Chapter 5: A… Ace?
Kyle's legs screamed at him to stop.
He ignored them.
The port was chaos: smoke, screams, the thunder of cannon fire. A pirate ship flying a black flag with a shark's skull was anchored just offshore, its guns hammering the waterfront. Men in ragged coats spilled onto the docks, swinging cutlasses and kicking in doors.
Kyle slipped through the crowd, low and fast. Three years of jungle hunting had made him a ghost when he wanted to be. His vibration sense brushed ahead, mapping bodies, weapons, blind spots.
He was exhausted. The last proper meal he'd eaten was three days ago, and the fight in the square had drained most of his reserves. His arms still trembled. His ribs ached where the pirate captain's cutlass had connected.
But the Marines were overwhelmed. Civilians were running. And somewhere in that smoke, a woman with a child was still trapped.
Not my fight, he'd told himself in the square. Then he'd seen the child's face, and the words had turned to ash.
He found his first target alone, looting a fruit stall. The pirate had his back turned, stuffing oranges into a sack.
Kyle pressed a palm to the man's spine. A focused vibration—just enough to rattle the nervous system. The pirate's eyes rolled up, and he crumpled without a sound.
One.
Kyle caught the sack before it hit the ground, lowered the man gently behind the stall. His pulse hammered. Not from exertion—from the familiar sickness coiling in his stomach.
Move. Don't think.
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Three more pirates were forcing open the door of a warehouse. They laughed, shoving each other, too busy with their sport to watch their backs.
Kyle picked up a loose cobblestone, tossed it to the left. All three heads turned. He rushed the closest—palm to the kidney, a short pulse. The man folded. The second pirate spun, cutlass rising. Kyle ducked under the swing, came up inside his guard, and delivered a shockwave to the chest at point‑blank range.
The pirate flew backward into his companion. Both crashed into the warehouse wall and didn't get up.
Four.
Kyle staggered, catching himself on a crate. His vision swam. Too fast. Burning through what's left.
A scream cut through the smoke. A woman—the same one from the square?—was being dragged toward the pirate ship by a burly man with a scarred jaw. The captain.
Kyle's legs moved before his brain caught up.
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He caught up with them at the waterfront. The captain had the woman by the arm, yanking her toward a longboat. Two guards flanked him, muskets ready.
Kyle didn't announce himself. He sent a shockwave into the planking beneath the guards' feet. The wood splintered; both men pitched into the water, thrashing.
The captain spun, shoving the woman aside. He was tall, broad, with a face that looked like it had lost a fight with a meat grinder. His eyes locked onto Kyle.
"The brat from the square." He grinned, showing missing teeth. "Heard you were making trouble."
Kyle's arms trembled. He forced them steady. "Let her go."
"Or what? You look half‑dead already." The captain drew a cutlass from his belt. "My men said you've got some kind of magic trick. Let's see how it works when you're bleeding."
He lunged.
Kyle elementalized—his torso flickering translucent. The cutlass passed through him without resistance. The captain's eyes went wide.
Kyle solidified, palm pressed to the man's stomach. Resonance.
He pushed. Not the killing pulse he'd used on the island pirates—just enough to crack bone, to send the man stumbling back gasping.
The captain hit the ground, clutching his ribs. Kyle stood over him, swaying. His vision narrowed. His head pounded.
"The woman," he rasped. "Run."
She didn't need telling twice.
Kyle turned to follow, but his legs gave out. He caught himself on a mooring post, breathing hard. Just… need a minute…
A sound behind him. Footsteps—measured, unhurried.
Not the captain. Not one of the grunts.
He forced himself to look.
A man was walking through the smoke toward him. Young—maybe late teens—with a lean, muscular frame and a face that was all sharp angles and freckles. He wore an open orange vest, jeans, a cowboy hat, and around his neck, a necklace of red beads.
On his back, a familiar symbol: a grinning skull with a straw hat.
Kyle's heart stopped.
The man's eyes flicked to the fallen pirates, then to Kyle. A slow grin spread across his face.
"Not bad for a kid," he said. "You need a hand?"
Kyle opened his mouth. What came out was barely a whisper.
"…Ace?"
The man blinked. Tilted his head. "You know me?"
Kyle's brain was static. Portgas D. Ace. The Second Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. Son of the Pirate King. Here. Now.
He was in the South Blue. Ace was a rookie around this time—sailing alone before he formed the Spade Pirates. Before Whitebeard. Before everything.
Two years before Roger's death. Ace is… fifteen? Sixteen?
"Lucky guess," Kyle managed. His voice cracked.
Ace laughed—a warm, easy sound that didn't fit the burning port behind them. "Sure. Look, those pirates aren't all down. You want to keep playing hero, or do you want to let someone else take a turn?"
Kyle's legs finally gave out. He slid down the mooring post, sitting hard on the wet planks.
"Be my guest," he said.
Ace grinned again, then turned toward the burning pirate ship. He didn't draw a weapon. He just walked forward, hands in his pockets, like he was out for an evening stroll.
A group of pirates rushed him from the smoke. Kyle tensed—but Ace didn't even break stride.
A flicker of flame erupted from his fist. Not a fireball. Just a casual backhand that sent the first pirate flying into the next three like they were made of paper.
The remaining pirates froze. One dropped his cutlass.
"I'm going to give you ten seconds to get on your boat and leave," Ace said. His voice was still light, almost friendly. "If you're still here after that, I'm going to get annoyed."
They ran.
Ace stood there for a moment, watching them scramble. Then he turned back to Kyle, dusted off his hands, and walked over.
"You okay?"
Kyle stared at him. The smoke was clearing. The fires were already dying down—some of them extinguished by the sudden, inexplicable gusts of wind that sometimes followed Ace's flames.
"I was handling it," Kyle said weakly.
"Sure you were." Ace crouched beside him, pulling something from his pocket. A strip of cloth—makeshift bandage. "Your side is bleeding, by the way."
Kyle looked down. His shirt was dark with blood. He hadn't even noticed.
Ace wrapped the wound with practiced efficiency, tying it off with a firm tug. "You're what, six? Seven?"
"Six."
"And you took on a whole pirate crew." Ace's tone wasn't mocking. It was… impressed. "What's your name, kid?"
Kyle hesitated. The name "Grylls" felt like a lie from another life. "Kyle," he said. "Just Kyle."
"Well, Kyle‑just‑Kyle." Ace stood, offering a hand. "You got anywhere to be?"
Kyle took the hand. Ace pulled him up like he weighed nothing.
"No," Kyle said. "I just got here."
Ace studied him for a moment. Then that grin returned. "You hungry? I know a place that makes grilled fish so good it'll make you forget you ever tasted anything else."
Kyle's stomach answered before he could.
Ace laughed. "Come on."
He turned and started walking toward the town, toward the smoke that was already fading into twilight. Kyle followed, limping slightly, his side throbbing, his head swimming.
He was walking beside Portgas D. Ace. The man who would burn brighter than almost anyone in this world—and burn out just as fast.
Two years until Roger dies. Six years until Ace meets Whitebeard. Ten years until Marineford.
The timeline pressed against his ribs like a second wound.
But for now, Ace was just a teenager in a cowboy hat, walking through a ruined port with his hands in his pockets, humming something tuneless under his breath.
And Kyle was just a hungry, exhausted kid following him.
He let himself laugh—a small, incredulous sound.
"What?" Ace glanced back.
"Nothing," Kyle said. "Lead the way."
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End of Chapter 5
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