Chapter 8: "I'm Going to Buy Some Oranges."
Mihawk had decided Roy was ready. The foundation had been laid in blood, sweat, and countless bruises; what the boy needed now was the tempering fire of real combat. The destination mattered little—Marine or pirate, the Grand Line would test his mettle all the same. Roy, for his part, was just eager to finally see the world beyond the fog.
There was, however, one immediate and glaring problem: Mihawk's chosen vessel.
The "Coffin Boat," as Roy had privately dubbed it, was a masterpiece of minimalist misery. It was essentially a large, ornate plank with a single sail, designed for a solitary, stoic drifter, not a passenger. The two of them could only sit back-to-back, their legs stretched out before them, with the vast, unforgiving ocean stretching out on all sides. It was profoundly uncomfortable.
Supplies were another issue. They had brought only what was essential, and Roy, with a metabolism honed by a lifetime of simian-level activity, had a appetite that could rival a giant's. Within the first few days, he had single-handedly decimated their stock of dried meat and hardtack.
Then, the real trouble began.
Roy, a lifelong islander, was experiencing the sea for the first time. While he was blessedly free of seasickness, a different malady took hold. Without fresh fruit or vegetables, his body, accustomed to a jungle-foraged diet, began to rebel. First, it was a profound weariness that seeped into his bones. Then, his gums began to swell and bleed, his skin becoming sallow and marked with strange bruises. The tell-tale signs of scurvy had set in with a vengeance.
Mihawk, whose own iron constitution seemed to shrug off such mundane concerns, watched with a clinical eye. But after a week at sea with no land in sight, even his formidable stomach began to growl with a hollow insistence. Roy's condition worsened; he drifted in and out of consciousness, his body wracked with pain, his mind clouded by fever.
On the eighth day, a smudge of green appeared on the horizon. As they drew closer, it revealed itself as a small, civilized island with a modest port town. Relief, cold and sharp, washed over Roy even in his delirious state.
Mihawk guided the coffin boat to a secluded stretch of beach away from the main docks. He stepped onto the sand, then turned and, with surprising care, lifted the listless Roy and propped him against a large, sun-warmed rock.
"Wait here," Mihawk instructed, his voice as steady as ever. "I am going to acquire provisions. Oranges, primarily."
Through the haze of his suffering, a bizarre and powerful sense of déjà vu struck Roy. He slumped against the stone, watching the retreating back of the world's greatest swordsman. "I don't know why," he mumbled to the seagulls, "but I have the overwhelming urge to call him 'Father' and then go buy some stationery."
He closed his eyes, the sun beating down on his face. He just had to hold on a little longer.
Life, however, is a sea of unpredictable currents. Not long after Mihawk vanished into the town, another vessel approached the beach. It was a pirate ship, its hull scarred and its flag unfamiliar. Roy, barely conscious, was aware of rough hands lifting him, of mumbled voices, and then the gentle rocking of a ship at anchor. Something sour and sweet was forced between his cracked lips—a citrus pulp that tasted like salvation itself.
When Roy finally clawed his way back to full consciousness, he was staring up at a ceiling of wooden planks. The world was swaying gently. A ship.
"You're awake," a young man's voice said beside him.
Roy's throat was sandpaper. "Am I... alive?"
The man nodded, a friendly smile on his face. "You're safe. Your scurvy was pretty bad. You can't go to sea without fruit, friend! Even a jar of jam would've saved you a world of hurt."
"Thank you," Roy croaked. "You saved me?"
"It was our captain who fished you off that rock. You looked half-dead." The man helped him sip some water.
"Thank you," Roy repeated, before exhaustion pulled him back under.
He drifted for another day, his body slowly knitting itself back together with the help of proper nutrition. When he woke again, the smell of roasting meat and the sound of raucous laughter filled the air. His strength was returning. He reached out, and his hand found the familiar hilt of Shiroi, still safe by his side. Slinging the white sword across his back, he used the wall for support and shuffled toward the noise.
He emerged onto the main deck under a canopy of stars. The sea was a vast, black expanse around them. His eyes were drawn upward, to the mast, where a black flag flapped in the night breeze.
A Jolly Roger.
A pirate ship. His saviors were pirates.
A jolt of alarm cleared the last of the fog from his mind. Mihawk! He stretched out his Observation Haki, casting a net of awareness across the ship. He found the boisterous crew, the cook in the galley, the lookout in the crow's nest—but no trace of the Warlord's sharp, singular presence. He was gone.
"Grumbling."
His stomach, now very much alive, announced its emptiness with a violent roar.
The young man from before spotted him and waved him over to a circle of pirates gathered around a barrel-top feast. "You're back on your feet! Come, eat! You must be starving."
Roy didn't need to be told twice. He sat and grabbed a haunch of meat, tearing into it with gusto. "How long was I out this time?" he asked between bites.
"Just an afternoon. You've got a strong body," the man said. "First time at sea, right? Scurvy's a common mistake. Just remember your fruits and veggies next time." He stuck out his hand. "Name's Joseph."
"Roy." He shook the offered hand firmly. "So... you're pirates? Which crew?"
Joseph puffed out his chest with pride. "We're the Spade Pirates!"
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Personally, Ace was so weak. He should have been much stronger and no Haki?? Son Of Pirate King.
Give me Stones so i can fill up Ace's Chest.