Pirates, Thieves and Me(5)

Fate really knows how to pull my leg.

I boarded a ship once—no resistance, no challenge. A clean operation. And now? I was standing still on the deck of the ship, letting another crew come to board me, and I planned on doing nothing to stop them. Not yet.

She really doesn't let me have a moment to gloat, does she?

Oh, Fate. Twisted as a rusted anchor chain. Never straightforward. Never predictable. But I am just as twisted. So fine. Let's play your game.

I stepped forward and let myself come fully into view. No skulking behind sails. No hiding behind crates. I wanted them to see me. I needed them to see me.

With deliberate calm, I climbed onto the railing of my own ship. The wood was warm from the sun, dry and solid beneath my boots. I leaned back against the higher rail from the stairway behind me, one leg dangling casually over the edge like I was lounging in a tavern, not waiting to be swarmed by pirates. I raised my wine gourd to my lips and took a sip, slow and theatrical.

I must have looked like a painting—carefree, detached, maybe even smug. Like someone meant to be framed in the center of a Vogue magazine, if Vogue ever covered bounty hunter with bloodstains. That was the image I wanted to send. Not just calm. Untouchable. Carefree.

Let them see an empty ship, only me on deck, unmoved by the sight of their vessel cutting through the water.

Let them look through their scopes and see a man who was not scrambling, not preparing, not afraid.

Because that's what unsettles the smart ones. Not the men who roar and rally their crew, not the ones who run, but the ones who sit quietly and drink. The ones who seem to know something you don't.

My ship was bigger than theirs, stronger too—sleek, well-maintained, layered with a hull designed to take a beating and give back twice as much. If they fired cannons and sank her, they'd lose their only chance of capturing a vessel like this. Their own ship looked patched, sun-bleached, probably slow in heavy winds. No comparison.

They'd want mine. I could feel it.

I could almost hear their captain pacing, preaching. Telling the crew how this would be their new ride. A real ship, a real prize. All they had to do was take it. And to take it, all they had to do was get through me. Just me. One man. One obstacle.

But if the captain was worth the bounty on his head—and he should be—he'd know better. He'd know that lone wolves are the ones to watch. A full crew might mean discipline or strength, but a single man standing unshaken? That's a different kind of threat. A man who invites you onto his deck, who leans back with a drink while you come for his throat—that's the man you should fear.

And I wanted that thought to settle in their heads like fog.

But they were pirates, playing according to the rules weren't their best suit. For all I know all of them could be stupid. This was One Piece after all. Stupidity ran in blood after all. 

I took another drink—this time a heavier pull. The wine was bitter, sharp on the tongue, with an earthy undertone that stuck in the nose. Aged and spiced. Not the kind of stuff you find in cheap ports. This was the kind of drink that suggested taste, refinement, history. Something worth stealing. Another layer to the image I painted.

The wind was perfect, blowing from my ship to theirs. If any of them had sharp enough noses, they'd catch the scent. The fermented sting would float straight into their lungs. Let them breathe it in. Let them know that what they were smelling was the most decadent wine they could ever hope to sip. That it wasn't ordinary. And maybe—just maybe—it was a little bit unhinged.

Perfect for men at seas.

I wasn't just waiting. I was setting a stage.

That's what people don't understand about confrontation. It isn't all steel and strength. Half of it is theater. Control the scene, control the mood. You don't win a fight with just weapons. You win it with perception.

Right now, I was the show. 

I had made myself the bait, yes, but not the kind that wriggles and waits to die. The kind that dares you to take a bite and chokes you on the hook.

And I'd given them more than enough reasons to take it. A better ship. More loot. A lone opponent. Bragging rights. Hell, even the wine. All served up on a clean deck under a blue sky. All they had to do was climb aboard.

Any half-wit could smell the setup, but pirates aren't known for their restraint. Especially not when greed drowns out common sense.

Some of them would hesitate. The smart ones. The ones who'd seen too many close calls. I could imagine the quiet murmurs—"Why isn't he running?" "Is this a trap?" "Why's he smiling?" But it wouldn't matter. The dumb ones would push forward, and once the first one jumped over the rail, the rest would follow.

That was the rhythm of men. One moves, the rest react.

Still, I had no illusions. I wasn't invincible. But I didn't need to be. I just needed to manage the chaos. One wave at a time. Pick my moment. Turn their strength into clutter. Use the deck, the shadows, the weight of their numbers against them. Turn their eagerness into noise.

The orange and purple-haired girls would dive into the chaos and multiply it. The perfect recipe for disaster and chaos.

That, more than anything, would decide how far I went today.

I shifted slightly, resting my forearm on my bent knee. Another sip. The wine was warming me now, crawling through my chest. Not enough to dull my edge—just enough to loosen the knots inside me.

The ship was closing in. Maybe thirty seconds out. I could see more faces now. Weapons. They were watching me. Studying.

I didn't move. I didn't speak. Just watched, drank, and waited.

The game had already started. And they were already behind.

--------------

I always seem to forget. 

This was a place where common sense wasn't just rare—it damn near extinct.

Because what kind of lunatic crashes a ship into another ship just to board it?

No warning. No strategy. No finesse. Just full-speed madness as their rusting hull slammed into the side of mine with a teeth-jarring crunch that echoed across the waves like a bell tolling for lost logic. 

I would have loved cannon shot more than this.

If it weren't for the solid oak beams and reinforced ribs of my ship, she'd have cracked like an egg and gone straight to the bottom. The railing splintered, sails shuddered, and ropes snapped loose like whips in a storm.

And yet—it worked.

Somehow, against all the odds and expectations, it worked. The ship crash had created a chaotic bridge, and the pirates swarmed over it, leaping across shattered rails and broken beams like ants invading a carcass. No formation, no caution, just pure raw energy and bloodlust.

I stood in the middle of it all, stunned for half a second, not because I was afraid—but because it was so stupid it might actually have been brilliant.

Was it genius or idiocy? I couldn't tell. Maybe both. In this world, those things often danced together.

Their main ship, though—still had a few people left aboard. Not many. Just a handful. And among them, the girls. The Burglar Duo of the East Blue. Sharp as they were ruthless. If anyone could exploit the chaos, it was them. I knew exactly what they'd try. Either toss the men overboard and sail off, or kill them all and claim the spoils. They didn't care for captains, codes, or flags. They played for themselves.

I couldn't let that happen.

If they sailed off, all of this was for nothing. I didn't plan this chaos for someone else's victory. All this destruction, all this effort—for a burned-out hulk and no way to chase the real prize. But the ship couldn't be moved immediately either. Damage needed patching. Sails needed resetting. It would take time to sail again.

So I had a simple job now: kill every last pirate in that window of time.

No exceptions.

I burned my blood. I let my body awaken—let the heat crawl through my veins, the way it always did when the fight truly started. The wine gourd tilted, and I let it pour over my mouth. The earthy bitterness filled the air around me, mixing with the salt and gunpowder. I could feel it draw their eyes, their gulps. This was a bloody spectacular wine.

Then I lit the grenade.

It was the itchy one. A creation inspired by the mind of a man who saw chaos not as a weapon, but as an art. Usopp's handiwork. His creations were never meant for Mass Destruction, they were meant to solve problems or prank others. 

And mix that with my need for lethal weaponry. You get this creation. 

I yanked the pin and lobbed it high into the air. It arced like a comet and dropped dead center on their deck, in the group of the pirates.

Boom.

Not a huge explosion—more like a violent sneeze from the sea gods. But it did the job. A bright flash. A burst of powder that danced in the sunlight like stardust. Then the screams.

Some had been too close. They were gone before they knew it. Shrapnel embedded deep, smoke swallowing their final thoughts. Others were hit with the fine powder, their skin crawling, their eyes watering, scratching themselves like madmen in the throes of some invisible plague.

One breath. One step. I launched from the railing, boots slamming onto their deck, sword still sheathed. My coat flared behind me, the scent of wine following like a ghost.

The itchy cloud still hovered in patches. I avoided it. I knew better. A single grain of that powder on me, and I'd be too busy clawing at my arms to aim straight. Usopp's tools weren't to be underestimated.

Instead, I circled wide, moved through the smoke like a phantom, and drew my pistol.

Crack.

One shot. One dead.

Crack.

Another. Clean through the eye.

Some were still writhing on the ground, but a few fought through the itch. Desperation does that. They dodged, ducked, scrambled for cover. But I didn't stop. I reloaded without blinking. Breathe in. Fire. Breathe out. Reload.

I was a machine—no joy, no rage, just cold execution.

Then the bullets came.

Not from in front—but behind. The ones left on their original ship had found their resolve. Or maybe just found their fear of losing everything. Gunfire erupted from behind, snapping past me, punching into the wood, spraying splinters. I felt three—maybe four—hit my back. One caught my arm. Another my side. My body jerked, but I didn't fall.

Didn't even stumble.

I dropped the pistol. Let it clatter to the ground. And slowly, I drew my sword.

The steel sang as it came free. Smooth, bright, untouched by blood.

I looked at them. The ones who had fired. Still in their ship. Still thinking distance was safety.

"This blade hasn't tasted blood yet." I said, voice level in English. "You lot should do just fine."

Then I leapt.

Pain bloomed in my back, but it didn't matter. The wounds were already closing, muscle knitting itself back together. My body burned with the fire I'd learned to master. The bullets were a whisper. The sword was a promise.

I landed in the middle of their deck like a guillotine falling.

The first man didn't even raise his gun in time. His head rolled before his knees hit the wood.

The second tried to parry. His blade snapped on mine. I split him open from shoulder to waist.

The seventh begged. I didn't stop.

Swift, surgical, complete. 

The girls watched from the edge of the chaos. I saw the glint of calculation in their eyes. They were testing the odds, weighing their next move.

The deck ran red. My sword moved faster than thought, faster than breath. The air was filled with the scent of blood and burnt powder. And behind it all, the earthy bite of the wine, still lingering.

I kept my quiet as I looked at the girl. They acted pitiful. 

I drank another gulp and threw the wine gourd to them. 

"Taizai suru." Stay. 

Then turned my back. That was the real test for them.