The sun seemed to rise earlier than usual over the Oro Jackson.
The hungover crew members rubbed their sleepy eyes, jolted awake by Buggy's frantic screams from the deck.
"Hey! Has anyone seen Kyle?!" The red-nosed boy had a rare look of real anxiety on his face. "His hammock is empty!"
"He probably just went for his morning exercise, didn't he?" Jabba said with a yawn, not particularly concerned.
Shanks looked around, his brow furrowed slightly. "No, I can't feel his presence anywhere on the ship."
Only then did a sense of unease settle over the crew. They searched every corner of the ship—the crow's nest, the kitchen, the warehouse, and even Roger's quarters—but there was no sign of Kyle.
Finally, they found something unusual at the stern. One of the spare, single-masted sailboats was missing. A few loose rope ends, once used to tie down supplies, were scattered on the deck.
"Did that guy… run off on his own?" someone muttered.
"But why?!"
Confusion and a sense of betrayal quickly spread through the crew. This was it—the final voyage to the last island. Why would Kyle, a core member of their family, choose to leave without a word at a time like this?
"Everyone, quiet down." Rayleigh's voice was soft, but it instantly silenced the growing noise. He leaned against the main mast, his glasses reflecting the morning light, making his expression impossible to read. "Kyle has something he must do. Something… very important to all of us."
Just as he finished speaking, the captain's door swung open.
Roger walked out. He wasn't wearing his captain's hat, and his messy black hair fell over a face that was a bit pale. His eyes, however, were unusually bright. He glanced at the empty boat rack, then at Rayleigh, and finally, his gaze swept over the face of each crew member.
The deck was deathly silent.
"Cough…" Roger cleared his throat, then broke into a grin that was brighter than the sun. "Kuhahaha! That brat, always trying to look cool!"
He didn't ask questions or place any blame, acting as if everything was perfectly under control. The crew was stunned. They couldn't sense any anger in their captain's smile, only a strange mix of indulgence, helplessness, and warmth.
Roger walked to the helm and slapped his hands down hard on the steering wheel, the sharp sound chasing away the gloom.
"Lads! What are you all standing around for?!" he roared. "That Kyle guy just went ahead to prepare a surprise celebration for us! We can't let him show us up! Hoist the sails! Our destination—the Final Island!"
"OHHH!!!"
A thunderous roar once again filled the air. Although doubts still lingered in their hearts, their absolute trust in their captain and their comrade made them push all their worries aside. The Oro Jackson adjusted its course, riding the wind and waves as it forged ahead into the unknown sea.
No one noticed Roger muttering under his breath as he turned the wheel: "That bastard… always has to make things so hard for himself."
The voyage to the Final Island was far longer and more dangerous than they could have imagined. This part of the sea, forgotten by the world, was filled with unpredictable weather, chaotic currents, and unforeseen dangers.
They stumbled into a "Mist of Lost Souls" that never seemed to end. Inside it, all compasses and Log Poses spun wildly. For half a month, the Oro Jackson was trapped, sailing in circles like a headless fly.
"Damn it! What's wrong with this cursed place?!" Buggy clutched his head, on the verge of going mad. "It would be great if Kyle were here! He could definitely 'hear' the right way out!"
They also encountered a massive, unprecedented storm. Towering waves crashed down on the ship like mountains, nearly snapping the main mast. Jabba and the crew clung to the ropes for dear life, barely managing to keep the ship from capsizing.
"Tsk," Shanks wiped the rain from his face, staring at the raging sea that threatened to swallow them whole. "If Kyle were here, his powers could have cut these waves in half."
Another time, while escaping a Marine pursuit, they mistakenly entered a shallow sea full of hidden reefs. On that pitch-black night, it was Jabba who had to repeatedly dive into the icy water, using his own body to scout the path and guide the ship through the treacherous maze. When he was finally pulled back on deck, he was covered in cuts, his lips purple from the cold.
"If Kyle were here…" Jabba shivered as he drank a cup of hot soup, laughing weakly. "He could probably map the seabed better than any chart."
"If Kyle were here" became a common saying among the crew during the nearly year-long voyage that followed. Every time they ran into a difficult problem or found themselves in a dangerous situation, they would instinctively think of their missing comrade. He wasn't with them, but his presence felt stronger than ever.
Kyle didn't completely lose contact with them.
About two months after he left, a News Coo circled over the Oro Jackson and dropped a small box wrapped tightly in oilcloth. Inside was a piece of deep-sea coral that gave off a strange smell, along with a note written in strong handwriting.
"Roger, grind this into a powder and take it with strong alcohol. No nonsense. — Kyle"
"What the hell is this? It smells like the captain's socks after not being washed for a hundred years!" Buggy pinched his nose in disgust.
Roger, however, picked up the piece of coral and turned it over in his hands, a genuine warmth appearing in his smile. He could just imagine that stubborn kid fighting some deep-sea monster for hours just to get this thing.
"Kuhahaha! This is a special medicine from Kyle!" he laughed, tossing the coral to Crocus. To satisfy his worried crew, Roger obediently drank the bowl of "medicine," which tasted as bad as it smelled.
From then on, every month or two, another strange "surprise" would fall from the sky. Sometimes it was the legendary "bark of the Giggle Tree," said to cure all diseases. Another time it was a "Flower of Life" used as a sacrifice by a secluded tribe. Once, he even received a suspicious-looking crystal that was supposedly a "Dragon's Tear."
Each time, Roger would laugh and curse, "That fool got tricked again," before swallowing the concoction without hesitation.
Unfortunately, none of these legendary elixirs brought about a miracle. Roger's body, under the steady erosion of time, grew irreversibly weaker. He started coughing more frequently, sometimes waking up in the middle of the night coughing up blood. He tried to hide it with louder laughter and an even more heroic attitude, but the deep-seated fatigue was like barnacles on the hull of a ship, growing thicker and thicker until they could no longer be scraped away.
The crew played along, never speaking of it. The parties became more frequent, the songs grew louder, and more alcohol was drunk than ever before. They fought back against the encroaching silence of death the only way pirates knew how: with noise, laughter, and relentless celebration.
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