Second Arc: Whispers of the Four Blues
Three months after O'Hara
Moonless night ran thin, leaving only a pewter ribbon on the water when Spectre D. Ash spotted lantern clusters of Ilusia Kingdom. He exhaled in four‑count rhythm, fingers tight on the tiller of a patched dinghy scarcely longer than two coffins end‑to‑end. It had no figure‑head, no nameplate. He called it Leaf‑Boat in his mind because O'Hara's burning leaves still haunted dreams.
Ilusia's outer anchorage—"Grey Gate" to smugglers—was half‑real, half‑whisper. Guard towers existed, but custom clerks accepted bribes faster than manifests. Ash eased the dinghy into a slip between a sandalwood trader and a fishing pram. Tarred pylons creaked; gulls squabbled above.
He paid the yawning dock scribe 1,000 Berries—exact change—then shouldered a canvas satchel. Under his traveller's cloak two hollow staves hid Skeyth, the scythe sleeping in three pieces. At eight years old, standing barely to an average sailor's chest, he looked like a courier's apprentice. Only the scar tissue across his back, hidden by bandage and shirt, told another story.
Ash touched the brim of his wide fishing hat. "White Scholar mask on," he whispered, voice still squeaky with youth but steady after months at sea.
Dawn painted Ilusia's grey bazaar amber. Vendors rolled canvas awnings; scent of fried plantains blended with brine and hemp. Ash moved like water between fish barrels, noting escape alleys, guard patrol routes, and colour‑coded smuggler chalk marks: a blue X on a crate meant fees unpaid— stealable, a red bar meant Celestial Dragon merchandise— avoid like plague.
He entered Opal's Curio & Rarities, where an ancient bell tinged. Shelves overflowed with rusted Sea‑King teeth, broken violins, cameo brooches. Behind a counter stacked with dusty optics sat Madam Opal—skin like parchment, spectacles thick as bottle‑bottoms.
Ash placed the cedar box down and unlatched brass hinges. Two sealed parchment rolls lay atop pressed leaves the colour of fresh jade.
Madam Opal inhaled sharply. "Is that O'Haran botanical script?"
"Verified at Clover's hand," Ash said, voice bright. Technically true—Clover marked every duplicate scroll "SCH" for student copy.
She turned one scroll under a crystal lens. Handwriting danced like vines. Her gnarled finger trembled; tears welled. "Price?"
"Fifty‑thousand each," Ash said.
"The Navy burned every copy," she countered. "Forty each."
Ash composed a serene grin. "Madam, history's ashes cost more than brass trinkets. Fifty."
They haggled for ten more breaths before settling at 96,000 Berries—a tiny fortune for one scroll, survival money for Ash. He folded bills into an oilskin pouch tucked under shirt.
While Opal wrapped the scrolls for a museum courier, Ash browsed idle shelves, asking seemingly innocent questions about herbal dealers. Opal whispered of a "black clinic on Gallows Cay— patches pirates at hellish prices". She mentioned Doctor Gear, a surgeon who could graft limbs or remove bullets without leaving scars. Codex flagged the name in bright amber.
When Ash left the shop, the sun cleared rooftops. His stomach grumbled; he bought skewered lemon‑fish for 300 B and sat on a pier bollard to eat, legs dangling over green water.
From behind stacked fishing nets, Lapis—Cipher Pol 6 recon scout—watched. He was no taller than Ash but older, ferret‑thin, green hair cropped neat. He scribbled in a memo pad: "Target sells contraband O'Hara documents. Visible cash. Solo." He tapped a handheld Den‑Den Mushi: "CP‑6 HQ, visual confirmation Spectre D. Ash in Ilusia. Awaiting capture cutter."
HQ answered: "Observe only until squad arrives—child believed highly lethal." Lapis scowled; a child with a scythe sounded like bedtime nonsense.
Ash felt a faint prickle—the same eerie sense that once saved him from lava spatter. Observation still weak, but enough to detect hostility nearby. He stood, wiped lemon oil from fingers, and melted into an alley leading toward the Rust Lantern District.
On quieter cobbles, Ash removed his hat, pulled out wire‑rimmed glasses, and changed stride to a slower academic saunter. He'd learned that posture could be as effective as camouflage cloth. The Grim Reaper persona required speed and darkness; White Scholar required calm and visible vulnerability.
He purchased a crust of sweet coffee bread (150 B) and purposely chatted with an ink vendor about quill prices. If CP‑6 watched, they would log a harmless boy buying writing tools.
Inside his cloak, Skeyth whispered—a pulse only he could feel—"Hunter eyes linger."
"Noted," Ash muttered. "We sleep with one eye open."
The Rust Lantern perched above tideworn rock, walls mottled by salt and moss. Its landlord was an ex‑pirate missing two fingers; he demanded 5,000 B for an attic cot. Ash paid, choosing the topmost room for clear rooftop escape.
He inventoried gear: rope 12 m, canvas patch kit, water skin, dried gator jerky, Grandpa Clover's compass, three flares. Coins left: 90,550 Berries—comfortably above poverty but far below safety.
He spent the afternoon on the roof practising deck‑balance. He imagined the roof ridge as a storm‑rocking mast. Feet padded wooden shingles in figure‑eight patterns; staff twirled weightless. Each completed loop earned a Codex "+1 Balance Rep."
After dusk he boiled water on a travel stove, wrote his reply to Robin on rice‑thin paper using invisible lemon ink:
"Saw fog‑pearls this morning. Sending one when I can."
He tucked letter into a gull canister addressed to Drop‑Box #12—North Current.
Midnight soaked the inn. Ash meditated cross‑legged, glasses off. Torch smoke drifted through floorboards. Creak—then another—from roof hatch above, softer than a cat. Ash opened one eye.
A blade slid through the hatch gap, feeling for traps. Two silhouettes slipped in: thieves, not marines—drunk by their whispering. They glinted knives toward the cedar herb box (now empty). One poked the pillow lump Ash had stuffed with spare shirt.
He rose like a shadow, scythe‑staff splitting without a hiss. "Leave." The single word froze them. Twin red pupils glimmered.
The first lunged. Flat of blade cracked his temple—he dropped silent. The second flailed a dagger; Ash pivoted, tripped, and pressed staff across the man's throat. "Nothing here for you."
Daggers clanged to floorboards; the thief bolted up the hatch, screaming "White‑haired demon!" into night.
Codex update:
Civilian witness: 1
Underworld whisper probability: +4
Bounty impact: 0
Ash tied the unconscious thief, dragged him to stairwell, left note: "Return with apology or next time you lose fingers—The Reaper."
He returned to bed only when silver pre‑dawn leaked through window.
Before crowds stirred, Ash bought: water barrel refill (1,200 B), hard tack (800 B), salt beef (1,300 B), small jar of sting‑eel salve for his simmering back scar (1,100 B), and a coil of fresh tarred rope (900 B).
Remaining purse: 85,250 B.
He noted a powder‑shop selling smoke bombs; temptation tugged, but weight mattered in a dinghy.
Behind fish carts Lapis watched Ash load supplies. He debated striking alone—HQ's cutter delayed by headwind. He fingered a dart coated in knock‑out sap. One clean shot.
But Ash glanced his way—only a heartbeat—and smiled politely. Something in the boy's eyes unsettled the agent. Lapis backed away into the crowd, deciding to wait for backup.
Ash cast off lines at first gull‑cry. The sentry who recorded exits asked name; Ash replied
"Orchid Courier—West Drift Route." The man scribbled nonsense letters and let him pass.
Grey Gate faded behind. Ash set sail northwest. Wind filled patched canvas; gulls wheeled. He unrolled the Codex day‑log:
Voyage Log 001
Funds 85,250 Berries
Cargo med‑herbs (low), jerky, rope
ETA Gallows Cay 46 hr (weather fair)
Threat CP‑6 scout trailing (low)
Haki Drill deck shadow‑step reps 0/200
He tapped confirm. At the bow he placed Clover's compass, watching needle tremble—true north—and felt a quiet surge of purpose.
Sun rose blood‑orange. Salt spray cooled his scar. He took out a glass jar holding three small pearlescent beads—fog‑pearls collected on drifting mats near O'Hara's burn line. He smiled, planning which pearl to send Robin next.
Skeyth's voice nudged: "Path set. Storms ahead."
Ash grinned. "Storms can't burn what's already ash."
Behind him the gull carrying Robin's letter arced north; ahead, the horizon rolled blue toward Gallows Cay—where whispers said a medic prodigy refused to harvest organs. Ash hoped those whispers held a new friend—or at least an ally who believed books mattered more than berries.
The dinghy disappeared into sun‑sparked swells, leaving only a thin wake and a few fisherman rumours of a white‑haired boy with demon eyes who paid in crisp notes and smiled like a scholar.