The cafeteria aboard the Moby Dick was astonishingly vast.
The air was thick with the charred scent of roasted meat, the stench of sweat, and the sharp bite of cheap tobacco.
It didn't feel like a dining hall at all—more like a battlefield that had just been bombarded.
Uchiha Itachi sat deep in the shadows of the farthest corner, his back pressed firmly against the wooden wall.
An instinctive choice.
A ninja never left his back exposed to the unknown.
The tray before him was piled high like a small mountain—bone-in roasted meat, grilled fish, and a large bowl of thick seafood stew.
It had been forcibly handed to him earlier by the chef named Thatch.
"Kids gotta eat more! You're skinny as a skeleton!"
The man had laughed, tossed the tray down, and immediately plunged back into the crowd of drinkers.
Itachi hadn't moved since.
His right hand was hidden beneath the table, fingertips gripping a shuriken.
His dark eyes swept coldly across the room.
He was observing.
Observing how this organization—the Whitebeard Pirates—actually functioned.
In the ninja world, rules were ironclad.
Superiors commanded.
Subordinates obeyed.
Disobedience meant death.
Especially in Root.
That suffocating hierarchy, that ever-present suspicion, had been carved into his bones.
But here…
There were openings everywhere.
"Bastard! I saw that meat first!"
A furious roar exploded across the cafeteria.
Itachi's gaze sharpened instantly.
At the center of the room, two burly pirates slammed their hands on the table and stood up.
One had a face full of fat; the other was missing his front teeth.
Their killing intent was real.
A fight?
Itachi assessed them in a heartbeat.
Judging by muscle tension and presence alone, neither of them was weak.
If this were Root or ANBU, such a conflict would already signal the beginning of a purge.
Yet no one stepped in to stop them.
Instead, the surrounding pirates banged their tables and cheered.
"Hit him! Hit him!"
"George, if you lose to that toothless idiot, don't drink my booze again!"
Itachi subtly shifted his posture, prepared to respond if the violence spilled outward.
Bang!
The fat pirate's fist smashed into the toothless man's face.
The toothless pirate retaliated with a brutal headbutt to the other's chest.
A dull thud echoed, and droplets of blood splattered the floor.
The attacks were crude.
Full of openings.
In less than a second, Itachi had already simulated three ways to kill them both—cleanly, efficiently.
Then the next moment shattered his expectations.
The toothless pirate, blood pouring from his nose, grabbed the other by the neck.
"Hahahaha! That felt great! You still pack a punch!"
The fat pirate, moments ago furious, burst into laughter, his mouth full of bloody teeth.
He slapped the other's back hard.
"Your skull's still hard as ever, you bastard! Fine—we split the meat!"
"Deal!"
They sat back down with their arms around each other's shoulders, tearing into the food and clinking mugs.
The heckling turned into roaring applause.
No hatred.
No calculation.
One second enemies—
the next, brothers.
A flicker of rare confusion crossed Itachi's eyes.
He didn't understand.
How could such a crude, emotional, illogical relationship even exist?
Emotion was taboo for a ninja.
"Clang!"
A sharp crash sounded from the opposite side of the room.
A young, drunken pirate stumbled and knocked over a stack of barrels.
Clatter—
Dozens of barrels rolled across the floor, amber liquor spilling everywhere.
The cafeteria fell silent.
Itachi's nerves tightened.
At sea, alcohol and fresh water were strategic supplies.
In ANBU, this would be classified as major negligence.
Best case: imprisonment.
Worst case: execution.
The young pirate slumped to the floor, face drained of color.
"It's over…"
Itachi watched coldly.
Now the enforcer would appear.
This was how rules worked.
But—
"Hahahahaha!"
Laughter erupted so violently it nearly tore the roof off.
An old pirate pointed at the unlucky youth, laughing until tears streamed down his face.
"Jerry! You trying to mop the deck with booze?!"
"What a waste! That's top-grade stuff Thatch busted his ass to get!"
Someone shouted loudly.
"Punish him! We gotta punish him!"
Here it comes, Itachi thought.
"Punishment is—cleaning the toilets for three days! And no drinking!"
"Yeah! And you gotta lick this place clean! Hahahaha!"
No whipping.
No execution.
Jerry froze for a moment, then scratched his head sheepishly and laughed along.
"Alright, alright! I'll clean! I'll clean, okay?!"
A dozen pirates crowded around.
Some grabbed mops.
Others brought rags.
They cursed and laughed while helping him clean.
A few even dipped their fingers into the spilled liquor and licked it, drawing even louder ridicule.
Itachi remained seated in the shadows.
The fork in his hand bent slightly from the pressure of his grip.
These are… pirates?
No chilling stares.
No hidden blades.
Everyone lived freely—almost recklessly.
This atmosphere was like a slow-acting poison, quietly eroding the iceberg in his heart labeled "I must return."
He lowered his head.
The food on his tray had long gone cold.
Still, he ate it methodically.
A ninja did not waste supplies.
Physical strength had to be maintained.
Ten minutes later, the tray was empty.
Most of the pirates had left; the rest were drunk and swaying.
The cafeteria was a disaster.
Itachi stood up.
He should have gone straight back to the cramped cabin assigned to him and planned his next move.
But he didn't.
His body moved before his thoughts.
He stacked the trays neatly.
Then the ones at the adjacent table.
Then the next.
His movements were precise, swift, and silent.
This wasn't kindness.
It was habit.
As an ANBU, he was conditioned to impose order on chaos.
Erase traces.
Eliminate hazards.
Even a dining table had to be restored to perfection.
The rag in his hand moved like a ninja tool.
Grease vanished, revealing clean wood grain.
Utensils were aligned by size and type—handles perfectly oriented.
He worked like a ghost.
Until the last table was wiped clean.
Just as he turned—
"Yo. That's a clean job."
Itachi's body stiffened instantly.
He spun around.
A kunai was already poised between his fingers.
Marco.
The pineapple-haired first division commander sat casually atop the bar counter, swirling a bubbling drink.
When had he arrived?
Itachi hadn't sensed him at all.
Strong…
Marco paid no attention to the kunai.
He hopped down lazily, holding two drinks.
One cup of rum.
One cup of orange juice.
He offered the orange juice to Itachi.
"Relax, kid."
There was no probing in Marco's half-lidded eyes—only faint warmth.
"On our ship, if you do the work, you get a reward."
Itachi didn't take it.
"I just… can't stand messes."
His tone was cold, distancing.
This wasn't helping anyone.
It was just habit.
"Is that so?"
Marco smiled and shoved the cup into Itachi's hand anyway.
The cold touch made Itachi's fingers twitch.
"Whatever the reason."
Marco turned away and waved casually.
"Thanks."
Just two words.
No questions.
No suspicion.
Only gratitude.
Itachi stood frozen.
The orange liquid swirled in the cup, reflecting the complex emotions hidden beneath his mask.
In Konoha, he had been a genius.
A tool.
No matter how perfectly he performed, the reward was always the same—
The next mission.
No one had ever thanked him for something so trivial.
The feeling wasn't unpleasant.
It even made the tight knot in his chest loosen—just a little.
"Commander Marco!"
A hurried shout came from the deck.
"The Second Division patrol ship sent a signal! We've got trouble!"
Marco's lazy demeanor vanished instantly.
Blue flames flickered in his eyes, his aura sharpening.
"Got it. I'm on my way."
He glanced back at Itachi.
"Get some sleep, kid."
"The nights at sea are loud."
With that, he dissolved into a streak of blue and vanished.
Itachi stood alone in the empty cafeteria, the orange juice still cold in his hand.
After a moment, he raised the cup and took a sip.
It was sweet.
Painfully sweet.
But he swallowed it anyway.
Setting the cup down, Itachi melted back into the shadows.
Since the night was "loud," he would go take a look.
Perfect timing.
He wanted to see for himself—
Whether this so-called strongest pirate crew could still afford this ridiculous "family game" when facing a real enemy.
Itachi pushed the door open.
The sea wind rushed in, carrying the sharp smell of gunpowder.
In the distance, several warships bearing skull flags cut through the waves.
Cannon barrels glinted coldly under the moonlight.
An enemy attack.
A faint, self-mocking curve appeared at the corner of Itachi's mouth.
As expected.
No matter where he went—
Conflict was inevitable.