Chapter 93: The Last Port
The sea breeze swept the dock clean of footprints. The Oro Jackson had vanished, swallowed by the horizon, and the men who had once filled her decks were scattered to their own roads.
Kyle stood at the edge of the pier, his naginata across his back, watching the empty water. Jabba was beside him, his axe on his shoulder, his sunglasses hiding his eyes. Neither spoke. The waves against the pilings marked time, each one a little louder in the silence left behind.
Jabba was the first to move. "Let's get a drink."
---
The tavern was small, the air thick with smoke and the sour smell of cheap ale. Gamblers shouted at dice, a sailor snored in the corner, and the landlady wiped the same spot on the bar with a rag that had long since given up. Kyle and Jabba took a table near the back, ordered two mugs of whatever was cheapest.
Jabba drank deep, then set his mug down with a thud. "This is terrible."
Kyle took a sip. It was. He said nothing.
They sat in the noise of the town, men who had crossed the world now indistinguishable from the dockworkers and drifters around them. Jabba turned his mug in his hands, watching the foam settle.
"What now?" he asked.
Kyle did not answer at once. The question had no easy shape. For decades, the answer had been the ship, the captain, the next island. Now the ship was gone, the captain had walked his own road, and the islands would have to be found alone.
"Elbaf," Jabba said, filling the silence. "I heard the giants there are born warriors. I want to see if their fists are harder than my axe."
Kyle smiled. "They might surprise you."
"Or I'll surprise them." Jabba's grin was fierce, but it faded. "What about you? You always had a plan for everything."
Kyle looked out the window at the sea. "I'll keep sailing. The Grand Line is wide. There are still things I want to see."
He thought of the deep‑sea fish he had hunted, the legends that had turned to dust in his hands. Roger's illness was past curing, but the world was full of mysteries. He would not stop looking.
Jabba nodded slowly. He did not ask what Kyle was looking for. He raised his mug. "Then here's to the ones who keep moving."
They drank. The ale was still bad, but the taste was familiar now.
---
A drunk at the next table was boasting about a fight he had won, his voice rising, his arms swinging wide. His mug tipped, ale spilling toward the edge.
Kyle flicked a finger against the table. The liquid paused, then curled back, a thin stream winding through the air and into the man's open mouth. He swallowed, blinked, and went on with his story, oblivious.
Jabba laughed. "Still showing off."
"Waste not," Kyle said.
The heaviness in the room eased. They drank until the light outside turned gold, then orange, then the deep blue of evening.
---
They walked to the crossroads in the center of town. One road led back to the dock, the other into the island's interior. Jabba shifted his axe, settling it against his shoulder.
"This is it, then."
Kyle nodded. There was no need for more words. Jabba raised his fist. Kyle met it, their knuckles touching for a moment, no more.
"Don't die out there," Jabba said.
"Same to you."
They stepped apart. Jabba turned toward the dock, his boots loud on the wooden planks. Kyle walked the other way, into the trees, the path already dark. Neither looked back.
The road was quiet, the trees close. Kyle walked until the town's lights were gone, until only the stars showed through the branches. He did not know where he was going. He had not known for a long time. But the sea was wide, and the world was still full of things he had not seen.
He kept walking.
---
End of Chapter 93