A sea wind laced with ice shards carried its chill across the huge deck floating amid the broken-ice sea.
Ryoma's skiff had long since vanished beyond the horizon, leaving only wreckage behind.
The surviving Marines huddled on the planks, shivering uncontrollably from cold and fear. They stared blankly at the endless floes around them, then at one another's bloodless faces—grateful simply to be alive.
After who knew how long, a young Marine finally cracked under the suffocating silence and let out a stifled sob. That sob flipped a switch, igniting everyone's emotions at once.
"Damn it… all because of Nezumi…"
A Marine growled through clenched teeth, slamming his fist against the deck. Splinters instantly tore his knuckles, drawing blood.
"Serves him right. If he hadn't gone and provoked that monster, we'd never be in this mess." Another voice, thick with hatred, chimed in.
"Monster? He was a demon. Lucky for us he didn't even glance our way."
The mood on the deck turned complicated.
No one grieved for Nezumi—only contempt, relief, and deep dread remained.
The vile officer had tried to trade their lives for his greed, then use their bodies to pave his escape. His death felt like justice served.
But what after the relief?
They'd been abandoned on this frozen sea, food and fresh water sunk to the depths, their fate now hinged on sheer luck.
As despair took hold, the young Marine Nezumi had once used as a human shield struggled to his feet. His legs still trembled, yet his back was ramrod-straight.
"Stop sitting around waiting to die." He rasped.
"We can't give up now."
His words weren't loud, but they struck every heart like a hammer.
A Petty Officer of slightly higher rank stood as well, clapped the youth's shoulder, then turned to the others. "Gather every scrap of plank we can use as paddles. We'll hit a shipping lane or an island sooner or later."
The will to live won out over fear. The Marines set to work, fighting for a slim chance in that sea of shattered ice.
Meanwhile Ryoma's little boat sailed smoothly over sapphire waters, borne by favorable wind.
The surrounding ice floes had long disappeared. Warm sunlight washed away the last chill of the frozen field.
He pulled a hardtack biscuit from the cabin, chewed unhurriedly, mind drifting back to the ice-sea he had created.
He felt little guilt toward the stranded Marines. He wasn't bloodthirsty and those low-ranking soldiers had never truly attacked him—one had even tried to speak in his defense.
Punishing everyone for Nezumi's sins wasn't something Ryoma could do. Besides, he had left them a way out. With luck, in two or three days, a merchantman or a patrol ship would pick them up.
With less luck, five or six days adrift—naval training should keep them alive barring extreme weather.
As for whether some Sea King would snack on them… that would be up to fate.
Ryoma's other goal was to buy time.
By the time they were rescued, reported to Branch 16, information compiled and sent to Headquarters, the top brass debated his threat level, set a bounty, and printed wanted posters for every branch and bounty hunter, a week would have passed at minimum.
A week was plenty for his errands. The thought almost made him chuckle—wasn't this exploiting a loophole in the system?
Sailing was tedious, especially on an ocean where water was the only scenery.
After nearly a day, a sizable island finally surfaced on the horizon, the Marines' huge insignia clear above its port.
Marine Branch 77.
Ryoma docked his skiff in a quiet corner of the harbor and walked toward the base gate carrying proof of the Arlong Pirates' demise.
To his surprise, the reception proved far grander than expected.
Upon hearing the hero who wiped out the Arlong Pirates had come to claim the reward, Pudding Pudding, commander of Branch 77, left his office to greet him in person.
"Welcome!"
He seized Ryoma's hand and shook it vigorously, sincerity and gratitude shining on his face,
"On behalf of every citizen under Branch 77's protection, I offer you our highest respect."
Ryoma, caught off-guard by the sudden warmth, could only manage a wooden response.
Unfazed, Pudding pulled him along toward the base, exclaiming, "Ever since those vicious fish-men appeared, I've barely slept. Branch 77 alone simply lacked the strength."
He rubbed his temples, vexed. "I wanted to join forces with nearby branches, but Captain Nezumi of Branch 16 kept stalling—insufficient troops, bad timing. It was infuriating."
Ryoma's step faltered, his expression turning odd.
Captain Nezumi?
He could only marvel at Pudding's incredible luck.
Had he not acted first, once that vermin Nezumi colluded with the scum Arlong, the justice-burning commodore wouldn't have known what hit him. He'd have led his troops proudly to crush Arlong, while a single call from Nezumi behind the lines would have sprung a trap and wiped them out.
Pudding, unaware of Ryoma's thoughts, composed himself and solemnly saluted.
"Whatever the case, thank you for eradicating that cancer from the East Blue. The Marines will not forget."
"Just a small favor."
Ryoma answered, unwilling to dwell on it.
Under Pudding's personal oversight, the bounty process went smoothly.
Within half an hour, a suitcase stuffed with cash sat before Ryoma.
Nearly 30 million Berries: Arlong's 20 million, a cadre's 8 million and the rest were hard to pin down, so they left it at that.
Pudding himself chipped in over a million as thanks.
"Ryoma-san, I've ordered a banquet. Please do us the honor. Let us toast your triumph." Pudding invited warmly.
"Thank you, Commodore, but no need." Ryoma declined politely,
"I'm no fan of crowds, and I have urgent business—can't stay long."
All he wanted was to grab the money and go.
Pudding, though disappointed, didn't press. He thanked Ryoma again and personally saw him to the port.
Back aboard his skiff, Ryoma cast off, trimmed the sail, and slowly left the harbor under the admiring gaze of the 77th Branch Marines.
Once more on the open sea, he opened the suitcase. The sight of neat stacks of Berries filled him with rare satisfaction.
Money was the bedrock of survival, especially in an unfamiliar world.
He closed the case, stowed it safely, and pulled a slightly creased chart from his coat.
The map fluttered in the sea breeze.
"Money in hand… where to next?"
His finger traced across the parchment, skimming familiar island names.
Loguetown? Reverse Mountain? Whisky Peak?
His fingertip settled on one spot—an island in the East Blue, unremarkable yet carrying special meaning.