(14/02/24 - 16:30) (Sunday February 14, 1524)
The freezing ocean water hit Uma like a solid wall of iron. The brutal impact extinguished the roaring oil fire instantly. The sudden transition from searing heat to absolute cold sent his nervous system into a state of total shock. Saltwater rushed into the deep stab wound in his back and bit into his raw, charred skin.
He sank into the dark depths. His waterlogged boots and heavy cargo trousers pulled him downward. The adrenaline drained from his bloodstream entirely. The blood loss from his severed vascular tissue took a heavy toll. The edges of his vision blurred and darkened. His single open eye watched the distorted light of the surface drift further away. A heavy, suffocating darkness crept into his mind. His body prepared to shut down.
'I will bring judgement.'
The absolute oath echoed in the fading silence of his mind. He remembered the chains in the galleon hold. He remembered his purpose. He refused to die drowning in the shadow of a rotting shipyard.
He commanded his failing muscles to engage. He ignored the agonizing tearing sensation in his back. He kicked his heavy boots against the water. He pulled his arms in wide arcs, fighting the crushing weight of the ocean. He broke the surface. He gasped violently, filling his burning lungs with oxygen. He coughed up a mixture of seawater and blood.
He swam toward the muddy embankment of the shipyard perimeter. He dug his stiff fingers into the wet earth and dragged his heavy, broken body entirely out of the water. He collapsed onto his stomach, breathing in ragged, shallow gasps.
Loud shouts and panicked screams echoed from the center of the yard. The massive grounded galleon burned fiercely, sending a thick pillar of black smoke into the afternoon sky. Thugs scrambled across the debris, screaming about the flames and the crushed skull of Rust-Knuckle Gator. The chain of command was completely broken.
Uma forced his arms under his chest. He pushed himself off the mud. His legs trembled violently. Every square inch of his skin radiated a blinding, white-hot agony from the second and third-degree burns. He turned his back to the burning galleon and limped into the dense shadows of the Yarukiman Mangroves.
(14/02/24 - 17:15)
The walk back to Grove Thirteen tested the absolute limits of his human endurance. He stuck to the deserted alleyways and the massive root systems, avoiding the main paths entirely. He left a faint trail of bloody saltwater on the dirt. His mind operated on a primal loop, focusing entirely on placing one foot in front of the other.
He reached the wooden steps of the clinic. The heavy iron door stood directly in front of him.
He raised his shaking right hand. He grabbed the cold iron handle and pushed the door inward. The ambient heat from the cast-iron stove washed over his shivering frame. He saw Doctor Vance looking up from the central wooden table.
The safety of the clinic shattered his fragile focus. The biological toll of the hyper-recovery, the massive blood loss, and the severe thermal trauma synchronized. His nervous system severed the connection to his consciousness completely.
His eyes rolled back in his head. His knees buckled. He pitched forward, falling directly toward the wooden floorboards.
Vance dropped his surgical tools and lunged across the room. The older man grabbed Uma by the shoulders, absorbing the dead weight of the unconscious young man before his charred face could strike the ground.
(14/02/24 - 22:00) (Sunday February 14, 1524)
Uma snapped his eyes open. The dim orange light of the clinic's oil lamp cast long shadows across the wooden ceiling. He lay flat on the narrow cot.
"It is ten at night," Vance stated from his cluttered desk. The metallic click of the doctor's pocket watch snapping shut echoed cleanly across the quiet room.
Uma widened his eyes. He pushed himself off the mattress in a sudden, violent burst of motion. He was exactly four hours late for his scheduled shift at Shakky's bar. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and planted his bare feet heavily on the floorboards, preparing to sprint out the heavy iron door.
He froze mid-stride.
He...
He was okay?
He looked down at his bare chest and arms. The catastrophic second and third-degree burns from the ignited whale oil were entirely gone. Smooth, hyper-pigmented dark skin replaced the raw, charred flesh. He twisted his torso, reaching a hand behind his back to trace the area where the serrated dagger had shredded his kidney. His fingers found only flawless, dense muscle tissue. The agonizing pain and the crippling, near-fatal fatigue had vanished completely.
Vance exhaled a thick cloud of grey cigar smoke. The older man observed him with a dead, serious expression.
"It seems as time passes, your body recovers faster," Vance said, his gravelly voice dropping in pitch. "I might be exaggerating, but the medical evidence sitting on that cot is undeniable. You possess a special body like the monsters of the sea. Your previous environment starved you. Now that you are following a proper diet of dense sea beast meat, this monstrous physiology is truly awakening."
Uma raised his hands. He looked at his broad palms. He curled his fingers inward, clenching his fists tight. The knuckles popped like dry twigs. Thick veins bulged instantly along his forearms and biceps. The raw, explosive kinetic energy coursing through his muscle fibers vastly eclipsed his physical baseline from the morning. He felt significantly stronger than the moment he shattered Gator's cervical spine.
"How much time did it take for the burned skin and the internal injuries to heal entirely?" Uma asked, keeping his eyes locked on his clenched fists.
"The thermal trauma sealed and the severed tissue fused completely after the fourth hour," Vance replied, tapping his cigar over the glass ashtray.
Uma grinned. A sharp, predatory expression stretched across his face. The biological limitations of a normal human being no longer applied to his existence. The absolute ceiling of his potential had just shattered.
He turned toward a wooden chair holding a stack of Vance's old, faded clothes. His previous garments were completely destroyed by the fire, the blood, and the saltwater. He grabbed a simple beige linen shirt and a pair of worn brown trousers. He pulled the clothes over his frame. He rushed out the heavy iron door, his boots pounding against the wooden porch as he sprinted into the dark, humid air of the lower groves.
(14/02/24 - 22:15) (Sunday February 14, 1524)
Uma pushed the heavy wooden door of the Rip-off Bar open. The tavern was packed with the late-night crowd. He navigated through the dense smoke and the loud patrons, walking directly toward the counter.
Shakky stood behind the wood, wiping a glass with a white cloth. She looked at him. Her eyes scanned his oversized beige linen shirt and worn brown trousers. She simply watched him, her gaze traveling from his newly cut hair down to his unblemished arm and leg, then back to his eyes..
"You are four hours and fifteen minutes late," Shakky stated, setting the glass down.
"I encountered an obstacle," Uma replied, keeping his voice respectful.
"My prices are extortionate, and my rules are absolute," Shakky said, leaning against the counter. "Your punishment for tardiness is a double shift. You will serve drinks until the patrons leave, and you will scrub the entire establishment twice before dawn."
Uma gave a short nod. He grabbed a serving tray from the end of the bar. He felt a deep, heavy resignation in his chest regarding the grueling hours ahead. He walked toward a table of shouting mercenaries to collect their empty mugs.
Silvers Rayleigh sat on a stool at the far end of the counter. The old pirate held a glass of dark rum. He looked deeply at the young man carrying the wooden tray. His sharp eyes analyzed the subtle shifts in Uma's presence and the renewed vigor in his steps.
(15/02/24 - 03:00) (Monday February 15, 1524)
The tavern sat completely empty. Shakky locked the front door. She poured herself a glass of rum and sat next to Rayleigh at the counter. The two old timers engaged in a quiet conversation about the shifting currents of the Grand Line.
Again.
Uma dragged the heavy wooden mop across the stone floorboards. The soapy water splashed against the base of the bar stools. His body possessed a lot of physical energy, but the sheer monotony of the labor tested his patience.
Rayleigh took a slow sip from his glass. He turned his head over his shoulder.
"Were you the one who killed Gator, that fodder in Grove Twenty-Two?" Rayleigh asked, pitching his voice to carry across the empty room.
Uma stopped dragging the mop. He turned around to face the old man. He offered a single, confirming nod.
"You move differently than yesterday," Rayleigh observed, resting his elbows on the wooden counter. "Your physical foundation expanded rapidly. You must have gotten significantly stronger after the fight, I suppose."
Uma nodded again. The Dark King possessed an unnatural level of perception. Hiding his hyper-recovery from Rayleigh was a completely futile endeavor.
Rayleigh chuckled, a low, rumbling sound in his chest. He swirled the rum in his glass.
"What are your plans in life, boy?" Rayleigh asked.
Uma rested both his hands on the wooden handle of the mop. He looked directly into the eyes of the former right hand of the Pirate King.
"What everyone fears to do," Uma stated, his voice completely devoid of hesitation. "I will end their era."
Rayleigh stared deeply at the serious young man. The ambient noise in the tavern vanished completely. The old pirate closed his eyes. A soft, nostalgic smile formed on his lips. The sheer, unadulterated ambition echoing in the room reminded him vividly of his late captain.
Rayleigh opened his eyes. The smile faded into a look of absolute reality.
"With your current capabilities, you stand absolutely no chance," Rayleigh said flatly. "They will crush you into dust before you even reach the Red Line."
"Teach me then," Uma requested directly.
Rayleigh shook his head slowly.
"I do not think you are worthy of my time yet," Rayleigh replied, turning his gaze back to his glass of rum.
Uma accepted the rejection without a single change in his expression. The path to power required immense patience and undeniable proof of value. He gave a short nod, turned his back to the counter, and resumed scrubbing the stone floorboards.
----
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