The salty sea breeze swept across the empty dock, carrying with it a profound sense of loneliness. The silhouette of the Oro Jackson had completely vanished over the horizon, swallowed by the vast, indifferent blue of the sea. All that remained were Kyle and Jabba, standing beside their long, solitary shadows cast by the afternoon sun. The thunderous shouts and emotional farewells that had filled the air just a short while ago had faded into nothing. Now, there was only the monotonous, eternal rhythm of waves crashing against the wooden supports of the pier. That sound was like the steady pulse of time itself, beating over and over, each thump echoing in the hollow space in their chests.
"They're gone," Jabba said, his voice unusually hoarse. His expression was impossible to read behind his dark sunglasses, but the giant axe resting on his shoulder seemed to weigh him down more than usual.
"Yeah," Kyle replied, his gaze still locked on the empty expanse of water where their ship had disappeared. "They're gone."
The place they had called home for decades, the family they had built, had just scattered to the winds. The grand feast of their lives, the adventure they once thought would never end, had finally reached its conclusion.
The two men stood there in silence for a long time, neither one saying another word. They were pirates, men of action, and this quiet, still emptiness felt foreign and unsettling. The sun climbed higher until it was directly overhead, its heat baking the weathered wooden planks of the dock.
"Let's go get a drink," Jabba finally said, turning around and breaking the suffocating silence that had settled between them.
"Alright."
The town was small and looked a bit run-down. The tavern was even more basic. As they pushed open the creaking wooden door, a thick, murky smell hit them—a foul mix of cheap alcohol, old sweat, and greasy food. The place was buzzing with noise. The angry curses of gamblers, the nonsensical rambling of drunkards, and the sharp scolding of the landlady all blended into a chaotic symphony. It was a place full of a rough and crude kind of life, a stark contrast to the deathly silence they had just left behind on the dock.
They found an empty table in a dark corner and ordered two large mugs of the cheapest ale the place offered. A layer of rough foam floated on top of the golden liquid. Jabba grabbed his mug and took a long, deep gulp, then slammed the heavy wooden cup back down on the table with a loud bang.
"Pah, this stuff tastes awful!" he complained in his usual gruff voice.
Kyle just offered a small smile. He picked up his own mug and took a careful sip, his brow furrowing slightly at the bitter taste, but he said nothing. He watched the other patrons in the tavern—the local men with red faces arguing loudly over a few Berries, the vagrants passed out on the tables with drool on their chins. His eyes seemed a little unfocused, as if he were looking right through them.
They had once conquered the most treacherous sea in the world. They had witnessed secrets that could shake the foundations of the world and had fought against the strongest people alive. And now, here they were, sitting in a dingy tavern, drinking the worst ale imaginable, like two ordinary men with no idea what to do with their future.
"Hey, Kyle," Jabba said after taking another big swallow of his drink, wiping the foam from his lips with the back of his hand. "So, where are you headed next?"
Where to go?
It was a question that no one had ever bothered to think about when Roger was still on the ship. The Oro Jackson had always been their direction. Roger's booming laughter had always been their signal to charge forward. Now, the laughter had faded, and the ship had reached its final destination. The crew, left stranded on the shore, had suddenly become like rootless seaweed, drifting aimlessly in the tide.
Kyle slowly swirled the mug in his hand, watching the ale slosh around inside, not answering right away.
"It's been decades," Jabba continued, almost speaking to himself. A rare hint of confusion could be heard in his voice. "We just followed the Captain, and every day was the same: fighting, sleeping, and partying. Now that we're suddenly not doing anything, my whole body just aches."
He clenched his powerful fists, the knuckles cracking loudly. A fierce glint returned to his eyes, chasing away the confusion.
"I heard there's a place on the other side of the world called Elbaf. They say the giants who live there are all born warriors. I want to go see for myself—to find out if their fists are harder, or if my axe is sharper!"
"Elbaf, huh? Sounds like a good place for you," Kyle said with a nod. "Have a good time. Just try not to get stepped on."
"Hahaha! We'll see who steps on who!" Jabba burst into laughter, and the gloomy mood that had been hanging over him seemed to vanish with the sound. "What about you? You're the one who's always got a plan. You must have already figured out where you're going to go have some fun, right?"
Kyle suppressed a sigh. He thought of his friends. Roger would find his way to Baterilla Island in the South Blue, to be with Portgas D. Rouge and live out his final days in peace. Rayleigh was off to Sabaody to become a simple coating craftsman and live with Shakky. And now Jabba was heading off for a new adventure. One by one, they were all finding their own way, leaving the past behind.
He felt a pang of loneliness, the feeling of being the last one left wandering. He pushed the thought away and let his gaze drift out the tavern window toward the endless sea.
"Me?" he said, drawing out the word. A strange, knowing smile played on his lips. "I think I'll just keep wandering the Grand Line for a while." He paused, and his voice became a little deeper, as if he were speaking more to himself than to Jabba. "That damn illness Roger has... I want to keep looking. You never know, right? There are still miracles in this world, hidden away in corners no one's ever looked."
Jabba's laughter stopped abruptly. He looked at Kyle, his lips moving as if he wanted to say something. In the end, he just picked up his mug and drained the rest of the cheap ale in one go.
"And after that?" he asked.
"After that?" Kyle's eyes regained their usual playful glint. "Then I'll find something fun to do. This sea is a huge place. There are always some loud-mouthed rookies who don't know their place. They need someone to teach them the rules."
As he spoke, he lightly flicked a finger on the tabletop.
At the next table over, a large, drunk man was boasting loudly about his past adventures, waving his arms around wildly. He accidentally knocked over his mug, and ale spilled all across the table. Just as the liquid was about to drip onto the dirty floor, the puddle strangely paused. Then, as if it had a mind of its own, it formed into a thin stream of water, snaked its way along the edge of the table, and flew directly into the drunkard's open mouth.
"Burp!" The man let out a loud burp, wiped his mouth, and stared blankly at the now-empty tabletop and his suddenly wet beard, completely clueless about what had just happened.
Jabba watched the whole thing happen and almost spat out his drink. He couldn't hold it in and burst into a loud, hearty laugh.
"You! You're still such a troublemaker!"
"What? It's a shame to waste good ale," Kyle said with a shrug. "And he didn't seem to mind."
The heavy atmosphere between them was finally broken by the small prank. They ordered another round, and then another, drinking mug after mug. For a little while, it almost felt like they were back on the deck of the Oro Jackson, drinking under the stars with the sound of the waves all around them.
They drank until dusk began to fall. The two men walked out of the tavern and stood at the town's only crossroads. One road led back to the docks, and the other led deeper into the island's interior.
"Well then, this is it," Jabba said, re-shouldering his giant axe. His expression was back to its usual bold and unruly look.
"Yeah," Kyle nodded.
There were no more words. There were no hugs, no promises to meet again, and no looking back. Jabba held out his large, calloused fist, and Kyle met it with his own.
Thud.
Their two weathered fists gently bumped together, making a dull, solid sound, like a single, powerful heartbeat.
"Don't die, you bastard."
"You too, you idiot."
With those final words, they shared one last smile. Then, they both turned and strode off in two completely different directions. One walked toward the docks, ready to face new storms and new battles. The other walked inland, his figure slowly disappearing down a jungle path shrouded in the twilight.
Neither of them looked back. A pirate's farewell was always like this.
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