The days slipped by in a rhythm of clashing swords, hearty laughter, and the endless whisper of ocean waves. The Oro Jackson sailed through the New World, carrying its crew of the world's freest souls, riding the wind and conquering the seas. Every new island was a thrilling adventure, and the faces of the crew were always lit with curiosity for the unknown and the sheer joy of the journey.
Yet, amidst this sea of joy, Kyle's heart harbored a dark reef where the sunlight could not reach.
He stood at the bow, the sea breeze rustling through his black hair. His golden eyes reflected the magnificent sunset in the distance, but the glass of orange juice in his hand remained untouched. On the deck behind him, a shirtless Roger was arm-wrestling Jabba, their muscles straining as the rest of the crew loudly placed bets and cheered them on. Roger's signature "Kuhahaha!" laugh cut through the commotion, a sound that had once been the most reassuring thing in the world to Kyle. But now, that laugh was like an invisible needle, occasionally pricking at his frayed nerves.
Nearly thirty years had passed since he'd arrived in this world. The relentless current of time had begun to wash away the clear memories he once held. He was no longer just a transmigrator who knew the story of the Pirate King; he was a pirate who had lived and breathed this life for decades. He had tried to write down the future events he remembered, but any record he made, no matter the method, would mysteriously vanish, as if corrected by some unseen force.
The once-sharp details of the plot had blurred into a vague outline. He remembered that Roger would contract an incurable disease. He remembered that he would turn himself in to the Marines and use his last words to ignite the Great Pirate Era. But the crucial specifics—the when, the how, the why—had long been buried under the weight of real, lived adventures. This uncertainty hung over Kyle's heart like a Sword of Damocles, a constant, silent threat.
"Hey—! Roger! Are you slacking off?! You're getting weak!" Jabba grunted, his face flushed and the veins on his arms bulging.
"Kuhahaha! It must be old age catching up to you, Jabba!" Roger laughed even harder, and with a sudden surge of power, he slammed Jabba's hand onto the rum barrel.
"Whoa! The Captain wins!"
Amidst the cheers, Kyle put down his glass and subtly made his way over. He circled behind Roger, pretending to watch the celebration, and casually placed a hand on his captain's shoulder. "Full of energy as always, Captain. Care to take me on next?" Kyle asked with his usual sly grin.
"Oh? Is that a challenge, Kyle? Come on! Let me show you what real strength is!" Roger replied, turning around excitedly.
The moment their eyes met, an invisible ripple spread from the depths of Kyle's golden gaze. Faint, penetrating electromagnetic waves emanated from his palm and eyes, silently scanning Roger's body with the precision of the finest medical instrument. This wasn't the first time he'd done this. Every so often, he would find an excuse to give Roger a "physical examination" like this. Roger, for his part, seemed to think Kyle was just trying to find a weakness for their next spar.
In Kyle's unique "vision," Roger's body was laid bare. His heart beat with the powerful, steady rhythm of a war drum, pumping life-rich blood to every corner of his body. His lungs expanded and contracted with immense capacity, filled with the salty sea air. His bones were dense, his muscle fibers as taut as the finest steel cables. From head to toe, every single cell overflowed with a vigorous, almost ferocious vitality.
He was healthy. Frighteningly, impossibly healthy. There were no lesions, no signs of decay, not even a hint of a hidden injury. The Gol D. Roger standing before him was a man in his absolute prime, an unstoppable force with few rivals on the entire ocean.
"Hey, Kyle, what's with the long face?" Roger asked, shaking his head curiously at Kyle's sudden silence. "Scared by my Haki? Kuhahaha!"
Kyle's tense shoulders quietly relaxed. He retracted his ability, his expression shifting back to one of easygoing nonchalance. "Nah, just confirming if a single-celled organism like you is built differently from the rest of us."
"You bastard! Who are you calling a single-celled organism?!" Roger shouted, making a playful grab for him, and the two began to laugh and tumble around on the deck.
Nearby, Rayleigh watched them, a profound look in his eyes from behind his glasses. He'd noticed it lately. Kyle had been watching Roger a little too closely. It wasn't the look of one comrade sizing up another; it was the look of someone trying to confirm that something fragile and precious was still whole.
Later that night, Kyle sat alone in the crow's nest, gazing up at the sea of stars. 'Really… nothing?' He had checked Roger's body more times than he could count, and the result was always the same. There was no sign of the "plot" that was supposed to kill him.
'Is it because of me?'
The thought surfaced uncontrollably. A butterfly flapping its wings could cause a tornado on the other side of the world. He, this massive "variable" who had been dropped into this world, who had lived alongside the Roger Pirates for thirty years and fought in countless battles where he was never meant to be… could he have truly, inadvertently, changed Roger's fate? The thought made Kyle's heart pound, and an indescribable ecstasy almost burst from his chest. If Roger didn't have to die… could this ship just sail on forever?
But just as quickly, reason poured a bucket of cold water over his soaring hope. Perhaps it just wasn't time yet. The original story's timeline was vague. Maybe the disease would erupt suddenly, without warning. Roger's current health was no guarantee of a future. These two possibilities—hope and dread—battled in his mind, sending him soaring one moment and plummeting the next.
"What are you thinking about, smiling like a fool up here by yourself?"
Rayleigh's voice came from below. He had climbed up the mast and now sat down beside Kyle.
"Just pondering the mysteries of life, the true meaning of existence," Kyle said with a casual shrug.
Rayleigh smiled, not calling him out on the clumsy lie. He handed Kyle a bottle of rum and opened one for himself. "Sometimes, thinking too much makes you miss the scenery right in front of you," he said slowly, looking up at the starry sky. "We're pirates, Kyle. Living freely in the present—that's our creed, isn't it?"
Kyle fell silent. He took the bottle and took a long swig. The spicy liquid burned its way down his throat, bringing a fiery warmth. He was right. What was the point of all this worry? Whatever the future held, he couldn't control it. All he could do was cherish every day with these idiots and become strong enough to be a pillar for this crew when the inevitable storms arrived.
As he came to this realization, the huge stone that had been weighing on his heart for so long finally seemed to crumble away. The future was still a fog, but his own path forward was clear once again.
"You're right, Rayleigh," Kyle said, a genuine grin spreading across his face. "Instead of worrying about useless things, it's more practical to think about where we're going to resupply next."
"Kuhahaha! Now you're talking! That reminds me, I'm not sleepy anymore!" Roger's loud voice suddenly boomed from below. He was clinging to the edge of the crow's nest, having crept up without them noticing. "I heard there's a 'Gourmet Island' up ahead, where all the ingredients fight each other! Sounds fun, right?"
"Hey! Captain! A place like that sounds dangerous!" Buggy's terrified voice cried out.
"It's always more fun when there's a fight!" Shanks chimed in excitedly.
The deck once again became a cacophony of noise as the crew began to loudly plan their next adventure. Kyle looked down at his endlessly energetic companions, and a heartfelt smile, one that hadn't reached his face in a long time, finally appeared.
Forget it. Who cared about the future? At least for now, this troublesome captain and these incorrigible idiots were alive and kicking right here beside him. That was enough.
He raised his bottle to the night sky, a distant toast to his own heart. To this damn, beautiful freedom.
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