The Moby Dick cut through the deep blue waves, its massive whale-shaped bow seeming to kiss the salty, free sea breeze.
Behind them, the nightmare of Marineford had finally vanished where the sea met the sky.
That blood-soaked island, along with the deafening cannon fire, the screams of the dying, and the magma that seemingly covered the entire world, felt like a lifetime ago.
The war was over. They had survived.
Putin leaned against the polished chrome counter of his beloved "Multiverse Groceries" cart, letting the sea breeze brush against his somewhat stiff cheeks.
He took a deep breath. It smelled like salt, ozone, and freedom.
However, the atmosphere on the deck was... heavy.
It was a silence mingled with the complex scents of iron-heavy blood, pungent medicinal herbs, and lingering sorrow.
The Whitebeard Pirates were professionals, but they were hurting.
Crew members silently bandaged their wounds, repaired the ship's shattered railings, or simply stared blankly at the horizon, mourning their fallen comrades.
No one disturbed Putin directly.
But that didn't mean he was invisible.
Countless gazes—curious, scrutinizing, grateful, or wary—swept over him like searchlights every few seconds.
To the pirates, he was an enigma.
lA Marine grunt who sold noodles to Kizaru, healed Whitebeard with a sticker, and screamed at Akainu about Wi-Fi.
Putin felt sweat trickling down his back.
He felt exactly like a Husky that had accidentally wandered into a pack of Dire Wolves.
He was trying his best to look tough, to blend in, maybe howl a little bit to fit the vibe, but deep down he knew that one wrong move and he'd be chew toys.
Don't make eye contact, Putin chanted internally. Just look at the ocean. The ocean is nice. The ocean doesn't judge.
"Um..."
A voice sounded right beside his ear.
"GAH!"
Putin jolted, nearly leaping three feet into the air. He spun around, clutching his chest, his heart doing a drum solo against his ribs.
It was Ace.
Fire Fist Ace.
The man worth 550 million Berries. The man who had just caused a world war.
Ace stood there, scratching the back of his neck.
He looked at Putin, his lips moving as if he were chewing on words, searching for the right flavor.
His freckled face was a mix of intense relief and agonizing awkwardness.
"In any case..." Ace mumbled, staring at his boots. "Thank you."
He said these words with the utmost solemnity, heavy with the weight of a life saved.
It was a moment conducive to tears, to a brotherhood bond forming, to a dramatic handshake.
"You're too kind!"
Putin's brain, fried by social anxiety, immediately engaged "Corporate Auto-Pilot."
His face snapped into a standard, plastic commercial smile that showed exactly eight teeth.
"Customer safety is our highest priority at Multiverse Groceries!" Putin chirped, sounding like a prerecorded hotline.
"If it's convenient, please consider giving us a five-star review on the system! We'll notify you first about any new products or holiday discounts!"
Ace's expression froze solid.
The emotional buildup crashed.
All the gratitude, confusion, and profound discussions about fate and willpower he had prepared were completely blocked by this "five-star review" remark, leaving him unable to utter a single word.
Ace opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"Review...?" Ace whispered, his brain short-circuiting.
Beside them, Marco the Phoenix—the man with the heavy eyelids and the pineapple-style hair—was sitting cross-legged, carefully treating the terrifying wound on Whitebeard's chest with sterile gauze.
Of course, that distracting little bear-printed bandage had been carefully removed after obtaining permission from Putin.
It was now personally kept by Marco in his pocket, perhaps as a lucky charm or evidence of mass hallucination.
Hearing Putin's robotic response, Marco paused in his movements.
The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly.
He raised his half-asleep eyes and glanced at Putin from across the deck.
'This kid...' Marco thought. 'His mental wiring is definitely different from normal people, yoi. Is he brave? Or just an idiot?'
Whitebeard sat leaning against his exclusive, massive throne.
He was hooked up to IV drips, and his breathing remained somewhat weak, but his golden, hawk-like eyes shone with intense focus.
He didn't speak.
He merely watched with amusement as his hot-headed son Ace suffered this awkward social defeat before a mere merchant.
"Gurarara..." A low, thunderous chuckle rumbled in Whitebeard's throat.
Putin heard the laugh.
He felt the eyes of the Commanders. He saw Jozu staring at him. He saw Vista twisting his mustache.
The pressure was immense.
He felt like an audience member suddenly dragged onto the stage of the Spring Festival Gala to perform a chest-crushing boulder stunt—every move exposed under the spotlight, waiting for him to fail.
'No. I can't take it anymore', Putin realized. 'My social battery is at -10%.'
His introverted soul was screaming.
The craving for personal space, for a wall between him and the world, was overwhelming everything else.
He needed to retreat. He needed his reward!
Under everyone's bewildered gazes, Putin grabbed the handlebars of his cart.
"Excuse me! Coming through! Just doing a... stock check!"
He pushed his Multiverse Groceries cart to a relatively empty, shadowed corner of the deck, near the rear mast.
He opened the cart's insulated compartment.
He reached inside and took out... a palm-sized, plastic-wrapped square.
It looked like a compressed rain poncho.
Ace and Marco's attention was immediately captured.
Even Whitebeard leaned forward slightly.
'What was that? A new weapon? A Devil Fruit? A portable bomb to sink the ship?'
They watched, holding their breath, as Putin placed the small square on the wooden deck.
He crouched down, tapped a button on the side, and stepped back quickly.
POP!
A soft sound, like a cork popping.
Whirrrrr-click!
The next moment, under the stunned stares of hundreds of veteran pirates, the small square began to expand.
It unfolded, twisted, and grew as if possessing a life of its own!
Support poles made of memory alloy sprang out automatically.
High-tech, silver-coated waterproof fabric smoothly stretched open.
In less than three seconds, a two-person camping tent, filled with modern industrial design aesthetics and glowing with faint neon lines, appeared out of thin air on the Moby Dick's deck.
"PFFT!"
Jozu, who had just taken a sip of medicinal liquor to soothe his nerves, sprayed it all over the deck.
The other pirates wore expressions of having seen a ghost.
They crowded around, keeping a safe distance, examining the tent made of unheard-of materials.
"What kind of demonic art is this?!" one pirate gasped.
"Is this a Devil Fruit ability? The House-House Fruit?"
"Look at that fabric... it's so smooth! It's not canvas! And look at the shape... it's aerodynamic!"
Putin ignored the astonished gasps around him.
He treated the marvel of technology with casual indifference.
He grabbed the zipper tab.
ZZZZZZZIP.
The sound was crisp and loud. He opened the tent flap, revealing a glimpse of the interior.
Then, flashing a blissful, almost religious smile at the confused pirates, he darted inside like a groundhog returning to its burrow.
ZZZZZZIP.
He sealed the door shut.
The world fell silent.
Outside the tent, the pirates stood in a circle, staring at the silver dome.
Ace sidled up to Marco, poking the side of the tent gingerly with his finger.
"Marco," Ace whispered, as if afraid of waking a beast. "What... what's he doing in there?"
Marco narrowed his eyes.
He activated his Observation Haki, trying to sense the interior.
"I don't know, yoi," Marco pondered, his face serious. "He said something about 'after-sales service.' Maybe he is... conducting routine data observation? Perhaps meditating to recharge his powers?"
No sooner had he spoken.
Bzzzzzzzz—
A faint, continuous, humming sound emanated from inside the tent.
It was the sound of a compressor kicking in.
Then, visible white cold air began seeping out from the tent's top vent.
It swirled in the cool night sea breeze, creating a mystical fog around the structure.
The temperature around the tent seemed to drop five degrees.
"It's... it's making ice?" Jozu whispered, amazed.
Before anyone could react, the interior of the tent lit up.
It wasn't the warm, flickering yellow glow of an oil lamp or candle.
It was a harsh, vibrant, constantly shifting multicolored radiance.
Blues, reds, greens, and purples strobed through the fabric, transforming the entire tent into a peculiar, pulsating colored lightbox.
"RGB," Ace muttered, reading the letters on the side of the tent, though he didn't know what they meant.
The Pirates exchanged bewildered glances.
Their faces clearly expressed: 'What the hell is happening inside that magical tent?'
Ace couldn't resist.
He leaned his ear right against the fabric, trying to discern the incantations of the mysterious merchant.
He faintly heard some indistinct, synthetic voices coming from inside.
"...First Blood!"
Ace blinked. Blood? Was he performing surgery?
"...Double Kill!"
Ace stiffened. Kill? Who was he killing?
"...Triple Kill!"
The voice grew more intense.
"...PENTA KILL!!"
And finally, a roar from Putin that seemed to unleash primal instincts, a scream of pure frustration and adrenaline.
"ACE!!!!"
Putin screamed the name at the top of his lungs.
Ace jolted as if he'd been electrocuted.
He instinctively straightened his back, saluted the tent, and responded loudly.
"AH! I'M RIGHT HERE! WHAT DO YOU NEED?!"
Silence.
The sounds from the tent abruptly ceased. The flashing lights paused on a static red.
After a few seconds of agonizing silence, a muffled, annoyed voice emerged from within the fabric.
"...Wasn't calling you, bro. I meant... I meant the card game. Ace of Spades. Yeah."
Ace stood there
. His face turned a shade of red that rivaled Akainu's magma.
Marco turned away instantly.
His shoulders shook uncontrollably. He bit his knuckles to suppress the laughter, tears forming in his eyes.
Whitebeard watched the scene from his throne.
He threw his head back and could no longer contain himself.
"Gurarararara!"
The laughter boomed across the ocean.
"This brat... Gurarara... What a character! He ignores Ace to play with cards!"
The laughter was contagious.
It dispelled the last traces of gloom on the deck. The other Pirates joined in the merriment, laughing at Ace's embarrassment and the absurdity of the situation.
The joy of survival finally overcame the sorrow and exhaustion.
...
Meanwhile, inside the tent that isolated him from the entire world...
Putin lay sprawled on a soft, cloud-like double Simmons mattress.
The 22-degree constant temperature air conditioning blasted him with cool, dry air, drying his sweat instantly.
He held a PS69 controller in his hands.
On the 40-inch screen projected on the tent wall, a "DEFEAT" screen was fading, but he didn't care.
He took a sip of ice-cold cola.
"Shelter," he whispered. "Internet. AC. And 500mbps Wi-Fi."
Tears streamed down his face—not of sadness, but of pure joy.
"This damn life finally holds some promise."
He, Putin, the cannon fodder, had just crowned himself the Champion of the Whitebeard Pirates' First Deck Camping Competition!