The following days blended into one another with an almost meditative slowness.
Each morning, the sun rose over the small grove and found Elian already there, shuriken in hand. In the beginning, his throws were hesitant and imprecise, like those of a child discovering his own body. The shuriken spun poorly, struck the wood at odd angles, or disappeared into the bushes. Shikamaru, leaning against the same tree, corrected him in a drawn-out voice, never raising his tone.
But time passed.
Little by little, something changed.
The throws became smoother. The rotation of the shuriken grew sharper, more consistent. Elian could now throw ten, fifteen, sometimes twenty in a row before feeling fatigue. His body changed as well: it grew leaner, more wiry, with slightly broader shoulders and more defined forearm muscles. His breathing became deeper and steadier.
Shikamaru watched this progress without haste. He spoke little, sometimes settling for a simple "better" or a long, approving sigh. The wind continued to move through the leaves, carrying away sweat and failure, bringing with each day a little more mastery.
The evenings were calm. Elian returned home with heavy arms, his body sore but alive. He felt the warmth in his chest more stable now, more present. The explosive tags remained stored away, still unused, like a silent promise for later.
Thus, fifteen days passed.
On the fifteenth evening, the sun was slowly sinking over the sea, painting the sky a deep violet that echoed the color of Elian's hair. They sat side by side in the grove, as they often did at the end of the day. Elian held a shuriken between his fingers. He threw it one last time. The blade flew straight and fast, embedding itself with a sharp, precise sound at the center of a mark he had carved into a distant tree.
Shikamaru let out a long sigh, almost satisfied.
"You've improved," he murmured. "Truly improved. Your throws have become reliable. Your body is leaner, stronger."
Elian remained silent for a moment, watching the shuriken lodged in the distance. Then he spoke in a calm, almost quiet voice, as if the words came from far away:
"I don't feel the same anymore. The island… it feels smaller now."
Shikamaru slowly turned his head toward him. His half-lidded eyes reflected the light of the setting sun.
"So?"
Elian took a deep breath, feeling the sea breeze against his face.
"I want to leave."
A long silence followed, broken only by the murmur of the waves.
Shikamaru eventually nodded, very slowly.
"Tomorrow morning, then," he replied simply, without surprise, without excessive enthusiasm. "We leave Crystal Island."
Elian looked toward the darkening horizon. For the first time, it no longer seemed merely distant. It felt as though it was waiting for him.
The wind blew softly between them, already carrying the scent of a journey to come.
***
The next morning, the sky was a very pale blue, almost white near the horizon. A light breeze blew in from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and dried seaweed.
Elian woke well before dawn. He stood still for a long moment inside his small house, looking at the wooden walls he had known all his life. Then, unhurried, he began to gather what he would take. A few worn clothes, a fishing knife, a canteen, the bag containing the shuriken and explosive tags. The small dose of chakra already within him felt like a silent, constant presence.
He took almost nothing else. The island had given him what he needed for thirteen years. Today, he was leaving behind what was no longer useful.
Shikamaru was waiting outside, leaning against the wall of the house, his hands in his pockets. He said nothing when he saw Elian come out. He simply gave a slight nod, as if everything had already been decided long ago.
They walked together toward the small port, unhurried. The village was still asleep. Only a few early fishermen were already on the docks, gathering their nets in the gray light of dawn. They greeted Elian with a wave, without asking questions. No one really knew what had happened fifteen days earlier. No one knew he was leaving.
At the end of the farthest pier stood an old fishing boat, sturdy but worn, which the old sailor had agreed to give them in exchange for a few past favors. Shikamaru had inspected it the day before, without a word, with his usual lazy thoroughness.
They loaded their few belongings in silence. Elian placed his bag at the bottom of the boat, then stood for a moment on the pier, taking one last look at the low houses, the stretched nets, the familiar rocks where he had spent so many hours dreaming.
Shikamaru climbed into the boat first. He sat at the stern, his hands still in his pockets, as if he were setting off on a simple outing.
Elian hesitated for a moment longer. He took a deep breath of the island air, air he knew by heart. Then he stepped down into the boat and untied the rope that held it to the pier.
The boat slowly drifted away from the shore, pushed by the breeze and by Shikamaru's first strokes of the oars. The wood creaked softly under their weight. The water lapped against the hull with a soothing regularity.
Elian remained standing at the bow, his eyes fixed on Crystal Island as it gradually grew smaller. The outline of his house, the grove behind it, the cliff where it had all begun… everything became smaller, more distant, until it was nothing more than a green and brown silhouette resting on the sea.
Shikamaru rowed with an almost nonchalant economy of movement. He did not strain. He let the boat glide, as if he were already calculating the most efficient path toward the horizon.
The sun slowly rose behind them, lighting the sea with a calm, golden glow. The island was nothing more than a distant point on the horizon when Elian finally sat at the front of the boat, his legs dangling over the water.
Shikamaru let the oars rest for a moment. He looked at Elian, then at the horizon ahead of them.
"It's done," he murmured simply.
Elian nodded. He felt neither sadness nor overwhelming excitement. Only a strange, deep sensation: that of having crossed an invisible threshold.
The boat continued forward, carried by the current and the breeze. Ahead of them stretched the East Blue, vast, calm, and full of the unknown.
Behind them, Crystal Island slowly disappeared, swallowed by distance and time.
The wind blew gently, carrying away the last whispers of the island and already bringing the first breaths of a wider world.
After several days of calm sailing, a new silhouette appeared in the distance.
It was an island larger than Crystal Island, with low cliffs covered in dense vegetation and a small port nestled in a bay. Fishing boats and a few merchant ships were moored there. Tiled and thatched rooftops peeked out between the trees. The place was called Port-Mirage.
They docked in the late afternoon. The boat gently scraped against a worn wooden pier. Shikamaru tied it off with movements that were both precise and lazy. Elian stepped off first, carrying their shared bag. The ground beneath his feet felt strange after so many days at sea—stable, yet different.
They walked unhurriedly toward the center of the small town. The locals cast curious glances at them, but no one approached.
Shikamaru stopped in front of a small shop near the port, its worn sign reading "Maps & Provisions." He stood still for a moment, hands in his pockets, then went inside. Elian followed.
Inside, the air smelled of old paper and ink. The shopkeeper, an elderly man with round glasses, barely looked up.
Shikamaru spoke in his usual drawn-out voice:
"Maps of the East Blue. The most recent you have. And a general map of the sea routes."
He paid the asked price without argument. When they stepped back outside, Shikamaru held a rolled bundle of maps under his arm. He looked at them for a moment, then murmured:
"On Crystal Island, there was nothing. No maps, no direction. Here, at least, we know where we're going."
They found a modest inn near the port. Shikamaru negotiated a room for two nights with calculated indifference. Once settled in the small whitewashed room, they sat at the table by the window overlooking the sea.
Elian placed the bag on the table. He took out the shuriken and the explosive tags, arranging them carefully. Shikamaru slowly unrolled one of the maps and studied it in silence.
After a long moment, Elian spoke:
"We're going to need money. Real money. For food, for travel… and for the Shop."
Shikamaru nodded slowly, his eyes still on the map.
"Then we start with missions."
He pulled a small crumpled piece of paper from his pocket, one he had taken from the notice board at the port. He unfolded it and placed it between them.
On the sheet were various contracts, ranked by level:
D → 10K – 100K
C → 100K – 1M
B → 1M – 10M
A → 10M – 100M
S → 100M – 1B+
Below, a few examples were written by hand:
• Escort a merchant to a neighboring island → 500K
• Recover a stolen item in the forest → 80K
• Defeat a minor pirate terrorizing fishermen → 20M
• Critical mission (escort a dignitary) → 200M+
Elian read the list in silence, slowly, letting each line settle into his mind.
Shikamaru rested his chin on his hand, his gaze turned toward the window.
"We start with D or C," he murmured. "Nothing too dangerous. We test your progress. See how you react in real conditions. And earn enough to keep moving forward."
Elian remained silent for a long moment, his eyes fixed on the numbers. Then he lifted his head and looked at Shikamaru.
"Tomorrow morning, we'll go check the notice board. We'll pick something simple. Something that lets us test what I've learned."
Shikamaru let out a long sigh, almost a smile.
"Tomorrow morning, then."
Outside, the sun slowly set over Port-Mirage, tinting the sea with gold and purple. The sea breeze drifted in through the open window, cool and full of promise.
Elian put away the shuriken and the explosive tags. He felt the steady warmth in his chest, the light weight of the weapons at his belt, and that new calm determination growing within him.
They were ready.
Not yet powerful.
Not yet famous.
But ready to take their first true steps beyond the island that had seen them born.
Night fell gently over Port-Mirage, wrapping the two travelers in a peaceful silence, filled with the promise of what lay ahead.