Three months after Crocus joined the crew, the Oro Jackson had just finished a "friendly exchange" with a kingdom's naval fleet. On the deck, a long line of pirates stood outside the infirmary door, their groans and wails of agony echoing across the ship.
"Mr. Crocus! Hurry! I've got a bullet stuck in my tooth!" Nozdon roared, his massive mouth wide open to reveal a smoking, unexploded cannonball wedged between his molars. It was a sight that was both ridiculous and horrifying.
"You idiot! Who told you to catch cannonballs with your teeth?!" Veins bulged on Crocus's forehead, and the tweezers in his hand screeched as he gripped them. Despite his anger, his movements were rock-steady as he pried out the dangerous "cavity" in a few swift motions. "Next!"
Taro stepped forward with a troubled expression, presenting his limp right arm. "Um… Doctor, I think it's dislocated. And also broken in three places." During the battle, he'd found his weapon too slow, so he'd started swinging his entire arm like a club instead.
Crocus's eyelids twitched violently. He practically roared as he pushed the man into the infirmary, "Are you guys treating your bodies like they're disposable?! One day I'm going to dismantle all of you and replace your parts with iron!"
Shanks and Buggy, the two young troublemakers, were peeking around the corner. Buggy pointed to a tiny, barely visible speck of blood on the tip of his nose and exclaimed dramatically, "Doctor Crocus! Me! Right here! I was grazed by the enemy's killing intent! I feel like I'm going to die!"
Shanks clutched his stomach beside him, putting on a serious face. "It's all Buggy's fault. I laughed so hard my stomach started cramping."
"All of you, go scrub the deck!" Crocus's angry roar sent the two of them scurrying away instantly.
Kyle leaned against a nearby railing, watching the chaotic yet strangely orderly scene with a smile. Not long ago, injuries like these would have kept crew members laid up for days, forcing them to cancel parties and celebrations. But now, under Crocus's skilled hands and loud commands, everyone was patched up and ready to go by the next day. He had quickly become the most reassuring presence on the ship, second only to a barrel of rum.
Roger stood with his hands on his hips, watching Crocus work his magic, and burst into a hearty laugh. "Kuhahaha! He really is a reliable companion!"
Crocus shot him an exasperated look. When he saw Roger pick up a barrel of wine with his freshly bandaged hand, his blood pressure soared, and his hand tightened around the harpoon he often carried.
As night fell, the noise on the ship died down. The crew didn't hold one of their usual feasts; after an afternoon of "repairs," they all smelled faintly of medicine and decided to enjoy a rare moment of peace.
Gathered around the campfire, Roger suddenly looked at Crocus, who was wiping down his medical tools. The captain's usual playful expression was gone, replaced by a serious one. "Crocus," he asked, "tell us about Laboon. And… about the Rumba Pirates."
The crew's quiet laughter faded, and all eyes turned to the ship's doctor, a man whose medical skills were as formidable as their own fighting abilities.
Crocus's hands paused. The dim firelight reflected off his glasses, hiding his eyes. He was silent for a long time, as if searching through memories that had been buried for years.
"They…" Crocus's voice was a little hoarse, thick with nostalgia. "They were a lot like you all… no, like us. A bunch of hopeless optimists. A crew of joyful musicians."
He began to tell a story of music and a promise. He told them how a small whale had fallen in love with the music from a pirate ship and stubbornly followed them, and how that ship was filled with the dreams of musicians. He spoke of the promise that the captain, Yorki, and his crew made to the young Laboon before entering the Grand Line—that after they sailed around the world, they would absolutely return to Reverse Mountain to get him.
"They left Laboon with me, trusting that I would take good care of him, and believing that they would surely return," Crocus said, looking down at his rough hands. "And I, along with Laboon, have been waiting for over fifty years."
Fifty years.
The words hung in the air like a heavy stone, weighing on everyone's heart.
"That kid, Laboon, was very obedient at first. But after a few years, he began to realize that his friends weren't coming back so easily," Crocus's voice was filled with helplessness and pain. "He started ramming his head against the Red Line, trying to break through the continent to go find his crew. Day after day, year after year, he'd bash his head until it bled, covering himself in scars, but he never stopped."
Silence fell over the deck, broken only by the crackling fire and the distant sound of the waves.
Buggy's red nose twitched, and his eyes grew red. He rubbed them hard, muttering stubbornly, "Damn it, the smoke from this fire is too thick…"
Shanks, sitting next to him, gripped the hilt of his small sword, his young face set with a seriousness far beyond his years.
"Those scoundrels…" Jabba slammed his wine cup onto the deck, a fire lighting up in his eyes. "You don't just break a promise to go back for a friend!"
"Exactly!"
"What kind of promise is that?!"
The crew was furious. They might not understand medicine, but they understood the weight of words like "promise" and "nakama" better than anyone.
"Kuhahaha…" Roger's laughter rang out again, but this time it wasn't loud and boisterous. It was low and carried a solemn determination. He stood up and walked to the bow of the ship, his back to the others as he faced the sea breeze.
"Crocus," his voice carried across the entire ship, "I made you a promise, and I will see it through."
Roger spun around suddenly, his eyes burning like hot coals as he looked at each member of his crew. "Listen up, lads! From this day forward, finding the Rumba Pirates is an official goal of the Roger Pirates! We will find them, whether they're alive or dead. And when we do, we're going to grab them by their collars and demand to know why they made their friend wait for fifty years!"
"OH! OH! OH! OH! OH!"
"Let's go beat them up!"
"For Laboon!"
The crew's fighting spirit was instantly ignited, chasing away the somber mood as they shouted into the night.
Amidst the passionate vows, Kyle remained silent. He sat quietly in his corner, watching the determined faces of his crewmates, watching Crocus's shoulders tremble slightly, and watching Roger's towering figure at the bow.
He knew the fate of the Rumba Pirates better than anyone. It wasn't a story that would end with grabbing someone by the collar. It was a story of a slow, desperate end in the Florian Triangle, brought on by enemy attacks and an incurable plague.
There was no betrayal, no forgetting their promise. There was only unwavering loyalty to the very end—a final farewell song played with their last breaths, recorded on a Tone Dial in the hopes that it would one day reach the ears of that foolishly waiting whale. And those joyful musicians were all gone, except for a single skeleton, brought back to life by the Revive-Revive Fruit, who now played his violin alone on a ghost ship, day after day. A never-ending solo concert for departed souls.
Kyle picked up his glass of orange juice and drank it all in one gulp. An unspeakable bitterness spread from his tongue to his heart. He looked at his friends, who were making solemn promises to get justice for Laboon, and for the first time, he truly felt the crushing weight of knowing everything.
He couldn't tell them the cruel truth. It would shatter Crocus's last bit of hope and turn his crew's passionate vows into a cold, hellish joke.
Kyle silently clenched his fists.
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