The early morning mist curled around the deck like sea serpents hunting silence. Argus stood shirtless at the ship's stern, muscles taut, every breath a slow forge bellows. A weighted saber sliced the air again and again, arcs of precision backed by brutal purpose.
"Control the edge. Don't let it control you," he reminded himself with each strike.
His Armament Haki pulsed, flickering black and faintly metallic. Observation wrapped around him like a second skin—sensitive enough to register a gull's wings two ships away.
Then came the unmistakable rumble of laughter.
"Gurararara~~~ You keep that up, brat, and we'll need to re-deck the whole damn ship."
Newgate's voice was thunder made friendly. The towering figure approached, Murakumogiri balanced lazily on his shoulder like a branch, not a weapon of legend.
Argus didn't break stride. "If the wood breaks, it wasn't worthy of the sea."
"Still got a mouth on you," Newgate chuckled, planting the massive naginata into the deck. "Good. But let's see if your Haki's caught up to your ego."
He raised his fists. "No weapons. Just will."
Argus smirked, tossing the saber aside.
They collided.
Blow for blow. Fist for fist. Haki for Haki.
Argus gritted his teeth. Every time Newgate struck, it was like colliding with a mountain that laughed. And yet—
"Don't block… absorb. Don't react… anticipate."
He wove Observation into movement, reading intention a breath before it formed. His Armament hardened, not flared—exactly as his cousin had drilled into him.
"You're finally getting it," Newgate said between swings. "Force without control is just noise. Haki is the voice of your soul. Stop screaming—start speaking."
Hours passed like minutes.
By the end, Argus's knuckles were raw, his breath ragged—but his Haki no longer sputtered.
It thrummed.
He bowed slightly. "Thank you… for not holding back."
Newgate gave a grin. "I was. You ain't ready for a full punch yet."
---
Meanwhile, in a shaded section of the deck, Serena sat under canopy, surrounded by books and scrolls.
Treatises on economic theory. Naval provisioning. Governance structures. Land allocation for post-pirate settlements. Even the writings of ancient kings.
A maid brought her tea, hesitant. "Lady Serena… should you not be resting?"
Serena glanced up, eyes calm but piercing.
"I rest when the foundations are laid. No nation was built on naps."
She returned to her reading, muttering quietly. "High-value trade goods… spices… alchemical tinctures from East Blue… hmm… sea-prism stone trade routes might be exploitable through hidden Grand Line veins..."
She made a note. Her hands were soft, but her mind drew blood when necessary.
"Let Argus & Big Brother build the strength. I'll build the throne."
---
Nearby, Sally sat cross-legged with a pile of soft fabrics, weaving tiny clothes by hand. She hummed softly, fingers moving with surprising deftness.
A young deckhand passed by, gawking. "Wow… You're making those yourself, ma'am?"
Sally glanced up, smiling. "Of course. If I can make a child with love, I can damn well make them a blanket."
Then softer, to herself: "Besides, if I don't prepare, who will?"
Though not one for blades or books, she understood value. The small things shaped the big ones.
Sally's hands were gentle, but she watched the crew like a hawk—seeing who slacked, who whispered too much, who carried blades when off-duty.
No one expected the quiet one to be sharp.
She liked it that way.
---
Shella trained below deck, where the air was cool and the lighting soft. Her movements were slow—almost dance-like—twin blades gliding in arcs around her.
She paused often. Breathed. Adjusted.
"Not too far. Not too fast. You carry more than your own weight now."
A thin sheen of sweat clung to her brow. Her usually fiery eyes were tempered. Where she once pushed for perfection, now she trained for endurance. Efficiency.
Strength for a mother. Precision for a warrior.
She didn't speak. But each strike said what words could not.
"I will protect what's mine."
---
Far across the waves, a skirmish raged aboard a captured brig. Blades clashed. Pistols roared.
"Get that captain down! He's baiting your flank, you limp-legged jellyfish!" Doma barked, swinging his rifle like a club as he barrelled through enemies.
"Too slow, Doma! My kill!" Hiroshi snarled, blades spinning in a crimson blur.
Jozu, bloodied but defiant, fought near the helm. "You two are insane…"
"And you're sloppy!" Hiroshi yelled, throwing a dagger that stuck a pirate lunging at Jozu from behind. "Eyes up, brat!"
Doma grabbed Jozu's collar and growled, "This ain't a training. This is survival. Now move like it."
As the last enemy fell, Jozu panted, wiping blood from his lip.
"...I'll get stronger," he said. "Strong enough to protect your backs."
Hiroshi smirked. "You better. Or we'll feed you to the Drum Island bears ourselves."
The ship turned north.
Toward medicine. Toward growth. Toward something more than blood.
Toward family.
---
(CHAPTER END)