The world became a blur of pain. Sanji was on his knees, the deck of the Baratie slick with his own blood, the brutal, repetitive blows from "Iron Wall" Pearl raining down upon him. He didn't fight back. He didn't even raise his arms to defend himself. His gaze was fixed on the gun Gin held to Zeff's head. He would not allow that trigger to be pulled. He would endure anything.
As another of Pearl's armored fists slammed into him, his vision swam. The chaos of the present faded, replaced by a memory seared into his very soul, a memory of a different kind of pain, a different kind of hell. A memory of a barren rock, and a hunger that consumed everything…
Time had lost all meaning. It was measured only in the agonizing cycle of sun and moon, heat and cold. Sanji had tried to be smart, tried to be the disciplined chef he always dreamed of being. He divided his small portion of food with painstaking precision, allowing himself only the smallest crumb of hardtack each day, letting it dissolve on his tongue to trick his stomach into feeling full.
After twenty-five agonizing days, he had only one piece left. A small, pathetic piece of bread, now covered in a thin layer of green mold. He ate it, mold and all, and then there was nothing.
During that time, he had seen one ship. A single, beautiful speck on the endless horizon. Hope, fierce and blinding, had surged through him. He had screamed, waved, used every last ounce of his energy to signal it. But it had sailed on, oblivious. The hope had died, leaving behind a despair that was colder and emptier than the night.
Seventy days. Seventy days of nothing but saltwater and the gnawing, twisting agony of a stomach eating itself. His body was a skeletal frame, his thoughts a delirious fever dream of grand feasts and exquisite dishes. The disciplined chef was gone, replaced by a desperate, starving animal.
And on the other side of the rock, the old pirate Zeff still sat, his massive bag of food still seemingly full. The quiet resentment Sanji had felt at the beginning had festered over the seventy days, growing into a dark, murderous resolve.
He was saving it all for himself.
Clutching a sharp rock in his bony hand, Sanji began to crawl. His body was too weak to walk, but his hatred gave him strength. He crawled across the barren rock, his eyes fixed on the large sack, the treasure trove of food that the old pirate was hoarding.
He finally reached the sleeping Zeff. The old man was gaunt, his face a mask of suffering, but the bag beside him was still defiantly full.
"You old bastard…" Sanji rasped, his voice a dry, unused thing. He raised the sharp rock, ready to bring it down on the old man's head. "I knew it… You were saving it all for yourself while I starved…"
He coughed, a wracking, dry sound. "I'm taking it… I don't care if I have to kill you…"
He didn't bring the rock down on Zeff. Instead, he plunged it into the thick canvas of the bag, slicing it open.
He tore the bag apart with his bare hands, his eyes wild with anticipation of the feast within. He would have bread. He would have meat. He would live.
But what spilled out was not food.
It was the hard, cold, inedible glint of gold coins. The lifeless sparkle of jewels. The useless wealth of a pirate's treasure.
Sanji stared. His mind, broken by hunger, struggled to comprehend what he was seeing. Confusion. Disbelief. The bag was full of treasure… not food. All the food… the small portion he had been given… was all there ever was.
But then… how? How had Zeff survived for seventy days with no food at all?
His horrified gaze traveled from the useless treasure to Zeff's gaunt, sleeping form. He looked at the old pirate's right leg… and then he saw it.
The leg wasn't there. Below the knee, where a powerful, famous, blood-soaked limb should have been, there was only a ragged, crudely tied stump of torn trousers, crusted with dried blood.
The horrifying, beautiful, gut-wrenching truth hit Sanji with the force of a physical blow. He looked at the empty food wrappers on his side of the island. He looked at the treasure on Zeff's side. He looked at the missing leg.
Zeff hadn't just given him some of the food. He had given him all of the food.
And he had survived… by eating his own leg.
Sanji crawled to the old man, weeping. Not from hunger, but from a wave of gratitude and shame so profound it threatened to drown him. "Why…?" he sobbed, shaking the old pirate awake. "Why did you do it?! I was your enemy! I tried to kill you! Why did you save me?!"
Zeff's one eye fluttered open. He looked at the weeping boy, and his expression was not one of anger, but of a deep, weary understanding.
"Because…" the old pirate rasped, his voice weak. "You… have the same dream as me."
He told the boy of his own quest for a mythical sea, a chef's paradise. "The All Blue… I was trying to find it… in the Grand Line. But my dream died out there. I lost my crew… I lost my leg…" He looked at Sanji. "But you… you still have your life. You still have your dream."
He coughed, a dry, painful sound. "If we ever get off this rock… I can't be a pirate anymore. But I can still be a cook. I'll start a restaurant. A restaurant on the sea. A place to feed everyone… pirates, marines, anyone… so no one ever has to starve like this again."
It was a miracle. After eighty-five days, a ship appeared on the horizon. It was the same one from before. This time, it saw them.
The memory faded, snapping Sanji back to the violent present. He was on his knees, bloodied and beaten, but his eyes were clear. He looked at Gin, who held the gun to Zeff's head.
He now understood. Zeff had given him all the food. He had given him his leg. He had given him his dream. Sanji had already died once on that rock. His life belonged to the old man now.
He would not let anyone… take anything more from him.