Purupuruuu—pururupuru—puru…
The sharp, organic ringing of a transponder snail cut through the stale air of Punk Hazard, its croaking call echoing strangely against steel walls and frozen stone. The snail's eyes bulged, antenna twitching as it cried out insistently—urgent, impatient, as if the message it carried could no longer wait.
Señor reached into the inner pocket of his suit with uncharacteristic haste and pulled the snail free. The moment he heard the voice on the other end, his usual lazy composure faltered. His eyes widened—just a fraction—but it was enough for me to notice. He hadn't expected this.
"Young Master Ross…" Señor said quietly, already turning toward me. He didn't bother explaining. He simply placed the transponder snail into my hand. "You need to take this one."
We were still on Punk Hazard, waiting.
King Neptune lay unconscious nearby, his massive body finally healed—Giolla-san's paramecia ability and Princess Mansherry's heal fruit had restored him completely. Yet the damage to his spirit had been too deep. His mind had shut itself away, clinging to the last embers of life. Still… with his body whole again, it was only a matter of time before he awoke.
I opened my mouth to ask who was calling. I didn't get the chance. A hoarse, broken voice rasped through the snail, raw with exhaustion—and something far darker.
"I found him…" My grip tightened. "I finally found him."
The voice trembled—not with fear, but with restrained fury. "You promised me," the man continued, every word steeped in hatred, "that you would help me exact my vengeance if I managed to find him. I've kept my end of the bargain."
There was a pause. I could hear his breathing—ragged, uneven. "Now it's your turn to keep your word, Rosinante." For a few seconds, my mind went blank. That voice. The so-called promise. That hatred that I could perceive even through the transponder snail. Then it hit me. Like a blade sliding between my ribs. I had almost forgotten him.
The man who had bowed before the Family years ago, swearing fealty not for power or protection—but for vengeance. The man who had set sail alone, chasing a legend most believed never existed. A legend soaked in blood.
I stood up so abruptly that the chair beneath me screeched violently across the floor, crashing onto its side. The sound echoed through the room. Across from me, Doffy—who had been lazily flipping through the latest issue of the World Times—paused. He folded the paper slowly, his sharp eyes lifting to meet mine.
Then to Señor. He didn't ask. He didn't need to. Señor spoke a single word.
"Bonbori."
I couldn't stop myself—the words spilled out before I had time to think. "Are you absolutely sure?" I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended. "Did you confirm it with your own eyes?"
Because if Bonbori was real—if that legend had truly stepped out of myth and into the world—then everything changed.
My thoughts raced, each one heavier than the last. The existence of pure gold was not just a curiosity or a treasure. It was a fulcrum—one that could tilt the balance of power decisively in the family's favor. And unlike Imu, I was not a true god. Not yet.
The power of the God Fruit still eluded me in many ways. I could feel its vastness, its terrifying potential, but mastery was a distant horizon. Immortality, if it were even achievable through my abilities alone, would apply only to me. Imu, by contrast, could bestow eternity upon others—bind loyalty through everlasting life itself.
That was a gap I could not ignore. But pure gold… If the legends were true, its properties went far beyond wealth or indestructibility. Longevity. Regeneration. Perhaps even a path to defying age itself—not immortality, but something close enough to reshape the future.
And with someone like Einstein at our side—someone who could peel apart the laws of nature and rebuild them—we might not merely harvest pure gold. We could refine it. Understand it. Improve upon it. A resource like that would not just strengthen us—it would change the rules of the world.
I felt the weight of that realization settle into my chest as I waited for the answer, knowing that if the man on the other end spoke the words I feared—and hoped—to hear, then the world was about to move whether it was ready or not.
"I haven't seen it yet, Young Master—but I'm absolutely sure."
The voice on the other end of the transponder snail was tight and urgent, every word pressed forward by conviction rather than certainty. There was no hesitation in it—only the kind of belief born from years spent chasing a single truth.
"I can feel it in my gut," the man continued hoarsely. "I'm ready to wager my life on this. He's slumbering beneath the very seas I'm standing upon." The snail crackled faintly as if the air itself resisted carrying his words.
"I don't know how long he'll remain there," he went on. "The weather around these waters is… wrong. Unnatural. I was lucky to get this connection at all. The storms here swallow transponder signals whole. I had to retreat all the way to the edge of the forbidden zone just to reach you."
His breathing came through in ragged bursts, underscored by distant thunder—low, constant, like the growl of something massive turning in its sleep. I fell silent, weighing the words carefully.
He hadn't seen Bonbori with his own eyes.
And yet—there was no doubt in his voice. No exaggeration. No desperation to be believed. Only absolute certainty, forged through obsession and years of pursuit. And I knew then that even if the chance was a sliver—no matter how thin—I couldn't afford to let it slip through my fingers.
"Send me the coordinates," I said firmly, the decision settling in my chest like iron. "I'll leave at once." The world had just whispered a secret. And I intended to answer it.
"Click…!" The line went dead before I could press for anything more. For a brief moment, the silence felt heavier than the storm-filled words that had preceded it. Then—almost on cue—one of Señor's other transponder snails began to chirr quietly, its shell lights flickering in a coded sequence.
Señor reacted instantly. He took the snail, fingers working with practiced ease as he decoded the compressed message. Numbers, vectors, and shifting sea markers unfolded as he cross-referenced them against navigational charts etched into memory. His brows knit together.
"Coordinates confirmed," he said after a moment, glancing up at me. "Rough estimate only—but they're consistent."
He paused, then added, "New World, closer to the location of Lodestar, young Master."
That alone narrowed the possibilities dramatically. At least it wasn't the first half of the Grand Line proper. For a mythical beast like Bonbori, the Calm Belt would have posed little obstacle—Sea Kings or not—but the New World made far more sense. Unstable weather, distorted seas, and territories so hostile they swallowed ships whole without a trace.
A place where legends didn't just die—they slept. Señor tapped the shell once more, adjusting the projection. "The zone itself is… strange. Storm systems that don't follow natural patterns. Magnetic interference. It's no wonder transponder signals can't survive inside."
"So… you're planning to travel to the edge of the known world, little brother?" Doffy's voice cut through the room, light as ever on the surface, yet for once stripped of its usual mockery. The ever-present grin was still there, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. Rare seriousness settled over his features, the kind that only surfaced when the stakes brushed against something personal.
I met his gaze and nodded.
"We don't have a choice, Doffy," I said quietly. "Even if there's only the slimmest chance that Bonbori is more than a legend—if pure gold truly exists—then we have to claim it before anyone else does. And if it turns out to be nothing but myth…" I shrugged, a small chuckle escaping me as I tossed the transponder snail back to Señor. He caught it effortlessly. "Then at the very least, I'll finally see Lodestar. The last island one can reach by following the Log Pose. I've always wanted to stand there with my own two feet."
Doffy leaned back, arms crossing slowly, his gaze sharpening. "Tell me something, little brother," he said, voice low and probing. "Are you only going to Lodestar… or are you planning to take that final step?"
The air seemed to tighten. "Except for the surviving Roger Pirates," he continued, eyes never leaving mine, "you're probably the only other person alive who knows where Raftel truly is." His lips curled, not into a smile, but something closer to a wounded smirk. "And yet, you've never shared that detail with me. Not once."
There it was. Not accusation—disappointment. Not because he yearned for Raftel itself, but because it remained the one secret I had never entrusted to him. The one wall I had never let him look over. I exhaled slowly.
"There's nothing for us on Raftel, Doffy," I said at last. "No matter what the One Piece is." I met his gaze squarely. "Our goal has never changed. Not since the day we set foot on the Holy Land. Not since the moment I was forced to bear the mark of the Dragon's Hoof."
The memory burned, as vivid as ever. "Whatever lies at the end of the world," I continued, "it won't change what we're aiming for. It won't alter our path."
Doffy stared at me in silence. For a heartbeat, I thought he might push back—demand answers, demand trust. But instead, he laughed softly.
"Fufufufu…" The sound was familiar, yet subdued, tinged with something almost… understanding. "You're right, little brother," he said at last, his grin returning—sharper now, resolute. "You're absolutely right." His eyes gleamed with dangerous clarity. "Perhaps it was never our destiny to find the One Piece."
He turned toward the horizon, as if looking past the walls, past the seas themselves. "Ours," Doffy said, voice dropping to a near whisper, "is to bring down the god who rules this world." And in that moment, despite the secrets that still lay between us, I knew—he truly understood.
"Speaking of Raftel…" I said, breaking the brief silence, my tone deliberately light. "Issho-san must have secured the red Poneglyph from Wano by now. Kaido is probably tearing into his subordinates as we speak, demanding to know why strangers dared move so freely within his domain."
I let out a short, amused breath, though the image of the Beast King's fury was anything but humorous. I turned toward Señor, who straightened slightly at my gaze.
"Yes, young master," he replied evenly. "The Poneglyph has been secured." He paused for half a heartbeat before continuing. "However, our fishman ally was unable to locate the Ancient Weapon. Matters in Wano escalated quickly—Issho was forced to cut the operation short when Denjiro was nearly killed by one of the Beast Pirates' Calamities. He intervened personally to extract him."
At the mention of Kaido, Doffy's expression darkened instantly. The air around him seemed to sharpen, an old, familiar hatred flickering behind his sunglasses. For a moment, I thought he might speak—but he restrained himself. Not yet. The dragon's head would fall in time.
I turned back to Señor. "And Jinbei?" I asked. "Is he returning with Issho and the others to Dressrosa?" Señor shook his head.
"No, young master. After Issho shared the news of Fishman Island's fall, Jinbei chose to part ways. He departed immediately to confirm the situation himself." His voice lowered slightly. "It seems he could not bring himself to accept the report at face value. He needed to see the truth with his own eyes."
The room grew quiet. Because Fishman Island had truly fallen… and the seas themselves were already beginning to shift, whether Jinbei believed it or not.
****
Syrup Village, East Blue
The only restaurant in the village stood near the small central clearing in the village, a squat wooden building with weather-worn planks bleached pale by salt and sun. Its signboard— Meshi—creaked softly in the sea breeze, painted letters chipped from decades of storms and laughter alike. By midday, it was usually the liveliest place in Syrup Village.
Fishermen with rough hands and sunburned faces crowded the long tables, bowls of stew steaming, bread torn apart with practiced ease. Merchants loosened their collars, soldiers set aside their spears by the wall, and the low murmur of conversation blended with the clink of cutlery and the crackle of the hearth.
It should have been peaceful. Then the screams cut through it all.
"PIRATES—! PIRATES ARE COMING—!"
The door rattled as a shadow darted past the windows, bare feet slapping against the packed dirt road outside. Groans rippled through the inn like a tired wave. Forks paused midair. A few patrons rolled their eyes; others sighed in long-suffering resignation.
"Again?" someone muttered.
Young Usopp's voice echoed through the village, hoarse yet frantic, carrying the same warning he had screamed for months. Normally, it was predictable—an hour at most, a childish routine that ended once the sun climbed high. By noon, Usopp would usually vanish, satisfied with the chaos he'd caused.
But today, the screams didn't stop. They kept coming. Again and again. Long past the hour when even his wildest lies usually ran dry.
Outside, Usopp ran through the streets with tears streaking down his dust-smeared face, chest burning, lungs screaming as loudly as his mouth. His legs ached, but he didn't slow. He couldn't. Each cry tore out of him like it was all that kept his heart from shattering completely.
Pirates are coming… Pirates are coming…
This time, he wasn't lying—at least he hoped he wasn't—that pirates would truly come. Inside the restaurant, irritation finally boiled over. An old soldier—broad-shouldered, gray-bearded, scars crisscrossing his forearms—slammed his fork onto his plate with a sharp clatter. The sound snapped several heads in his direction.
"That's it," he growled, pushing back his chair. "I've had enough. Today I'm breaking that brat's legs so he finally learns—" Before he could take a step, a heavy, calloused hand pressed down on his shoulder. "Not today," said the man beside him quietly.
The soldier froze, glancing sideways. The man who held him was a fisherman, still smelling faintly of salt and nets, eyes tired in a way that had nothing to do with labor.
"Let the kid be," the fisherman continued, his voice low. "He just lost his mother. This… this is how he's holding himself together."
The words hit like a cannon blast. The old soldier's mouth opened, then closed. His anger drained away, replaced by shock—and something dangerously close to shame.
"Banchina…?" he rasped.
The fisherman nodded once. Silence fell over the table. Around them, the restaurant seemed to dim, as if the sunlight itself had grown hesitant.
Outside, Usopp stumbled, catching himself against a fence before forcing his legs to move again. His throat burned raw, but he screamed anyway, because if he stopped, the truth would crash down on him all at once. His mother was gone.
Banchina, who had smiled through her sickness. Who had laughed at his lies and told him they'd become truths one day. Who had held his trembling hands and whispered that his father was a brave pirate sailing the seas.
He'll come back, she had said. He'll come back for us. Now Usopp ran through the village, heart pounding with a desperate, childish hope that refused to die.
If pirates come… if they really come… then maybe… just maybe…
Maybe his father would be among them. Maybe Yasopp would finally return—stand at the village edge, ask where Banchina was, see her face one last time. Maybe all the lies Usopp had screamed for years would finally turn into the truth he needed most.
So he ran. And he screamed. Not to scare the village. Not to lie. But to call out across the sea, hoping—begging—that his father might hear him at last.
****
The burial took place in the evening, when the sun hung low over the sea and painted the sky in bruised shades of orange and violet. A cool breeze drifted in from the coast, carrying with it the smell of salt and fading daylight. The small graveyard on the hill overlooking Syrup Village was quieter than it had ever been, yet fuller than it had been in years.
Nearly the entire village had gathered. Fishermen stood with their caps pressed to their chests. Merchants and farmers lined the worn stone path in somber rows. Even those who had once whispered behind Banchina's back—those who had scorned her for loving a pirate, for believing in a man who never returned—were present. They stood with bowed heads now, guilt and respect etched into their faces, because death had a way of stripping away old grudges and leaving only what truly mattered.
At the center lay the simple wooden coffin, smooth and unadorned, resting above the open grave. A white cloth had been draped across it, embroidered with small flowers by the village women who had stayed up late the night before, stitching their grief into every careful thread.
Usopp sat a short distance away. He hadn't cried in hours. His throat was raw, burned hollow from screaming, and his tears had long since dried into tight, aching tracks on his cheeks. He sat with his knees drawn to his chest, small hands clenched into the fabric of his pants, unmoving.
His eyes never left the road. The narrow dirt path that wound down from the village toward the graveyard stretched out before him, empty and silent. Beyond it lay the sea—calm, endless, uncaring. Usopp stared as if his life depended on it, as if looking away for even a second would ensure the thing he feared most became permanent.
He'll come, the boy told himself. He has to come.
Banchina had believed it until her last breath. Usopp had promised her he would tell his father everything. He had screamed "Pirates are coming" for years, not just as a lie, but as a prayer hurled into the wind.
The village elder stepped forward at last, staff tapping softly against the stone. His voice was gentle, but it trembled with age and shared loss.
"Usopp… Usopp, child," he called. "You need to perform the final rites before we bury her."
The boy didn't respond. He didn't turn. He didn't blink. It was as if his small body had become rooted to the earth, his spirit stretched thin between hope and despair. The villagers shifted uneasily, murmurs rippling through the crowd. Some wiped their eyes. Others stared at the road too, silently wishing they could will a ship into existence.
A heavy footstep broke the tension. "It's alright," the old soldier said, his voice rough but steady. "Leave the child be." He stood tall despite his years, gaze soft as it rested on Usopp's trembling back. "We'll do it," he continued. "We're his family too."
No one argued. The villagers stepped forward together. Hands that had hauled nets, plowed fields, and raised children now worked gently, reverently. They lit incense. They spoke the prayers. They lowered the coffin slowly, carefully, as if afraid of hurting her even now.
From the mansion on the hill, servants and guards had come as well, standing apart but present all the same. In this small corner of the world, titles meant little in the face of loss. As the grave was filled, the sun dipped below the horizon, its last light spilling across the sea like a dying ember.
Still, Usopp didn't move. His eyes stayed fixed on the road, wide and shining, waiting for a familiar figure that never appeared. Somewhere deep inside him, a child's hope clung stubbornly to life, refusing to die alongside his mother.
And in that quiet graveyard, beneath a darkening sky, the village mourned not only Banchina—but the boy who learned, far too early, what it meant to wait for someone who might never come.