I climbed up the rope ladder to the treehouse.
The mont my feet hit the wooden floorboards, I was t with the unmistakable sounds of creation: tal clinking against tal, bolts being sorted, boxes shifting. The sharp zshk zshk of sandpaper against steel. Kids were yelling—mostly at each other—while Usopp muttered things under his breath in half-ford ideas. It was the type of chaotic energy that sohow didn’t feel stressful.
The inside of Usopp’s treehouse was, as expected, a ss. Not in the bad way. It was a boy’s ss—a system that looked like it made no sense until you saw how he moved through it. Tools scattered, tal scraps piled high, boxes full of wires, washers, broken goggles, stripped gears, half-lted pipes, coiled springs, and five separate slingshots in various stages of death.
And in the middle of it all, bouncing from table to floor to wall like a pinball in motion, was Usopp.
I didn’t say anything. Just leaned against the wall and watched.
He was in the zone—his own rhythm, his own music. Welding mask flipped up, face streaked with soot. His gloved hands moved with surprising care, guiding each step of the process. There was a focused energy to him that most people missed. They saw the long nose, the big stories, the exaggerated gestures—but not this. Not the craft.
The kids had followed up and now hovered close, whispering excitedly. Ninjin stood on tiptoe. Tamanegi was already munching sothing again—where he got food this ti, I had no clue. Piiman tried to mimic Usopp’s motions with a stick and nearly poked himself in the eye. They peeked over crates, getting as close as they dared.
But Usopp noticed them getting underfoot and waved a screwdriver like a sword. I could even imagine his words. "Back up. This is sacred territory. One false move and this rod might explode into a hundred pieces! Blowing you all up into pieces. But luckily its in the hand of your great Captain Usopp, the brave man of the sea."
The kids yelped and ducked behind my legs. Tamanegi dropped his snack.
I gave Usopp a look. He gave a cheeky grin, then went right back to work.
He was working on the handle now. A smooth rod of tal, freshly welded. Sparks had flown just minutes earlier as he used a compact arc welder powered by an old battery rig—another one of his proud inventions. The welds weren’t pretty. Blobby, uneven joints ringed the rod like scars. He frowned at them, tapped the tal with the butt of a file, then grabbed a strip of coarse sandpaper and began working the surface.
Shhht. Shhhht. Shhhht.
Slow, even strokes. The kind you only learn after trial, error, and more than a few ruined builds. The kids were transfixed. Honestly? So was I.
It wasn’t just about making a fishing rod. It was about doing sothing with your hands—making sothing that didn’t exist before. There was a kind of quiet dignity to it, hidden under the sparks and scattered junk.
When the surface was smooth enough, Usopp reached under a pile of rags and pulled out a piece of bamboo—about a forearm’s length, light brown with deep green streaks down its grain. I recognized it imdiately. Bamboo from the forest that bordered the village. Tough, but flexible. Slight give without snapping. He must’ve harvested it recently.
He asured the fit, rotating the base of the tal rod until it matched the interior of the bamboo tube. Then, without a word, he gave it a few sharp taps against the floorboards. Thump. Thump. Thunk. Perfect fit. The bamboo gripped the tal like it was made for it. He tested the balance by flipping it in his hand a few tis, smiling as it pivoted smoothly in his palm.
He shouted out so words likely of bragging and praise as he gave a thumbs up. The kids went crazy and circled around him.
But I did nod.
Then ca the reel. He scavenged a spool from an old rig and from my fishing rod scraps and began assembling it with precise care. Grease, oil, bolts—his fingers moved fast but not sloppy. He paused once, adjusted the tension in the spring with a tiny screwdriver, then wound the line into place. It clicked as he spun it, smooth and firm.
Usopp tested the rod once, giving the line a light tug, flicking the tip through the open window of the treehouse. It sang through the air with a high whhhzzzt and thudded against a cushion tied to a post. He raised an eyebrow, nodded to himself.
He gave the fishing rod for the kids to reel. The kids happily took it and realized that only one could reel. So they fought with each other for the chance. And ninjin got the chance to reel. Which he did gleefully.
The fishing rod worked just as fine as the inventor wanted as he gave a nod proud of his creation. He then added a mixture of liquid or rather chemicals to the bamboo. He let it dry out for a few minute. Making the bamboo handle grippy and much easier to hold.
He handed it to without ceremony. I held it gently. The surface was still warm. It wasn’t the prettiest rod in the world—not by a long shot—but it was solid. Balanced. Real. It had character. Handmade things always do.
"Not bad." I said.
He grinned.
The kids gathered around, asking questions, pointing at the bamboo, poking at the reel. Usopp let them. Explained a few things. Knowing him. Lied about the rest. Sothing about how the rod could channel the power of the beasts it captured. That the sea kings themselves fell before the the might of the fishing rod. That it harbored the soul of Poseidon himself.
He must have boasted it to the high heavens.
They believed him.
And by the lore above, I believed him too.
----------
I stood at the edge of the platform with the new rod in my hand. The grip held steady in my hand—still warm from the last hour’s work, still humming with that strange pride that only handmade things carry. It was the kind of makeshift gear that ca from scrap and stubborn hands, not a store shelf. And it had character.
I gave the rod a flick.
The line cut through the air with a faint whhhzt, arcing through sunlight before landing with a soft rustle in the trees beyond the clearing. A perfect cast. I smiled slightly and began to reel it back in.
Smooth. Surprisingly smooth.
It had that quiet resistance you want—not too loose, not too stiff. Just enough pull to make you feel like you’re reeling in sothing real. Then, halfway through, the line jerked to a halt.
I gave it a tug.
Nothing.
Another tug. Still stuck.
There wasn’t a sudden jolt or snap like you’d expect from hooking a fish. Just that dead, unmoving weight that told I’d latched onto sothing immobile—maybe a rock, maybe a root, maybe fate.
With a long breath, I called in my usual free labor.
"Usopp."
From the treehouse behind , I heard movent—boxes shifting, a tool clattering, soone tripping over sothing and muttering sounds that vaguely resembled words. Usopp erged from his workshop a few monts later, wiping his hands on a rag that had clearly been washed more in oil than in water. His expression was equal parts suspicion and resignation.
I didn’t explain. Just held out the rod.
He took it with the slow dread of soone accepting a job they didn’t apply for.
And then, he got to work.
Usopp braced himself, planted his feet, and began reeling. His movents were slow at first, cautious. Then ca the tugs, the shifts in posture, the gritted teeth. He didn’t say anything I could understand, but the way he exhaled—loud and labored—was universal. The rod bent, the line tightened, and the effort started showing in his shoulders.
Whatever was on the other end, it wasn’t coming quietly.
The kids trickled in behind us. One by one, they peered over the edge of the platform or crouched next to , watching their captain in action. Their eyes were wide, shining with curiosity. There was a thrill in the unknown—especially when it involved their hero wrestling with nature.
Usopp pulled harder. His stance widened. His foot slid. I could see his entire body leaning into it now.
And then, out of the trees, sothing moved.
Not an animal.
A shadow.
Sothing big.
I stood up a little straighter.
The line twitched.
There was a sudden, sharp creaking from the forest.
Then—before I could process it—a massive log burst from the undergrowth, flying into the air like it had been fired from a cannon.
For a brief, almost majestic mont, it hung in the air.
Rotating.
Turning slowly in perfect spiral, almost graceful.
Then it hit Usopp.
Square in the face.
He didn’t scream. He didn’t duck. He didn’t react at all, actually—not fast enough, anyway. The log struck him with a soft but undeniable thump, flattening him to the ground like a dropped scarecrow.
The kids froze.
No one moved.
The log wobbled in place for a second before toppling off to the side with a dull, thudding roll.
Usopp lay completely still.
And for a mont, I could swear I saw birds and stars circling above his head. Not taphorically. I an actual, cartoon-like loops of fluttering wings and sparkles. He twitched once. Then stopped.
The kids snapped into action.
They scattered around him like a dic unit in a play-acted war scene. One of them inspected his face. Another tried to remove the log, grunting dramatically. The third knelt down beside him with an exaggerated gesture that looked like an oath. I didn’t understand what they were saying, but their urgency was clear.
From the way they hovered over him, muttering words I couldn’t quite catch, you’d think they’d just watched a national hero fall in battle. I stepped back, letting them do their thing. Mourning a martyr.
Usopp groaned faintly.
That was enough to spark a new level of panic. They took it as a good sign, though. One of them poured water from a bottle onto his forehead. Another held his nose like checking for airflow. The third just patted his chest over and over.
It was chaos. But it was warm chaos.
I walked over to the rod, still lying a few feet away. The line was slack now. I reeled it in slowly, glancing toward the direction the log had co from.
Still nothing. No movent in the trees. No reason for a log to have been launched. No sign of a trap or natural cause.
Just a forest. A log. And very poor luck.
I looked down at the rod, then at Usopp—still surrounded by tiny, flailing arms and worried eyes.
Was it just ? Or just my luck? Trouble has a habit of finding in this world.
They were laughing now. Bragging. Already retelling the mont like it was legend. And Usopp? Alive. Slightly concussed, maybe. But happy. The log might’ve broken his pride a bit—but it made a mory.
I looked at the rod again. At the forest. At the strange calm that followed and the rowdy chaos that was happening behind . I had seen it many tis but it always felt strange.
Was it just my bad luck? Or was this world having fun and making mories for its favorites?
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