The night was calm.
Too calm for a place that had tried to kill him for eight months.
Sanji sat alone on a low stone wall overlooking the sea. The small sloop was anchored below, swaying gently, as if impatient.
He did not sleep.
He had not slept well since the pressure room.
Not because of nightmares.
Because silence now had weight.
He rolled a cigarette between his fingers.
Did not light it.
Stared at it for a long time.
Then put it back in his pocket.
"…Idiot habit," he muttered.
The wind smelled different here.
Not like Baratie.
Not like any sea he knew.
Tomorrow, it would smell like the Grand Line.
That thought did not excite him.
It… focused him.
He remembered Ivankov's room.
Not the pressure room.
The other one.
The one with chairs.
And tea.
And words that hurt more than fists.
"You are leaving because you think you are ready," Ivankov had said.
Sanji had shaken his head.
"No. I'm leaving because if I stay, I'll start pretending again."
Ivankov had laughed.
Then gone quiet.
"Do you know what kind of man survives the New World?"
Sanji had answered honestly.
"…Monsters."
Ivankov had smiled.
"Wrong. Monsters die all the time."
Sanji frowned even now, remembering it.
"Then what does?"
Ivankov had looked at him for a long time before answering.
"Men who decide what they are not."
The memory sat heavy.
Sanji looked at the sea.
"…What am I not?"
Not Germa.Not a hero.Not a man who runs.
He exhaled slowly.
Ivankov had poured tea.
"You think strength is about adding things to yourself. Speed. Fire. Haki. Endurance."
He had looked straight at Sanji.
"Real strength is subtraction."
Sanji had frowned.
"You make it sound like I'm getting weaker."
Ivankov had smiled.
"You are. And that is why you might survive."
The waves below moved like dark glass.
Sanji closed his eyes.
He could feel the sea now.
Not poetically.
Literally.
Distance.Depth.Motion.
Danger.
"…Tch."
"You will see things out there," Ivankov had continued."Systems. Traditions. Cruelty that doesn't look like cruelty anymore."
Sanji had said nothing.
"You are not a revolutionary. You are not a savior."
Ivankov had leaned forward.
"So tell me, Black-Leg… when you see something that should not exist…"
Ivankov had tapped the table.
"Will you walk away?"
Sanji's hand tightened on the stone.
"…I don't know."
That had been his answer.
Ivankov had nodded.
"Good. An honest man is harder to control."
The wind picked up.
The sloop creaked softly.
Sanji stood.
Stretched.
His body felt… heavy.
Not tired.
Anchored.
"…I'm not going out there to fix the world," he said quietly.
He looked at the horizon.
"…But I'm also not going to pretend it's fine anymore."
He looked down at his leg.
Felt the weight inside it.
Busoshoku slept there.
Not roaring.
Waiting.
Ivankov's last words came back to him.
"You are not chasing the sea anymore."
"You are going to meet it."
Sanji walked down toward the sloop.
Stopped.
Looked back at the island one last time.
"…Alright."
No speeches.
No vows.
Just a decision.
He lay down in the boat and stared at the sky.
And for a long time…
Did nothing.