I swatted the hand of the fishman who dared reach for my wine gourd.
The things that were mine were mine and I would share them when I wanted to.
But that was enough.
Of course, they didn't like that.
The whale fishman responded instantly. No warning, no hesitation. His massive hand came down like a falling wall, and before I could even blink, I was airborne.
No—airborne would've been gentle.
I was launched. And I felt it all.
Even before my body cleared the space between us, my ribs had already shattered. My organs squished under the pressure, more jelly than flesh. I had no time to react—no air, no posture, nothing but force. I was thrown like a corpse, useless and limp, smashing through the air and into the nearest stone wall.
The wall cracked. My bones cracked more.
I slid down to the dirt in a heap, coughing up something thick and red. The world swam in and out of view. Above me, through blurry vision, I saw him—calm, casual—walking toward my wine gourd. He didn't even look at me. His eyes were locked on the gourd like it was his rightful prize.
He reached for it, smug, hand open wide.
But the wine core had other plans.
With a faint shimmer, the gourd vanished from existence—slipping away like vapor, obeying no one's will but mine.
The whale fishman froze mid-step.
Then scowled.
Another blow came. This time, even heavier. He didn't aim for me—he aimed for the ground, and the ground obeyed. The impact split the island surface, a crater ripping open where I had just been.
My body, broken as it was, reformed in pieces. The blood moved fast—efficient, ruthless. It shoved bone into alignment, re-inflated organs, stitched flesh back together with a speed that looked unnatural. It wasn't painless—but it was mine.
And I rose from that crater, dust coating my ruined clothes, cracked fingers twitching with new strength.
He looked at me again, smiling this time. Not kindly. Like a noble accepting tribute from a defiant peasant.
He expected surrender.
Instead, the wine gourd appeared once more in my hand.
I took a long, defiant gulp. Letting the flavor coat my tongue, heat my chest. Then walked forward and spat the wine right in his face.
Silence.
A beat passed.
Then came the sound—his rage forming in breath, turning into motion.
His fist raised.
This time, he didn't even touch me. Didn't need to.
The air alone flattened me.
Just the vacuum and pressure of his punch forced me to the ground, crushing me like a rag under an anvil. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. My ears rang. My spine bent in unnatural ways.
And yet, again, I rose.
Slower this time. My knees trembled. My hands shook.
But I stood.
The wine gourd flickered back into my grasp. I took another sip. Then spat again.
Right into his face.
Oh, now he was angry. Angrier than before.
He roared, nostrils flaring, teeth bared.
I laughed.
Through cracked lips and chipped teeth, I laughed.
"Kuru." I said.
Come.
And he did.
He came like a storm, fists raining down with monstrous speed. Each punch created shockwaves, crater after crater blooming beneath his blows. The ground trembled. Stone shattered. Fishmen around us stumbled back to avoid the collapsing earth.
But I didn't move. I took it all.
My body broke. Reformed. Broke again. My skin peeled off. My jaw shattered. Blood filled my mouth and was swallowed just as fast.
Still, I laughed.
And I spat blood in his face.
A blood-filled spit, thick and red, painting his scale with the taste of defiance.
That did it.
He raised his fist higher—higher than ever before. The air moved right where his hand was. My sixth sense kicked in.
This would kill me.
If it landed, if it even brushed me, it wouldn't break bones. It would erase me.
But then—it stopped.
Just centimeters above my face, the giant fist hovered. The air pressure alone had already pulped my organs and ruptured vessels, but the actual hit never came.
The whale fishman paused.
Then walked away.
Left me in the crater.
Left me broken.
I didn't let that last.
The blood worked again. Like a quiet engine, it repaired what had been undone. My legs moved, unwilling at first. My spine creaked as I straightened.
The wine gourd appeared again in my hand like it never left.
I took another gulp.
And walked.
Rats gathered near the edge of the crater—dozens of them. Curious. Silent. Loyal.
He sent them, didn't he?
The rat guy. He cared.
I looked down, patted one gently on the head. It leaned into the touch.
Then I kept walking. Chugging gulp after gulp. Wine dripped from my chin, soaking into my tattered clothes. The other fishmen watched me, stunned.
Not afraid—yet. But confused.
How was I alive?
How did I look so alive, aside from my shredded clothes?
I walked right into the path of the whale fishman.
"Anata ga nozonda nodesu." I said.
You wanted it.
Then I spit wine in his face again.
"Soshite watashi ga sore o anata ni ataemasu."
And I will give it to you.
His fists curled. I could hear his fingers cracking from how tightly he clenched them.
I reached up, gave his massive shoulder a tap.
Then turned to the older golden fishman.
"Wain wa o sukidesu ka?"
Do you like wine?
He didn't answer.
So I raised my voice.
"Jā tori ni kite kudasai."
Then come and get it.
Then I walked to the chair.
The same one I'd sat in before.
Sat down again. Wine gourd in hand. My body broken, but my spine still straight.
The girls looked with worry but were stopped by the younger golden fishmen.
The other fishmen all looked ready to leap. I saw their tension. They were boiling under their scales.
But they didn't move.
Because the older golden fishman raised his hand.
Stillness.
Complete stillness.
As if his hand were the law.
And I sat there, legs finding their way onto the table, gourd resting against my thigh.
I took a deep sip of the wine and stared them all down.
Every last one.
This was a test. A lethal one where it didn't matter if I died.
And I passed it with flying colors.
But they don't seem to realize something. I hate surprise test.
So I lifted my voice once more.
"Jā tori ni kite kudasai."
Then come and get it.
I challenged their pride.
------------
I threw a piece of fish in the air and caught it with my mouth.
A clean arc. A sharp bite. A casual display of arrogance.
I didn't do it for hunger. I did it to provoke them—to challenge the one thing they valued more than strength: pride.
I could feel the air shift. See it in the colors that flushed across their scaled skin. Rage, restrained only by rank.
Each of the fishmen present—some towering, others lean and sharpened by years of muscle memory—visibly stiffened. A few twitched, fists flexing, jaws locking. They grew tense, their faces gaining that familiar extra hue, that heated red tone that screamed fury in their language.
Even the young golden fishman—the one I'd helped, the one who once looked up at me with gratitude—was no exception. His eyes darkened. His mouth tightened into a thin, grim line. The polite facade cracked just enough to show the fury behind it.
But it was the older golden fishman that held it together.
I watched him closely. He didn't move. Didn't twitch. But his eyes—those ancient, calculating eyes—flared with quiet fire. A heat older than rage. And still, he kept control. Even as I pushed their buttons, prodded at their structure, tested their limits—they endured.
The rest of the dinner played out with unspoken tension.
Every bite I took was deliberate. Every smirk, every swig of wine, every time I threw scraps to the rats, it was all a performance. I was testing the limits of their patience. Pushing, pressing, daring one of them to break.
They didn't.
The older golden fishman finished his meal with silent finality. He stood. Slow, steady, deliberate.
And as if under a spell, the younger golden fishman stood next.
Then the rest followed.
All of them. A wave of motion, practiced and precise. No one sat after the old one rose. Some traditions ran deeper than blood, and apparently, dining etiquette was one of them—even among a race shunned by humans.
Irony doesn't even begin to describe it.
A race so hated by the world of man still clung to the manners and rituals of human nobles. Forks, knives, posture, and silence—followed like gospel.
Then came the movement.
A few older fishmen walked to the ocean. They dove in with little more than a splash, disappearing beneath the waves.
Some time later, they returned—hauling with them a small ship coated in ornate carvings, strange etchings that shimmered against the water's surface. It was small. Not meant for war, but clearly built for something important.
And beneath it… I saw them.
Shadows in the water.
Large ones.
Sea Kings.
A full entourage.
Much much bigger than Arlong's sea king.
Of course. The older golden fishman wouldn't travel lightly. Not someone of his stature.
He approached the raft, my raft that he brought and threw it toward me.
That was his farewell.
But even that—he made hurt.
The raft hit me like a cannonball. Even with the blood working overtime, I couldn't stop it. The impact flung me across the courtyard, tumbling end over end until I skidded to a stop in a crater of my own making.
When I finally dug myself out, splinters in my ribs, I looked up and saw it all.
The fishmen were leaving.
All of them.
The golden ones. The warriors. Even Arlong and what remained of his once-proud crew.
I watched as Hachi, the octopus fishman, walked calmly to the edge of the park. He was wearing a chef's outfit now, of all things. As if he'd made his choice. As if he was moving on from war to something simpler. Maybe he found peace in food.
He gave one look back before he leapt into the sea.
The rat guy—the man from the prison cell—still sat near the remnants of the feast, chewing slowly on a piece of sharp shark fin. But he wasn't eating. He was watching. His eyes locked on Arlong like a predator waiting for weakness. His jaw chewed, but his hatred chewed harder.
The younger golden fishman bowed.
A deep one. Toward Nami and Nojiko.
And to my surprise, they bowed back.
Respect, returned.
But then came something unexpected.
The young golden fishman reached forward.
A hand extended—toward Nojiko.
She froze.
Her eyes widened in disbelief. Then panic.
I saw her glance at Nami. At the other fishmen. At the stretched hand still waiting. Then at me.
She wanted to say no.
I could see it in every tense muscle, every locked joint in her body.
But she didn't.
She couldn't.
Nami was the same. Her expression cracked. A mix of grief and helpless rage. Her eyes darted around, searching for an exit that didn't exist. Her hand tightened around Nojiko's wrist.
They didn't want to go. But they were running out of choices.
Before I could act, Arlong moved.
He walked with purpose up to the older golden fishman and presented something.
Papers.
I squinted, heart already thudding.
Maps.
Hand-drawn.
Her maps.
Nami's handmade, painstakingly charted maps.
Each page flipped brought a glint to the older fishman's eye. He saw not just drawings—but detail, accuracy, beauty. A mind, not just a talent. The maps were enough to impress anyone.
And they did.
He didn't speak. Just flicked a hand.
A subordinate obeyed instantly, stepping forward.
That fishman grabbed both Nami and Nojiko.
No ceremony. No warning.
Just force.
He hauled them toward the ornate boat like they were cargo. Property. Offerings.
The day just kept getting better.
I watched it unfold, every second dragging like ice down my spine. My hands clenched. The gourd pulsed against my fingers.
They'd escape.
Eventually.
Destiny would put them on a path to freedom.
To Luffy.
But that didn't matter now.
Because fuck that.
Why should I wait for some bullshit savior to save others?
I stepped forward, the wine gourd heavy in my hand. The blood in my veins burned, not like fire—but like wrath, liquid and rising.
Then I stopped.
I stared at the fishman dragging the girls.
And I spoke one word.
Low. Guttural.
"Mine."
He paused. Turned.
I took another step.
The blood surged, pushing power into every limb. My foot left the ground as I jumped, and with a burst of force I didn't even know I had, I kicked.
It landed square in his chest.
It didn't do much.
Barely staggered him.
But it was enough.
My fingers reached his face.
I dug into his eyes.
Not slaps. Not scratches.
I dug. Deep. Up to the knuckles.
He screamed. Dropped both girls as his hands flew to his face, clawing at nothing.
I caught them mid-fall, my arms instinctively shielding their heads.
I held them.
Tight.
Then I looked up.
Toward the older golden fishman.
I took a breath—and roared.
"MINE!"
It wasn't just a shout.
It was a claim.
An announcement. A line drawn not in sand, but in flesh and fire.
The wind stilled.
The waves slowed.
Even the Sea Kings in the water paused.