Ten years on the Grand Line pass in the blink of an eye. Yet for a boy, it is enough time to grow into a man, and for a legend, enough time to ferment into myth.
The deck of the Oro Jackson was livelier and more crowded than it had been a decade ago.
Right now, a one-of-a-kind "Strength Tournament" was underway.
"Urrrghhh!"
The two largest members of the crew, towering over three meters tall, were locked in an arm-wrestling contest. Blue-skinned fishman Sunbell, picked up three years ago on Fishman Island, was a simple-minded powerhouse. His corded muscles bulged like mountain ridges as he struggled against Nozdon's equally monstrous frame. The deck beneath them groaned in protest.
Not far away, a man sat cross-legged in a high-collared black robe, fiery hair shooting skyward like living flames. Yui remained unmoved by the noise, detached as if in another world. Beside him, an older man named Ganryu, his hairstyle jutting like Godzilla's dorsal spines, carefully polished a spiked club taller than himself with a coarse cloth.
"…and so, the truth is that the Beli currency issued by the World Government is essentially invisible exploitation of the labor of allied nations' citizens! The system is rotten at its very roots!" boomed Max, a burly bearded man whose face resembled a philosopher Kael had once read about in another life. His arms flailed passionately as his spit flew, hammering his point into Spencer's ears.
"Max, your view has some merit, but you're overlooking the stability currency provides as both a standard of value and a medium of exchange…" Spencer actually responded seriously, pushing up his glasses as though this were a scholarly debate.
Meanwhile, tiny Dorlinger, a sprite-sized man with little devil wings sprouting from his back, had snatched a slab of roasted meat from the kitchen and was now perched on the mainmast's yardarm, devouring it while ignoring the chef's furious curses.
At the rail, the hulking Jarlan clad in a bronze cuirass that looked straight out of ancient Greece balanced effortlessly in a one-handed handstand, sweat dripping onto the deck beneath him.
The crew now numbered close to thirty. Lorwenku, Elio, Conkino each one was a monster recruited from far corners of the world, all distinct, all formidable.
In these ten years, the Oro Jackson had carried countless stories of laughter and tears, forging bonds that ran as deep as the sea.
At the stern rail, Kael Grylls leaned in quiet contemplation, a faint smile at his lips as he watched the boisterous scene.
Nearly twenty now, he had long shed the awkwardness of youth. His jet-black hair, tied loosely at the back with a simple cord, hung in strands along his cheeks, giving him an unrestrained air.
His golden eyes gleamed even brighter in the sunlight, deeper than they had been a decade ago.
Though still the youngest of the veteran crew, every hand aboard old or new understood that this easygoing young man, as gentle as a spring breeze, was one of the ship's strongest monsters.
At times, his calm judgment and overwhelming might gave his comrades more reassurance than their reckless, hot-blooded captain, Gol D. Roger, ever could.
"Kael!"
New recruit Elio dashed up, eyes shining with admiration. "Can you tell me again about that time in the waters of Water 7, when you used 'Azure Tornado' to carry everyone into the sky?"
"Ahahaha, a real man doesn't brag about old glories!" Kael laughed heartily, hands on his hips, deliberately striking a mysterious pose. "If you want a story, ask Nozdon. He can give you a hundred versions."
"Coo !"
At that moment, a News Coo swooped down from the skies, dropping the latest newspaper along with a fresh stack of wanted posters onto the deck.
"Oh! It's here!"
The noise of the deck shifted instantly, the arm-wrestling, the debates, even Jarlan's handstand abandoned as the entire crew surged forward.
Roger snatched the top posters, glanced at the numbers, and burst into his signature booming laugh.
"Kuahahaha! One and a half billion Beli! Finally, those government bastards put a proper price on me!"
Rayleigh calmly accepted his own, his smile faint as he glanced at the figure: 1.2 billion. No surprise there.
"Eleven hundred million, not bad," Gaban chuckled, polishing his axe with satisfaction at a bounty second only to captain and first mate.
But it was the next poster that froze the crew's attention.
"Kael… one billion Beli?!" Punklow gasped, nearly dizzy from the number.
Kael stepped through the crowd and picked up the sheet with his name. The photo showed him in the midst of battle, naginata raised, eyes sharp.
Beneath that youthful but oppressive visage glared the figure:
1,000,000,000.
He was the fourth member of the crew to reach a ten-digit bounty.
"No wonder he's called Mr. Kael!"
"So cool!"
The newer members cried out in awe and admiration.
Kael only smiled faintly, folding the poster and slipping it into his pocket. His gaze drifted toward the endless blue horizon.
Around him, his crewmates erupted in cheers and boasts, Roger already calling for a feast to celebrate.
Kael's thoughts wandered back to that afternoon more than a decade ago, when he had received his very first wanted poster.
On that freshly printed sheet was a boyish face, paired with what had seemed then an insultingly stingy sum: 1.5 million Beli.
From 1.5 million to 1 billion. Between those numbers stretched ten years, countless battles where death had lurked at every turn, countless powerful enemies left behind in their wake and this shipload of comrades he trusted with his back.
A sea breeze stirred his hair tie.
Kael exhaled slowly, golden eyes reflecting both nostalgia and an endless hunger for the future.
The Roger Pirates were already one of the most fearsome crews on the seas.
But the real journey was only just beginning.
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