(11/02/24 - 10:00) (Thursday February 11, 1524)
The bright morning sun filtered through the small, dirty window of the clinic. Uma opened his eyes and stared at the peeling yellow paint on the ceiling. He waited for the familiar, agonizing fire in his muscles to register.
His body felt entirely limber. The total central nervous system exhaustion from the previous night had vanished completely. He pushed himself off the thin cot and stood on the wooden floorboards. He rolled his shoulders. The joints moved smoothly, devoid of any stiffness or lingering pain.
He looked down at his arms and chest. The biological restructuring was accelerating. The myriad of tiny, silver scars from his childhood street fights were completely gone, replaced by smooth, unblemished dark skin. The deep, jagged whip marks across his back had diminished significantly, blending into the surrounding tissue. He reached up and traced the skin of his throat. The raised, blistered ring from the explosive collar was noticeably fainter. It remained visible, but it no longer looked like raw, traumatized flesh. Only the thick, hyper-pigmented patch on his abdomen remained prominent, a permanent reminder of the celestial dragon's musket.
A hollow, gnawing ache erupted in his stomach. His accelerated metabolism demanded immediate fuel.
He grabbed his canvas shirt from the foot of the bed and pulled it over his head. He walked directly to the cast-iron stove. A large wooden platter sat on the metal surface, holding the leftover roasted sea serpent from yesterday. He picked up a massive, three-pound chunk of cold, dense meat. He tore into it with his teeth. He chewed rapidly, swallowing the heavy protein to silence the violent hunger in his core.
Doctor Vance sat at his cluttered desk, a lit cigar clamped between his teeth. The doctor tossed a crumpled newspaper onto the table.
"You can read that while you eat," Vance said, sorting through a tray of rusted surgical tools. "You need to know the faces of the monsters roaming the seas if you plan on surviving outside this clinic."
Uma picked up the World Economy News Paper with his free hand. He scanned the front page. A large, blurry photograph depicted a massive, grotesque man with a white, crescent-shaped mustache. The headline beneath the photo reported a massacre. Edward Weevil had taken down the A.O Pirates in his long search for Whitebeard's treasure, destroying an entire town in the process and causing about 600 casualties.
Uma scratched his head. He stared at the name 'Edward Weevil'. The title meant absolutely nothing to him. His past-life knowledge of this world contained massive blind spots. He remembered the primary protagonists and the major emperors, but the specific details of warlords, side characters, and background massacres eluded his memory entirely. He filed the grotesque face away in his mind as a high-level threat to avoid and set the paper aside.
"I am done eating," Uma stated, swallowing the last bite of the sea beast. "I need to pay off my medical debt. Put me to work."
"Good," Vance grunted, standing up from his chair. "The lawless groves breed violence every single night. The morning brings the survivors to my door. Put on that leather apron hanging on the wall. You are my orderly today."
(11/02/24 - 11:30)
The heavy iron door of the clinic swung open. Two rough-looking pirates dragged a third man into the room. The injured pirate clutched his left forearm. A deep, horizontal machete slash had laid the flesh open to the bone. Blood dripped steadily onto Vance's floorboards.
"Put him on the table," Vance ordered, pointing to a rigid wooden slab in the center of the room.
The pirates hoisted their crewmate onto the wood. Vance walked over, inspecting the wound with a clinical, detached gaze. He snapped his fingers, pointing at Uma.
"Hold his right shoulder down," Vance instructed. "Do not let him thrash. I need a steady canvas."
Uma stepped forward. He clamped his hands down on the injured pirate's shoulder, applying a steady, immovable downward pressure. His newly developed muscle density allowed him to pin the weak grown man with surprising ease.
Vance grabbed a bottle of clear, high-proof alcohol and poured it directly into the open wound.
The pirate screamed, thrashing violently against the table. Uma locked his elbows, keeping the man securely pinned to the wood.
"The brachial artery is intact," Vance noted, ignoring the screaming completely. He grabbed a curved iron needle and a length of thick black medical thread. "The blade severed the superficial muscle tissue and scraped the radius bone. You are going to lose twenty percent of your grip strength in this hand permanently."
Vance began to stitch the flesh together. He moved with mechanical precision. The needle pierced the skin, pulled the raw edges together, and knotted the thread in a rapid sequence. Uma watched the entire process. He absorbed the crude medical knowledge. Knowing how to close a wound in the field determined the difference between life and death.
"Clean the dried blood off the surrounding skin," Vance told Uma, stepping back from the table. "Wrap it tightly with a linen bandage to maintain pressure."
Uma grabbed a clean rag, soaked it in a bucket of water, and scrubbed the pirate's arm. He bound the limb securely. The two crewmates tossed a small bag of Berry coins onto Vance's desk and dragged their moaning friend back out into the humid air.
The influx of patients continued throughout the afternoon. Uma assisted Vance with a shattered collarbone, handing the doctor wooden splints and tight bandages while holding the whimpering thug in a seated position. He helped extract a jagged piece of shrapnel from a smuggler's thigh, using a pair of iron tongs to keep the incision spread open while Vance dug for the metal.
The work provided a stark, unfiltered look at the reality of the Sabaody underbelly. The men coming into the clinic were not grand adventurers. They were desperate criminals fighting over scraps of territory, rum, and stolen cargo. They bled exactly like normal humans.
(11/02/24 - 17:00)
The clinic finally emptied. Vance sat behind his desk, counting the bloody coins and stacking them into neat piles.
The massive frame of Koro stepped through the iron door. The Fish-Man carried a large, empty canvas sack over his shoulder.
"The meat supply is sufficient for another day," Koro rumbled, looking at Uma. "We require vegetables and citrus. A diet of pure protein leads to scurvy and organ failure. Grab the coin purse from the doctor. You are carrying the supplies back."
Uma wiped his blood-stained hands on his leather apron. He removed the apron and hung it back on the wall. He took a small handful of coins from Vance's desk and followed Koro out into the waning afternoon light.
They walked toward Grove 13. The atmosphere of the archipelago shifted as the sun began to lower. The shadows cast by the colossal Yarukiman Mangrove roots grew longer, hiding the illicit deals taking place in the alleyways. The constant upward stream of iridescent resin bubbles reflected the orange hues of the sky.
They reached an open-air market nestled between two massive, striped roots. The stalls were constructed from salvaged shipwood and torn canvas sails. Merchants shouted their prices, hawking stolen goods, rusted weapons, and local produce.
Koro approached a large stall selling fresh produce. The merchant, a skinny man with an eyepatch, nervously weighed out massive quantities of sweet potatoes, leafy green cabbages, and bright orange citrus fruits.
"Put them in the sacks," Koro instructed the merchant, tossing the Berry coins onto the wooden counter.
The merchant filled two large burlap sacks to the brim. The combined weight easily exceeded one hundred pounds of dense agricultural goods.
Koro turned to Uma. He crossed his arms over his chest, waiting.
Uma stepped forward. He grabbed the thick, rough fabric of the sacks. He hoisted the first one onto his left shoulder and the second one onto his right. The sheer weight compressed his spine and drove his bare feet hard into the dirt path. His leg muscles engaged instantly, burning with the sudden load.
This was passive conditioning. Every single task in his new life served a dual purpose. Paying the medical debt provided anatomical knowledge. Running errands provided structural reinforcement for his bones and joints.
He locked his core muscles and began the long walk back to Grove 29. He kept his breathing measured, matching Koro's massive strides.
(11/02/24 - 20:00)
The evening air brought a slight chill to the lawless zone. Uma walked onto the small wooden porch of the clinic and dropped the two heavy sacks of produce onto the floorboards. A heavy thud echoed across the wood.
He rolled his shoulders, feeling the deep ache settling into his trapezius muscles. He walked inside the clinic, washed the dirt and sweat from his hands in a basin of clean water, and ate a quick, dense meal of raw vegetables and cold fish to stoke his metabolism.
He stepped back out onto the porch. The day of servitude was officially over. The sounds of distant tavern brawls and clinking bottles drifted through the mangrove roots.
He placed his hands flat on the wooden floorboards, positioning them shoulder-width apart. He extended his legs back and locked his core. The time for rest was over. The night belonged to the grind.