The rainy season in the West Blue came without warning.
One moment the sky was a dull leaden gray, and the next, raindrops as large as soybeans pelted down, splashing murky water onto the dilapidated cobblestone road.
Seraphilia wrapped her scavenged coarse cloth cloak tightly around herself.
The cloak was far too large, taken from some abandoned fishing hut.
Her twelve-year-old frame running through the rain looked exceptionally frail.
Her long silver hair was completely soaked, sticking dismally to her cheeks and neck.
Yet, her running posture was unusually steady.
Those ice-blue eyes scanned the surroundings sharply through the curtain of rain, searching for shelter while maintaining a deep-seated vigilance.
This was her third month since falling into this world.
The damp, cold air seeped into her bones, and a sharp phantom pain shot from the skin below her collarbone.
It wasn't a real wound hurting, but the brand of memory burning.
Subconsciously, she touched the spot with her fingertips through the rough fabric.
Three months ago, an unfamiliar coast.
The salty stench of the waves, the freezing seawater.
She had woken up among the reefs with a splitting headache, as memories that didn't belong to her flooded her mind like a rusty tide.
The blinding lights of the auction house.
The cold touch of the iron cage.
Those finely dressed Celestial Dragons below the stage, wearing their glass domes.
The bidding rose and fell like a discussion over a piece of lifeless furniture.
"A rare specimen, a human girl mixed with mermaid blood! Starting bid, five hundred million Berries!"
She remembered lying on the damp gravel, staring at her legs in disbelief.
Under the sunlight, tiny pale blue scales shimmered with an eerie, pearlescent luster.
Mermaid blood?
Even more turbulent memories followed.
That suffocatingly luxurious prison cage.
She was pinned down by strong arms, and an ominous fruit covered in white spiral patterns was forced into her mouth.
The taste was so foul her very soul shuddered.
Immediately after, a violent power exploded within her, clashing fiercely with the affinity for the ocean in her blood.
Every inch of bone and flesh underwent tearing and restructuring.
A Devil Fruit.
Then came the branding.
The red-hot iron, the smell of charred flesh, the heart-wrenching pain below her collarbone.
And the cold, aloft laughter of those who enjoyed her agony.
That twisted mark remained forever—the mark of merchandise, proof of ownership, shame and pain itself.
Seraphilia remembered trembling as she pulled aside her tattered collar to confirm the brand with her own eyes.
Deep, hideous, like a curse.
The final images were fragmented: chaos, a guard's negligence, the piercingly cold seawater at night. She had spent her last ounce of strength, relying on her mermaid blood's faint connection to water, to grab a wooden plank and struggle blindly in the darkness.
Until, exhausted, she was washed ashore on this unfamiliar beach.
"I escaped."
Three months ago, she had lain on the reef, whispering to the empty sea and sky.
The saltiness of the seawater mixed with the taste of rust—the blood in her memory and her bitten lip in reality.
From that moment on, two broken souls completely merged.
The lonely, depressed modern soul from her previous life and the humiliated slave girl of this life became one, forming the new Seraphilia.
A fugitive bearing a slave brand, possessing mermaid blood and an unknown Devil Fruit ability, who had to hide everything to survive.
"What a... terrible start."
At the time, the corners of her mouth twitched, tasting only endless bitterness.
The memories of her past life were equally clear.
The barriers of social interaction, the quagmire of emotions, the empty home, the loud crash and darkness of the car accident.
And... the almost obsessive empathy and heartache she felt for the fictional character named Nico Robin.
And now, she was in this real and cruel world where Robin existed.
Rain seeped through the gaps in her cloak, the cold touch pulling Seraphilia back from her memories.
A slanted building appeared ahead, looking like an abandoned granary with its door half-ajar.
There was no better choice.
She rushed inside.
The decaying wooden door groaned with a "creak," shutting out the sound of rain while locking the damp cold inside.
The interior of the granary was dilapidated and covered in cobwebs.
The air was thick with dust, mold, and the sour smell of rotting grain.
Dim light leaked through the damaged roof, outlining the piles of junk.
Seraphilia wrung the water from her cloak and hung it up.
As her ice-blue eyes adjusted to the darkness, a more subtle perception spread out silently.
A mist so fine it was almost invisible bled from her fingertips, drifting into every corner like living tentacles.
This was an ability she had explored on her own during three months of fear and hiding.
One of the basic applications of the "Cloud-Cloud Fruit" she had been forced to swallow: Environmental Perception.
The mist provided feedback on air currents, temperature differences, and the outlines of objects.
And... the breath of life.
Her movements froze.
The mist told her that deep within the granary, behind a pile of dusty books and records, there was a faint but clear life response.
That presence was curled up, tense, full of defensiveness and fear.
Her heart skipped a beat.
An absurd and breathtaking guess exploded in her mind.
Countless fantasies from her previous life and the expectations she had deliberately sought but found no word of on her flight in this life converged at this moment.
She forced herself to stay calm.
Instead of walking toward that corner, she turned to a relatively dry patch of ground on the other side and took out hard rye bread wrapped in oil paper from her wet pack.
She had earned this by doing odd jobs earlier.
She broke off more than half and carefully wrapped it in a clean piece of old cotton cloth.
Only then did she turn toward that corner, stopping at a safe distance.
"I see you."
Her voice rang out in the empty space, calm and clear, with a steadiness beyond her years.
"It's raining hard outside. This should be a public shelter. I mean no harm."
In the corner, there was only the sound of breathing, even fainter now as if trying to hide completely.
Seraphilia leaned down, gently placed the cloth bundle on the ground, and pushed it forward.
"It's clean and not poisoned. It's easy to get sick after being in the rain; you'll feel better if you eat something."
Having said that, she paid no more attention to the corner, walked back to her original spot, sat down, and ate her remaining bread in small bites.
The sound of chewing was exceptionally clear in the silence.
She was waiting.