Act XVI: Cherry Blossoms at Breakfast

Robin, still cloaked in her beloved black fur coat, sat quietly in the sunlit dining hall. Her hands curled gently around a fine porcelain cup of cinnamon tea, its warmth seeping into her palms. Her dark eyes were half-lidded, thoughtful—not weary, just distant, as if her mind still lingered in another world.

There was no tension in her shoulders now. The weight that had always pressed against her chest like a slab of history was gone. It had lifted last night—when Guts, for the first time, had told her everything.

He had spoken of his old world, the blood and the fire. Of a tiny elf named Puck who joked through war. Of a reckless boy named Isidro, a noblewoman named Farnese, her solemn guardian Serpico, and a little witch named Schierke who danced with spirits. He had spoken of Casca—of love twisted by fate, and a child who was never born. And finally, of Griffith, the one who had torn their world apart.

Robin had wept in his arms, openly, loudly, without restraint. Her wails were not just sorrow—they were his sorrow, bleeding through her. Guts hadn't cried for himself. He never could. So she had cried for him, for Casca, for the Band of the Falcon... and for the life Guts had lost.

Then he explained to her the agreement—the promise he had made to a God, an unimaginable entity. And as his voice broke, Guts revealed what she had already surmised because her ability to whisper had already given her plenty of details.

that he cherished her. that she was the daughter he never had in his eyes.

Now, in the gentle morning light, Robin had no more tears left. Her eyes were red, but her face was calm. She took a long, steady sip from her tea, exhaling quietly as cherry blossoms drifted past the window. She appeared rejuvenated.

Guts devoured a platter of grilled fish, eggs, pickled rice, and roasted boar next to her. Like a ravenous beast, he chomped on stopping only to grunt in satisfaction or gulp down rum. His bruises from yesterday are already healed.

Saint Rosward sat at the head of the table with his bandages tightly wrapped over his knuckles and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Instead of his customary noble attire, he wore a simple white linen shirt that was warm from the sun and a little wrinkled. With the accuracy of a man accustomed with the custom, he sliced into a folded omelet. His flawless hands had developed calluses, which were earned rather than inherited.

Across from Guts sat Shalria, dressed in a modest black sundress stitched with delicate white embroidery. Her towering hair bun wobbled slightly each time she shifted, though she tried to eat with practiced poise, chewing every bite slowly and carefully. She quietly pouted, trying, but failing, to avoid constantly glancing at Guts and Robin.

A web of confusion and resentment still entangled her young heart. She realized that her papa had chosen it, had wanted it, and that it had been a duel. However, it didn't stop her frustration from building up inside of her. He had been wounded by guts. terribly. And she hated him for it.

The guilt, however, was worse than her resentment.

She could still clearly recall how, the previous evening, she had yelled at Robin, her voice shrill with fear, as Robin had reached out to touch her papa's battered body. She had only wished to assist and protect him. However, Robin's actions helped rather than harmful.

Something that Shalria was unable to understand had happened when she saw Robin place her hand on her papa's chest, leaving her speechless and wide-eyed. Her papa had been enveloped by a subtle glimmer, delicate like cherry blossoms. The ominous aura that had clung to him—something wrong—began to lift. Her papa had gasped, then breathed more easily. The blackness in his veins dulled, and his trembling stopped.

Shalria lowered her eyes to her plate now, cheeks warm with shame. She had tried to act grown-up. Tried to be useful. But all she had done was yell.

She was still unsure of how to apologize.

Deliberately calm, Rosward put down his fork and gazed for a moment at the gentle curls of steam rising from his plate.

"You know," he said in a low voice that sounded almost like he was talking to himself, "I haven't had a meal like this in decades. Not in peace of mind. Not without being surrounded by individuals who were constantly seeking something from me."

With a soft voice, Robin looked up from her tea. "And now?"

He smiled, a wry, unreadable smile. "I give everything I have now. and they only wish to modify their ship."

He stopped and chuckled to himself. "And that's a ship, really? It resembles a floating coffin attached to a Sea King's leash more."

Guts snorted. "It's not that bad."

Rosward shook his head with mock exasperation, but there was something warm—almost reverent—in his eyes.

Just then, More entered with his usual ghostlike grace, carrying a silver tray stacked with warm bread and a neatly rolled newspaper. He bowed slightly before placing the tray down between Rosward and Shalria.

"Master," he said with his dry, familiar tone. "You've appeared in The World Economy News again. Though this time... in a rather flattering light."

Rosward raised an eyebrow. "I told them not to write anything."

Without a word, More handed him the paper. The headline read: "Rosward the Reformer Destroys Slave Auction Ring — Converts Site into Antiquities Museum. Pirates Beware."

Rosward let out a dry chuckle as he unfolded the paper with one hand. "Didn't ask for that. Just knocked down a few doors. Smashed a few heads."

Robin set her cup down, curious. "You turned the slave house... into a museum?"

Rosward shrugged, his voice casual. "Auction House at Grove 1 is now the Historical Arms & Antiquities Hall. Rare books. Forgotten weapons. Lost art. No chains. No screams. I even hired historians. Proper ones."

Shalria beamed beside him, pride blooming on her face like sunlight. "Papa caught three pirate captains last week! Slammed one and, BANG! he flew through the roof and turned into a star!"

Robin blinked, smiling. "That's... very poetic."

Guts nodded mid-chew. "Better than cleaning toilets."

He remembered his early days on Shells Town, doing odd jobs for scrap coins—sweeping docks, patching roofs, and yes, scrubbing toilets.

"I clean filth too," Rosward said, raising an eyebrow. "Pirates."

They all chuckled softly. Even Guts cracked a smirk.

Outside, the breeze rustled the cherry trees, and sunlight warmed the room through the tall windows. For a brief moment, this strange family of soldiers, survivors, and sinners shared something rare: Peace.

From the window, a low tremor rolled through the ground—deep and lazy, like the yawn of the sea itself.

Robin leaned forward, peering through the tall panes. Far in the distance, nestled lazily against the cliffs of Grove 13, the massive form of Gargar the Sea King curled like an island-sized cat. He yawned thunderously, his gaping maw large enough to swallow a galleon whole, then settled once more beside the harbor near Shakky's Rip-Off Bar. His coiled body now blocked a full third of the port.

"Still lounging near the bar," Robin said with a fond little smile.

"He better not be playing fetch with Marine ships again," Guts muttered between bites.

A knock came at the side door. Firm, but not loud.

With a creak, it opened to reveal Silvers Rayleigh holding a half-empty bottle of sake and his cloak wet from the rain. He grimaced as he entered, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on Rosward's bandaged fists and Guts's fading bruises.

With a dry tone, he remarked, "I could feel your little storm from all the way across Grove 13. Came running, believing that the place was being overrun by the Navy. But I was denied entry by the guards. I waited in the rain all night, and here you are—eating breakfast."

Guts raised one eyebrow. "Really? I thought you came to rob a noble's wine cellar."

Rayleigh's brow twitched. "I'm a pirate, not a burglar!"

Without missing a beat, More appeared at his side with another tray, gracefully setting down a cup and pouring fresh sake with impeccable timing.

"Ohooo... the Dark King in the flesh," Rosward said smoothly. "Please, make yourself at home."

Rayleigh grunted, but like someone who belonged there, he dropped into the nearest open chair with a long sigh.

With wide eyes and a whisper behind her hand, Shalria scooted closer to Robin. "Isn't that the Dark King? He's awesome!"

Robin giggled and leaned down. "Are you curious about a secret? He is merely an elderly man who is addicted to gambling."

Rayleigh coughed mid-sip, nearly choking. "I heard that!"

Then his gaze shifted across the table—and paused. He stared at Rosward like he'd just spotted a sea monster thought extinct.

"...You actually fought Guts?" Rayleigh said slowly, disbelief on his face. "A Tenryuubito... who fought Guts... and lived."

Rosward dabbed his mouth with a napkin, as if the topic were no more exciting than the eggs on his plate. "And made him bleed," he said calmly.

Rayleigh looked between Guts and Rosward again, then picked up his cup.

"I need a stronger drink."

Rayleigh took a long, thoughtful sip of his sake.

Then Rosward set his cup down with a soft clink, and glanced at More. "Bring the blueprint room folio," he said. "The latest batch. And tell the drydock to hold for my word."

More bowed wordlessly and disappeared like a shadow.

Rosward turned to Robin. "I'd like your opinion. You and Guts spoke of... modifying your ship. I'll admit, I'm still not entirely convinced that thing you sail is a ship. Feels more like a... relic dragged by a Sea King."

Guts snorted. "It floats."

"Barely," Rosward muttered.

Robin chuckled into her teacup. "Her name is Jumoi, and she has character."

"She has barnacles growing inside," Rosward replied dryly. "We're going to fix that."

Moments later, More returned carrying a stack of ornate scrolls and glossy blueprints bound in deep red leather. He laid them gently across the table between them.

Rosward gestured at the spread. "Warship frames. Galleons. Submersibles. I even commissioned a Wano-style treasure vessel, just in case you wanted something... aesthetic."

He looked at Robin, more serious now. "You've seen the world. What kind of ship do you want to sail?"

Robin leaned forward, fingertips brushing the edge of one design, then another. "Something fast, durable. Able to navigate both the Calm Belt and the Grand Line. Hidden compartments for my journal. A shallow draft for shallow islands. And space for Guts to swing his friend without knocking over the helm."

"I'm not that clumsy," Guts grunted.

"You broke the compass with your elbow," Robin reminded.

"That compass was weak."

Rayleigh leaned back with a chuckle. "Sounds like you want a fortress that sails like a ship."

"Exactly," Robin said, smiling.

Rosward tapped a rolled design and unfurled it. "Then this. A hybrid hull. Reinforced with sea-prism stone threading. Modular deck plan. I had this made for myself years ago, then decided I liked staying put." Without shifting his eyes from the rolled design, he continue.

"We can modify your ship based on this. Already have the materials needed. Will not take much time either. How's that sound?"

Guts stared at the design, then shrugged. "As long as it floats. And doesn't explode when we're ambushed."

Rosward leaned back, clearly pleased. "Then it's settled. She will be done in two weeks. You'll sail from Grove 31... properly this time."

Shalria clapped excitedly. "Can I help paint the sails?!"

Rosward nodded. "You may even name the figurehead."

Shalria gasped. "I'll make it a giant wolf like Uncle Guts's armor!"

Guts sighed deeply. "Not everything has to be a wolf."

As Robin and Rosward continued to debate ship schematics, Guts leaned over the blueprints, his squinted eyes narrowing. Something in the diagram stirred a memory—an irritation. He tapped a section displaying a towering triple-mast configuration.

"Remove the masts," he said flatly.

Rosward glanced at him, puzzled. "You want a ship... with no masts?"

Guts didn't look up. "No sails. No flags. Just engines. And Gargar."

Rosward raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're serious?"

Guts nodded, then slowly turned his gaze toward Rayleigh. "I don't want some senile-old-pirate hanging a Jolly Roger on it the moment we leave port."

Robin stifled a laugh, her shoulders shaking.

Rayleigh nearly choked on his sake. "You still haven't let that go?! Then I'll paint your damned ship!"

Guts took a long, unbothered sip of water. "I'll report you to the Marines for vandalizing government property."

Rayleigh gaped. "What kind of pirate snitches to the Marines?!"

"I'm not a pirate," Guts replied with a sigh.

Rayleigh's forehead throbbed. "Then become one already! You're a Shichibukai, for god's sake!"

Robin couldn't hold back anymore. She burst out laughing, setting her tea down before it spilled. Rayleigh's relentless efforts to goad Guts into piracy had become a running joke—and he was still losing.

Rosward just smiled, amused by the bizarre family dynamic unfolding around his dining table.