Chapter 6: The Ghost and the Drunkard
The walk from the molten crater of the G-17 base was silent.
The civilians of Whisperwind Isle didn't cheer. They didn't run. They stared, their faces pale with a terror far deeper than any pirate captain had ever inspired in them.
The pirates had been a cancer, but this... this was an apocalypse. They watched me as one would watch a living volcano, praying it didn't turn its attention their way.
Elara, the green-haired navigator I had freed, walked beside me, her steps surprisingly light.
Her sharp, intelligent eyes darted from my impassive, sun-wreathed face to the terrified townsfolk, then back to the smoking ruin we had left behind.
"Well," she finally broke the silence, her voice dry.
"You've certainly made your point. I don't think they'll be forgetting the name 'Monkey D. Luthor' anytime soon.
But that was... excessive. You incinerated the entire base but left the men alive. You vaporized their weapons but left them their lives. That's a strange kind of mercy."
It was just past noon.
The peak of my power had faded, but the sun was still high, and my pride was a tangible force. "Mercy?" I scoffed, my voice the now-familiar resonant baritone. "Those men were insects. They were not worth the effort of crushing. Their lives are theirs, so long as they do not dare to stand in my path again.
They will spread the word. That is all they are good for."
Elara raised a single, impressed eyebrow. "Insects. Right. And what about us, 'Captain'? Are we insects too?"
"You are my navigator," I stated, as if it were the most obvious fact in the universe. "That makes you... elevated."
She let out a short, surprised laugh. "Elevated. I like that. Alright, Captain Elevated, here's our situation. That 'Purgatory' you stole is a wreck. The shipwright you paid will probably finish the job—mostly out of terror—but that tub won't survive a real Grand Line storm.
We need a real ship. And you... you need more 'subordinates.'"
"I need no one," I replied, my gaze fixed forward.
"Oh, stop," Elara said, rolling her eyes, her fearlessness a refreshing anomaly.
"You're absurdly powerful, I get it. Sun-god, blah blah blah. But you can't sail a ship, navigate a storm, and fight off the entire World Government at the same time. Especially," she added, her voice dropping, "at night."
I stopped. The heat around me flared for a dangerous second. I turned to face her. Her smirk didn't falter, but her eyes were deadly serious.
"You're a prisoner," I said, my voice low. "How would you know about that?"
"I was in that cell for three weeks, sun-god. I watched you. I saw you swagger into town this morning, a living star. And I saw you three nights ago, when you first docked.
A shivering, terrified kid who barricaded himself in his cabin, clutching a rifle. You're two different people, aren't you? A god by day, and a boy by night."
My silence was all the confirmation she needed.
"That's what I thought," she said, her tone softening just a fraction. "You're going to get yourself killed the first night a real enemy finds you. You need a crew. You need people to watch your back when the sun goes down."
I hated that she was right. My Night Form was a vulnerability, a humiliating weakness that I had to overcome. But until I did, she was correct.
"And I think I know just the man," Elara continued, a sly smile returning to her face. "The strongest person on this island, by a nautical mile. Or at least, he was."
"I'm listening."
"His name is Shimotsuki Riyon. A swordsman from Wano, showed up here about a year ago. He's a bounty hunter. Or, well, was. He's a force of nature, carries a blade that just feels heavy, you know? He cut a pirate galleon in half last month for stepping on his boots."
"A bounty hunter?" I mused. "Why is he here?"
Elara's smile became a grin. "This is the best part. He was obsessed. He came to the Grand Line with one goal: to find and defeat a man he considered the ultimate test.
A man who was the son of the 'Hero' but a traitor to his own cause. A man he wanted to test his blade against, to see if Garp's bloodline was worthy of his time."
I stopped walking. "He was... hunting me?"
"He was hunting you, Luthor," Elara confirmed.
"He'd heard whispers of a 'traitor Garp' before you even got to God Valley. It was his whole purpose. And then... the news hit. 'Monkey D. Luthor, Missing In Action, Presumed Deceased.'
Executed by Garling, according to the rumors he dug up. It broke him. His grand purpose in life, the ultimate challenge he'd set for himself, was just... gone. He's been in the bottom of a bottle ever since. A 19-year-old washed-up drunkard with one of the deadliest blades in the world."
The arrogance of my Sunshine persona swelled. "He was hunting me? He dared to make me his prey? The lion?" I chuckled, a deep, humorless sound. "How delightfully bold. Where is this pathetic cub hiding?"
"In the 'Salty Dog,' same tavern you were in yesterday. He hasn't moved."
"Good," I said, changing direction. "He was hunting a ghost. He is about to meet a god."
We arrived at the tavern.
The midday heat had driven most people inside, but the place was eerily quiet. The pirates I had seen yesterday were gone, no doubt having fled the island after my display at the Marine base.
The only sound was the slosh of liquid being poured into a cup.
In the same dark corner I had occupied, a man was slumped over a table, a dozen empty bottles of "broze" surrounding him. He was 19, with the lean, coiled build of a predator. Long, unkempt black hair was tied in a loose, sloppy topknot, and he wore the grimy, travel-stained robes of a Wano samurai.
Leaning against his chair, within perfect reach, was his sword. It was in a simple, jet-black scabbard, unadorned and practical. But I could feel it.
The blade within was sleeping, but its dreams were of battle. It was a Supreme Grade Blade. A Saijo O Wazamono. Nagasone Okisato.
The floorboards creaked as Elara and I approached.
"Go away," a rough, slurred voice growled from the table. "Bar's closed. World's closed. Everything's closed."
"Get up, Riyon, you slob," Elara called out, her voice echoing in the empty room. "Your white whale just walked in."
The man's hand, which had been wrapped around a bottle, instantly shot to the hilt of his sword. He was drunk, but his instincts were faster than a striking snake.
He slowly, painfully, lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot, unfocused, and dead. Then they landed on me.
He squinted. His eyes widened. The drunken haze evaporated in an instant, replaced by a shock so profound it was like a physical blow.
"I... I know your face," he whispered, his voice cracking. "From the... from the old bounty draft... But... it's impossible. You're dead. Garling... Garling killed you."
I stood before him, the sun from the open doorway framing me in a halo of unbearable light. My Sunshine power was rolling off me, the heat making him sweat.
"I am told you were looking for me, boy," I said, my voice booming with divine, arrogant pride.
Riyon's knuckles turned white on the hilt of his sword.
"I am Monkey D. Luthor. And I am very much alive." My lips curled into a predatory smile. "Your hunt is over. Your service, however, is about to begin."