The shipyard buzzed with nervous energy, though it was usually a bustling place filled with the sounds of hammers and saws. Today, however, the workers were eerily quiet.
As I stepped off the gangplank onto the dock, the local shipwright and his team stood frozen, their eyes darting to the colossal ship behind me. It was a vessel that dwarfed anything they had ever seen—both in size and reputation. And it wasn't just the ship that had them trembling.
The shipwright, an older man with graying hair and oil-stained hands, wiped his forehead with a shaky hand. His team, standing behind him, shuffled uneasily.
Their gazes flicked back and forth, unable to meet mine for more than a few seconds before they quickly averted their eyes. I could see it in their faces—fear. Not just of me, but of what they had heard about me.
Whispers had already spread like wildfire across Loguetown. They knew who I was, or at least they thought they did.
A pirate with a bounty so high, it was unimaginable in East Blue. In a sea where bounties rarely broke a few million berries, mine was in a completely different league. To them, I was something out of a nightmare.
The shipwright gulped, visibly trembling as he tried to steady himself. His voice wavered as he spoke, trying his best to maintain composure.
"S-Sir... h-how can we help you today?" He stammered, his eyes flickering to Dora, who stood behind me like a mountain. Her towering presence didn't exactly help ease their nerves.
Dora, oblivious to the effect she had, was scanning the dock with innocent curiosity, but to the shipwright and his team, she was a giant in every sense of the word—a symbol of the power I commanded.
"I need the ship repainted," I said simply, cutting to the chase. "Completely. How long will it take?"
The shipwright's face turned ashen. His lips quivered as he tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. He glanced nervously at his team, who were no more composed than he was.
"Th-the ship... it's enormous," he finally stammered, wringing his hands. "E-even if my entire team works day and night, it will take us at least a month to get it done. M-maybe more..."
His voice trailed off, as if he were afraid of what might happen next. I could see the fear in his eyes, the fear that I might punish him for giving me an answer I didn't want to hear.
To the people of East Blue, pirates were little more than bloodthirsty beasts, ready to lop off a head at the slightest provocation. And I could sense that's what he thought would happen now.
Behind me, Dora shifted, her enormous foot causing the dock to groan under her weight. The shipwright flinched as if expecting an attack, his eyes widening in terror. His team looked like they were ready to bolt.
"A month?" I repeated, raising an eyebrow. "That's too slow. How about you hire some more people and get it done in under a week?"
The shipwright blinked, clearly not expecting me to be so reasonable. He opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off.
"How much is this going to cost me?" I asked, keeping my tone casual.
The man looked shocked, his mouth slightly agape. He had been bracing himself for some kind of violent outburst, but instead, I was offering to pay. Pirates didn't pay, at least not in the stories he'd heard. Pirates took. And if they didn't get what they wanted, they left destruction in their wake.
"Sir... n-no... we can't possibly take money from you..." he stammered again, a pained smile forming on his lips. His reluctance was clear—he didn't want to take my money because he feared it would end in ruin.
He likely thought that even if he did a perfect job, a pirate like me would turn on him in the end, and he'd be lucky if his shipyard wasn't burned to the ground.
I let out a small sigh, realizing the predicament. These people didn't know me—not really. They only knew the stories, the rumors, the wanted posters that portrayed me as some kind of ruthless monster. And with Dora looming beside me, I could see why they might feel that way.
"Look," I said, trying to soften my voice a bit, "you need to feed your family, right? I'm not the kind of person who denies someone their rightful wage." I reached into my coat and pulled out a hefty stack of berries, tossing it toward him.
The man flinched but managed to catch the money, his hands trembling as he stared down at the large sum. It was probably more than he made in a month. His team looked equally shocked, their eyes wide as saucers.
"That's the down payment," I said. "You'll get the rest once the job's done. And if you need more to hire extra help, just let me know."
The shipwright stared at the stack of berries in his hands, clearly torn between gratitude and fear. His lips moved as if to protest again, but this time he stayed quiet. His team exchanged glances, still too scared to speak, but the tension was starting to ease—just a little.
"W-we'll get started right away," the shipwright finally said, bowing his head in thanks. He still looked terrified, but now there was a flicker of hope in his eyes. He realized that I wasn't the kind of pirate they'd been led to believe.
I nodded and turned to leave, but before I could take a step, one of the younger workers—a boy barely into his teens—mustered up the courage to speak.
"Are... are you really him?" He asked, his voice shaking. "The one with the bounty that... that exceeds three billion berries?"
I paused, glancing over my shoulder. The boy's face was pale, his eyes wide with awe and fear. His fellow workers looked at him as if he had just asked the most dangerous question in the world.
A part of me wanted to laugh. The bounty, the notoriety—it was all part of the pirate life. But it wasn't the whole story. Not by a long shot.
"Yeah, that's me," I said with a small grin. "But don't believe everything you hear. Not all pirates are the same."
Dora, hearing the exchange, leaned down and smiled brightly at the boy. "We're here to fix the ship, not cause trouble!" she said cheerfully, her booming voice making the dock tremble again.
The boy nodded quickly, his face pale but grateful. Behind him, the shipwright gave a small, relieved smile.
As I walked away, I could feel the tension easing even more. They still feared me—my name carried too much weight for them not to—but at least now they understood that not all pirates were monsters.
At least, not all the time.
"Captain, are we really just going to let them stroll through Loguetown like that?" a young Marine officer blurted out, unable to hold back any longer. His voice was tense, eyes wide with a mixture of disbelief and frustration.
At first, the Marines had mobilized, preparing to intercept the massive ship that had docked—a vessel so enormous it dwarfed every other ship in the harbor. The entire port had buzzed with the news of the ship's arrival.
But the moment the local Marine forces realized just who was on board, they immediately retreated, not wanting to engage with someone far beyond their league. The Donquixote Family wasn't just any group of pirates. They were monsters from the New World, and picking a fight with them would be nothing short of suicide.
"Stand down, soldier," the Marine Captain responded sharply, though there was a hint of relief in his voice. His steely gaze turned to the restless officer, his stern demeanor masking the same nervousness the rest of his crew shared. "What would you have us do? Engage them? We'd be signing our own death warrants."
The young officer gritted his teeth, frustration boiling over. "But Captain, we're Marines! Isn't it our duty to confront pirates? Especially ones with bounties that high!"
The Captain sighed, rubbing his temples as he tried to maintain control. "Do you have any idea who you're talking about? That ship belongs to the Donquixote family. These aren't some small-time pirates we can just throw in a cell and call it a day. They rule parts of the New World—places where even the World Government treads carefully."
He straightened, his tone more commanding now. "Headquarters has already been notified, and they've ordered us to stand down. The last thing they want is an incident here in East Blue. It's not our job to go chasing down monsters from the Grand Line, let alone the New World."
"But why are they here?" Another Marine officer chimed in, clearly uneasy. He glanced nervously out toward the harbor, where the giant ship loomed like an omen. "What's a bigshot pirate from the New World doing in a place like Loguetown?"
The Captain let out a deep breath, thankful that the Donquixote crew hadn't caused any trouble—yet. He wasn't about to tempt fate by poking the proverbial bear.
"Who knows?" the Captain said, lowering his voice. "Maybe they're just passing through, maybe they have business we can't comprehend. All I know is that this is way above our pay grade." He paused, his expression softening for a moment. "Sometimes, being a Marine is about knowing when to fight... and when to step aside."
The younger officer clenched his fists, his ideals of justice clashing with the harsh reality of the world. "But... they're pirates."
"Yes," the Captain said, his voice calm but firm. "But not every pirate is an enemy we can take on, especially not them. As long as they don't cause trouble, we leave them alone. That's an order."
The younger Marine could only stand there, his hands shaking as he struggled to accept the situation. He had always dreamed of standing up to pirates, of becoming a hero of justice. But here, in the face of a threat so far beyond anything he had ever encountered, he felt powerless.
"Just let it go, kid," the Captain said, his voice heavy with the weight of experience. "He was once a Marine like you and me. Believe it or not, his journey started right here on this very island. I was there when Vice Admiral Garp took him under his wing."
The young Marine's eyes widened. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Rosinante... was a Marine?"
The Captain nodded, his gaze distant as he recalled the past. "Yes, and a good one at that. We all thought he'd go on to do great things in the Marines, especially with Garp looking after him. But things changed. Only the higher-ups in HQ know exactly what happened, and they don't tell us everything."
"Then... is he a traitor?" the young Marine asked, his voice barely a whisper.
The Captain sighed deeply, rubbing his temples as though the question itself caused him pain.
"That's not for us to decide. The Government gives the orders, and we follow them. Rosinante is different from most pirates. He's not your typical thug chasing treasure. Just don't go causing trouble by confronting him or anyone in his crew. You won't live to regret it."
The young Marine nodded reluctantly, though it was clear that the explanation didn't sit well with him. The idea of someone who had once worn the same uniform now standing among pirates was hard to swallow. But the veteran Captain, with years of battle-hardened experience, knew when a fight wasn't worth picking.
Meanwhile, in the heart of Loguetown, I stood in front of the familiar arms shop with a grin. The place hadn't changed much since I last visited, and memories of my earlier days came flooding back. This was where I had acquired Sandai Kitetsu, one of the finest swords I had ever wielded. Now, I was eager to see if the old man who ran the shop was still around.
"This is where I got my first meito from," I said with a hint of delight, my eyes glimmering as I reminisced about the old shopkeeper and the fateful encounter with the cursed blade.
Smoker, who was standing nearby, scratched the back of his head and looked curiously at the shop. "Can I buy some weapons here?"
Lucci, leaning against a nearby post, shot Smoker a deadpan look. "Why do you need a weapon, Does our family lack any kind of weapon? … Don't you already have that seastone-infused jitte? Besides, you can't even shoot straight," Lucci added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
Smoker's eye twitched, and he let out a puff of smoke. "Guns are for cowards," he retorted, crossing his arms in defiance.
Lucci's smirk grew as he looked directly at Smoker. "Says the guy who couldn't even hit the target while standing right next to it."
"That was from a hundred meters away!" Smoker snapped, visibly annoyed now.
Lucci tilted his head mockingly, as if genuinely puzzled. "A hundred meters, one meter—same thing for someone with an aim like yours."
Smoker clenched his teeth, a thick cloud of smoke swirling around him as his frustration grew. "If I had a decent weapon, you'd be eating those words, Lucci."
"Sure," Lucci said with a shrug, clearly amused by the back-and-forth. "But with aim like yours, you'd probably shoot yourself in the foot before you even took a shot at me."
Smoker growled but didn't reply, knowing full well that arguing with Lucci was like throwing punches at a brick wall. Hattori, Lucci's loyal pigeon, let out a coo that sounded suspiciously like it was mimicking Smoker's frustration. Even the bird seemed to be in on the joke.
"Why don't you just stick to your smoke powers, Smoker? At least that way, you're less likely to miss." Lucci added with a casual wave of his hand, as if dismissing the entire conversation.
Smoker rolled his eyes and let out an irritated snarl . "Why do I even bother?" he muttered under his breath, but his grumbling only made Lucci's smirk widen.
Amidst their squabble, we finally entered the arms shop, leaving Dora in the front of the shop as she was too big to fit into the shop, the old door creaking open as the bell above rang to announce our arrival.
The shopkeeper, an old man with a grizzled beard and sharp eyes, looked up from behind the counter. His gaze flickered with recognition when he saw me.
"Welcome… Welcome!" A young voice greeted us enthusiastically before I could say a word. My eyes shifted to the speaker, and instantly, recognition dawned. It was Ipponmatsu, the young man who would one day inherit this humble shop, famous in Canon for gifting Yubashiri to Zoro, a gesture of respect for a true swordsman.
He was tall, maybe in his early twenties, with sharp but youthful features and a somewhat nervous energy about him. His brown hair was tied back, and he wore a simple shopkeeper's apron. There was a certain eagerness in his voice, though it was quickly replaced with stark terror the moment his gaze met mine.
The moment of recognition struck him like lightning. His face went white, and before I could even blink, he fell back with a loud thud, landing flat on his back behind the counter. The once-confident welcome had evaporated, leaving behind only fear.
Ipponmatsu lay there, trembling, his terror palpable. He had clearly recognized the infamous pirate who had just walked into his family's sword shop—a pirate whose bounty was something unimaginable for a place like Loguetown.
Miyamoto, standing beside me, couldn't hold back his laughter as he casually walked over to help the poor guy up. "You're scaring them senseless already, Captain."
"Long time no see, old man," I said, paying little attention to the young man sprawled out on the floor as I walked past him. My eyes were fixed on the elderly shopkeeper seated behind the counter.
The old man, Ipponmatsu's grandfather, immediately broke into a broad grin the moment he saw me. His face, though weathered with age, lit up with genuine joy. His hands, worn from years of handling fine blades, rested comfortably on the wooden counter. He was a true sword enthusiast, someone who could appreciate the craftsmanship of a weapon beyond its killing power.
His raspy voice rang out in booming laughter. "Hahahaha! You little brat! Didn't I tell you?" He turned toward his grandson, who was now being helped up by Miyamoto.
"I told you I knew him, but you never believed me! You thought your old man was lying all these years, and now look at you! The great pirate walks into our shop, and you can't even stay on your feet!"
Ipponmatsu's face turned red with embarrassment, his legs still shaky as he stood. "G-Grandpa…" he stammered, not knowing whether to be more ashamed or terrified. His grandfather had, indeed, spoken often of a powerful young pirate he once met, but like any skeptical youth, Ipponmatsu had dismissed it as one of the old man's tall tales.
But now, reality was staring him in the face.
The old man, delighted by the situation, bellowed another laugh and slapped the counter. "What do you have to say now, boy? I wasn't lying, was I?"
The old man sighed deeply, his eyes turning toward me with a soft, nostalgic gaze. "How have you been, kid? You seem to have had it rough these past years."
I was caught off guard by the question. When was the last time someone had asked me how I was doing, let alone in such a sincere, almost grandfatherly way? I couldn't help but shake my head with a small smile. It felt strange—comforting even.
"I'm good, old man," I replied, trying to sound as casual as possible, though the sentiment had genuinely touched me. "What about you? Still holding onto that dream of displaying all three grades of Meito in your shop?" I teased, remembering the grand ambition he had once shared with me.
Back then, it had seemed like a pipe dream—something only a true sword enthusiast would dare to hope for. The idea of having a collection that showcased all three grades of legendary swords—Supreme Grade, Great Grade, and Skillful Grade—was nothing short of monumental.
The old man gave a wistful smile, his eyes narrowing slightly in thought. "Hmmm… I still want to, kid. But Meito are hard to come by. These swords, they have stories, lifetimes attached to them."
His voice trailed off, his eyes glazed over with a mix of regret and longing, as if haunted by the thought of his dream slipping further and further away with age.
His expression suddenly changed as his eyes fell on the swords strapped to my side. His brow furrowed in concentration as he squinted to see more clearly. Quickly, he grabbed his glasses and slid them onto his nose, then pulled an old, worn notebook from beneath the counter.
Flipping through the pages with hands that trembled ever so slightly, the old man's gaze darted between my swords and his notes.
Suddenly, he froze. The notebook slipped from his hands, hitting the floor with a soft thud, forgotten in his shock. His eyes were wide, his breathing rapid.
"You… you, kid," he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're carrying the treasure of Wano." His words came out rasped, almost strangled by disbelief. Though he couldn't fully recognize Akatsuki, he could feel the ominous aura that radiated from it.
He knew, without a doubt, that this was no ordinary sword. His keen eye detected the high quality, and he could tell it was a cursed blade—one of immense power.
But that wasn't all. His gaze drifted to Miyamoto, standing beside me, who carried two blades at his hip. The old man's eyes widened even further. The swords Miyamoto carried were no ordinary weapons either.
I let the silence stretch for a moment, watching the old man's mind struggle to comprehend the reality before him. Then, I spoke, my voice calm and steady. "I'm here to help you fulfill your dream, old man."
Before he could respond, I reached behind me and carefully pulled out a long, cloth-wrapped case. With a deliberate slowness, I placed it gently on the counter and began to untie the knot.
Inside was a beautifully ornate case, and when I opened it, a gleaming sheathed sword lay within—its craftsmanship nothing short of impeccable. The blade exuded both elegance and an unmistakable sense of danger.
The old man's breath caught in his throat as he leaned in, his trembling hands reaching toward the blade. But he hesitated, his eyes flickering up to me as if seeking permission. I gave him a nod, and with a reverence that bordered on sacred, his gnarled fingers grasped the hilt.
The moment he touched it, his entire demeanor changed. His eyes welled up with tears as he lifted the sword to inspect it more closely, his hands shaking as he ran his fingers along the flawless edge. His voice cracked as he spoke, barely able to form the words.
"This… this is no ordinary blade. Is this… what I think it is?"
"Yes," I said quietly. "That's Shirayuki, the thirteenth Supreme Grade sword."
The old man's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. Tears flowed freely down his weathered cheeks as he realized what he was holding. A Supreme Grade sword—the rarest, most revered class of blade in the entire world. How many people in this world could even boast of laying eyes on one, let alone hold it in their hands?
"This is… this is beyond a dream," he whispered, his voice trembling with raw emotion. "A Supreme Grade blade in my shop…"
The tears continued to fall as the old man reverently placed Shirayuki back into its case, his fingers lingering on the hilt as though parting from a long-lost friend. His hands were still shaking, but it was from joy, not fear.
Behind him, Ipponmatsu stood frozen, clueless as to the significance of the sword his grandfather had just held. He looked between us, confused and overwhelmed, clearly unable to grasp the gravity of what had just happened.
"I'll be staying on the island for a week," I said, stepping closer to the counter. "During that time, you can display these three swords in your shop, old man."
Without another word, I unstrapped Shusui, the black-bladed Great Grade sword, and gently placed it beside Shirayuki on the counter.
The old man's eyes widened even further—if that was possible—as he gazed at Shusui. His breath hitched once more as he reached for it, reverently touching the blade. He could barely contain himself. A Great Grade sword and a Supreme Grade sword, both in his shop at the same time. It was unthinkable.
Just as the old man began to process what was happening, Miyamoto stepped forward, standing beside the counter with a smile. Wordlessly, he unstrapped his own sword, Dragon Fang, a Skillful Grade blade, and placed it on the counter as well.
The old man's hands flew to his mouth, his eyes wide with wonder. Three swords. Three legendary grades. All in his humble shop, right before his eyes. For a moment, he simply stood there, speechless, as though his mind had shut down from sheer disbelief.
"A Supreme Grade, a Great Grade, and a Skillful Grade sword… all in one place," he whispered, his voice barely audible. Tears of joy streamed down his face, his hands trembling as they hovered over the blades. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry.
For a sword enthusiast like him, this was the pinnacle of his life's work—a dream fulfilled in the most miraculous way.
He looked up at me, his eyes filled with gratitude, awe, and disbelief. "I… I don't know what to say," he stammered, his voice thick with emotion. "You've made an old man's dream come true."
I simply smiled. "Consider it a small favor for an old friend."
*****
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