entirely blame Bullet.
In that man's world, there were only the strong and the stronger, and he lived by the most primitive law of power.
With Captain Roger's time running out, Bullet saw it as a sign that the "strong one" was about to fall—the beginning of the team's decline.
He couldn't understand the bonds on this ship that transcended life and death, like a landlubber trying to understand the ocean's appeal.
What about Kyle himself? He'd been sailing these seas with Roger for over twenty years.
From a clueless teenager to now being one of the crew's core pillars, this ship held all his youth and memories.
Twenty-plus years of weathering storms together—even a stubborn rock would've warmed up by now.
Roger, Rayleigh, Scopper Gaban... these people had long since become irreplaceable family to him.
But Bullet had joined too late, with too weak an emotional foundation.
He only saw Roger's strength, blind to what lay behind that strength—the one-of-a-kind charisma that made everyone willing to follow him to life's end with a smile.
"Kyle..."
A timid voice interrupted Kyle's thoughts.
He turned to see Buggy and Shanks. Buggy had pushed Shanks in front of him, poking his head out from behind.
"Um... Kyle," Buggy forced out a smile that looked worse than crying, "that move you used the other day... the one that made Bullet spasm on the ground... what's the principle behind it? Could you teach me? Then I wouldn't have to be scared of Sea Kings anymore!"
Shanks smacked Buggy upside the head: "Idiot! That's Kyle's Wave-Wave Fruit power—how's your Chop-Chop Fruit gonna learn that!"
He turned to Kyle, scratching his head with pure curiosity and admiration in his eyes, "But seriously, Kyle, the way you controlled that storm was so cool! Even cooler than the captain!"
"Hey! Shanks! How dare you say the captain isn't cool?!" Buggy immediately forgot his fear, jumping up to argue with Shanks.
Watching these two troublemakers, Kyle's tense expression softened, and he gave each of them a flick on the forehead.
"Stop thinking about useless stuff. If you've got that much free time, swing your swords a few more times and get your Haki up to snuff."
"Ow!"
Buggy clutched his head, still making faces at Shanks: "It's all your fault!"
Shanks just rubbed his head and grinned like an idiot. The two kids ran off chasing each other, filling the deck with noisy energy again.
Kyle talked tough, but warmth spread through his chest.
It was this pure, simple trust that formed the backbone of this ship.
"Don't be too hard on them—they're still just kids."
Rayleigh appeared behind him at some point, tossing an unopened bottle of rum that clinked as it flew over.
"Catch."
Kyle smoothly caught it, bit off the cap, and took a long swig.
The harsh liquor burned like a line of fire from his throat to his stomach, driving away some of the gloom that had settled in his heart.
"I was just thinking—we went to all this trouble just to get the ship a new mast." His voice was low, eyes fixed on the distant dock where craftsmen were struggling to hoist a massive mainmast onto the ship. "Is it really worth doing all this for a ship heading toward its final destination?"
Was he asking about the ship, or about people?
Rayleigh leaned against the railing, silently watching the distance as the setting sun stretched his shadow long.
"It's precisely because it's the final voyage that we need to do it with the best attitude, don't you think?" He adjusted his glasses, the lenses reflecting a sharp glint. "You handled Bullet's situation well."
He paused, then added: "Some words aren't appropriate coming from a vice-captain. But you're different, Kyle. You're one of the 'parents' on this ship. Words from family carry more weight than orders."
"Family..." Kyle chewed on the word, his gaze drifting involuntarily back to that shadowy spot under the figurehead.
"Gu ha ha ha! You two old-timers, what good stuff are you secretly sharing over here!"
A thunderous laugh approached from afar, seeming to make even the deck vibrate.
Roger strode over, his massive hands grabbing Kyle and Rayleigh's shoulders in a bear hug that nearly squeezed the breath out of them.
He snatched the bottle from Kyle's hand and tilted his head back for a series of loud gulps that made Kyle's eye twitch.
"Burp... good stuff!" Roger wiped his mouth, showing not a trace of illness but radiating the blazing vitality of the sun itself.
"I heard you gave our 'Devil's Child' a proper lesson? Well done! That kid needed a reality check! Always going on about being 'the strongest'—he has no clue what real strength is! If being strongest means curling up alone in a corner to rot, then I couldn't care less about that kind of strength!"
Roger didn't mention a word about going to comfort Bullet, as if it was just an insignificant splash on their voyage.
He released them both, pointing proudly at the new mainmast slowly settling into place, his eyes shining brighter than the sunset.
"Look! Our ship's almost ready! Next comes the final voyage!"
Seeing Roger's infectious smile, the last trace of gloom in Kyle's heart evaporated.
Captain Roger's greatest strength was never his Conqueror's Haki or his swordsmanship.
It was this gift for making all his followers forget their fears and doubts, willingly joining him in laughter until the very end, burning bright until their lives were spent.
Clear away the noise and protect this one-of-a-kind "innocence" until the journey's end.
That was probably what he needed to do most right now.
"Hey, Roger! Drinking that much—trying to speed up your own death?"
Kyle snatched back the rum bottle, drained what was left, and hurled the empty bottle far into the ocean, where it hit with a crisp "thunk."
Like setting the final note for a song.