I'd stumbled onto an island that wasn't marked on any nautical chart.
And yet it wasn't deserted. There was a proper town—more like a village—where people lived ordinary lives… and apparently, ships even came and went to other countries (or other islands).
My gut told me something was wrong, and with a storm rolling in, I decided to check it out while also taking shelter.
A few minutes later, we arrived.
"What… is this island…?"
The scene in front of me was bizarre in a way I couldn't immediately put into words.
Like I'd seen from afar, there really was a port settlement. But every building was a crude shack—makeshift, uneven, clearly built by amateurs. Not a single sturdy house in sight. It looked like a bunch of people with no real skill had tried their absolute best and stopped there.
That alone wasn't the problem.
What bothered me was the people.
'…Wait. Why is it only old men and old women?'
Right side—elderly faces. Left side—elderly faces.
No matter where I looked, everyone in this small village seemed to be at least sixty or seventy. There wasn't a single young person anywhere.
And even accounting for age… they looked frail. Drained. Like their lives had been wrung thin.
"Well now, aren't you two a sight? Outsiders are rare around here. You're not locals, that's for sure. What brings you to an island like this?"
An old woman sitting nearby called out to us. Her voice was mild, but I couldn't shake the sense that she was weighing us up.
Still, she had a point. We were obvious outsiders, staring around like tourists in a place that clearly didn't want tourists.
"Oh, nothing special," I said. "We were sailing by, but the weather looks like it's about to turn nasty, so we thought we'd take shelter on land for a bit."
"Ah… that makes sense. The sky is getting awfully dark."
She straightened her hunched back and glanced upward. "Might be a storm brewing."
Then she looked at me—pointed, almost sharp despite the softness in her tone.
"Well then, stay and rest for a while. But take my word for it—once the weather clears, get off this island quickly. There's nothing worth seeing here. And you're better off not staying."
Take my word for it.
That phrasing stuck in my mind like a burr.
It sounded less like advice and more like a warning.
"…Let's do that, Mama. This island… it stinks."
Leona wrinkled her nose as she said it.
Hey. "Stinks" is a little rude—
But then I remembered. She'd mentioned a strange smell earlier, even before we landed.
So there really was something in the air?
Even now, standing here, I couldn't smell anything out of the ordinary.
The old woman's eyes widened with genuine admiration.
"Oh my. What a nose you have, Missy."
"Ugh… Granny, what is this island? It's not strong, but it's… weird. Nauseating. And it's coming from everywhere."
"…The smell is from the island itself," the woman said. "This is Poison Island."
"Poison… Island?"
According to her, this island—Uubasuten Island—was contaminated, end to end.
Not that the island itself was poisonous, exactly, but the mountain at its center and the forest around it were full of toxic plants and fungi. Rainwater dissolved their toxins. Wind carried them. They seeped into the ground.
Over time, everything absorbed it.
The soil. The rivers. The wells. Even spring water.
Animals that ate the plants or drank the water accumulated toxins in their bodies. Fish in the rivers and even along the coast did the same, their flesh slowly turning poisonous.
"So that's what it was," I murmured. "I couldn't place it."
"But… is that safe?" Leona asked, alarm rising in her voice. "The meat and the water… everything here is poisoned, right?"
"That's right, Missy," the old woman said. "Best not to drink a single drop of water here. A little won't kill you, but… it's poison all the same."
The toxins weren't especially potent. A sip of water, a bit of fish—if you didn't overdo it, you'd probably be fine. You might not even get a stomachache.
But poison was still poison.
And children and the elderly—small bodies, weak bodies—would suffer more.
…Everywhere I looked, I saw only old men and old women.
That wasn't just odd.
It was wrong.
And the question I'd been holding back finally pushed its way out.
"Why… are there only elderly people here?"
The old woman's expression softened into something faintly sad.
"This island," she said, "is where people like us come to spend our final days."
"…Huh?"
"You saw the big ship at the port, didn't you? That ship comes from our home country—the Jibairane Kingdom. Once a month, it comes here and brings old people like us. The ones who can't work anymore."
'…So that means…'
The unease in my gut curdled into something colder.
I pressed for details.
And the answer confirmed it.
This wasn't Mount Ubasute.
It was an island-scale abandonment.
I'd heard of the Jibairane Kingdom. A World Government Member State, with its capital on a nearby island. Mid-sized. Not especially rich. No famous exports, no tourist draw worth speaking of.
In a country like that, scraping together the Heavenly Tribute—the offering demanded by the Celestial Dragons, the price of remaining in the World Government—must have been a constant, grinding struggle.
So the younger generation, the ones who could still work, were tolerated.
And the elderly—those who could no longer produce, no longer "contribute"—were treated as burdens.
Whether it was written into law or simply seeped into the air of the country, the result was the same.
The elderly felt unwanted.
And some of them—maybe many—also believed they shouldn't burden the young.
Those were the people who boarded the ship that arrived once a month.
The "Regular Service."
Old folks who'd lost their place in their families.
Those who wanted to disappear before they became a weight around their children's necks.
Those who were tired of living after losing their partners.
Some were gently urged. Some were coerced. Some came of their own accord.
And Poison Island made the final step easier.
Because everything here—the water, the plants, the animals—carried toxins. Not strong enough to kill quickly. Not strong enough to cause screaming agony.
Just enough to slowly damage the body, quietly, over time.
It was said that if you lived here eating what the island provided, you'd eventually die peacefully. Gently. Without suffering.
A death that didn't look like murder.
And because the island wasn't on any maps, because it was hidden from the world, it became a perfect place for inhumane "population reduction" that no nation would ever dare show in daylight.
As long as no one knew, it was "fine."
"So everyone here…" Leona whispered.
"Ah," the old woman said softly, "we're all people who've accepted it. We gave up on living back home, and we came here to end our days quietly. Me too. My grandson was born recently. I even held him… but I can't keep burdening my daughter and her husband."
If she said it like that, she chose to board the ship herself.
Leona looked stunned.
So did I.
I was keeping my face steady, but inside, something shook loose.
I could understand, on paper, how the Great Pirate Era and the Heavenly Tribute could grind a country down.
But understanding didn't make it any less grotesque.
How could a culture accept sending away their own parents—people who raised them, loved them—like this?
Anger. Sadness. Helplessness.
They rose together, tangled, thick enough to choke on.
And that old woman—if she truly had a newborn grandson, then somewhere inside her, she must have wanted to stay. To watch him grow. To live quietly beside her family.
But she came here anyway.
Because she decided that "clearing the way" for the young was the only thing left she could do.
Still… no matter how we felt, we couldn't fix it.
If this were like those pollution disasters in Japan—a clear cause, a factory dumping toxins—there'd be something to tear out, something to fight.
But here, the environment itself was the enemy.
Decades. Centuries. Longer.
Poison woven into soil and water and life, everywhere you stepped.
It wasn't something you could wipe away with a gesture.
And the true root of it all was the Jibairane Kingdom's system—the desperation that made them do this in the first place.
We couldn't change a nation.
Even if we tried, it would be half-measures at best. And meddling would only make things worse.
"Don't look so grim, young ladies," the old woman said gently. "No one is to blame here. If anything… it's those of us who've lived too long."
"That's not—"
"It's all right," she murmured, cutting Leona off before she could argue. "We came here willingly. We understood what it meant."
Her voice was soft, but there was something firm beneath it—as if she was soothing Leona, making sure the girl didn't carry this ugliness too deeply, didn't let it scar her.
…The sky was darkening fast now.
Rain would start within minutes.
We needed shelter, quickly. A roof. Any roof.
If we couldn't find something suitable, we'd build it.
A Cardboard House would do.
Staying here any longer would only drag our mood deeper.
Maybe changing scenery—even forcibly—would help us breathe again. And we had supplies. Food. Water.
"…Huh?"
Something snagged on my Observation Haki.
Until now, I'd only sensed the old men and women.
But just now, a single energetic presence—sharp, lively, unmistakably young—appeared out of nowhere.
Worse, it was racing toward us from the direction of the poisoned mountain, moving at an incredible speed… straight toward the village.
I turned without thinking.
Leona noticed my shift and followed my gaze.
In the distance, a plume of dust rose as someone—or something—came tearing down the mountain with a deafening dadadadadadada…
"Hey! Old timers! Grandma! Grandpa! I've brought today's harvest!"
Even from far away, the voice carried—high-pitched, bright, a tone adults usually couldn't hear clearly.
And then the figure finally came into view.
"…A girl?"
A small girl, about Leona's size.
To be continued...