The silence of the orphanage was violently broken not long after the two boys slipped out. The buyers, the sharply dressed man and woman, returned to the main hall, their faces eager to finalize their "transaction." Mother Camel was already there, impatiently tapping a long, bony finger on the mahogany table.
"The children are prepared, I trust?" the man asked, his eyes scanning the empty hall with a professional disinterest.
Mother Camel gave a sharp, unpleasant laugh. "Of course. They are secured in the dormitory. Just a moment, let me fetch them."
She strode toward the dormitory, expecting to find the two easily. But when she returned moments later, her face—usually a mask of calculated avarice—was contorted with cold fury. Her thin lips were pulled back to reveal stained teeth.
"They're gone. The little rats are gone," she hissed, pointing a trembling finger at the still-ajar service door in the boiler room visible through a distant corridor. "That bolt... they must have pried it free!"
The couple's professional composure vanished instantly. The man's jaw clenched, and his eyes, previously cold, now blazed with brutal anger. This wasn't just a loss of inventory; it was a professional slight.
"Unacceptable," the man snarled. He reached inside his tailored coat and smoothly pulled out a heavy, black pistol, its metal gleam catching the dim light. "They couldn't have gotten far on foot. I'm going after them."
The woman, however, remained focused on business. Her face was set in a tight, determined mask. "Go. I will secure the rest of the supply," she ordered, her voice sharp and uncompromising. She immediately strode toward the other corridors, her mission now to gather and lock down the remaining "batches" on their waiting ship, ensuring this single act of defiance didn't escalate into a mass revolt.
The man didn't wait. He burst out the boiler room door and into the overgrown backyard, his polished shoes crushing dry weeds. He spotted the broken vegetation where two small bodies had pushed through. The trail led directly toward the dense, shadowy treeline that marked the beginning of the island's interior forest. He broke into a powerful, determined sprint, the handgun held loosely at his side, his intent clear and merciless.
Luke and Adam ran until their lungs burned and the muscles in their small legs screamed in protest. The salt-laced wind of the Grand Line was replaced by the damp, earthy scent of the forest floor. They scrambled up a steep, short incline and finally collapsed under the sprawling canopy of ancient trees. The air, thick with the smell of pine and moss, felt safe—a natural fortress against the cold, man-made walls they had fled.
Panting heavily, Luke pressed his back against the rough bark of a giant oak. His body ached, but the euphoria of freedom was a potent painkiller.
"We… we made it," Adam whispered, his voice shaky, a mixture of fear and disbelief.
"Not yet," Luke replied, forcing himself to breathe deeply. He looked around. The forest was deep, quiet, and offered immediate cover. "We need to get to the sea. This is an island, which means a coastline, which means a chance to get off."
They started to discuss their next moves in hushed, urgent tones.
"We could hide in a ship's cargo," Adam suggested, his voice laced with hope.
"Too risky. We need something small, fast, and, most importantly, unattended," Luke countered, recalling the chaotic, rough nature of Grand Line ports. "We need to find a fishing skiff or a dinghy. Something we can manage."
"But this is a huge island, Luke. How long will it take to walk to the coast?"
"However long it takes," Luke stated, his resolve firm. He knew time was their greatest enemy. The buyers would mobilize the entire port to find their lost investment. "We rest here until sunrise. We need visibility and a plan to move quickly."
Adam, demonstrating a surprising knack for survival skills, began clearing a small patch of ground to make a discreet sleeping area beneath a dense cluster of ferns. "I'll make a nest. You go get us some wood for a small, non-smoky fire. We can't freeze."
Luke nodded, taking the small, crude, sharpened knife they had stolen from the kitchen and disappearing deeper into the twilight gloom to scavenge for dry firewood. The forest floor was rich with moss and decaying leaves, but Luke eventually located a fallen branch, snapped dry and brittle.
As he knelt to gather the wood, his eyes caught a vibrant flash of color against the drab greens and browns. Tucked beneath the roots of a massive tree, lying almost as if placed there deliberately, was a fruit of truly bizarre appearance. It was about the size of a grapefruit, but its skin was a pulsating, electric dark purple, covered entirely in sharp, swirling, concentric patterns that seemed to shift and warp under the faint moonlight filtering through the canopy.
It was undeniably odd. It looked like something sculpted by a mad god of geometry.
A strange, almost irresistible compulsion washed over Luke. He didn't know why he should touch it, let alone eat it. He had no memory of its significance, no logical reason derived from his past life to consume such a dangerous-looking item. Yet, in this new, terrifying world, a deep, primal instinct screamed at him: opportunity.
Luke snatched the fruit. The texture was smooth yet slightly bumpy, cold to the touch. He didn't hesitate. Driven by an urgency he couldn't explain, he raised the purple orb to his mouth and took a massive, tearing bite.
The flavor was immediate and violently repulsive. It was a searing combination of rotted fish oil, rusted metal, and bitter, burning ash. His eyes watered instantly, and his stomach churned in protest. Every cell in his body screamed for him to spit it out. But Luke, fueled by the same grim determination that drove him in his former career, swallowed the huge chunk. He kept chewing and swallowing the vile pulp until the entire mouthful was gone, followed by a shuddering gasp for air. He threw the remaining half of the fruit away, feeling a strange mixture of disgust and a cold, heavy sensation settling deep in his core.
Meanwhile, Adam was meticulously arranging the fern bedding when a shadow fell over him. He looked up and saw the man in the tailored suit looming over him, the black pistol now leveled directly at the boy's chest.
"I found the trail to your pitiful little hiding spot, brat," the man's voice was venomous, stripped of all pretense. "Where is the orange-haired one? Tell me now, and perhaps I only break a few of your bones."
Adam, despite the terror gripping him, felt a rush of protective courage. Luke was his friend, his only ally. He shook his head defiantly. "I don't know who you mean."
The man's fury boiled over. He didn't bother arguing. He raised the pistol and fired a shot directly into the air. The sound was deafening, a sudden explosive crack that tore through the quiet forest, instantly announcing their location to the entire world.
"Last chance!" the man roared, the smell of gunpowder stinging the air.
Adam, though tears were streaming from his eyes, set his jaw and remained silent.
Enraged by the child's stubbornness, the man holstered the gun and grabbed Adam by the shirt. He delivered a swift, hard kick to the boy's ribs, followed by a merciless barrage of open-handed slaps and punches to the face and head. Adam crumpled instantly, crying out in a muffled, painful gasp as blood immediately blossomed from his nose and split lip. His delicate facial features were rapidly bruising, his nose likely broken, and his clothes already soaked with blood.
The explosive sound of the gunshot ripped Luke from his stupor. He dropped the firewood and sprinted back towards the camp, his new, tiny legs pumping with terrified urgency.
He burst through the ferns and stopped dead.
The sight was unbearable. Adam lay curled on the ground, a small, broken heap, his face unrecognizable beneath the glistening sheen of blood. The man stood over him, breathing heavily, the pistol now back in his hand, ready to finish the job.
A cold, absolute rage unlike anything Luke had ever experienced—a protective fury that erased all fear—seized him. He didn't think; he simply reacted. He focused all his desperate, burning energy on the man, on the tool of violence in his hand.
Luke extended his small right hand toward the man, his fingers splayed in a gesture of absolute command.
In that same instant, the fruit he had consumed hours before activated with a profound, terrifying shudder. A violent, invisible current surged out of Luke, focusing on the metallic weapon. With a jarring, almost impossible speed, the heavy, black pistol was ripped from the man's grip. The man screamed in surprise, the gun tearing through the air and slamming into Luke's outstretched palm with a powerful thunk.
The man staggered back, staring at the small, orange-haired boy who now held his weapon—a boy whose eyes were blazing with a raw, nascent power. Before the buyer could even form a word, before he could process the impossibility of what had just happened, Luke's finger tightened on the trigger.
The second gunshot was sharp and final. The bullet tore through the man's chest, piercing vital organs. He stood frozen for a beat, a look of profound shock replacing his rage, before his body pitched forward into the dirt, dead instantly.
Luke stood perfectly still, the pistol smoking and heavy in his small hand, the metallic power humming faintly within him. He was breathing hard, not from running, but from the sheer, overwhelming release of a power he didn't understand.
Adam, who had managed to raise his head slightly at the sound of the magnetic pull, witnessed the impossible violence and the man's sudden, silent death. The trauma, exhaustion, and shock were too much. His eyelids fluttered, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
Luke immediately dropped the gun, which clattered uselessly in the dirt. The magnetic current faded, and the metallic feeling receded, leaving only the crushing weight of reality. He stumbled toward Adam. The boy was breathing, shallow and ragged, but alive.
Tears of shame and panic pricked at Luke's eyes, but he suppressed them. There was no time for emotion. He retrieved the crude knife and, using his own shirt and a few strips of cloth torn from the dead man's suit, frantically cleaned and bound Adam's worst wounds, stopping the bleeding as best he could.
He sat beside Adam, keeping vigil through the darkest hours of the early morning, the body of the dead buyer a chilling confirmation of the dark path their escape had forced them onto.
When the sky began to lighten with the pale, hopeful gray of dawn, Adam finally stirred, moaning softly.
"Adam? Adam, it's okay. You're safe now," Luke murmured, his voice gentle and strained.
Adam's eyes, swollen and dark, blinked open slowly. He tried to speak but winced. He managed to move his gaze to the man's still, lifeless body. His eyes widened slightly.
"Luke… what happened to him?" Adam asked, his voice barely a whisper. "The gun... it flew to you. You... you killed him."
Luke knew he couldn't lie, not to Adam, and not about the bizarre event that had just redefined his entire existence. He picked up the discarded half of the strange purple fruit, displaying the repulsive patterns.
"Before you were... hurt," Luke began slowly, his gaze fixed on the fruit. "I found this. I ate it. It was vile, the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted."
He closed his hand around the fruit and took a deep breath. "That was no ordinary fruit, Adam. The people of this world call them Devil Fruits. They give the eater strange, impossible powers in exchange for the ability to swim."
Luke looked at Adam, his expression heavy with the gravity of his words. "That man was metal. His gun, his belt buckle, the metal in his vest. I didn't reach for it. My body, my new power, simply pulled it to me. I think... I think I just ate the Magnet-Magnet Fruit."