Ficool

Chapter 4 - chapter-4:

The weight of Adam on Luke's back felt immense, disproportionate to his friend's small frame. Adam, his face severely bruised and crusted with drying blood, was barely conscious, his breaths shallow and ragged. Luke, fueled by the terrifying, cold energy of the Devil Fruit and the primal urgency of survival, adjusted his grip beneath Adam's knees and began the brutal trek.

The forest swallowed them whole. Each step was a battle. The ground was uneven, a thick carpet of slippery moss and unforgiving, twisted roots. Luke moved in the direction the water-scent had suggested—toward the sea, where civilization and a port might lie. He concentrated fiercely, ignoring the agonizing burn in his own shoulders and the cramping in his thighs. The heavy black pistol lay discarded far behind them, but the memory of the metallic recoil and the terrible, silent fall of the man was a cold weight pressed against his spine.

For three relentless days, they pressed on. Their journey was a study in grim endurance. During the day, they moved slowly, cautiously, skirting open fields and keeping to the deepest shadows of the trees. At night, they huddled together for warmth, sharing the small scraps of stale bread, washed down with collected rainwater. Luke's main focus was keeping Adam's wounds clean with boiled water from a tiny, hidden fire—the very survival skills Adam had tried to teach him hours before the attack. The fever came and went, making Adam delirious and forcing Luke to halt their progress repeatedly.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, the endless wall of trees gave way. They spilled out onto a dusty, well-worn dirt path. In the distance, Luke could see the bright, cheerful colors of coastal buildings clustered near the water's edge. The air now thrummed with the sounds of a busy port: shouting, the creak of ship rigging, and the salty promise of the Grand Line.

Luke stumbled, his entire body trembling from exhaustion, but he did not fall. He steadied himself and began the final, agonizing walk toward the closest cluster of buildings, Adam's head bobbing gently against his neck.

The town was named Port Lily, a surprisingly robust settlement nestled in a cove. Luke followed the scent of disinfectant and herbs, eventually stopping outside a modest wooden building with a hand-painted sign depicting a stylized healing leaf. He pushed the door open and staggered into the small, clean clinic.

A woman was sitting behind a wooden counter, organizing vials of dried herbs. She was older, with deep lines around her eyes that spoke of long days and restless nights, but her face held an immediate, soft warmth. She had kind, strong hands and a sensible, graying braid.

"Oh, my dear children!" the woman exclaimed, rushing around the counter as she saw the state of the two boys—one unconscious, the other barely standing.

"He needs help," Luke gasped, his voice raspy. He gently laid Adam onto a clean examination cot. "His face... his ribs."

The woman, moving with the practiced efficiency of a veteran medic, immediately began cutting away Adam's tattered shirt. "Don't you worry, child. I'm Elara. We'll see to his wounds. A boy his age is tough."

Luke watched her for a moment, her hands delicate yet firm as she cleaned the crusted wounds. When she finished assessing the damage, she turned to Luke with a reassuring smile. "It's serious, but fixable. He'll need stitches and rest. Go rest yourself. There will be no charge for this. You boys are orphans, aren't you?"

Luke, though his head spun from fatigue, shook his head sharply. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of Beli—coins he had retrieved from the dead man's satchel before they fled. The copper and silver coins were smeared faintly with the dried blood from Adam's wound.

"No, ma'am," Luke said, his voice surprisingly firm and adult. "We will pay. For the treatment, the supplies, and the board. We need your care, and we pay for what we take." He pushed the bloodied coins across the clean countertop.

Elara hesitated, staring at the unsettling sight of the blood on the currency. The coins felt heavy and cold in her hand. The child's refusal of charity, his intense insistence on payment, and the coldness in his young eyes all spoke of a brutality she rarely saw. "Very well, child," she said quietly, accepting the payment but making a mental note of the disturbing exchange. "You rest now. You have earned it."

The next few weeks were a haze of rest, recovery, and quiet domesticity. Luke helped Elara with small chores, sweeping floors and grinding herbs, his mind sharp and observant, always planning their next move. Adam, bruised and sore, was confined to a recovery bed, slowly healing under Elara's meticulous care.

It was during one of Adam's feverish, confused moments, days into his recovery, that the truth spilled out. Elara had been changing his bandages, and Adam, hazy with pain medication, muttered about the man, the gun, and the impossible sight of the weapon flying into Luke's hand.

Later that evening, Elara sat across from Luke in the clinic kitchen. Her face was grave, all traces of her usual gentle humor gone.

"Adam has been talking," she stated simply, her gaze unwavering. "He told me about the buyers. About the man. And about... how he died."

Luke met her eyes without flinching. His features, though still childish, hardened into the same expression of cold resolve he'd worn in the main hall of the orphanage.

"That man tried to hurt my friend," Luke stated, the words clipped and precise. There was no remorse, only a rigid, ethical justification born from the necessity of their cruel reality. "Therefore, it had to be done."

Elara searched his eyes, not seeing a murderer, but a terrified child who had wielded an unknown power to defend the only person he loved. She saw the heavy weight of a life taken, resting on tiny shoulders. She did not lecture, nor did she condemn.

Instead, she stood, walked around the table, and pulled Luke into a tight, warm embrace. It was the first real, unconditional physical affection he had received in his new life.

"You two," she murmured, stroking his orange hair. "You are safe here. You are safe with me. We will all be okay."

And so, Luke and Adam found a temporary home. They stayed in Port Lily, working diligently at Elara's side, helping her deliver medicines and clean the clinic. They grew stronger, physically and mentally, their bond forged in the heat of violence and fear, now solidifying into unbreakable kinship.

Months turned into a year. The bruises faded, and the fear receded, replaced by the steady rhythm of their new lives. They were eight years old now, lean and hardened by their experiences.

One clear afternoon, they escaped the clinic duties and scaled the highest Sea Pine on the hill overlooking Port Lily. From the massive, swaying branch, they had a spectacular, sweeping view of the sparkling azure sea—the Grand Line.

Luke, invigorated by the vastness of the horizon, leaned back against the trunk, the salty wind whipping his hair. "Look at it, Adam," he said, a quiet intensity in his voice. "That's everything. It's endless."

Adam followed his gaze, his hand instinctively touching the new, small, calloused knot on his side where his broken rib had healed.

Luke finally voiced the secret ambition that had been burning inside him since the moment he recognized the year 1462. "I don't want to be a doctor's helper forever. I want to explore that. I want to travel freely across the seas as a pirate. Not to terrorize, but to explore the world and become the strongest one in it." He wasn't asking for permission; he was stating his destiny.

Adam's chest swelled with pride and determination. He chuckled, a deep, happy sound. "You think you can leave me, Captain?" He shook his head emphatically. "Not a chance. I'm going too. I want to explore every island you want to see. But mostly," he dropped his voice, his expression fierce, "I'm going to become so strong that nobody ever touches you again. I'll be the one protecting you."

Luke burst into genuine, booming laughter, slapping Adam's shoulder with playful force. "Protect me? In your dreams, Adam! I've got the power to pull entire warships apart. You're going to fight off a Navy Vice Admiral with a slingshot?"

Adam flushed, his eyes flashing with irritation. "Hey! Don't think I've been just sweeping floors. I've been going to the dojo near the fish market every morning. Old Man Hiro is teaching me swordsmanship! I'm getting better. One day, I will definitely protect you!"

Luke smiled, a broad, genuine grin that showed the depth of his affection for his fiercely loyal friend. "Yeah, yeah. Keep on dreaming, Swordsman. But you're coming with me either way. Now, let's find a better view of the horizon."

Their futures were fixed, their paths aligned—one driven by raw, magnetic power and boundless ambition, the other by a steady, protective strength and a growing skill with a blade. The Grand Line awaited its new, unlikely heroes.

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