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The sloop rocked gently on the waves as Michael guided it toward the towering ship-turned-restaurant on the horizon. Lia sat at the bow, her legs dangling over the edge as the sea breeze tousled her hair. She had been quiet for most of the journey, though her wide eyes betrayed her wonder at the vastness of the ocean.
"Ever been to a place like this?" Michael asked, gesturing toward the Baratie.
Lia shook her head. "No… my family always stuck to the smaller islands. It looks… amazing."
Michael nodded. The floating restaurant was an iconic landmark in East Blue, known for its exquisite food and rowdy atmosphere. He'd recognized it immediately and decided it would be a good place to rest and resupply. More importantly, he needed to start gathering information about Haki and training opportunities if he was going to survive the Grand Line.
As they pulled up to the dock, a sharp-eyed cook with a cigarette dangling from his lips waved them in. Michael secured the sloop, helping Lia off before stepping onto the polished deck of the Baratie. The savory aroma of freshly cooked food filled the air, making his stomach growl.
"Welcome to the Baratie," said the cook, flicking his cigarette overboard. "If you're here to eat, you better have money. If you're here to cause trouble, leave."
Michael smirked. "Just looking for food and some rest."
The cook nodded, his eyes narrowing slightly at the revolver and knife strapped to Michael's side. "Keep those holstered, then."
Inside, the restaurant was bustling with activity. Pirates, merchants, and travelers of all kinds crowded the tables, their laughter and chatter blending with the clinking of plates and glasses. Michael and Lia found a corner table, out of the way but close enough to observe the lively scene.
A waitress approached, balancing a tray on one hand. "What can I get you?"
Michael ordered a modest meal, enough to feed both him and Lia without draining their meager funds. As the waitress left, Lia leaned closer. "Are we safe here?"
"For now," Michael replied, scanning the room. "Places like this don't tolerate fights unless someone's dumb enough to start one."
Lia nodded, though her small hands gripped the edge of the table. She still hadn't fully recovered from the attack on her family's ship, but Michael admired her resilience. Despite her fear, she had stayed strong, even helping him tend to the sloop during their journey.
Their food arrived quickly—thick slices of roast meat, fresh bread, and a steaming bowl of seafood stew. Michael dug in, savoring the flavors. Lia ate quietly, her eyes darting around the room.
As they ate, the door slammed open, and a group of burly pirates swaggered in. Their loud voices and crude laughter drew the attention of the diners, who quickly turned back to their meals, hoping to avoid trouble. Michael kept his gaze on his plate, but his hand drifted toward his knife.
The pirates took a table near the center of the room, their leader—a grizzled man with a scar running down his face—barking at the staff. "We'll take your best food, and hurry it up! We don't pay for slow service."
The waitress hesitated, glancing nervously at the head chef, who stood in the kitchen doorway with his arms crossed. The tension in the room was palpable.
Michael's instincts flared as the scarred pirate's gaze swept the room, landing briefly on Lia. The man grinned, his yellowed teeth gleaming. "What's a little girl like that doing in a place like this?"
Michael tensed, his muscles coiling like springs. Lia shrank back, her hands trembling slightly.
"Relax," Michael said quietly, his voice calm but firm. "Eat your food."
The pirate stood, his heavy boots thudding on the wooden floor as he approached their table. Michael didn't look up, though his grip on the knife tightened.
"Hey there, little miss," the pirate drawled, leaning over the table. "Why don't you come sit with us? We'll show you a good time."
Lia froze, her fork slipping from her fingers. Michael's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "She's not interested."
The pirate straightened, his grin fading. "What was that?"
Michael finally looked up, his eyes cold and unwavering. "I said, she's not interested. Sit down and enjoy your meal before you do something you'll regret."
The room went silent. All eyes were on their table as the pirate glared at Michael. For a moment, it seemed like the man would back off, but his pride got the better of him.
"You've got a big mouth, stranger," he growled, drawing a rusty dagger from his belt. "Let's see if you can back it up."
Michael moved faster than the pirate could react. He rose from his seat, his knife flashing as he deflected the dagger and slammed the pirate's arm against the table. The man yelped in pain as Michael twisted his wrist, forcing him to drop the weapon.
"I told you," Michael said quietly, his voice dripping with menace. "Sit down."
Before the pirate could respond, the head chef's voice boomed across the room. "Enough!"
The pirate froze, his face pale as the chef stepped forward. It was Zeff, the legendary owner of the Baratie, his wooden leg thudding with every step. His piercing gaze swept the room, silencing even the rowdiest diners.
"No fighting in my restaurant," Zeff said, his voice like thunder. He looked at Michael and the pirate in turn. "If either of you causes any more trouble, you're out."
Michael released the pirate's arm, shoving him back. The man stumbled, glaring daggers at Michael before retreating to his table. The tension slowly dissipated, and the diners returned to their meals.
Zeff approached Michael's table, his gaze lingering on the knife in Michael's hand. "You handled that well. Most would've started a brawl."
Michael nodded, sliding the knife back into its sheath. "I'm not looking for trouble."
"Good," Zeff said, crossing his arms. "Because trouble has a way of finding people like you."
Michael didn't respond. Zeff studied him for a moment before turning back to the kitchen, leaving Michael and Lia to finish their meal.
As the evening wore on, the restaurant quieted down. Michael paid for their food and led Lia back to the sloop. As they prepared to leave, he caught sight of the cook with the cigarette from earlier, watching them from the dock.
"You've got skill," the cook said. "But skill won't mean much if you don't have the strength to back it up."
Michael paused, his hand on the sloop's railing. "What do you mean?"
The cook took a drag from his cigarette. "This world doesn't care how good you are with a knife. If you want to survive, you need power. Real power."
He turned and walked away, leaving Michael to ponder his words as the sloop drifted into the night.
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