Ace walked through the long corridors, his footsteps echoing against the palace walls adorned with heavy drapes and golden paintings, yet silence wrapped around the place as if its very inhabitants had abandoned it.
The only sounds were the fall of his steps and the creak of wind slipping through the high windows. Everyone was busy with the royal feast in the grand square, leaving this wing more like a deserted city.
He descended the stairs slowly, recalling how he had slipped through here the first time… that back door, unguarded, as if it had been meant for him alone. The other doors in every direction swarmed with servants and guards, but this one remained isolated, silent—like a hidden passage between two worlds.
When he reached the palace's rear gate, he walked toward the edge of the courtyard and paused. From there, the entire city unfolded before him: wooden houses packed side by side, chimneys sending up gray smoke toward the sky, the muffled voices of the marketplace rising like whispers from a distant sea. The city teemed with the life and chaos he knew so well… the life of the streets, far more familiar to him than any lavish palace.
A faint smile touched his lips as he remembered sneaking out with Luffy and Sabo through the gate of the Gray Terminal in the Goa Kingdom. How many times had they fled the guards, stolen bread to fill their stomachs, or stirred up a little mischief just for fun? Those moments felt closer to true freedom than any crown or royal hall.
Clenching his fist, he stepped beyond the gate, as though crossing from a world he never belonged to into another, louder and more honest—even if it held something he had not foreseen.
The back gate of the palace had never been an obstacle to him; since childhood he had mastered leaping over walls and gates as if they were nothing more than forest rocks. He ran a few steps, sprang lightly, and his body rose over the high gate. The moment his feet touched the ground on the other side, that old rush surged in his chest again—the thrill he only felt when breaking free of chains.
He paused to catch his breath, his eyes scanning the road that led down toward the city. The path sloped gently downhill, trees lining both sides, with breezes carrying the scent of smoke and baked bread from afar. He couldn't help but smile; that smell, to him, meant life—unlike the suffocating perfumes of the palace.
His steps quickened, then turned into a jog, until he was running down the hill like a child chasing a shadow of his memories. The wind lashed his face, his clothes fluttered with his momentum, and as he neared the bottom, the city's details sharpened before him.
There, where narrow alleys opened onto wider squares, life burst in every direction:Vendors shouting out their wares in overlapping voices, wooden carts pulled by horses, smoke rising from the chimneys of clustered wooden houses, women balancing baskets on their heads, barefoot children racing through the alleys with loud laughter.
Every scene before him screamed of chaos, but to him it was the very picture of freedom. He had never felt a sense of belonging in the palace—not for a single day. But here, amid the noise of people and the disorder of their lives, his heart beat with something familiar, something that pulled him back to the nights in Goa when he and his brothers slipped into the heart of the Gray Terminal.
At the entrance of an alley, he stopped, his eyes gleaming as he whispered inwardly:
"Here, I can find what I'm looking for… or at the very least, find myself."
He slipped into the first of the city's alleys unnoticed, just as he had in his past adventures. Everything seemed ordinary: merchants bargaining with customers, men lounging outside cafés sipping drinks and trading news, children quarreling over a piece of bread only to laugh the next moment. Every detail of daily life felt familiar, as if the city paid no heed to his presence.
He walked among the crowds with a childlike wonder he couldn't conceal—snatches of voices overlapping, the smell of grilled fish from a nearby market, the warmth of sunlight bouncing off wooden rooftops, bringing the place to life. No one stopped him, no one asked where he came from or why he was alone. It was as if he belonged there as naturally as anyone else.
But then… something strange crept into his awareness.Each time he glanced at a group of people, he caught them looking away too quickly, or lowering their voices abruptly before resuming their talk. A woman's smile, warm at first, vanished the instant he passed her. A little boy running toward him froze when their eyes met, then awkwardly changed direction.
At first, he brushed it off as coincidence. But repetition made his heart stir with unease.
"Are they avoiding me…?"
He tried to mask his suspicion, yet deep down he couldn't deny a growing feeling with every step: the sense that he wasn't walking among ordinary strangers, but among people who knew more about him than he did himself.
Ace pressed on, ignoring the fleeting glances, until he found himself in a bustling square. Merchants raised their voices, carts of fruits and vegetables lined the way, and the smell of fresh bread wafted from a stone oven at the corner. For a brief moment, it felt like nothing more than an ordinary market, a simple world like any other.
He sat at the edge of an old fountain, watching the water sparkle under the sun—when a nearby conversation struck his ears like a slap:
"…I told you, his face is unmistakable. He looks just like them.""Keep your voice down! Do you want him to hear you? You know we're not allowed to speak of it."
His breath caught. He spun toward the sound, but only glimpsed two men disappearing into the crowd, their stiff posture betraying a mistake they realized too late.
His heart pounded violently. Looks like who?He recalled the children's stares, the woman's fading smile, the hushed whispers. This wasn't just a feeling—everyone here knew something about him. Something that belonged only to him.
Ace stood, anger and confusion rising together. He could not bear the thought that strangers knew more of his truth than he did. He strode into a side alley, where an old man sat on a worn mat, selling yellowed papers and tattered books.
But what froze Ace in place was the old man's reaction: the moment his eyes fell on Ace, his face stiffened and he whispered in a hoarse voice:
"The Am…? Could it be…?"
For an instant the man's features locked, his gaze hollow and piercing. Then, as if realizing a grave mistake, he jolted into motion. Without another word, he scrambled to gather his scattered papers and ancient books, trampling some in his haste to stuff them into a frayed leather bag.
His trembling hands fumbled to fold up his mat, every movement frantic though he tried in vain to appear calm. When he raised his head briefly, he avoided Ace's eyes, as though meeting them carried a danger too great to endure.
Then, moving with the hurried steps of a man fleeing fire, he slung his bundle over his shoulder and vanished into the alleys, swallowed by the crowd. In his wake, only a thin trace of dust lingered, as if he had never been there at all.
Ace stood frozen, staring at the emptiness the old man left behind, his heart sinking heavier and heavier…
"Why is everyone running from me?"