Deep within the dense forest.
Davy's eyes flickered slightly as a ring of eerie, green flames circled his body.
The flames gave off no heat. As they rose and twisted, the grim, bearded face of the scarred pirate appeared faintly within them—head tilted back, roaring in pain, howling in anguish.
After several rounds of experimentation, Davy roughly understood the power of the Ghost Ship.
In simple terms, the Ghost Ship could imprison the souls of people he killed.
As the ship's master, Davy could enslave those souls at will—command them, manipulate them—and, by letting them possess him, temporarily gain everything they had in life: their memories, experience, and even physical strength.
Of course, it wasn't without a price.
Any expenditure that exceeded his own stamina would be paid using the soul thrall's own spiritual energy.
"The Jim Pirates. Captain: Wraith Jim. Bounty: eight million Berries."
Through a brutal soul-search, he'd gotten a clear picture of his enemies.
The Jim Pirates had nearly fifty men in total.
Besides Captain Wraith Jim, there were four officers, plus a bunch of miscellaneous crew.
The man he'd killed was named Duke—one of the four officers, and also the crew's vice-captain.
"This is… tricky."
Davy frowned.
His leg was still riddled with a bullet wound, and his whole body was covered in injuries. Even if he used possession to forcibly suppress the pain and boost his body with a soul thrall, he'd only be able to take on one officer at most.
If it became a two-on-one?
He had no chance.
And besides the three remaining officers, there was also Wraith Jim himself—an ability user even his own officers feared like the devil.
"Specialized in assassination, vanishes like a ghost… What kind of Devil Fruit is that? Paramecia? Something like that gothic lolita's fruit?"
The original manga was limited in length and followed the protagonist's perspective most of the time. In a real-world version of this setting, the number of Devil Fruits in existence would far exceed what the series ever showed.
So it wasn't strange at all for East Blue to have fruits that were never mentioned in the story.
"I wonder… can a soul thrall still use their Devil Fruit powers?"
Thinking of a certain skeletal musician who could still walk around centuries after dying, Davy felt that Devil Fruits were more attached to the soul than the body.
That thought made his heart race.
If that were true, then he, as the Ghost Ship's master, wouldn't be bound by the "one person, one fruit" limit.
He could potentially wield multiple Devil Fruits—through his soul thralls.
He originally just wanted to wipe out these beasts and avenge the villagers.
Now, that resolve grew even sharper.
"Head-on, I definitely lose. So I'll have to use my brain."
Davy lifted his head.
The sun was sinking in the west, night bleeding over the sky. Only the distant blaze at the foot of the mountain still lit up the darkness.
He reached out and curled his fingers in an empty grasp. With a thought, a cluster of green ghost fire appeared in his palm. He tossed it casually forward.
The ghostly flame twisted and swelled, growing rapidly until it took on a familiar shape.
In the blink of an eye, Duke stood there again—lifelike, practically indistinguishable from when he was alive.
A ghost by day, a "man" by night… Davy's eyes gleamed.
He tried issuing a mental command.
Duke's eyes were dull. His body radiated no warmth at all, cold and rigid like stone.
No rational thoughts.
Just a puppet—only capable of carrying out orders on pure instinct.
Davy quickly formed his conclusion and made his plan.
He slid both arms behind his back and covered them loosely with his clothes, putting on the appearance of a bound prisoner. Then, following behind Duke, he limped toward the base of the mountain.
If you don't walk into the tiger's den, how are you supposed to catch its cubs?
Either he slipped up and got butchered—
or he killed every last one of these animals.
A cold glint flickered in his eyes.
Nothing unexpected happened. Duke, as vice-captain, held a decent amount of authority. Any pirates they encountered stepped aside quickly at the sight of his gloomy face, not daring to meddle.
Davy bowed his head and walked behind him, messy bangs covering his eyes—eyes that were filled with murderous intent.
Along the way, he saw the village reduced to ruins.
He saw heads nailed onto wooden stakes.
He saw bodies bruised and ravaged beyond recognition—men and women alike, violated and destroyed in ways that made his stomach churn.
Some of them had once mended his clothes.
Some had cooked meals for him.
Some had patiently taught him cooking techniques.
These beasts deserved to die a thousand times over.
Grinding his teeth quietly, he followed Duke until they reached the ship's infirmary.
Duke stepped forward and knocked.
Knock, knock, knock…
"Who is it? Don't bother me."
"It's me. Someone's injured. I need you to patch him up."
Metal clanged from inside. A moment later, a scrawny man with a little goatee opened the door.
The ship's doctor.
"Who's this?" The doctor frowned but didn't think much of it. He turned and walked back into the room as soon as the door opened.
"New recruit," Davy said through Duke, steering the vice-captain's body like a puppet.
He stepped into the infirmary as well, closing the door behind him.
The sight that greeted him was… unsettling.
The walls were lined with jars and hanging specimens.
Organs floated in glass containers, and freakish creations stitched together from animal and human parts sat on shelves—like grotesque flesh dolls.
The air was thick with pungent medicinal herbs—
and beneath it all, an even heavier stench of blood.
"Go lie over there," the doctor said, pointing toward a filthy bed in the corner, not even bothering to look back.
On the table before him lay a small corpse, barely one meter forty tall—chest split wide open, organs exposed, warmth still steaming faintly from the wound.
Davy's pupils shrank.
He knew that child.
Uncle Sam's daughter.
The innocent girl's laughter seemed to echo in his ears.
But all he could see now was her twisted, unavenged expression, eyes wide open in eternal disbelief.
"Don't wander around," the doctor snapped impatiently. "If you contaminate my specimen, you'll—"
His words cut off.
He clutched at his throat, choking, only able to produce a hoarse gurgle.
"Pshhk—"
His eyes bulged wide as he stared at Duke, who stood behind him with a blank expression, pulling a bloodied dagger out of his neck.
"Clatter—"
Glass shattered across the floor, spilling organs and specimens everywhere.
Expressionless, Davy stepped forward and drove his own blade into the doctor again—clean, precise.
A wisp of ghostly flame sprang into existence, twisting into the doctor's image before chains shot out from the Ghost Ship and wrapped firmly around it.
The spirit howled in agony—but only Davy could hear it.
Knock, knock, knock.
The door rattled again.
Davy's heart clenched.
If he was discovered now, the entire crew would swarm him—he'd end up minced beyond recognition.
"Who is it?!"
He hurriedly condensed the doctor's form again, forcing the ghost flame into a human shape. But the real body lying dead on the floor, eyes wide in unwilling death, was far too obvious.
There was nowhere to hide it.
"It's me, Robert. I heard glass breaking. Everything okay in there?"
Davy's mind spun rapidly—and soon locked onto the name.
Robert.
A low-ranking crew member who'd only just joined.
"None of your damn business. Stop bothering me!"
Under Davy's control, the doctor's puppet snapped irritably.
Outside, the man flinched, muttered a few curses under his breath, and walked away.
Davy held his breath, listening until the footsteps faded completely.
Only then did he let out a long sigh of relief.
He glanced at Duke's puppet and issued a new order, then reached out and grabbed the doctor's soul—compressed into a fist-sized ball of green light—and pressed it into his own chest.
A flood of memories surged into his mind, like a biographical film playing at high speed inside his skull.
Along with the memories came refined skills—experience etched deep into muscle and nerve.
He picked up a surgical scalpel and spun it between his fingers with an easy flourish, then turned to the shelves, quickly finding dried herbs. With practiced motions he ground them into fine powder.
Right now, his top priority was treating his own injuries.
The wound on his thigh had already started to clot. If the bullet stayed inside and the flesh healed over, there was a real chance he'd be crippled.
With the ship doctor's experience guiding his hands, Davy bit down on a wooden stick, tore open his trouser leg, and began performing a bullet extraction on himself—steady, efficient, and merciless.
◇ BONUS & SUPPORT ◇
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 10 reviews — drop a comment!
◇ 1 bonus chapter for every 100 Power Stones.