The morning sea glowed pale blue.
Seagulls drifted above the sails. Salt clung to the air. Somewhere near the helm, a crewman cursed over a jammed rope, and someone else cheered as breakfast was set out.
The Red Force was alive — loud, warm, messy.
I sat at the edge of the ship's bow, knees to my chest, eyes on the rippling waves.
The same as the day before.
Only... not.
The nightmare still clung to me.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't even grief anymore.It was something colder. Resolved.
I now knew the full truth — my mother was a slave. Killed after my birth. No name. No grave.
And my father?
A man of wealth and status who allowed it. Probably ordered it.
My blood had been mixed, and in the world I was born into, that was unforgivable.
To them.
But not to me.
I didn't feel shame.
I felt clarity.
"Morning."
The voice came from behind, slow and neutral.
I didn't need to turn to know it was Benn Beckman.
The first mate. Sharpest mind on the ship. And second only to Shanks in power.
He walked over and leaned beside me on the rail, lighting a cigarette with one hand, his eyes hidden behind a lazy calm that didn't fool me for a second.
He didn't say anything else for a while.
He didn't need to.
"I'm fine," I said.
"I didn't ask."
I glanced at him. "You were going to."
He exhaled a ribbon of smoke. "You're a little too good at reading people, kid."
I shrugged.
He watched the ocean for a moment, then said, "You were quieter this morning. Didn't eat. Didn't respond when Uta asked about your name ideas for her next song."
"She has plenty of ideas."
"Yeah, but she still noticed. So did I."
He tapped ash over the rail.
"Look," he said finally, "I don't know what you dreamed about last night. But whatever it was… you didn't wake up the same."
My throat tightened slightly.
Still… I kept my voice steady. "Dreams don't change people."
He turned to me, one eyebrow raised. "No, but memories do."
He studied me a second longer, then took a drag from his cigarette.
"Shanks said you told him something. About your past."
I nodded once. "Some of it."
"You're not obligated to share it with the rest of us," he said. "But whatever's eating you? You should know—this crew doesn't believe in silence as strength."
I turned to him, really looking now.
His expression was calm. Open. But his eyes were sharp. Watching everything.
I could tell him.
I almost did.
But instead, I said, "I appreciate that."
He smirked slightly. "Diplomatic."
"I get that a lot."
He laughed. "You're five. Where the hell did you learn to talk like this?"
I smiled faintly. "Bad influences."
The two of us stood in silence for a few more minutes, just listening to the ocean breathe.
Then he said, "You're not like most kids."
"I know."
"And you're not like most nobles either."
I flinched slightly. He caught it.
I turned away, bracing against the rail.
"I don't want to be a noble," I said quietly. "Not now. Not ever."
"Then don't be," he said simply. "The world's full of people with the wrong name trying to be something better. Some succeed. Some get crushed."
I nodded. "I won't get crushed."
He nodded, flicked his cigarette into the sea, and started walking away.
"You better not," he said over his shoulder. "You're already under Uta's protection now. She'd throw a fit."
System Notification: Trust Level Increased – Benn Beckman +5
Later that morning, I joined the rest of the crew at breakfast.
Uta waved me over, arms full of apples and enthusiasm.
I sat. Ate slowly. Gave her the name suggestion she asked for.
Everything on the surface looked normal.
But inside?
I wasn't just remembering now.
I was cataloging.
Preparing.
I had confirmed my blood.
Now I'd forge my purpose.
And one day soon, this crew would see what a discarded noble born of a dead slave could truly become.
The next morning, the air was sharp with salt and sun.
Breakfast had ended. Uta was trying to coax the musicians into tuning their instruments, while a few pirates bickered over who was supposed to clean the cannons.
I stood near the mast, watching the crew flow around each other like moving parts of a beast. I liked watching people move — you learned more from body language than words.
Especially in a crew like this.
Especially when people didn't know what to make of you.
"Oi, kid."
I turned slowly.
Howl, one of the newer deckhands — broad-shouldered, messy beard, two swords strapped to his back — was staring down at me with a grin.
"I keep hearing you're the little survivor," he said, mockingly slow. "The miracle island brat."
I blinked. "I just lived. That's all."
He stepped closer, swinging his arms casually. "So modest."
Uta glanced over from across the deck, eyes narrowing. Shanks wasn't in sight.
"I've seen you watch everyone train," Howl continued. "You just stand there. Staring. Have you ever swung a blade yourself?"
I tilted my head. "Yes."
That made a few of the nearby crew stop and glance over.
Howl laughed. "Oh? You've trained, huh?"
"I fought a bear every day for six months," I said plainly.
That made the laughter stop.
"Right," Howl said, scratching his beard. "Then I guess you wouldn't mind a little match, eh?"
I stepped forward into the open space near the main deck.
"Wooden swords only," Benn Beckman called from the stairs above. He was watching now. So were five others.
Lucky Roux whistled. "Should we really be sparring with a five-year-old?"
"Too late now," Yasopp muttered, settling onto a crate.
Uta had gone quiet.
I stood barefoot on the planks. A wooden training sword was tossed to me — I caught it one-handed without breaking eye contact with Howl.
He took his stance. Wide. Loose. Confident.
I didn't move.
"Ready, kid?" he asked.
I said nothing.
He charged.
Fast. Not bad for a non-commander.
His wooden sword came down like a guillotine.
I didn't block it.
I stepped sideways — just enough.
The blade crashed against the deck behind me.
He turned — too slow.
I moved forward, not fast but exact.
I tapped the side of his ribs — just once.
Then stepped back before he could react.
The crew went silent.
Howl blinked. "Beginner's luck."
He charged again.
This time, I weaved beneath him. No wasted movement. Slipped to his flank. Slashed behind his leg.
Another tap.
He stumbled.
I could've ended the match then.
But I waited.
Waited for him to realize.
He swung again — wild, frustrated.
I ducked low, pressed my hand to his center of balance, and tipped him sideways. He landed flat on his back, the sword tumbling from his grip.
I pointed mine at his throat.
I didn't speak.
Just held the position.
New Status Assigned: "Dangerous Cub"
I dropped the wooden blade and stepped back.
Howl sat up, rubbing the back of his head, staring at me like I'd grown fangs.
"What… was that?" he muttered.
"Practice," I said softly.
From the upper stairs, Benn Beckman nodded once. "You've got something sharp in you, kid."
Yasopp whistled. "I've seen grown marines with slower instincts."
Uta ran over, eyes wide. "Crimson—how did you move like that?!"
I looked at her.
And I smiled — small, quiet, tired.
"I've been moving like that for a long time."
As the murmurs faded and the crew returned to their duties, I sat back near the mast, knees pulled up, watching the sea.
Now they knew.
Not everything.
But enough to stop seeing me as just a quiet child.
Which was fine.
Let them guess. Let them wonder.
Because this was only the beginning.