I tossed the monkey aside by the neck again—third ti that morning.
Persistent little thief. He tried to sneak in, thinking I wouldn’t notice. I did. The scent of the smoked ribs was too strong, too rich, for anyone to resist. I couldn’t bla them, not really.
I carried the ribs to the cabin and hooked them high on the ceiling supports, one by one, the at swinging slightly in the warm breeze. Every breath inside the small space now carried the scent of slow-burning herbs, bitter smoke, and fat that had been basted with forest air and monkey wine. The sll clung to the walls like mory.
It took a few trips to get it all done. Each ti I returned with an armful of at, there was a new monkey to throw out. So tried subtle approaches, sneaking in like shadows. Others just made a mad dash for the racks. All of them failed. My patience was worn thin, but my routine held strong.
Eventually, it was done.
The at was secure. The fire had burned its last.
I turned toward the smoking pit, the source of so many als, so many hours spent in stillness and vigilance. I stepped over the ashes and began to cover it. Scoop by scoop, I tossed sand onto the fire bed, watching smoke hiss and curl as it t the earth. The heat fought back for a few seconds, a flicker of red beneath the gray, but soon the sand smothered it.
It wasn’t just about tidiness. Fires left alone turned into forest curses. I’d be gone soon, but I wouldn’t let my absence bring ruin.
When I finished, I stood there for a while, staring at the quiet pit, the ring of blackened rocks around it. A small altar to a passing Chapter.
And then I rembered.
The wine.
I had almost forgotten I had traded for it—the monkey wine, for a marrow feast. I had fulfilled my end of bargain. It was only natural for the monkey to fulfill theirs.
I made my way toward the edge of the camp and found the elder monkey.
He sat on a raised stump, face calm, wise in the way only old animals and old n can be. His fur had grayed at the ends. His movents were slow, but filled with precision. He knew why I was here before I even opened my mouth.
I pointed toward the container I had traded the marrow for—the sa one they had taken from before, deep in the night after our firelit feast. I knew it wasn’t mine until I earned it.
The elder monkey nodded once. Then, with a long breath, he barked a command. A younger monkey darted off into the trees.
It didn’t take long. Soon, the younger one returned, carrying my original set of wine containers—four small ones, each corked with wax, wrapped in leaves, etched faintly with jungle markings.
I reached for them, ready to place them into my pack.
But the elder stopped with a raised hand. He produced another gourd, smaller than before, carved with a different symbol.
This one, I had to drink from.
He held it out to with both hands. And around him, the others began to gather. Dozens of monkeys, quiet now, forming a loose circle, watching with wide, expectant eyes.
This was a ritual.
I could feel it in the air. If I refused, I believed that I would be sward by the monkeys all at once. I could take them on. But the price wasn’t worth it.
I took the gourd, raised it slightly, and took a small sip with exaggerated movent.
The taste hit my tongue like wild honey—sharp, clinging, full of crushed roots and strange bark. A surprising taste for how bitter it slled.
But it didn’t stop at the tongue.
The wine didn’t flow down like normal liquid. It slid into my throat, then halted—not in my stomach, but higher, in the center of my chest. Right behind the ribs.
It didn’t burn.
Not at first.
Then it did.
A slow, creeping heat, like coals buried beneath skin. It began to expand, pushing outward. Not pain, but sothing more ancient, more primal. The fire didn’t scorch—it simred, forged.
And inside , my blood stirred.
The blood that would heal from anything while taking its share.
But this ti, it didn’t rage. All the other tis it did but not this ti.
It watched.
The wine and the blood crossed paths behind my ribs—two beasts on the sa trail. Neither bowed. Neither bared teeth.
They just sat there.
Balanced.
Breathing.
I felt still.
Even if my face showed a myriad emotions, from pain to relaxation.
The wine had done sothing. I didn’t understand it yet. I might not for a long ti. But it had left sothing behind—an ember, a quiet symbol of the island I had feasted on and the forest I had borrowed from.
I returned the gourd, hands steady.
The monkeys clapped. So whooped. One did a backflip and fell on his face.
The elder simply nodded and pushed the gourd back.
I slung the wine containers over my shoulder and turned toward the cabin.
Before entering, I looked back.
The elder monkey was still watching . The air between us felt charged, not threatening, but heavy with a kind of finality. As if he passed down sothing to . Sothing that burdened him.
So I did the only thing I could do now. The only thing that could lessen the burden sohow.
I beckoned.
He didn’t move.
Instead, he raised his arm and sent a younger, full-grown monkey in his place.
The adult monkey padded over, curious, waiting.
From the cabin, I pulled out half of the smoked at. The best cuts. Hanging and still warm with flavor.
I placed them in his arms. No words.
I don’t know what the wine would do to .
But this—this felt right. This felt needed.
Call it karma. Call it debt. Call it thanks.
Maybe it was all of those.
And maybe it was just sothing you did when you took from the land and got to leave whole.
I turned back toward the cabin and stepped inside.
Behind , the monkeys began to be rowdy once more. They jumped as they started feasting on the half cured at.
I didn’t look back.
The wine gourd from which I drank and the gourd which I took at night from the monkey elder.
It felt like I had taken karma when I drank from the second gourd.
It was a mystical feeling but I had felt it.
I hope the half cured at I gave could erase just a bit of this karma.
---
I slamd my fist against my chest.
Not a pat. Not a tap. A full swing—tight knuckles into sternum, trying to rattle sothing loose.
The wine cube didn’t move.
It sat there, at the center of the chest. Not in a way that hurt, not physically. But it was there. I could feel it, heavy and unmoving, like a ssage written in a language I hadn’t learned yet.
I tried water next. Drank deeply from my flask, tilting my head back until the cool liquid spilled down the sides of my mouth.
Still nothing.
The water hit my gut like normal, passed through my system like normal. The cube stayed where it was—stubborn and solid, as though it had fused to the space behind my ribs.
I pressed my palm flat to my chest, breathing slow. No change. No burn. No shift.
I considered a bullet. Just one. Straight into the sternum. I’d survive. The blood would fix it. But it might shake sothing loose.
But sothing in the air stopped .
A sixth sense. The sa mystical feeling I felt.
Like standing at the edge of a cliff and knowing not to step forward even if you couldn’t see the drop.
It was instinct. But deeper than instinct.
Like the world was whispering: don’t do it.
So I didn’t.
I leaned against the cabin wall and let the idea dissolve. I didn’t know what the wine had beco inside . I didn’t know what its purpose was, or if it had a purpose at all. But then again, I already had two mysteries living in .
The blood—that curse, that gift. And the bricks from the Cathedral.
One more... didn’t matter.
They would be a trio now.
I’d carry it like I carried the others. Until it made sense. Or until it didn’t.
I sighed and opened the cabin door.
The light hit all at once—midday sun, bold and unforgiving. The heat rose off the wooden deck, the boards already warm beneath my bare feet. The wind had quieted, not gone, but subdued, a lazy breeze that nudged the sail rather than pulling it hard.
I stepped onto the deck and squinted at the sea.
Blue. Unbroken. Everywhere.
It had been a few hours since I left the island behind. The trees were gone from sight. The smoke from last night’s fire had faded into the sky, swallowed by the wind.
All I had now was water and sky.
What began as a whimsical detour—a pitstop in the chaos of One Piece weirdness—had turned into sothing else. A change I hadn’t expected. One I wasn’t sure how to process yet.
I sat by the rudder and pulled the map from its leather pouch, spreading it across a crate.
The problem was imdiate.
The map ant nothing.
Even with landmarks, coastlines and dangerous areas drawn, I didn’t have a clue as to where I was.
Not even comparing the ti I was in sea and the wind speed. I had no idea as to where I was.
The map didn’t help. The waters and the Sun didn’t either. None of it helped.
Because I was, quite clearly, royally lost.
I wasn’t a navigator. Never had been. A few months in this world had taught to survive, yes. Fight, cook, trap, trade. But navigation? That was a science. A practice. An art.
And all I had was a general direction and a lot of hope.
I stared out over the railing.
Nothing. Just the vast flatness of the East Blue. Blue water stretching out in every direction, calm and endless. The sky above mirrored it—clean, cloudless, offering no clues.
If you didn’t have a log pose, you were done.
Most islands refused to hand them out. Most out of necessity. Pirates could use them to track, to pillage, to kill, to occupy. Knowledge of Log Pose were kept secret to the general masses of the island. Even Usopp had no idea that Log pose existed.
A log pose could fetch 200,000 berries easily. One tuned to a known island? That number shot up—millions, depending on the secrecy.
The one rry gave —his gift before I left—was priceless.
But it only locked onto Syrup Island. The arrow moved back showing the direction of the mansion.
Not the one I’d just left.
That monkey island? I didn’t have a log pose to mark the island. I found that island with luck very heavy luck. I was already stranded in the waters for a month and more when I saw that island. Now that I had departed. It would be hard to find the island.
I didn’t like the idea of never finding that island again.
Not after it gave mysteries.
I sighed again, pulled my telescope from its sling, and scanned the horizon.
Nothing.
I adjusted it. Swept east. North. A smudge? No. Just sea foam. A shadow? No. Just glare.
Blue. Blue. Always blue.
I leaned back, the telescope resting on my chest—right where the wine cube sat, pulsing with its strange warmth.
I let the wind blow through my hair.
Then I stood and stepped to the rudder.
I placed one hand on the wood and looked out again. I didn’t know which direction was best. The currents were soft. The wind inconsistent. My maps were useless, and the sun was no compass.
But then the feeling returned.
That quiet presence.
A whisper in the ribs. A gentle tug behind the heart.
Like a current inside my bones.
I turned the rudder slightly, adjusting the sail, steering the vessel in the direction that felt right. There was no logic to it. No reason. Just... a pull.
A sixth sense. My sixth sense.
I didn’t trust it.
But I didn’t trust the blood either. And if I was going in blind, then at least I could let sothing guide —even if it was so leftover whisper from a cube of wine stuck in my chest.
If it was steering wrong, I’d know soon enough. If it wasn’t, well... maybe this was how weird things happened in One Piece. Both through grand declarations and small nudges. Subtle changes in wind and blood.
I adjusted the sail again, locking the rudder in place with a leather strap.
The boat rocked forward, groaning slightly, then smoothed out as it picked up the new heading. The water lapped differently now. More rhythmic. More steady.
I grabbed a dried rib from the storage rack and bit in.
Smoky. Herbal. Slightly sweet. And full of the monkey wine.
The wind hit my face, and for a mont, I imagined the island behind . The monkeys. The fire. The music of laughter without words.
And then I looked ahead, at the water and sky and nothing in sight.
The unknown had already stopped scaring .
I shrugged and let the sail loose.
If I was going to be lost, then I’d be lost with purpose.
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