The deck shuddered beneath my boots as metal clanged against metal, yells overlapping like a chorus of chaos.
I ducked under a flying blade—not aimed at me, thankfully—and pressed my feet next to a crate of what smelled like salted fish and old regret. Or maybe it was just the sailor next to me bleeding from a large gash across his arm.
'Yeah, probably the fish.'
The pirates had boarded ten minutes ago. Our cargo ship—long, wide, and unfortunately full of things people apparently still needed—was now host to a full-on melee.
Bullets flew, swords clashed, and some actually tried swinging on ropes like a swashbuckler, only for their not-innocent hopes and dreams to be blasted midair by the blazing hot reality.
As for me, I kept a low profile, only protecting and defending myself.
People like me don't charge valiantly into battle. We don't rally troops or yell one-liners that sound cool in novels but dumb in real life.
Because novels are not real life.
People can get irreversibly hurt in real life, or even die. Things take a turn for the worse most of the time, nothing works out well in the end, and no one ever gets the happily ever after.
Only more broken pieces to work with.
With my awareness of such a fact, I put a strict mission on myself to get less involved with anyone or anything that has no relevance to my quest of returning home.
No matter how I perceived this world before I woke up in it, this is my reality now. Playing the Isekai-Hero-Who-Saved-the-World troupe would leave me with nothing but regret and failure at the end of it.
But even if I succeeded and managed to return like that, who would have really returned?
Will it be the Hikigaya Hachiman who woke up alone on a deserted island, or a horrible abomination wearing the skin of Hikigaya Hachiman?
I am no fool, I knew from the beginning that this world is going to affect me one way or another.
But would it be for better or for worse, that is something that remains to be seen.
Nevertheless, from what I can see right now, it was clearly been for the worse. Because no matter what I have been before, I was not a person who would let people suffer when I could do something.
In the end, it came down to this: either risk your path back home but keep your soul, or have a higher chance of returning home but lose your soul.
'For a "Monster of Logic", the choice is clear.'
Yet, when it came down to it, I found myself doing the exact opposite…
Something I knew I would regret…
My hand gripped the hilt of the sword, and my mind concentrated on what I wanted it to do.
The air rippled.
Steel stopped mid-clash, Pirates and sailors stumbled back, eyes darting toward me like I'd just turned into a shark wearing a school uniform.
Technically, I had done worse.
"That's Enough," I muttered.
My voice didn't rise, it didn't have to. The sword hummed—low and deep like a tuning fork.
And then the ships moved.
Not rocked, not drifted, but moved.
Both vessels jerked as if yanked by invisible hands. Wood creaked, sails snapped open on their own, catching a gust that hadn't existed moments before.
The wind roared, sudden and merciless. We surged forward—both ships—side by side at top speed.
"WAAAAAAHHHH!!!"
"THE HELL IS GOING ON?!?!"
"WHO UNFOLDED THE SAILS!!!"
"HOLD TIGHT!!!"
People screamed, and most of them fell.
Pirates, passengers, and crew alike hit the deck like spilled cargo. I stayed on my feet partly because I was ready, and partly because I used Hamon. Keeping my pose straight so I can use the sword properly.
Unlike the calm me, confusion reigned among the people, flailing limbs and all, but I had no time to enjoy the show.
The ropes came next, they slithered across the decks like serpents, coiling and twisting, responding to the power of the sword and my will.
One snapped around a pirate's ankle mid-sprint. Another lashed out and snagged a sword arm before it could swing. They rose—ropes binding the pirates midair, dangling like grotesque marionettes.
A blonde one screamed. Another tried slicing the ropes with a cutlass, only to be captured by its two parts separately.
A third drew a pistol, managed one shot into the air—An Impressive Marksmanship and was immediately wrapped from behind, the rope coiling over his mouth like a gag.
Efficient and Terrifying.
I should've felt something. Triumph, power, satisfaction.
Instead, the only thing I felt was the cold wind on my face and the weight of their stares.
The cargo ship crew, the passengers, even the captain—all eyes locked on me. Their faces were painted in disbelief, eyes wide, mouths slightly ajar, like they were seeing something they weren't supposed to. Like I had broken some law of nature.
And I don't blame them for that. In the four oceans, something supernatural like Devil Fruit users is rare. So rare that a person could live a lifetime and die before catching a glimpse of one.
With how rare it is, most people would think of it as a sea myth.
Still... the way they looked at me. Not just awe. Not admiration.
Fear and Dread.
I hated that look.
I was familiar with disgust and ridicule. I'd seen it in middle school when I'd said something I shouldn't say. In high school when I tore the social fabric apart with a single line of brutal logic.
But fear and caution?
This was a new territory for me, one that I knew I would totally hate.
I looked away first. Cowardly, maybe, but I didn't want to see it—their fear, their suspicion.
Most of them had never seen anything supernatural. They thought it was sailor myths, something you joke about over too many drinks.
Now it had a face, Mine.
'Sigh…'
And then, as always, the world reminded me not to get sentimental.
Slash!
A sharp crack split the air, and rope fibers snapped.
One of the pirates with a tattered red coat and eyes like stormclouds hit the deck in a graceful and calculated crouch, landing like he belonged in a circus instead of a brig.
Too calculated.
I raised the sword again, but he was fast—already upright, small knives glinting in his left hand, and in his right?
'A pistol.'
Aimed squarely at my head.
My instinct kicked in, and I yanked my cloak across my body, sending a wave of Hamon into it.
Bang!
The shot rang out as the bullet struck the cloak, deflected with a hiss.
I dropped into a low stance and fired back with my own pistol.
BANG!
He dodged it again in an agile move, barely. The shot seared past his cheek, grazing flesh.
Then I saw him fully. The man who'd escaped and had the knives.
The Captain of the Pirates, who was commanding them from afar.
His eyes narrowed, unreadable. His coat fluttered in the wind, adorned with small throwing blades—like he was a walking weapon. His stance radiated confidence and fearlessness.
He was taller than I expected. Lean, but not thin—there was muscle beneath that loose shirt and knotted sash. Throwing knives. At least eight of them fanned between his fingers like claws. And the pistol? Still smoking in his off-hand.
Scar over the left brow. Hair in wild curls under a hat that hadn't seen soap since the last century. A Captain, that was unmistakable. But not just the loud, bark-order kind either. This one also danced, it seems.
He moved.
Didn't walk—no, that would've been too easy for my hard mode life. He ran like a madman, hopped up on sugar and theatrics, flipping and tumbling with a grace that belonged in some acrobat troupe.
BANG!
BANG!
I fired at him again, twice.
He twisted mid-leap, using the mast as leverage. One bullet bit into the mast behind him. The other passed through the spot his torso used to be.
'This fu*ker…'
And then came his knives, homing in on me.
I moved to the side, barely missing the first blade whistling past my ear.
'That one was close.'
The second knife buried itself in the deck.
As for the third one—damn, he was persistent—met the edge of my cloak, thudding into the Hamon-filled fabric like a fly hitting glass.
'This time the voice didn't appear…'
The strange voice, or what I think was the Mantra, didn't appear even though I was attacked.
Every time I enter a fight, the Mantra appears, telling me what my opponent's next move will be.
I was thinking it was the Mantra, because this was the closest thing I could think of what this voice is. Even though Mantra was supposed to be an inherent thing you are born with, it only appeared in the Skypiea people. This is the closest thing I know, so it should be it.
From what I have summarized until now, it only appeared during fights, and I have to be using Hamon extensively.
'Hamon has shown to have precognition abilities, although it was unknown how it works. Could it be some kind of manifestation for it?'
Because, unlike what I remember about Mantra, it was not spontaneous like this one.
And from what I remember, it didn't have a limitation to a very short range either.
No time for my theory as the Acrobatic Captain was on me. Close enough to smell the salt off his clothes and the steel on his breath.
I bounced at him.
My Sword was ready, I lunged forward. Hamon flowed through the blade, glowing faint yellow like the last hour before dawn. I aimed low at his midsection. Even if he jumped, I would get one of his legs.
And as expected, he leapt.
But…
'Eh…?'
His knees tucked and body spun, a reverse somersault that took him over my swing in a show of agility.
Not just over my swing, the damn pirate jumped over me!
/Two knives from his unguarded up!/
Mantra-san is back online. And from Midair, the pirates tossed two more knives down at me. From above—again.
'What is it with this guy and aerial theatrics?'
I cursed in my mind. Manipulating the cloak with the Barbossa Sword. It moved, autonomous and precise, shielding my upper body as the blades thudded harmlessly into it.
However, he was finally landing.
I pivoted, feet scraping against the wood, and sword ready.
He hit the deck with the tip of his feet—and dodged.
Again.
His spine bent in an unnatural arc, ducking over my retaliatory slash as if his body came pre-installed with a dodge mod. Then, he flipped backward continually and put distance between us, sliding to a stop near the ship's railing.
'Enough of this...'
I exhaled, short and sharp.
This was turning into a circus. I wasn't here to play tag with some caffeine-soaked pirate who thought parkour counted as swordsmanship. I surged forward, closing the distance between us like a rip tide.
He reacted instantly.
Knives rained again. Less like a storm, more like a sniper with anxiety. I saw their paths—chaotic but not untrackable.
Clang!
Clang!
My sword met the first two midair, knocking them aside with metallic clinks. The third missed, flying almost a meter to my right.
Honestly, I was more surprised at myself to be able to do that.
Yet, there was no time for that, as I needed to end this farce.
In three long strides, I was at him. Hamon surged down my sword like a lightning bolt, finally given permission. It pulsed—vibrated—screamed for impact.
He couldn't dodge this time. As no matter how agile he was, he still needed a moment to regain his balance.
He couldn't flip, he couldn't duck. He could only draw a larger blade from his hip, something curved and wicked—more jungle machete than naval blade. A Kukri-shaped long knife, broad and thick. Not his usual style.
'Desperation? Or planning?'
Didn't matter.
I brought my sword down hard.
CRANGGG!!!
Our blades collided with a sound that split the air. It was a mix of a clang and a crack.
The shockwave rippled from the impact. The pulse flowed through his blade to his arm and to his body.
"RRRAHHHHHHHHHH!!!!"
Then he screamed. His body was twitching, and his knees buckled.
And finally, he dropped still. No longer jumping and jerking around like a clown at a funeral.
I didn't let my guard down. Instead, I stared at him, chest rising, breath slow.
But he didn't get up.
With my leg, I started to push away his weapons from him.
The pistol clattered from his fingers. Knives rolled from his hands. One knife spun in a slow circle before stopping, pointing west—like it had somewhere better to be.
I stepped closer, nudging his kukri aside with the toe of my boot. He wasn't dead, but he wasn't fighting anymore either, not today at least.
"Sigh….."
I exhaled again, long this time.
There was silence. Except for the creaking mast and my own heartbeat echoing like war drums in my ears.
Even though this fight didn't turn bloody for me, I didn't feel any better.
I was tired.
…
A/N: I hope you guys liked this one.
If you have suggestions or ideas, I will be happy to hear them.
See you in the next chapter.
You also can check my Patre0n for extra Chapters.
https://www.patre0n.com/ColdColt
There are +12 Chapters there.