The Going Merry drifted down from the skies like a gull folding its wings to land. Below them the Red Line loomed—an unbroken, rust-red wall slicing the horizon, scarred and ancient. For a heartbeat Leo let himself watch the sea swell against that impossible cliff and feel the small, absurd thrill of having crossed into the Grand Line.
"This is it," he said, more to himself than anyone else. The crew clustered around, their faces lit by the low sun—eager, a little green at the sight of a strange ocean, and ready. Nami's new confidence sat in her like a cloak; Tashigi still moved with the tentative steps of someone learning to belong. Leo felt the familiar tug of responsibility and something softening beneath it, a warmth that had nothing to do with strategy: they were his people now.
He guided the Going Merry into a sheltered bay and found a place to moor near a squat lighthouse perched on Twin Cape. The lighthouse itself looked older than most histories; a small garden of salt-baked flowers clung to its stones. As they stepped ashore the wind carried a sound that was more feeling than noise—a low, mournful wail that permeated the bones. It vibrated through the sea, through the air, even through the creak of the ship's planks.
Near the lighthouse sat an old man reading a newspaper, his legs crossed, looking at once absurd and entirely at home. His hair flared like saffron petals around his head, and his clothes were bright and breezy in a way that didn't suit a man who'd seen so much. He glanced up, not surprised, not even slightly curious.
"You lot—who are you?" he asked, flat as a slab of rock.
Leo smiled and stepped forward, arm casually looped through Tashigi's shoulder in a show of proprietorship that made Tashigi blush and then straighten. He'd learned long ago the kind of bravado that kept squabbles small. "We're the Leo Pirates. Captain Leo." He let the name hang in the air.
Kaya, gentle and polite as ever, moved forward and offered the practiced courtesy of a well-brought-up woman. "Sir, we're from the East Blue—"
"Name's Crocus." The old man cut her off with the same clipped efficiency as the sea cuts a coastline. He set his paper down, the edges slightly curled, then peered up at them. "If you're in a mood to ask questions, first tell me who you are. Where are your manners gone, these days?"
Kaya flushed then bowed her head. "My apologies—Crocus-san. I—"
Crocus snorted, a sound like a sea breeze. The old man's sternness was a mask; his eyes kept the memory of storms behind them. Nami bristled at the interruption, shoulders rising. "We are from East Blue—Leo's crew," she snapped, voice sharpening "we just came into the Grand Line—"
"You'll mind your manners," Crocus said, and something like a laugh trembled in it. Before the argument could swell, Nami's hands—and the skin around them—flickered in the dim light with a sheen that looked like silver electricity. The hairs on the old man's neck prickled. He fell silent, and the shift in atmosphere was nearly audible: the way a room takes a breath when someone important steps in.
Leo watched it all and let himself grin. Recognition passed through Crocus like a tiny light. Then the old man's expression changed. He lifted an eyebrow and smiled, small and unexpected. "Leo," he said, as if the name confirmed something in his head. "You're the young pirate I've heard whispers of. I used to know another Crocus—no, that was different. But—Huh. You and I have similar headgear, I suppose."
The girls went slack-mouthed for a beat. Crocus? As in the Crocus of legend? The same man who'd once tended to the ship of the Pirate King? Their faces shifted from suspicion to stunned curiosity. The lighthouse keeper—this ramshackle, saffron-haired old man—had a name tied to history.
Crocus stood and leaned on a cane with a little flourish that suggested he'd expected their reactions. "You're brave to come here. Come inside. My hut's modest, but we can talk."
Before they could answer, a sound tore through the air—a low, terrible wail that skidded across the bay like an oceanic moan. Everyone's hair lifted. The sound wasn't wind; it was a whale's lament multiplied by sorrow.
"What is that?" Makino breathed.
Crocus's face went hard for a moment. He moved like a man who already knew how to soothe storms. "That's Laboon," he said quietly.
The first sight of Laboon was almost indecent: a mass longer than a small island, a whale's back rising and falling, a mouth that could swallow a dozen ships if it opened wide enough. Even a glimpse of that dorsal ridge made the heart slow. Laboon's head bore fresh scars—long, crisscrossing grooves and bruised, angry marks. The whale thrashed near the Red Line, smashing its brow and forehead against the rock again and again, a repeated assault that made the water boil and hiss with steam.
For all of the creature's immensity, there was a human story written into the way it battered itself. The crew watched in horrified fascination, the way people watch a tragedy unfurl in slow motion.
"His forehead—look at the scars," Nojiko said, voice thin.
"It's how he does it," Crocus said, already moving. He ducked into his hut, returned with a syringe and a vial of a dark-amber compound. The old man's hands were swift, practiced, careful. "He's been doing that for years. Every now and then something wakes him—memories or pain—and he goes at the Red Line until he can't stand."
Crocus's face tightened. He did not speak much as he stirred the sedative, but the action was a study in urgency. He approached the whale's flank with the confidence of someone who'd done this many times—on the deck of a ship, in the face of a storm, with the knowledge that the animal would not be easily calmed. He jabbed the syringe into a crevice where the whale's skin was thinner, the needle sinking between the ridged plates. Laboon thudded, vocalized, rolled his great eye toward the shore. There was grief in that glance, something corrosive and patient.
When the sedative took hold, the whale's thrashing slowed. Laboon let out a long, mournful series of notes—sadness with the texture of centuries—and then his body eased like a tide after a storm. He resettled, breath fogging in the cold air, eyes half-lidded. The wound lines on his head shone wet and new, but at least the assault had quieted.
"Why would he do this?" Carmen asked, her voice small.
Crocus sat heavily on a low rock, folding his hands around the empty syringe. He looked at them all as if deciding how much of the sea's truth he would give away. "A long time ago," he began, "a band of pirates—the Rumbar Pirates—passed through here. They were a merry lot who loved music. They spent time around this cape, and there was a bond between them and this whale. They sang to him, played for him, and in return, Laboon came to love them like a companion."
The girls listened with rapt attention. Tashigi's fingers tightened around the Wado's hilt by instinct. There was reverence in the air now, an old, aching story that tugged at the heartstrings.
"They passed on into the Grand Line with promises to come back," Crocus continued, voice softening. "Laboon waited. Waited for their return. He thinks they left and broke their promise." He tapped one of the deep scars with a cane like a conductor marking time. "So when he hears the sea remind him of them—or when pain or something else drives the memory—he rams his forehead against this rock. He thinks if he can break a passage straight through the Red Line, he'll meet them again."
Silence gathered around the little group like a net. The image was terrible and beautiful: an animal who knew loyalty the way sailors knew the sea, whose patience had turned to pain.
"Have none of them come back?" Nami asked after a moment, voice small.
Crocus let out a tired breath. "Fifty years is a lifetime. If they came back, Laboon would know. Most folk assume there's no one left. They believe the Rumbar Pirates are gone. But—" He hesitated, and the pause had the weight of a man who's kept a secret for many years. "Not all of them may be gone."
The words landed like a stone. "There are still survivors?" Makino asked.
Crocus's eyes drifted to the whale, hooded with sleep. "Perhaps. There's always a sliver of possibility the sea keeps. That's why I keep him quiet when it's at its worst. The sedative doesn't fix what's broken. It just buys time."
Leo felt an old, inexorable knot tug at his chest—a mix of admiration and unease. He glanced at the women: their faces were threaded with a warm sorrow. Tashigi's hands curled on her sword; something about the whale's loyalty resonated with her—loyalty to a captain, to a code, to one promise.
"How long have you been doing this?" Leo asked quietly.
Crocus looked up and something like a far-off memory softened his face. "Long enough to make a habit of it. I met the Rumbar Pirates once. They were loud, and they drank, and they sang so terribly—I couldn't sleep for days." He gave a dry chuckle. "I took to their songs. And then Captain Roger…" His mouth tightened at the mention, then he shook his head as if chasing away dust. "Time has a habit of bending people around it."
Nami stared at the whale and then at the lighthouse, thinking. "They sang to him?" she asked. The image was sunlit, almost domestic: a band of singing pirates and a whale that loved them as kin. Nami's new Conqueror presence hummed faintly beneath the surface, an undercurrent of authority that made her feel older than she was for a moment.
"You said some might be alive," Nojiko pressed. "Where? How? If they're out there—"
Crocus's smile was a rueful thing. "The sea hides things and keeps things. I can't promise anything. But the world keeps its own rules. Sometimes someone returns when all odds say they shouldn't. That's the ocean's little joke."
Leo's mind went to maps and odds and the small, stubborn threads that linked people. He pictured the Rumbar Pirates: perhaps scattered, perhaps hidden, perhaps living in quiet corners of an ocean that didn't care for their songs. He felt that old itch—curiosity, duty, and the taste of a new story to be chased. But Leo was careful. He sensed a tale that should be treated tenderly; this wasn't another conquest or a forced recruitment. This was a wound, and some things required more than rope and bravado.
"Crocus," he said, stepping forward in a tone that balanced command and care, "if there's any way we can help—tell us. We came here with open hands, not just swords. Laboon—he's got someone holding space in his heart. That's worth more than treasure."
The old man looked at Leo with an unreadable expression, then nodded slowly. "You've no idea what you're offering," he said. "But the sea has a way of testing people who mean well. If you're sincere…"
Tashigi, whose life had been formed by codes and duty, now found herself listening like a convert. She felt the whale's steady breath in the air and something inside her loosened, ready to take a new shape. The Wado in her hands felt heavier with promise.
Crocus rose with a careful stiffness and gestured to his humble hut. "Come inside. I'll tell you the full story. It's long, and you'll need food and patience. If any of you can sing, now's the time to show it. Laboon loved to hear his songs."
The crew exchanged looks—some sly, some embarrassed, some touched—and then, one by one, they followed the old lighthouse keeper toward the cottage, their footsteps light on the salt-streaked stones. Above them Laboon dipped his great body in the water and gave a soft, forlorn moan that sounded like a sea fog settling over a grave.
As they entered Crocus's small home, Leo glanced back once at the whale leaning against the Red Line like a sentinel. He had a practical plan for the future—training, sharpening, the slow, methodical building of a crew strong enough for the Grand Line—but in the quiet space between one tide and the next, there were other things: stories that needed voices, promises that needed to be kept. Laboon's lament pressed against something in him he hadn't expected to feel so keenly.
For now, the Going Merry's crew—newly armored in Haki, curious and fierce—sat around Crocus's table and listened. The whale's scars gleamed in the afternoon light, and the Grand Line yawned open ahead: wide, dangerous, and somehow, for the first time since he took command, full of something close to hope.
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T/N :
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