Victor Creed stood at the edge of a windswept dock in Seabreak Port, a small trading hub tucked within the jagged spine of the West Blue. His cloak billowed around him, the breeze responding to his silent command. The Byakko hovered out of view above the clouds, anchored by wind alone, unseen by the world below.
He wore no uniform. No symbols. Just a loose tunic, dark trousers, and a traveler's hood pulled low. His presence was quiet but firm, and his eyes—hidden in shadow—missed nothing.
The hunt had brought him here. Not for pirates. Not for gold.
But for answers.
He stepped into the marketplace, thick with voices and sea-salted air. Crates of dried spices and barrels of foreign fish crowded the walkways. Merchants barked offers, children weaved between stalls. Life buzzed around him—but Victor sought silence in the noise.
The whispers had grown louder: a dark-haired woman, always traveling, always alone. She asked for maps. She read old books. She paid with rare coins and avoided questions.
Some said she was cursed.
Victor called it trauma.
He stopped beside a spice merchant, an old man with burnt fingertips and a missing eye. The merchant eyed him warily.
"Looking for something, traveler?"
Victor nodded once. "Information. A woman. Late twenties. Quiet. Sharp eyes. Dark cloak."
The merchant scratched his beard. "Been many cloaked strangers lately. Traders from the South. Even a bard from the North trying to sell fishbone instruments."
Victor remained silent, gaze unwavering.
The old man hesitated, then leaned in. "Aye. I saw one like you said. Week ago. She bought dried ginger and a battered logbook. Asked too many questions about old ruins. Paid double. Left west, toward Quiet Pass."
Victor passed him a small bag of Beri and moved on.
He asked again at a bookshop. Then a ferry dock. Then a tea vendor whose granddaughter remembered a woman who spoke with a strange softness, like she was always afraid of being heard.
Each trail led west.
Each step, closer.
The Quiet Pass was a steep gorge between twin hills, where the wind howled with lonely sorrow. And in a crumbling stone cottage nestled in the roots of the cliffs, Victor found her.
She sat outside, legs tucked beneath her, pages fluttering in the breeze. Her fingers moved carefully over the script of an ancient tome. Her dark hair spilled across her back like a curtain. Her face—partially hidden in the shadow of her hood—was older than her years.
Victor stood still, just watching.
Robin.
He didn't call her name. He simply approached and sat across from her in the grass, his movements calm, unthreatening. She looked up, startled—but not afraid. Her eyes narrowed.
"You're not from here," she said softly.
Victor nodded.
She didn't ask why he'd come. Not yet.
Minutes passed.
Finally, she closed the book.
"I've seen your eyes before," she murmured. "On men who've killed. On men who've lost."
Victor looked back at her without flinching. "I'm not here to harm you."
Robin smiled faintly, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Everyone says that. Then they hear my name."
"I already know your name."
She froze.
Victor reached into his coat and set a folded paper between them. A very old wanted poster. Torn. Creased. Nico Robin. Eight years old. Seventy-nine million Beri. Alive only.
She stared at it.
Then at him.
The air between them turned brittle.
He said nothing.
Finally, Robin's voice cracked, "Why?"
Victor tilted his head.
"Why are you here?" she asked, throat tight. "Why not turn me in?"
He spoke gently. "Because I believe the world lied about you."
Her lip trembled.
"I want to hear the truth," he said.
She waited. Measured him. Searched for deceit. She found none.
And so, for the first time in years, she told someone everything.
Her voice began cold, distant.
"I was eight. I lived on Ohara. My mother… Nico Olvia, she was a scholar. Everyone there studied the Void Century. It was the only place that dared to ask what the world refused to remember."
Her fingers dug into her arms.
"The Marines came without warning. Buster Call." Her voice faltered. "Ships. Cannons. Fire. They destroyed everything. Everyone."
Victor closed his eyes briefly. The weight of her words fell like ash.
"They didn't care that we were scholars. That we were civilians. They said it was for justice. That we were dangerous."
Her voice cracked.
"I watched them burn the library. The Tree of Knowledge. I saw the flames through the smoke, and I ran. I ran so far, I didn't even feel the ground anymore."
She wiped at her eyes, but the tears kept falling.
"I was the only one who made it. They put a bounty on my head that same day. Eight years old. A demon, they called me. Because I could read a language no one else could."
She sobbed once—sharp, like something tearing open.
"I didn't destroy my home. They did. But I'm the one they hunt."
Victor didn't speak. Didn't move. Just let her weep.
"I was a child!" she screamed. "I didn't even understand what a poneglyph was! I just… I just wanted to know what happened before the world was born."
She collapsed forward, burying her face in her arms. The sobs came harder, muffled by her sleeves. Each one was a wound.
Victor stepped forward. Slowly. Carefully. He knelt beside her, a hand hovering above her shoulder.
He whispered, "I believe you."
She looked up, face streaked in salt and pain.
"I know what real justice is," Victor said. "And I've seen what they call it when it suits them."
Robin stared at him. Eyes wide. Raw.
He reached into his coat and held out a handkerchief.
She took it. Clutched it.
He sat beside her again, letting the silence cradle her.
Minutes passed.
Finally, he asked, "Will you come with me?"
She looked at him, voice hoarse. "Why?"
Victor met her gaze. "Because the truth should live."
Robin said nothing. Not yet.
But in her heart, the first crack of trust had formed.
A seed planted in ashes.
A storm ready to rise.