The pirate captain's body lay motionless at my feet, his chest rising and falling in shallow, irregular breaths.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, mixing with the seawater that had splashed across the deck during our fight. His weapons—knives, pistol, that wicked kukri—scattered around him like fallen leaves.
I nudged the last throwing knife away with my sword and straightened up, letting the Barbossa Sword's glow fade to its normal silver steel. The silence that followed felt heavier than the blade in my hand.
Around me, the remaining pirates in binding were frozen like pieces in a modern artwork titled "Maritime Criminals Having Existential Crises".
Some still dangled from the rigging where my supernatural tantrum had left them. Others were trying to cut themselves free, only to find their captain sprawled unconscious and their momentum thoroughly murdered.
None of them continued to struggle.
'Smart choice.'
One pirate with gold teeth—a scrawny guy whose beard looked like it had been attacked by moths—dropped his cutlass with a clatter that echoed across the deck. His only free hand shot up above his head so fast I thought he might dislocate something.
"We surrender!" he squeaked, voice pitched high enough to summon dolphins. "Don't... don't do that lightning thing again!"
'Lightning thing? Right, because explaining Hamon to pirates would definitely improve this situation.'
The others who still held steel followed suit, weapons hitting the deck like a percussion ensemble having a breakdown. Surrendering pirates, unconscious captain, and me standing in the middle of it all like the world's most reluctant conductor.
'Sigh, this is exactly what I was trying to avoid.'
But the damage was done. I could feel their stares—not just the pirates, but everyone on the ship. Crew members, passengers, and even the Captain, who looked like he had seen better days.
All of them were looking at me with that same expression.
Fear mixed with awe, like I was some kind of mythical creature that had wandered out of a sailor's drunken story.
'Yeah, welcome to the hero business, Hachiman. Population: idiots who should know better.'
"Mmm…Should you...secure the prisoners?" I asked no one in particular, hoping to get out of this awkward pause and move things around.
Thankfully, the Captain stepped forward and nodded at me like I'd just issued royal commandments.
"Yes, sir!" He barked orders at the crew, who scrambled to collect rope and shackles. "You heard him! Get these scum locked up before they remember how to think!"
'Sir? He called me sir? What fresh hell is this?'
Within minutes, the pirates found themselves herded toward the cargo hold that would serve as their temporary prison. They shuffled along like defeated children, casting nervous glances back at me as if expecting another supernatural light show.
The gold-toothed one stumbled past, muttering under his breath about 'Devil Fruit users', 'Bounty Hunter', and 'This was a trap all along.' His imagination was running wild, filling in details about me that were probably more wrong than right.
'Let him think that. Better than the truth.'
As the prisoners disappeared below deck, I became aware of a new problem. The crew wasn't dispersing to handle post-battle cleanup like I'd expected.
Instead, they were gathering around me, waiting for... something.
'Orders?' I realized with growing horror. They were waiting for orders.
"What should we do about the bodies, sir?" asked a young sailor with barely enough facial hair to qualify as stubble.
I blinked at him. "Bodies?"
"The dead pirates, sir. And..." He gestured toward several unsightly forms all over the ship's deck. "Some of our own didn't make it."
'Right. People died. Because pirates are murderous bastards and life isn't a fairy tale where everyone walks away with minor scratches and valuable lessons about friendship.'
The sight of those bodies hit me harder than it should have. Sailors and passengers who'd been laughing and working and living just an hour ago, now reduced to still forms under bloodstained canvas. Their families would never see them again because some greedy criminals decided our cargo was worth killing for.
And I could have prevented it if I'd acted sooner.
'No. Don't go down that road. You can't save everyone, and trying only makes things worse.'
"Handle them however you normally handle casualties," I said, turning away from the bodies. "I'm a passenger, not your captain."
"Ah, yes sir,…"
'This is exactly why I avoid getting involved.'
The next few hours blurred together in a haze of reluctant reports I didn't even ask for. No matter how many times I expressed my reluctance to the crew, they kept circling back to me.
"Sir, what should we do with the pirates' weapons?"
"Sir, the ship doctor said that the Pirate captain will survive."
"Sir, the shipwright said the rudder will take a while longer."
"Sir?" The first mate approached carrying a wooden chest that gleamed with promise. "We've catalogued the pirates' treasure. Gold, silver, and some fine jewelry. Quality stuff."
He set the chest at my feet and opened it with a ceremonial flourish. Coins caught the afternoon light, throwing golden reflections across the deck. Even conservative estimates put the value in the dozen millions of Berries.
"What do you want us to do with it?"
'There it was again. That question.'
I stared at the treasure, then at the expectant faces surrounding me. They waited for my judgment like supplicants before a throne. The weight of their attention made my skin crawl.
"I'll only take these," I said finally, reaching into the chest. The coins felt heavy in my palm—more than enough for supplies and passage to the next island. "Distribute the rest among the victims. Families of the dead get priority."
Surprised murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd. They'd expected me to claim the lion's share, maybe even all of it. That's what power meant to most people in this world—the right to take whatever you wanted.
'Wrong again.'
"Are you certain, sir?" The first mate's voice carried a note of disbelief. "You defeated those pirates. So by rights of conquest, it's yours to—"
"By rights of common decency, it belongs to the people who suffered for it." I pocketed my share and stepped back from the chest. "Make sure everyone gets their due."
More murmurs, these tinged with something between respect and bewilderment. They couldn't understand why someone with my abilities would settle for scraps when he could claim the whole prize.
'Because taking everything would make me no different from the pirates. And not taking anything will make it suspicious.'
More questions about what they would do about the pirate's ship followed. I wanted to return to my cabin many times, but was still stopped many times.
"Excuse me... sir?"
I turned to find a middle-aged woman with graying hair and worry lines etched deep around her eyes. She was clutching the hand of a young girl—maybe eight or nine years old—who peeked out from behind her mother's skirts with wide, curious eyes.
They were the mother-daughter pair who were on the deck during the attack.
Passengers, right. Because dealing with the crew wasn't complicated enough.
"Yes," I said, trying to keep my voice neutral.
"I wanted to thank you," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "For saving us. If you hadn't stopped those pirates... my daughter and I..." She trailed off, unable to finish the thought.
The little girl tugged on her mother's dress and whispered something I couldn't hear. The woman nodded and gently pushed her forward.
"Sarah wants to know if you're a Marine Hero," the woman said with a weak smile. "Like the one in the Comic strip."
I looked down at Sarah—all big eyes and innocent curiosity—and felt something twist in my chest. She wasn't looking at me with fear like the adults. To her, I was just someone who'd done something cool and impossible, like characters in the Newspaper comic strip.
'Hero, huh? Well, it is better than explaining the moral complexity of violence and death to a child. But I can't let it be just like that.'
"I'm just someone who was in the right place at the right time," I told Sarah, crouching down to her eye level. "The real heroes are the sailors who kept the ship running and made sure you stayed safe."
'The last thing I would want to do is to install dangerous thoughts into the mind of a child.'
Sarah tilted her head, considering this. "But you made the ropes move by themselves. And your sword glowed like magic."
'Right, kids' shows are all about cool effects and not the practical stuff.'
"Sometimes people can do unusual things when they need to," I said carefully. "But that doesn't make them special. It just makes them... lucky."
The cute little Sarah seemed to accept this explanation, but her mother's eyes held a different expression. Gratitude mixed with something else—a careful kind of respect that people reserved for dangerous things they were thankful for.
'There it is again. The fear.'
More passengers approached as they saw the scene. They approached in waves throughout the afternoon, each group bringing its own flavor of expectation and disappointment.
First came the grateful ones. Some wanted to shake my hand. Others offered food, money, personal belongings—anything to express their gratitude. A few more mothers pushed their children forward to thank the "nice man who saved everyone".
A merchant's wife even clutched my sleeve with trembling hands, tears streaming down her weathered cheeks as she thanked me for saving her life.
Her husband stood behind her, nodding vigorously and promising to spread word of my heroics at every port from here to the Grand Line.
'No, please don't!'
Let's hope that last one is some empty words.
Next were the cautiously friendly passengers who smiled too widely and spoke too loudly, as if volume could mask their nervousness. They complimented my fighting skills while keeping just outside arm's reach, ready to bolt if I showed any sign of aggression.
The last group hurt the worst, though they said nothing at all. They lingered at the edges of my vision, watching with hollow eyes that held all the accusations their mouths wouldn't voice.
Their friends were dead. Their families were injured. And I—with abilities that could have ended the fight before it truly began—had waited until the fight with the pirates truly heated.
'Where were you when my daughter screamed?'
'Why didn't you act when they killed my brother?'
'What kind of person has such power and chooses not to use it?'
I understood their anger because I'd asked myself the same questions. In that moment of hesitation, people died. Real people with real lives, not background characters in some adventure story. The weight of those deaths pressed against my chest like a stone.
But I also understood why I'd hesitated. Especially now with the aftermath.
Power drew attention. Attention brought complications. And complications had a way of spiraling beyond anyone's control.
Case in point: the current situation.
'But strangely, I still couldn't avoid the guilt...'
It took a while until I returned to my cabin, and before I could even rest, one of the sailors knocked on my door and asked me to come with him.
The interrogation had results, delivered by a grim-faced crew member who'd clearly drawn the short straw.
Turns out that the pirates had targeted the ship based on intelligence about hidden cargo—a secret shipment of the trading company's wealth, transported alongside regular merchandise to avoid detection.
"Bastards planned to kill everyone from the start," the sailor reported. "No witnesses, no loose ends. They figured the cargo company would assume their ship got lost at sea. Like this, they would skip the Company's ire and the Marines tracking altogether."
The captain of the cargo ship appeared as the sailor finished his report, sporting various bandages all over his body, and walking with the careful gait of someone whose equilibrium hadn't quite returned. He listened to the recap with growing fury, his good eye blazing with indignation.
"Those goddamn swindlers!" He slammed his fist against the mast, immediately regretting it as pain flashed across his features. "Jobs like this require hazard pay and armed escort. They played us for fools!"
His anger was justified. He'd been deceived by his employers, nearly killed along with his crew, and left to clean up a mess that wasn't of his making.
The trading company had used his ship as a cheap cover to avoid high costs, taxes, and fanfare in front of their rivals, gambling with lives they considered expendable in the meantime.
'Looks like whatever the world, big companies are the same.'
But his problems weren't my problems. I was just a passenger who'd gotten caught in someone else's scheme.
"The pirates have bounties," I said when his rant wound down. "Decent ones, Gleaming Knife Dinise 11,000,000 Berri from what I saw on their wanted posters. Turn them over to the Marines when we reach port."
The Cargo ship Captain nodded, then paused. "Huh? You're not claiming the bounties yourself?"
"No."
"But surely a bounty hunter of your caliber—"
"I'm not a bounty hunter." The words tasted bitter. "I'm a... treasure hunter." Damn I was barely able to suppress the cringe.
'God, that sounds stupid.'
The captain and crew exchanged glances. Treasure hunter carried less prestige than bounty hunter, but it explained my skills without raising too many questions.
Most treasure hunters dealt with dangerous situations—ancient ruins, hostile wildlife, rival expeditions. Combat ability came with the territory.
Still, the admission made me want to crawl into a hole and disappear. It sounded like something a twelve-year-old would claim when playing pirates in the backyard.
'A-At least it's technically true...'
W-Well, for exactly the reasons currently playing out around me, I'd avoided bounty hunting.
Bounty hunters developed reputations. Marines tried to recruit them constantly, seeing skilled fighters as potential assets for their cause, and with less money to pay to outsiders.
Moreover, they always kept an eye on them in case these powerful individuals turned rogue.
Pirates, too, targeted them specifically—like just Marines wasn't enough—, viewing renowned hunters as stepping stones to greater infamy.
The attention was suffocating. Every successful hunt brought more recognition, more expectations, and more complications. Better to stay anonymous, collect what is needed, and return home as soon as possible.
Fat lot of good that strategy was doing me now.
The next few days passed in blessed monotony. The crew focused on repairs and navigation, gradually returning to their normal routines as the immediate crisis faded.
Passengers found their own rhythms again, though many still watched me with that mixture of awe and wariness that had become depressingly familiar.
I spent most of my time in my room or at the bow, watching the horizon and trying to ignore the whispered conversations that stopped whenever I approached. The ocean stretched endlessly in all directions, blue-cyan depths that promised freedom from the stifling attention.
'Just get to the next island. Find a passage on another ship. Stay anonymous.' That was my thought as I was staring at the Sparrow Compass, noticing the peculiarity of my next target.
'Please, just let it be my imagination.'
On the third morning after the attack, someone called out from the crow's nest: "Land ho!"
The island rose from the sea like a green jewel, its peaks wreathed in clouds and its harbors dotted with ships.
Civilization at last—markets and inns and, most importantly, other vessels bound for distant ports.
As we sailed into the harbor, I caught my reflection in a porthole's glass. Same unremarkable face, same dead fish eyes, same general aura of someone who'd rather be anywhere else.
But something had changed during the voyage until now. The way I held myself, maybe. The set of my shoulders.
'Great, the change is catching up fast now.'
The ship docked with practiced efficiency, crew members securing lines and lowering the gangplank while passengers gathered their belongings. I shouldered my pack and prepared to disappear into the crowd, just another traveler seeking his next destination.
"Sir!" The first mate's voice cut through the harbor noise. "Will you be staying long on the island?"
'Sir. Still with the "sir".'
"Long enough to find passage elsewhere," I replied without turning around.
"Is that so? Then if you need anything—supplies, information, connections—just ask. Word of what you did is already spreading through the port, trust me!" The sailor said with enthusiasm.
'Perfect.'
I walked down the gangplank without another word, my boots hitting solid ground for the first time in weeks. The harbor bustled with activity—merchants hawking wares, sailors loading cargo, children running between the adults with the boundless energy of youth.
But even as I melted into the crowd, I could feel eyes tracking my movement. Word traveled fast in port cities, especially word about mysterious passengers who single-handedly defeated pirate crews. By sunset, half the island would know my description.
By tomorrow, the other half would be making up stories about my exploits.
######
—Third Person POV—
Salt and smoke choked the air as Zoro shoved through the tavern's warped wooden door.
The hinges screamed against rust, announcing his arrival to every drunk sailor and merchant huddled over their drinks.
He ignored their stares—the way their eyes lingered on the three swords strapped to his side, the way conversations died mid-sentence before resuming in hushed whispers.
The floorboards groaned under his boots as he approached the bar. Sticky residue from spilled ale clung to his soles with each step.
The bartender, a grizzled man with arms like tree trunks, glanced up from wiping down a glass with a rag that had seen better decades.
"What'll it be?" The man's voice scraped like sandpaper.
"Sake. The strongest you've got."
The bartender's weathered hands moved with practiced efficiency, producing a bottle and cup. The ceramic clinked against the scarred wood as he set it down.
Zoro dropped coins onto the counter—enough to cover the drink and discourage further conversation.
But the tavern had other plans.
"—swear on my mother's grave, the whole crew went down in seconds!"
The voice carried from a corner table where three men leaned forward, their faces flushed with drink and excitement.
Zoro lifted the cup to his lips, the sake burning a familiar path down his throat. He'd heard a thousand tales like this in a hundred taverns.
Pirates boasting about battles that grew larger with each telling, merchants spinning yarns to impress their drinking companions.
"Seconds?" Another voice joined in, skeptical but hungry for details. "The Gleaming Knives weren't some small-time crew. Dinise, their captain, had a reputation."
Zoro's hand paused midway to his mouth. The Gleaming Knives. He'd heard that name before—whispered in the same breath as other crews that had carved their names into the East Blue's bloody history. Not the strongest pirates he'd heard about, but dangerous enough to command respect.
"Reputation doesn't mean much when you're face-down in the dirt," the first man countered. "This swordsman—whoever he was—cut through them like wheat before a scythe."
The sake forgotten, Zoro turned slightly on his stool. The three men had attracted a small crowd now, their audience pressing closer with each embellished detail.
He recognized the type—storytellers who lived for moments like this, when every eye focused on their words and every ear strained to catch the next revelation.
"One swordsman against an entire crew?" A woman's voice this time, tinged with disbelief. "How many were there?"
"Fifty men, maybe sixty," came the reply. "All armed to the teeth. The captain himself was worth eleven million Berri—dangerous enough to make even the Marines think twice."
Zoro's grip tightened on his cup. Eleven million Berri. Not an insignificant bounty, especially for the East Blue. The kind of sum that represented real skill, real danger. The kind of opponent worth fighting.
"And this mystery swordsman just walked in and took them all down?" Another voice, older, more grizzled. "Sounds like sea-snake oil to me."
"I'm telling you what I heard," the storyteller insisted, his voice rising to carry over the growing murmur of the crowd.
"Saw the aftermath myself when we docked at Ketsuna Island. Bodies everywhere, the dock stained red with blood. The locals were still shaking when they told me what happened."
Zoro set his cup down harder than necessary. The sharp clink cut through the tavern's din for a moment before the conversations resumed. His pulse quickened—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous. Anticipation.
"Must've been some fighter," he said, his voice cutting through the crowd's chatter like a blade.
The storyteller's head snapped toward him, taking in the three swords at Zoro's side. The man's eyes widened slightly, recognition dawning. Not of who Zoro was—his reputation hadn't spread that far yet—but of what he represented.
The man leaned forward. "Are you a swordsman?"
Zoro met his gaze, expression blank. Then he looked down at the hilts at his hip. Slowly.
The man flinched, embarrassed. "Right. Dumb question."
The crowd shifted, creating space between them. Zoro could feel their anticipation, the way they leaned forward to catch every word.
In their eyes, he saw the same hunger that had driven him from island to island, battle to battle. The need to witness something extraordinary, to be present when legends were born or died.
"Then you'd appreciate what I'm about to tell you," the storyteller continued, his voice dropping to draw his audience closer. "This wasn't just any swordsman. The locals called him Death-Eyes Hikigaya—a play on Hawk-Eye Mihawk, if you can believe the irony."
The name hit Zoro like a physical blow. Mihawk. The World's Greatest Swordsman. The man whose title Zoro had sworn to claim, whose strength represented the summit of everything he'd trained for, bled for, lived for.
That someone would dare mock that name, even in jest...
"Irony?" Zoro kept his voice level, but his hand had unconsciously moved to rest on Wado Ichimonji's hilt.
"Dead eyes, they said. Like he was already looking at corpses when he faced the living." The storyteller paused, letting the words sink in. "But here's the strangest part—his sword was broken."
"Broken?"
"Shattered near the tip, from what I heard. Looked like it had been snapped in half, and because it was sharp enough, he didn't bother to properly repair it. Beautiful blade, though. Some kind of special steel that had a beautiful carving on it. The locals said it was the strangest thing they'd ever seen—a swordsman carrying a weapon that should've been useless."
Zoro's fingers drummed against the bar's surface.
A broken sword. In his world, a swordsman's blade was more than a weapon—it was an extension of his soul, his will made manifest in steel. To fight with a broken sword was either the act of a madman or someone so confident in their skill that they could overcome any handicap.
"How'd he fight with a broken blade?" The question came from somewhere in the crowd, but Zoro realized he'd been thinking the same thing.
"That's where it gets interesting," the storyteller said, clearly savoring the moment. "According to the survivors—and there were only a few—his style was unlike anything they'd ever seen. Single strikes, fast as lightning, precise as a surgeon's scalpel. He'd move once, and three men would fall. Move again, and five more would hit the deck."
The tavern had fallen silent now, every patron straining to hear. Zoro felt the familiar fire building in his chest—the burning need that had driven him since childhood, the hunger that no amount of training or victories could satisfy.
"One witness said he saw the swordsman's final move," the storyteller continued. "The captain of the Gleaming Knives came at him with his cutlass, screaming about how he'd gut him like a fish. This Death-Eyes Hikigaya just stood there, broken sword held low, waiting."
The pause stretched, pregnant with tension. Zoro found himself leaning forward despite his efforts to remain impassive.
"The captain charged. Hikigaya moved—just once, so fast the witness said he almost missed it. A single diagonal cut! And suddenly the captain's sword was shattered and he slammed the deck so hard that the deck was cracking, and blood was flowing everywhere."
The crowd released a collective breath. Someone cursed softly. The bartender had stopped pretending to clean glasses, his attention fixed on the storyteller like everyone else's.
"A single fast sword?" Zoro asked, though he already knew the answer.
"As fast as lightning, is what they said, no hesitation. Just... perfect." The storyteller shook his head. "With a broken sword, mind you. I heard that the blade barely looked long enough to do the job."
Zoro's mind raced. A swordsman skilled enough to defeat an eleven-million-Berri captain with a broken blade. Fast enough to cut down an entire crew without sustaining visible injury.
Fast enough to execute a perfect killing stroke under pressure.
"Where is he now?" The words left Zoro's mouth before he could stop them.
The storyteller shrugged. "Vanished. Same way he appeared—like smoke on the wind. The locals said he didn't even stay to collect the bounty. Just walked away, leaving the bodies and even the treasure behind."
"Someone that skilled doesn't just disappear," Zoro said, more to himself than to the crowd.
"Maybe that's what makes him dangerous," the storyteller replied. "A swordsman with no interest in fame or fortune, just the fight itself. The locals said he looked disappointed after it was over—like he'd expected more from the Gleaming Knives."
The words struck Zoro like a physical blow.
'Disappointed.' He knew that feeling intimately—the hollow ache that followed every victory over an opponent who couldn't push him to his limits.
The growing certainty that he was wasting his time on weaklings while the truly worthy adversaries remained hidden.
That made him unknowingly smile.
"Any idea where he went?" Zoro asked.
The storyteller's grin widened. "That's the million-Berri question, isn't it? Could be anywhere in the East Blue by now. Or maybe he's moved on to the Grand Line, looking for stronger opponents."
The Grand Line. The graveyard of pirates' dreams, where the truly powerful gathered to test themselves against the world's greatest challenges.
Zoro had always known his path would lead him there eventually, but the thought of this Death-Eyes Hikigaya reaching it first sparked something dangerous in his chest.
"You planning to look for him?" The question came from the bartender, who'd been listening with the same rapt attention as everyone else.
Zoro drained his sake cup and set it down with deliberate care. "Maybe."
"Might be worth it," the storyteller said. "From what I heard, he's the kind of swordsman who only shows up once in a generation. The kind who rewrites the rules just by existing."
"Or the kind who dies young because he's too proud to know when he's outmatched," someone else added.
Zoro's laugh was sharp, humorless. "That's the risk we all take."
He stood, the movement causing his swords to shift at his side. The familiar weight felt different now—not heavier, but more purposeful.
Somewhere in the East Blue, a swordsman with dead eyes and a broken blade was walking a path that might intersect with his own.
"Thanks for the story," he said, dropping additional coins on the bar. "And the drink."
The storyteller raised his own cup in a mock salute. "Happy hunting, swordsman. If you find him, make sure to come back and tell us how it went."
Zoro was already moving toward the door, his mind churning with possibilities.
The night air hit him like a slap, carrying the scent of salt and distant storms.
He thought about the broken sword, about the lightning-fast sword that had ended the Gleaming Knives' captain, about the disappointment in dead eyes that had found no worthy challenge.
The fire in his chest burned brighter, fed by the promise of a fight that might actually matter.
'But before that…where am I?'
…
A/N: Whew, a very long chapter!
Well, That's it for now.
Thank you all for reading! Hope you enjoyed this one!
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