Kyle pinpointed the direction and transformed into a streak of light, speeding toward the rising sun.
Going home.
Once that thought took root in his mind, it grew wildly, pushing the crushing disappointment and fatigue into a distant corner of his spirit. The smiling faces of his friends, Roger's roar, the creaking of the ship's rudder, the clamor of a banquet… these were the sounds he had deliberately pushed away for a year. Now, they were crystal clear, acting as the only navigation markers he needed.
A few days later, at the port of a nameless town, the Oro Jackson lay quietly by the dock. Its sails were furled, like a lion resting with its claws sheathed. The afternoon sun spilled lazily onto the deck, where several crew members were dozing against the ship's rail.
A figure approached from a distance, landing silently on a wooden piling at the dock without disturbing anyone.
Kyle gazed at the familiar ship. The new scars on its hull silently told the story of the past year in his absence. He could almost imagine the storm that had torn a hole in the mainsail, or the cannon fire that had left scorch marks on a plank. He didn't board immediately, instead walking toward the town's only tavern, from which the scents of alcohol and loud noise spilled out.
Before he even reached the door, he could hear the familiar uproar.
"…So, that Marine Rear Admiral's beard was shaved clean off by Lord Buggy's flying knife! You should have seen his face, hahaha!"
"You're lying! I clearly saw you getting chased all over, snot running down your face!"
"What did you say, you red-haired bastard!"
"I'm talking about you, red-nose!"
The familiar dialogue was followed by the familiar sounds of a fight. He was home.
Kyle stood at the entrance, watching the two apprentices roll around on the tavern floor while their friends laughed uncontrollably. The gloom he had carried for a year seemed to evaporate in the warmth of the scene. He stepped inside.
The tavern was dimly lit, and standing at the entrance, he was silhouetted by the bright light from outside. At first, no one noticed him. It was Jabba who, while raising his mug, caught a glimpse of the figure at the door. He paused, narrowing his eyes as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.
"Hey… look…"
Everyone's gaze followed his finger toward the door. Shanks and Buggy stopped wrestling, their hair a mess, and stared over foolishly. The entire tavern's clamor seemed to hit a pause button, falling into a sudden silence.
"Ky… Kyle?!"
Buggy's scream broke the quiet. He shoved Shanks off him and scrambled over, nearly tripping over a table in his haste. "You! Is it really you?!"
"I knew I sensed something," Shanks said, rubbing the back of his head as he stood up, a grin spreading across his face.
With a "boom," the entire tavern erupted.
"Kyle!"
"You scoundrel, where have you been messing around?!"
"Bastard! You finally came back!"
The crew swarmed him, surrounding Kyle so tightly he couldn't move. Stout arms slapped his shoulders and back, the heavy thuds meant to confirm he wasn't just a ghost.
"We thought you were abducted by a princess from some island!"
"Look at his tattered clothes! He must have been forced to work in a mine, hahaha!"
"You've gotten thinner, Kyle! Didn't you have money to eat?"
Each rough, caring tease was like a warm tide, completely submerging him. He was pushed to a table, and a full glass of juice was thrust into his hand. He looked at the familiar faces before him, their joy completely undisguised.
"Sorry, I'm late."
"Late for what? The real party hasn't even started yet!" Jabba slapped him on the back so hard he nearly spilled his drink. "If you didn't come back, that brat Buggy would have tried to take all the credit!"
"That's right!" Buggy puffed out his chest smugly. "The information about the Final Island, that was all me…"
Before he could finish, Shanks kicked him in the rear. Kyle smiled. It was his first genuine smile in a year.
Just then, the crowd parted. Rayleigh and Roger walked over. Rayleigh leaned against the bar, his eyes as calm as ever behind his glasses. He simply sized Kyle up and nodded, his expression saying everything that needed to be said. Roger, on the other hand, strode right up to him, grinning from ear to ear.
"Kuhahaha! You rascal! You finally decided to come back!"
He didn't ask where Kyle had been, what he had done, or if he had found what he was looking for. He just held out his fist and tapped it against Kyle's chest.
"The banquet can't happen without me," Kyle said, bumping his own fist against his captain's.
"Of course!" Roger withdrew his fist, turned to the crew, and raised his arm high. "Lads! Our last crewmate has returned!" He looked over his crew—Shanks, Buggy, Jabba, Crocus—and his gaze finally returned to Kyle.
"Set sail!" Roger's voice boomed through the tavern, filled with undeniable joy. "Let's go conquer the world!"
"OHHH!!!"
The earth-shattering cheers nearly ripped the roof off.
That night, the Oro Jackson was brightly lit as the long-awaited full-crew banquet was held. Kyle listened as his friends excitedly recounted their adventures, and in every story, he heard a familiar phrase: "If only Kyle were here." But there was no complaint in their tone, only pride, as if they were saying, See? Even without you, we managed.
The warmth of the banquet had not yet faded, but preparations for departure were already underway.
"Hey, Shanks! Have you seen Buggy?" Jabba shouted while checking the ropes. "We're setting off tomorrow."
"Who knows? Probably hiding somewhere, drawing a treasure map," Shanks replied, leaning against the rail as he wiped his cutlass. Despite his words, he stood up and headed toward the apprentices' room.
Kyle stood under the main mast, watching it all. Roger stood at the bow, gazing into the distance, his back as steady as a mountain. Everything was orderly, filled with the solemn feeling of being on the verge of witnessing history.
That solemnity was quickly broken by a startled cry.
"Hey! Buggy! What's wrong with you?!"
Everyone looked over to see Shanks leaning out of the room, his face a rare mix of disgust and concern. Kyle and Rayleigh exchanged a look and walked over.
Inside the room, Buggy was wrapped in a quilt, his face bright red and covered in sweat. He was breathing rapidly.
Crocus stepped forward and felt his forehead, his own brow immediately furrowing. "A very high fever."
Shanks stood with his arms crossed, looking down at his rival. "Catching a cold right before the big adventure? Are you a kid? Your face is all red from the fever, just lie still!"
Buggy's eyes fluttered open, his gaze unfocused and delirious. He stared at Shanks's bright red hair and yelled back, "So noisy… Who are you calling a big red nose?!"
A vein bulged on Shanks's forehead. "Huh?! You're talking nonsense, you idiot! I was talking about your face!"
"Fight! Fight!" Roger and Kozuki Oden had appeared in the doorway, fanning the flames.
"Captain, don't encourage them!" Shanks yelled, before turning to hold down Buggy, who was starting to struggle. "Lie still, you invalid!"
"Let go of me, you red-haired bastard!" Buggy twisted violently, his fever-addled mind obsessed with treasure. "The Final Island… incredible treasures are waiting for me…"
Just as Shanks grabbed his shoulders to calm him down, Buggy's upper half shot out of the covers like a cannonball, wrapping itself firmly around Roger's thigh. His legs and lower body remained neatly on the bed.
"Incredible treasures are waiting! Captain, take me with you!" Buggy screamed, snot and tears streaming down his face, completely unaware that his body had split in two.
Roger looked down at the "attachment" on his leg and laughed even louder. He grabbed Buggy by the scruff of his neck, lifting him like a kitten. "Kuhahaha! If you want to go, you'll have to wait until you're well, kid!"
The room dissolved into chaos. After much commotion, and after Crocus forced some bitter medicine down his throat, Buggy was finally reassembled, tucked back into bed, and fell into a deep sleep, still muttering about his treasure.
The clamor receded, leaving only a few core members in the room. Everyone understood the situation. In Buggy's condition, he couldn't go to the Final Island. But the voyage to that unknown sea couldn't wait.
"Seriously, of all the times to get sick…" Jabba scratched his head helplessly.
In the silence, Shanks spoke. He had been standing by the bed, looking at Buggy's flushed, sleeping face. The usual mockery was gone.
"I'll stay and take care of him."
His voice wasn't loud, but it cut through the heavy atmosphere. Everyone looked at him in surprise. Shanks didn't look away. He reached down and tucked the corner of the quilt over Buggy's feet. Then he turned his head, his gaze meeting Roger's. In his eyes was a clarity and determination that went far beyond his years.
"When we go," he said, "we'll go on our own ship."
The words were spoken lightly, but the promise they held was immense.
Roger had remained silent, just listening. He walked up to Shanks, his usual grin on his face, and raised his broad palm, rubbing it vigorously through Shanks's red hair.
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