Bar "Gold D. Roger"…
Bar "Gold D. Roger"… I remember something… Of course I do. Though I've started forgetting a lot these days… The thought flashed through my mind as I descended the stairs and pushed open the creaky wooden door that led inside.
From the outside, the bar looked unremarkable: an old, faded sign hanging from chains, wood darkened by time, chipped doorframes, and a dim glow filtering through murky windows. But inside… inside was a different story.
I stepped across the threshold—and it was like stepping into another time.
Dim light.Wooden ceiling beams soaked in smoke and rum.The quiet creak of chairs and the faint scent of salt embedded in the walls.
The bartender—an elderly man with deep wrinkles and a worn apron—was lazily wiping a glass behind the counter. Dozens of bottles lined the shelf behind him.
The place was nearly empty. Only one person sat against the far wall—a young man with a rifle leaned against his chair. He sipped his drink slowly, not even glancing in my direction.
I walked up to the bar and sat on a tall stool.
"Cider," I said plainly, not in the mood for small talk.
"Two customers in a day—that's a record for the past month," the bartender said with a smirk as he poured the drink. His voice carried a dry sarcasm, tinged with weariness. He wasn't in a hurry—everything in this place moved slowly, like in places long forgotten by crowds.
I took the mug, ran a finger along the cold glass, and wrapped both hands around it. The bitter scent of apples and fermentation tickled my nose. I paused, staring into the foam as if searching for something… an answer, a memory, a sign.
"Business that bad?" I finally asked, taking a few sips without lifting my eyes from the counter.
The bartender shrugged and let out a heavy sigh.
"Yeah. Fewer and fewer people heading out to sea. More ending up in graves. Or in prison."
He placed an empty bottle back on the shelf, almost as if to underline his words.
"Used to be someone left for the Grand Line every week with stars in their eyes… Now? Just drunks and big talkers."
A few seconds of silence. Ice cracked in a glass at a nearby table. The bartender muttered something under his breath.
I glanced at the sign over the second entrance. Worn, with faded letters:Bar "Gold D. Roger."A name that rang in the ears of anyone who had ever dreamed of the sea. The Pirate King. A legend. The beginning of the Great Era.
"Hey, old man…" I looked back at the bartender. "You knew the Pirate King, didn't you? I mean, with that name on the sign—it can't just be coincidence."
He paused. For a split second, his hand trembled as he wiped the glass. Then he placed it on the shelf without looking at me.
"I knew him, yeah…" he said slowly. His voice dropped lower, softer, with a raspy edge.
"Knew him back when he wasn't a 'King'. When he was just laughing like a madman, downing rum, and talking about turning the whole world upside down."
"I remember the day he came in," the bartender began, gazing into the distance, as if he could see those long-lost days through the wooden walls of the bar. "Said he was heading for the Grand Line.Drank everything I had in the cellar. Laughed like a lunatic… like he already knew how it would all end."
He gave a short chuckle, rubbing his stubble.
"And the next day he left. Just… left. And years later I heard he made it. The Grand Line. All the way to the end."
I set the mug down on the counter with a dull thud, some cider splashing over the edge.
"Interesting…" I muttered with a slight grin.
Then I straightened, looked him in the eye, and said firmly:
"Old man, get a new sign ready. Soon you'll need one with my name on it. And trust me—your bar's gonna get a lot more customers."
The bartender squinted, as if checking whether I was bluffing.
"And why's that?" he asked, clearly used to big mouths.
I smirked, leaning my elbows on the counter:
"Because I'm the one who's going to become the next Pirate King."
For a moment, the bar fell silent. Even the guy in the back with the rifle nearly dropped his drink, glancing over his shoulder.
The bartender shook his head and gave a crooked smile:
"This place isn't for children's games. The Grand Line changes its weather daily—snow, heat, rain, storms. It's not the East Blue. It's chaos. And out there, you'll face people stronger, faster, and far more ruthless. Think you'll survive that?"
I grabbed the cider barrel, poured myself another full mug, and raised it with a calm but confident smile:
"Why not?"
Took a sip and set the mug down.
"If you're scared of everything, you won't get far. And if you want to become the Pirate King—you have to be ready to risk it all."
The bartender looked at me the way he probably once looked at Roger—a mix of doubt, and… a flicker of hope.
He sighed, slowly walked over to a back shelf, and pulled down one of several dust-covered bottles sealed in thick glass. He chose one with a faded, nearly erased label, wiped the dust off the neck with his sleeve, and returned to place it in front of me with a soft thump.
"You keep bottles like this?" I asked, picking it up.
The bartender gave a small grin, poured himself a bit in a shot glass—but didn't drink it. He just swirled the liquid, staring into it like an old friend.
"Sometimes you have to," he said, looking at me calmly, though something—maybe respect, maybe sorrow—lingered in his eyes. "If you're serious about conquering the Grand Line, do it soon."
He set the glass aside and folded his arms on the counter.
"In a couple of years, I'm closing this bar. Too many ghosts haunt these walls… and I'm not getting any younger." He chuckled, but his voice was serious. "I want to leave with a full purse—preferably from fools like you."
I laughed. "You're a funny old man," I said.
"Then don't worry, gramps. Next time I'm back here, you'll charge twice the price. There'll be a line out the door."
"Big words," he shook his head, but a faint smile touched his lips. "Just remember—Roger said he'd come back too."
I looked at the bottle, picked it up, and stood…
"I'm Bellamy. The man who will find the One Piece and become the Pirate King." With that, I pulled out a few bills and left the right amount on the counter. "Thanks for the drink… and the story. But it's time I go."
I turned, about to leave, when I heard behind me:
"Hope you keep your promise."The old man's voice was calm, but laced with hope.
I gave a small nod, already near the door, when a voice called out…
"Hey, wait—"