Chapter 68: The Longest Night
For three days, the island became a battlefield.
By day, the two crews clashed with everything they had. Roger and Whitebeard met in the center of the island, their Haki tearing the sky, their blades leaving scars that would outlast them both. Rayleigh's sword danced with Marco's flames; Jabba's axes rang against Jozu's diamond skin. The sand was churned, the trees flattened, and the sea itself seemed to retreat from the shore.
By night, the war became a feast.
Fires were lit on both sides of the crater. Men who had been trying to kill each other hours before now crossed the line with bottles in hand, seeking food, drink, a clean bandage. Thatch traded roasted meat for a barrel of West Blue rum. A Roger pirate with a broken arm bartered a Marine officer's coat for a roll of fresh bandages from the Whitebeard's ship. The rivalry was real, but so was the respect.
On the third evening, Roger and Whitebeard fought one last time. Their blades met, the shockwave sent seabirds scattering, and then they laughed—both of them, loud and long. Roger slung an ornate flintlock over his shoulder, a trophy from the Whitebeard's spoils. Whitebeard placed a Marine captain's hat on Oden's head, and the samurai's roar of delight echoed across the beach.
The crews mingled freely now. There were no sides, only pirates who had found something rare: a night with equals.
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Kyle sat in the low branches of a palm tree at the edge of the clearing, an apple in his hand, watching the chaos below. He had not fought in the main brawls—he had spent the days drifting through the edges, testing Marco's flames, trading blows with Vista, keeping the younger ones from getting in over their heads. Now he was content to watch.
Below, Shanks and Buggy stood apart from the main crowd, their backs to a stack of barrels. They were supposed to be keeping watch over the crew's supplies, but their attention was fixed on the Whitebeard camp.
"Shanks," Buggy hissed, his voice a whisper that carried too far, "do you see that guy? The one with the hat?"
Shanks glanced across the fire. "The one with the beard?"
"No! The other one. The one who's been standing there for three days."
Shanks looked again. A large man, broad shouldered, stood with his arms crossed at the edge of the Whitebeard camp. He was watching them—or rather, he was watching Buggy.
"He's just standing there," Shanks said.
"That's the problem!" Buggy's voice rose. "I heard from one of their crew—he never sleeps. Never. Not once in his whole life. He's been standing there the whole time. Every night. Just watching."
Shanks studied the man. Marshall D. Teach. He had heard the name, had noticed him because of the stillness, the way he seemed to absorb the chaos around him without joining it. But Buggy's fear was contagious.
"Maybe he's just… watching the fire," Shanks offered.
"He's watching us," Buggy insisted. "He's been watching me since the first night."
Across the fire, Teach was having his own crisis.
He had noticed the red‑nosed boy on the first evening—a small figure, not remarkable except for the way he moved, the way he seemed to be everywhere at once, always watching. On the second night, Teach had caught the boy staring at him. On the third night, the boy had not looked away.
What does he see? Teach wondered. What does he know?
He had spent his life learning to be overlooked, to fade into the background until the moment was right. This boy—this grinning, red‑nosed boy—looked at him like he was reading a book.
Teach shifted his weight, trying to appear casual. The boy's eyes followed him.
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Kyle saw it all from his branch. He saw Buggy's paranoid whisper, Shanks's unconcerned shrug, and across the fire, Teach's growing unease. Two future monsters, each terrified of the other for reasons neither understood. He bit into his apple and smiled.
Buggy finally couldn't take it. He grabbed Shanks's arm. "We should go. Now. He's definitely planning something."
"He's just a guy, Buggy."
"A guy who doesn't sleep! That's not normal!"
Shanks sighed. He pulled a bottle from the crate behind him, uncorked it, and walked straight toward the Whitebeard camp. Buggy's face went white.
"Shanks! What are you doing?!"
Shanks ignored him. He crossed the line between the camps, walked up to Teach, and held out the bottle. "You want a drink?"
Teach stared at him. Then, slowly, he took the bottle. "You're not afraid?"
Shanks shrugged. "Should I be?"
For a moment, Teach did not answer. He looked at the boy in front of him—the red hair, the easy stance, the complete lack of fear—and something in his chest loosened. He drank.
"Good rum," he said.
Shanks grinned. "Told you."
Buggy, still frozen by the barrels, watched as Shanks and Teach began to talk. The monster with the hat was laughing at something Shanks had said. Buggy's legs felt weak, but he forced himself to move. He walked across the sand, his steps slow, and stopped beside Shanks.
"You," Teach said, looking at Buggy now. "You've been watching me."
Buggy swallowed. "You don't sleep."
Teach's eyebrows rose. "No. I don't."
"That's… that's not normal."
Teach considered this. "I've been told."
They stood in awkward silence. Then Teach reached into his coat and pulled out a small, leather‑bound book. He tossed it to Buggy.
"A log from a merchant ship I was on once. There's a map in the back. Supposed to lead to something valuable." He grinned. "I never had the patience to follow it."
Buggy caught the book, his eyes wide. He opened it, saw the faded ink, the markings of islands he had never heard of. When he looked up, Teach was already walking back toward his crew.
Shanks nudged him. "See? Not so scary."
Buggy clutched the book to his chest. "He's still a monster," he said, but his voice had lost its fear.
---
Kyle watched the exchange from his branch. He saw Teach disappear into the crowd, Shanks already heading back to the rum barrels, Buggy staring at his new treasure. He saw Roger and Whitebeard sharing a barrel, their laughter carrying across the beach. He saw Rayleigh and Marco trading stories, Oden challenging anyone who would listen to a drinking contest.
He finished his apple and dropped the core into the sand. For one night, there were no enemies. Only pirates, and the sea, and the fire.
He climbed down from the tree and walked toward the light.
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End of Chapter 68