Location: Western Waters, off the Coast of Rhygross Island
The wind carried a different scent today—thick, oily, and almost metallic.
The clouds above boiled black and low, pressing down like a lid on the world. Rain hadn't fallen yet, but every drop in the sky trembled with tension.
Shanks stood at the helm, expression serious for once. "This place gives me the creeps."
Ankit leaned over the port rail, eyes locked on the distant island. It looked like a smudge on the sea—smoke rising from jagged ridgelines, as if the island itself were burning from the inside out.
"The island's cursed," the old fisherman they picked up at Coraline had said before they dropped him off.
"No birds. No fish. And those who go inland never return. But sometimes… you hear gunfire. Like a war that never ends."
On Rhygross Island – Shoreline
They made landfall with minimal crew. Just Ankit, Shanks, and one other: Mace, a quiet helmsman with a love for sea charts and an old rifle always strapped to his back.
Ankit crouched beside strange markings on a boulder. "These aren't marine symbols."
"Nope," Mace replied. "Mercenary code. Killzones. Sniper nests."
Ankit rose slowly. "Someone's been fighting a war here. A long one."
Further in, they found the remnants of a battlefield: bullet shells soaked in old rain, a broken crate of explosives, and strange calling cards pinned to trees—playing cards with red targets drawn across the faces.
One was stuck into a tree with a single bullet hole dead-center.
Shanks plucked it out. "Yasopp's kind of art," he said with a half-smile.
Ankit turned to him. "Who's Yasopp?"
Shanks shrugged. "A sniper. The best I've ever seen. Used to hear about him from tavern keepers—said he once shot a bottle off a man's belt from half a mile... while blind drunk."
"You think he's here?"
"I think... we're walking through the middle of his story."
Further Inland – Ridge Overlook
It started raining. Not gentle droplets—but thick black rain that stained the ground and clung to their skin like tar.
Ankit's sword hissed as he drew it, the rain sizzling against the steel.
"There's someone watching us," he said flatly.
Shanks smiled. "Good. I hate being lonely."
A voice echoed from the misted cliffs above.
"You've got guts, walking in here without an umbrella... or an army."
They turned upward. A figure sat atop the cliff, legs swinging casually.
He wore a red scarf and a long black coat patched with bullet holes. A flintlock rifle rested across his lap. Even from a distance, Ankit could see the worn calm in his body language.
A hunter.
"You're not Marines," the figure continued. "You're not mercs either. So tell me—what the hell are you?"
"Pirates," Shanks called up, grinning. "But the fun kind."
The man chuckled and stood. He slung his rifle over his back and disappeared into the mist without another word.
Shanks's grin didn't fade. "Well then. Looks like we've got his attention."
"Who was that?" Ankit asked.
Shanks didn't look at him.
"Maybe someone we'll sail with someday. Or maybe someone we'll have to fight."
Later – Campfire Near the Shore
Rain still fell, but they lit a fire under a stone outcrop.
Ankit sharpened his blades in silence. The whetstone scraped evenly with each stroke.
Mace sat polishing his rifle, occasionally glancing toward the cliffs.
Shanks sipped from a flask.
"You think we're ready for what's coming?" Ankit asked suddenly.
Shanks paused. "No."
Ankit raised an eyebrow.
"That's the trick," Shanks said, eyes gleaming. "We're never ready. Not for storms, not for monsters, not for the legends we're gonna meet. But that's what makes it real."
He tossed something to Ankit—a folded piece of cloth.
Ankit unfolded it.
A red-and-white bandana.
"I found it snagged on a tree branch," Shanks said. "Could be nothing. Could be Yasopp's."
Ankit stared at the cloth.
A name began to etch itself into the pages of their story—quietly, like the first hum of a storm.
End of Chapter 8 – The Blade and the Black Rain
Next: Chapter 9 – "Scars Under the Sea"