Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The Thousand Sunny bobbed gently on a peaceful current, her lion figurehead catching the sunlight like a beacon of good fortune.

It was quiet on deck, the ship rocking in a soft rhythm that made even the most restless of pirates slow down.

Luffy lay flat on the grassy lawn, arms splayed out wide, eyes closed, and lips parted in a light snore. A scatter of peeled orange skins sat forgotten on his chest, sticky juice glistening in the sun.

Chopper was curled up nearby, tongue sticking out in concentration as he flipped between pages in his sketchbook — half medical diagrams, half doodles of Luffy sleeping.

Usopp crouched on the railing, wobbling slightly, arms stretched for balance. “This is it… sniper pose level five. Wind resistance: tested. Balance: flawless—”

A voice from the mast cut through his narration.

“You fall, I’m not dragging your dumb ass back up.”

Zoro leaned against the wood with his arms crossed, swords resting lazily across his lap. He hadn’t even opened his eyes.

Usopp scoffed. “Please. I’ve got the reflexes of a jungle cat.”

Zoro cracked one eye open. “You’ve got the grace of a baby giraffe.”

Before Usopp could argue, the door to the kitchen swung open with a soft clack of a foot against wood.

Sanji stepped out, trays in hand — one stacked with honey-soaked pastries still steaming from the oven, the other with tall glasses of iced tea beading with condensation. A cigarette hung at the corner of his mouth, unlit for now, bobbing slightly as he moved with practiced ease. He kicked the door shut behind him and crossed the deck like he was gliding.

“Tea time, my beloveds~” he purred. “Nami-swan, Robin-chwan, allow me to deliver heaven directly to your lips.”

Nami looked up from the newspaper and gave him a half-smile, arching an eyebrow. “You’re in a good mood.”

“I’m always in a good mood when the sun is kissing your skin just right,” he replied smoothly, offering her the drink like it was sacred.

Robin accepted hers with a quiet laugh. “The cinnamon is a nice touch. New blend?”

Sanji beamed. “A tribute to inspiration.”

Before he could launch into a full poetic monologue, a sudden gust of wind swept across the deck.

A flash of color fluttered from the newspaper in Nami’s hands, caught in the breeze and whirling upward like confetti before gliding—splat—right onto Chopper’s nose.

“GAAH—AMBUSH!” Chopper flailed wildly. “PAPER ATTACK!”

“What is that?!” Luffy shouted, already lurching forward. “Treasure map? New bountys?!”

He snatched the flyer before Chopper could react, unfolding it with both hands. His eyes lit up instantly.

“WHOOOOA!! A FOOD FESTIVAL!!!”

“Let me see!!” Chopper scrambled up, eyes sparkling.

Usopp leapt from the railing, sprinting over. “FOOD FESTIVAL?! Where?! What kind of food?! Is there a prize?! Do they have fried octopus on a stick?!”

Zoro groaned but leaned forward just enough to peek. “Tch. If there’s food, there’s gotta be booze too, right?”

Robin, with a curious tilt of her head, gently took the flyer from Luffy’s hands and read aloud.

“The World Food Festival,” she said. “Held every four years on Carnelle Island. No borders, no entry fees. Chefs from every corner of the world come to share their best dishes. A culinary celebration open to all.” She smiled softly. “Sounds charming.”

Zoro snorted. “Sounds suspicious. Since when does the world give out anything for free?”

“SANJIIIIII!!!” Luffy bellowed, spinning in place. “YOU GOTTA GO!! YOU’D WIN EVERYTHING!!”

But Sanji, who had just refilled Nami’s glass with quiet ease, didn’t light up the way they expected. He gave the flyer a passing glance, a faint puff of smoke curling past his lips.

“…Nah.”

“HUH?!” Luffy gaped, clutching the flyer.

“You’re not interested?” Nami asked, genuinely surprised. “I figured this would be your thing.”

Sanji walked over and leaned just enough to read the text in Robin’s hands. His gaze lingered, thoughtful, but his expression didn’t change.

“I’m not the kind of guy who enters contests for approval,” he said simply. “I already know my cooking’s good. After all…” He turned and gave Luffy a grin. “I cook for the future King of the Pirates. That’s the best award there is.”

Luffy grinned right back, utterly pleased. “You’re the best cook in the world!”

Zoro smirked, arms crossed. “Sounds more like you’re scared of being outclassed.”

“You wanna say that again, mosshead?”

“Just saying, a real chef wouldn’t back down.”

“I’d wipe the floor with every last one of them if I wanted to. But I’ve got better things to do than show off for strangers.”

Chopper looked up at him earnestly. “But it’s not a contest, Sanji! It’s like a giant recipe party! You’d get to try ingredients from all over the world! New techniques, tools, spices! Think of how much you could learn!”

Sanji’s expression softened.

He glanced out toward the horizon, where the waves shimmered in gold and whitecaps sparkled like jewels.

“…That part’s tempting.”

He leaned back on the railing, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Chefs from every ocean, all in one place… It kinda sounds like the All Blue.” He chuckled under his breath. “Except instead of fish, it’s people.”

“So that’s a yes?!” Luffy beamed.

Sanji sighed with a half-smile. “If it’s important to you, how could I say no?”

“WE’RE GOING TO A FOOD FESTIVAL!!!” Luffy cheered, launching himself into the air with a Gum-Gum Leap.

Sanji watched him go, already muttering to himself. “I better let the rest know were taking a detour.”

The docks of Carnelle Island were alive with color, motion, and mouthwatering aromas. Dozens of flags flapped in the wind, each bearing the symbol of a different cooking guild, regional dish, or sponsor. The island stretched inland like a woven tapestry of booths, tents, sizzling grills, and painted signs—all surrounded by hills blooming with wild herbs and edible flowers.

The moment the Sunny was moored and the ramp lowered, Luffy blasted off it like a cannonball.

“FOOOOOOD!!”

“Wait—Luffy! Don’t just run off—” Chopper called after him, but was already trailing behind, eyes just as wide.

Brook, cane tapping cheerfully beside him, floated along with a song on his lips. “Ahh, to smell food again! Even if I don’t have a nose, it warms my soul! Yohohoho—oooh, skewers!”

The three of them vanished into the crowd, stuffing their faces with anything in arm’s reach. One of the nearby vendors screamed when Luffy devoured their sample tray whole.

Franky stepped off the ship, stretching with a loud crack of his back. His shades glinted at the sight of a booth lined with neon-colored soda taps and cola-infused candies.

“HECK YEAH! Is that Cola Carbonation Battle Syrup?! This place is SUPER already!”

Jinbe followed behind him more calmly, scanning the island with an approving nod.

“Impressive. I see several fish-man stalls set up near the tide market. Even a few underwater fermentation stands. Hm. Might be good to exchange recipes.”

Back near the center of the fair, Nami unfolded a trifold pamphlet she’d picked up from a welcome table, her eyes scanning the list with practiced sharpness.

“There are over 300 booths,” she read aloud, flipping a page. “Local dishes, international kitchens, recipe exchanges, timed cook-offs… oh, and apparently there’s a whole alleyway dedicated to desserts and infused alcohols.”

She paused, arching a brow and flashing a grin toward Zoro.

“There’s a drinking contest on the west square at sunset.”

Zoro’s eye twitched with interest. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Open wagers. Champion gets a barrel of premium sake and a cash prize.”

They locked eyes for half a second—then nodded in perfect sync.

“Let’s clean the place out,” Nami smirked.

“As long as I’m the one drinking.”

“As long as I’m the one betting on you.”

Meanwhile, Sanji had stepped off the ship slower than the others. His eyes scanned the stalls, watching the haze of rising steam, the clatter of pans, and the excited bustle of chefs from every Blue shouting out their specialties.

It was a wonderland. A chef’s dream. But for some reason… he wasn’t sure where to start.

He lit a cigarette, letting the smoke drift as he took it in. Maybe it was just the crowd—or maybe he wasn’t used to seeing so many cooks in one place without having to fight for kitchen space.

Beside him, Usopp adjusted his goggles and nudged him.

“Hey, come on. Let’s scope out the weird ingredient booths. I heard there’s a fish that makes your voice go two octaves higher for three days.”

“Sounds like your kind of nightmare,” Sanji muttered, but followed anyway.

Robin drifted alongside them, umbrella in hand to shade her from the sun. “I’m more interested in the spice mapping exhibit,” she said. “There’s a cartographer from Alabasta charting the flavor profiles of desert herbs.”

Sanji chuckled. “Of course there is. Only at a place like this…”

As the three of them wandered deeper into the fair, a string of laughter and music trailed behind them—Luffy’s cackling echoing from somewhere near the dumpling stands.

The festival had only just begun. And while most of the crew was thinking about food, drinks, or games…

Sanji couldn’t quite shake the feeling that something about this place felt a little too perfect.

The festival buzzed like a beehive of heat and spice. Booths crackled with flame, vendors called out daily specials, and scent trails curled through the air like smoke-painted roads. Usopp trailed alongside Sanji, eyes wide and darting everywhere, trying to take it all in.

“I don’t get it,” Usopp said, finally, breaking the quiet between them. “How are you so calm right now? This place is insane! There’s a grilled sea king tail that’s like, the size of a house! There’s a curry stand that made a guy cry! This is like… chef heaven!”

Sanji walked with one hand in his pocket, the other holding his cigarette low between two fingers. He hadn’t touched a single sample. His eyes kept drifting, not just to the food, but to the people cooking it.

“It is insane,” he said. “In a good way. Mostly.”

“So… what’s with the vibe?” Usopp pressed. 

Sanji took a drag, exhaled slow, then smiled—but it was more thoughtful than proud.

“I love cooking,” he said. “That part hasn’t changed. But a place like this… it’s not just about the food, y’know?”

He paused as they passed a booth where two chefs were locked in a rapid-fire omelet duel, slinging eggs mid-air to cheers from a growing crowd.

Usopp blinked, slowing his steps.

“Most of the people here… they’ve got resumes. Sponsors. Restaurants. Recipes with their names printed in papers. And that’s great. I’m happy for ‘em. But I didn’t become a chef to compete with anyone.“

Sanji gave a slight shrug, eyes flicking back toward the busy crowd.

“I didn’t start cooking to win approval,” he said eventually, voice steady. “I cook for people. Not praise.”

Usopp glanced over, waiting for Sanji’s usual smugness, but it never came. Instead, Sanji’s eyes were fixed on something across the lane.

There, tucked behind a booth with sun-faded signs and mismatched stools, a man and a boy stood shoulder to shoulder at a small grill. The father flipped skewers with practiced speed while the son added herbs, tongue sticking out in concentration. They didn’t say much — just worked in rhythm, occasionally bumping elbows, grinning every time the other reached for the same sauce.

Sanji’s gaze softened, a flicker of something old and unspoken rising behind his lashes. His cigarette burned lower between his fingers, forgotten.

Usopp followed his line of sight.

“…Do you miss Zeff?”

The question was quiet. Not pushed.

Sanji blinked, like he hadn’t realized he’d stopped walking. He let out a small breath and smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes just yet.

“That old geezer? He’s probably thrilled I’m finally off his damn ship.”

Usopp chuckled. “Yeah. I bet he’s just kicking back, not worrying about you at all.”

Sanji finally laughed—genuine this time. “Yeah right. He’s probably got more business now that I’m not there fighting with every customer.”

They stood there a moment longer, letting the smell of grilled garlic and roasting meat wash over them.

“…He’d like this place,” Sanji added quietly. Then, after a pause: “He’d pretend he didn’t. But he would.”

Usopp bumped his shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go find something terrible for our digestion.”

The western edge of the festival had a looser, rowdier vibe than the central plaza. Laughter echoed off painted tents, drink booths spilled out into the cobbled walkways, and music played from a band of enthusiastic locals banging on upturned pots and pans.

Nami strolled through the crowd with purpose, eyes scanning signs and stalls as she flipped through her glossy event pamphlet again. The area was filled with prize games, raffles, and events tied to drink purchases—exactly the kind of setup she could work with.

“Zoro,” she called over her shoulder, “the next drink-off starts in twenty minutes. If you win, the prize is a golden keg of Mountain Sake worth—get this—half a million berries.”

Zoro, walking a few steps behind her with his hands in his pockets, raised a brow. “Only half a million? Cheap.”

“The cash prize is another hundred thousand,” she added sweetly.

That got his attention.

“Guess I’ll pace myself until then.”

As they passed a nearby whiskey booth, Nami’s eyes narrowed slightly. Something wasn’t right.

The booth was closed. Not unusual, except… it had been open ten minutes ago, and there was still a pot of soup visibly steaming behind the counter. The “CLOSED” sign had been flipped hastily, and the canopy above the stall sagged like someone had yanked it down in a hurry.

She paused, pretending to adjust her bag, eyes flicking casually toward the neighboring stalls. A few vendors were whispering. One was packing up quietly, though it was still early in the day. Another booth had new signage taped over the original—sloppy, rushed, like it was hiding something.

“Strange,” she murmured.

Zoro, who’d stopped a few feet ahead, tilted his head and scanned the area.

“What?”

“Three booths gone in under half an hour,” she said under her breath. “That one’s still got soup on the fire. Why leave in a rush unless something spooked them?”

Zoro grunted. “Maybe the food was bad.”

“No. This smells like something behind the scenes.” Her eyes narrowed. 

Before Zoro could respond, he paused.

His hand drifted to the hilt of one of his swords.

Across the square, a group of well-dressed figures moved through the crowd—not shoving, not making a scene, but the way people moved around them was telling. Booth owners quieted. Patrons gave them space. Their uniforms were crisp, but lacked any official emblem.

“Those guys seem like they might be part of the problem,” Zoro muttered. “They’re not here for food.”

Nami followed his gaze. Her stomach dropped, just a little.

“Government?”

“Don’t think so. But they walk like they’ve got power. Authority. Might be private.”

“We better keep our eyes open,” Nami said quietly. 

Zoro’s jaw tightened. “Yeah, let’s keep walking.”

“Why?”

“Because if I stop now, I’ll probably pick a fight I’m not supposed to.”

Nami exhaled, folding the pamphlet and slipping it into her pocket.

“Fine. But I’m finding out what this is. And if it smells like a setup, we’re pulling everyone out.”

Further inland, the crowd thinned slightly, giving way to a more structured part of the festival: booths lined neatly in rows under matching canvas tarps, each labeled with regional cuisines, historical recipe demonstrations, and culinary research displays.

Robin moved gracefully between them, umbrella still in hand to shield her from the sun. She paused in front of a modest table lined with parchment scrolls and delicately labeled spice jars, her eyes tracing the intricate maps that stretched across the table.

A young woman in desert robes greeted her warmly.

“Interested in spice cartography?”

“Always,” Robin said, smiling softly. “These markings—Alabastan dialect?”

“Yes. Old dialect,” the woman nodded. “From the spice routes between Nanohana and the Sandora region. This map records regional soil impact on flavor profiles. Want to try a pinch?”

Robin reached forward, brushing a finger across a line of amber-colored powder. She brought it just under her nose, the scent immediately evoking warmth, heat, and a faint edge of smoke.

But her attention didn’t stay on the spice.

She glanced at the table’s ledger — a sign-in sheet for stall participants. Names, affiliations, and locations scrawled in various hands. But several entries had been scribbled out. Some completely blacked out with thick ink. Others rewritten in a new, unfamiliar script. The dates beside them had been changed too. Sloppily.

“Excuse me,” she said gently. “Why are some of these names crossed out?”

The woman stiffened slightly.

“Oh. Ah. Some booths packed up early.”

“Already? It’s only midday on the first day.”

“Y-Yes, well… some participants ran into permit issues. Or their food didn’t meet the required ‘standards.’ The event committee had to make adjustments.” Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. “No big deal.”

Robin tilted her head, still smiling. “Of course.”

“Oi, Robin!” a loud voice called from across the row.

Franky came striding up, holding a glistening bottle of cola with a sparkler sticking out the top. He took one sip and belched so hard a passing kid clapped for him.

“This place is nuts! You try the fire-roasted sugarfish? It’s got cola glaze, baby!”

Robin smiled. “Not yet. But I did find something interesting.”

Jinbe arrived behind Franky, arms crossed thoughtfully. “The fermentation tents were… less inviting than expected. Several booths I was told about are missing.”

Robin tapped the parchment log. “Several names were removed here too. Altered. Some entirely blacked out. Booths being shut down, ‘standards’ changing on the fly. Not unusual for an event this large but given the number of missing booths… someone else looks to be doing the organizing.”

Jinbe’s brow furrowed. “You believe this is more than food?”

Robin closed her umbrella slowly.

“It’s starting to feel curated. Controlled. Like someone’s shaping the festival from behind the scenes. Quietly.”

Franky adjusted his shades. “That ain’t SUPER. You thinking government?”

Robin shook her head slightly. “No emblems. No Marines. But whoever’s involved knows how to stay invisible. They’re not removing the worst stalls. They’re removing specific people.”

Jinbe’s tone lowered. “Then it’s not about the food at all.”

Robin turned back to the scroll-laden table and traced one finger along the blacked-out ink. It was still damp.

She looked up, voice even.

“We should find the others. Something’s starting to spoil.”

The scent of freshly grilled soy-glazed dumplings wafted through the air as Sanji and Usopp leaned against a shaded booth, each holding a skewer in one hand and a paper cup of spiced tea in the other.

“Okay but seriously,” Usopp said between bites, “how are you not flipping out right now? This dumpling—this dumpling—is filled with smoked jackfruit, pickled ginger, and… I think mushrooms? I don’t even like mushrooms but this is working!”

Sanji chuckled, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s decent. Bold flavor combo, but they pulled it off. Little heavy on the salt at the end, but not bad.”

Usopp blinked. “You’re a terrifying man.”

Sanji smiled faintly, about to respond—when he stopped mid-step, mid-sentence.

His eyes narrowed.

A hush fell over the nearby walkway. Conversations dipped in volume. Several vendors paused mid-sale. And in the middle of the cobbled lane, walking as if he owned the air around him, came a tall, pale figure draped in an ornate bubble-framed cape and a jeweled headpiece shaped like a malformed crown.

A Celestial Dragon.

Flanked by three silent guards in slick black suits, the man walked slowly through the market square, eye hidden behind a thick glass helmet. People cleared the path ahead of him without protest. No one spoke. No one smiled.

Sanji’s eyes didn’t leave him.

“Hey,” Usopp said, voice lower now. “Is that what I think it is? What’s a guy like that doing here? I thought this was, y’know… a normal place.”

Sanji’s jaw tensed.

“This event’s open to everyone,” he said quietly, still watching. “Every sea, everyone. ‘No borders, no bias,’ remember?”

“Yeah but—”

Before Usopp could finish, the man stopped at a small nearby booth. An older woman—frazzled but proud—stood behind a cart of beautifully wrapped rice cakes, each one hand-tied with seaweed ribbon and painted with edible flower glaze.

She bowed deeply, offering a sample with both hands.

The noble took one, inspected it… then spat it on the ground.

“Gross,” he said with disdain, voice amplified by the helmet’s echo.

He flicked his hand. One of the guards knocked over the small table. The rice cakes hit the dirt like discarded stones.

The woman froze, hands trembling. Her eyes darted to the guards, then to the crowd—who had already started looking away.

“Leave,” the noble said, already turning. “This stall offends me. Remove it.”

Two staffers in festival uniforms—clearly uncomfortable—approached, muttering apologies as they helped the woman gather her things. She didn’t speak. Her eyes stayed on the ruined food.

Sanji didn’t move for a second. Then, slowly, he handed Usopp his skewer.

“…Hold this.”

Usopp looked down at the dumpling stick, then up at Sanji’s face.

“…Oh no.”

“Stay behind me,” Sanji said, stepping off the curb.

“Sanji—hey—don’t punch a Celestial Dragon! You know what happened last time!”

“I’m not gonna punch him,” Sanji said coolly, his cigarette burning low. “I’m gonna talk.”

“That’s what Luffy said right before he punched one!”

Sanji didn’t answer. He adjusted his jacket, stepped through the quieting crowd, and headed straight for the stall.

The guards spotted him immediately.

Usopp braced himself. Behind him, the air grew ten degrees hotter — not from the sun, but from the fire building behind Sanji’s eyes.

Sanji stepped forward, slow and deliberate, his boots clicking sharply against the stone path. His eyes never left the man in the bubble-helmet. He didn’t need to raise his voice. His presence alone drew attention—shoulders squared, cigarette burning low at the edge of his mouth like a fuse.

The noble had already turned away, uninterested in the damage left behind.

“Hey.”

The voice stopped him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Sanji said, tone calm but coiled with heat. “Someone offers you food made with their hands and time, and you spit on it? Like it’s garbage?”

The crowd stirred. People glanced, then looked away—scared. The guards stiffened.

Sanji kept walking. “You think walking around dressed like royalty means you get to disrespect whoever you want?” He reached the cart and knelt without breaking eye contact, gently gathering one of the fallen rice cakes. He dusted it off, inspecting the handiwork.

“This isn’t just food. This is care. It’s craft. It’s love.” He turned it over once, then bit into it. Slowly. Intentionally. “And it’s delicious.”

The noble didn’t respond—yet. One of the guards moved forward, but Sanji didn’t flinch.

“You don’t deserve a single bite of what’s being served here.” Sanji’s voice dropped an octave. “So do us all a favor and crawl back to whatever palace you slithered out of.”

Tension snapped tight like a drawn wire.

One guard reached for his baton.

“OKAY! thanks for that Sanji!” Usopp burst in suddenly, arms out, sprinting between them. “That’s enough! Let’s all take a deep breath—hahhh—peaceful festival, remember? Friendly event! No violence allowed! We’ve got dumplings, we’ve got music, and we’ve got NO reason to get impaled today!”

Sanji’s glare didn’t move.

“Sanji,” Usopp hissed, sweat running down his temple, “I know he’s scum, but if you throw the first punch, we’re done. We’re not here to burn the island down—we’re here for a peaceful visit.”

The crowd held its breath.

Sanji exhaled—through his nose. Sharp. Controlled. He flicked the last of his cigarette to the cobblestone and stepped back.

“…Tch.”

Sanji turned his back without another word and walked away.

Usopp exhaled hard and waved the crowd off. “Okay, show’s over! Nothing to see here! The rice cakes are still amazing by the way, go support this woman, please and thank you!”

He caught up to Sanji quickly.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” Sanji muttered. “Just can’t let someone waste food just because he thinks he’s better than anyone else.”

The dust had barely settled.

The overturned table still lay in splinters. Scattered rice cakes sat crushed under the feet of retreating onlookers, their glazes smeared like bruises across the stone.

In the middle of it all, the Celestial Dragon stood motionless beneath his glass-domed helm, expression unreadable. His guards flanked him silently, eyes scanning the dispersing crowd for further interruptions.

A few paces ahead, Sanji walked away, shoulders tense, jaw set. Usopp trailed beside him, nervously talking, glancing back every few seconds to make sure no one was following.

They didn’t bow. They didn’t apologize.

They didn’t fear him.

The noble’s voice broke the silence.

“Who was that man?”

One of the guards stepped forward, already accessing the event registry from a sleek device strapped to his wrist.

“Name: Vinsmoke Sanji. Listed on bounty records as the Straw Hat Pirates’ cook. Member of the Germa royal line. No formal festival registration. No booth assignment.”

The noble’s head tilted, tracking Sanji’s retreating figure until he vanished beyond a curtain of smoke and lantern light.

“He’s not competing?”

“No, sir. He’s not an official participant.”

A pause.

“And yet he dares to act with that kind of confidence?” The noble turned, his cape sweeping behind him like a curtain of silk. “He speaks of food like it’s sacred. Defends it like it’s his own flesh.”

He looked down at the ruined stall again, at the woman still kneeling to gather her broken trays. One of the guards went to dismiss her, but the noble raised a hand.

“Leave her. She’s not the dish I’m after.”

He took one slow breath through the rebreather in his helm.

“I came here to find the greatest chef in the world. Someone who could satisfy my hunger.”

His voice, distorted and low, hummed against the glass.

“And now I’ve found him. A royal by blood. A pirate by trade. A flame that refuses to kneel.”

He turned to his men.

“Find out everything you can. I wanna know how good he actually is.”

Then, quieter—almost indulgent:

“If he can stir the crowd with just his defiance… imagine what he could create with proper ownership.”

Chapter Text

The echo of scattered rice cakes still lingered behind them as Sanji and Usopp walked through the winding lanes of the festival. Neither of them spoke at first.

Sanji’s cigarette burned low between two fingers, and Usopp kept glancing back over his shoulder as if expecting guards or retribution to suddenly come crashing down.

But no one followed.

They spent the next hour wandering from stall to stall, trying to shake the weight of it. Usopp made a show of reacting to weird ingredients — “what exactly is cats milk?” — and Sanji let himself be drawn into a spice demonstration by a vendor who grew chili peppers in the shape of hearts. The food, the smells, the crowd — it helped. A little.

But nothing fully cut through the unease.

Not until Sanji stopped in his tracks.

Usopp nearly ran into him. “What—?”

Sanji’s eyes were already locked on a modest stall tucked between two larger tents. No flash. No fanfare. Just a simple wooden sign painted with the word Omiyake’s and a menu scribbled in chalk. Steam curled in the air, rich with the smell of miso butter and sweet soy glaze. A dozen eggs sizzled on a wide flat grill, each one folded into perfect, pillowy omelets.

Behind the grill stood a boy and his father, the same one he had noticed earlier that day— moving fast and focused, flipping spatulas like extensions of his hands.

Sanji’s mouth tilted into a slow, genuine smile. “That’s smells good.”

They stepped closer and took seats at one of the small folding tables out front.

The boy looked up, bright-eyed and flushed with heat. “Hey there! You want the special? Just finished a new batch!”

Sanji pulled the cigarette from his lips. “Looked too good to walk past.”

Usopp nodded eagerly. “Two specials!”

The boy grinned and flipped two fresh omelets onto clean plates, topping each with a swirl of sauce and a few sprigs of something sharp and green.

Sanji took one bite and closed his eyes.

“…Perfect sear. Balanced sweetness. You cooked this?”

The boy beamed. “All of it! My dad handles the prep and sauces, but I run the grill now.”

Sanji gave a proud hum. “You’ve got good instincts. And you’re careful with your hands. Ever think about going pro?”

“Yeah!” The kid sat straighter. “I’m trying to win the contest!”

Sanji paused, fork halfway to his mouth. “…Contest?”

Usopp blinked. “Wait, so there is a contest?”

The boy nodded seriously. “The big one! It’s not written down, but everyone talks about it. They say the chefs who impress the most — like, really wow the judges — get picked for a special prize. Like, huge.”

He glanced over his shoulder toward the back of the tent.

“I wanna win so me and my dad can open our own place. Somewhere permanent. Not just traveling fairs. He says we can’t afford it, but if I win—”

“Ren,” a low voice cut in.

The boy jumped. “Oh—Dad! I was just—”

“Go check the cooler. We’re low on sauce.”

“But I just—”

“Now.”

The boy wilted slightly, but nodded and disappeared behind the canvas flap.

Sanji turned to see the father — older, lines deep around his eyes, a cloth apron stained from long hours — watching him with something between caution and apology.

He stepped forward and lowered his voice. “You shouldn’t be here.”

The father moved in closer, eyes locking on Sanji—not with suspicion, but with the wary weight of recognition.

“I saw what you did earlier,” he said, voice low but firm. “Standing up for that rice cake vendor.”

Sanji said nothing.

“You’re the Straw Hats’ cook. There’s a bounty on your head.”

Sanji’s jaw tightened. “We’re not here to cause trouble.”

The man gave a short, bitter huff. “Say what you want. I’ve got a kid to protect. I don’t need him getting dragged into some contest—let alone pirate business.”

He shot a quick glance toward the thinning crowd outside the booth, then leaned in, one hand braced against the table. His voice dropped to a near whisper.

“You need to be careful. I’ve heard of you. A good chef, they say. But these past few festivals… something’s been happening. People get picked for this so-called contest, and they never come back.”

Usopp frowned. “Picked how?”

The man hesitated, then looked between them, gaze heavy with something close to fear.

“They choose the best. Or the loudest. The ones who draw attention. Men in suits show up, offer a prize. Big money. A dream kitchen. Contracts too good to be true.”

His fingers curled tightly around the edge of the table.

“No one hears from them again. Just… gone.”

Sanji’s voice was low. “You think they’re being taken to cook somewhere?”

The man gave a grim nod. “At best. At worst, they’re sold to the highest bidder.”

Usopp paled. “That’s—”

“Human auction,” the man cut in flatly. “Right here. Hidden in plain sight.”

He looked directly at Sanji.

“You made a scene earlier. That puts you on their radar. And now you’re standing at my booth? I’ve got a business. A son. One wrong look, and they’ll think we’re connected. If they think that…”

He didn’t need to finish.

Sanji’s expression didn’t change. Just the faintest flicker in his eyes.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” the man added, quieter now. “I just want to make a living. Teach my kid how to cook. Keep him safe.”

He straightened slowly, lines in his face deepening as the light outside dimmed.

“If you’re smart, you’ll leave. You and your friend. Before someone decides you belong on the menu.”

The curtain flapped open.

The boy returned, smiling, holding up the sauce bottle. “Found it! We’ve got enough for three more rounds—huh?” His eyes darted between the adults. “Everything okay?”

Sanji was already standing.

He offered the boy a faint smile—calmer now, but weighted. “Best omelet I’ve had in years.”

The boy beamed. “Thanks!”

Sanji glanced back at the father. No smile. Just a nod. Quiet, resolute: I heard you.

The man returned it. Barely.

Then Sanji turned, stepping into the crowd without another word. Usopp followed, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the small booth tucked into the festival’s fading glow.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Something really messed up is happening here.”

Sanji didn’t answer.

His gaze swept the crowd, jaw tight, eyes sharp.

Usopp nudged him lightly with an elbow. “Hey. You didn’t do anything wrong, you know.”

Sanji kept walking. “That guy’s right.”

Usopp blinked. “What?”

“I drew attention. Made a scene. Now his booth—his kid—might get caught up in this.” Sanji’s voice was flat, but his hands were clenched. “All because I couldn’t keep my damn mouth shut.”

Usopp took a breath. “You didn’t bring danger to that booth. You saw something wrong and did what you always do—stood between it and someone who couldn’t.”

He hesitated, then added, quieter, “That’s who you are, Sanji. And yeah, sometimes it’s reckless. But it’s also why we trust you, You care. A lot more than most people.”

Sanji’s shoulders relaxed just slightly. He glanced sideways.

“…You’re better at this talking thing than I give you credit for.”

Usopp grinned. “I know. I save it for the important stuff.”

Sanji huffed softly, then finally looked ahead again. His voice steadied.

“We need to find the others.”

“Agreed,” Usopp said. “Before things get worse.”

“You think they’ve noticed anything?”

“With Nami and Robin?” Usopp smirked. “They’re probably halfway to cracking the whole thing open. And if not, I give it ten minutes.”

Sanji exhaled, watching the wave of festivalgoers sweep past—laughing, eating, blissfully unaware.

The warm glow of lanterns flickered over the market stalls as the first signs of night crept into the sky. The festival hadn’t slowed—if anything, it had come alive, music rising from the center square, laughter echoing down the rows of booths.

But Nami and Zoro weren’t smiling.

They walked quickly, weaving through the crowd. Nami kept her arms crossed, eyes sharp as she scanned for familiar faces.

Zoro scowled beside her. “I saw a few guys in black—well-dressed, not buying anything. People moved when they passed, like they knew not to look.”

Nami nodded grimly. “Everyone’s avoiding them. Nobody’s talking. Something’s off.”

They turned a corner and nearly bumped into Robin, who emerged from behind a paper lantern stand, her parasol folded under one arm.

“Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise,” she said, eyes calm but alert.

“We’ve got bad news,” Nami said flatly.

“So do I,” Robin replied. “The event registry’s been tampered with. Vendor names blacked out. When I asked about it, a few stall owners panicked. Kept mumbling about permit violations and sudden disqualifications—but they were scared.”

Zoro crossed his arms. “They’re pulling people.”

Before anyone could respond, three voices rang out from across the walkway.

“NAAAMI! ZOROOO! ROBIIIN!” Luffy shouted, waving an arm wildly as he ran toward them, mouth stuffed with something grilled and dripping.

Chopper and Brook followed close behind, weaving through the crowd.

“We were gonna tell you!” Chopper said, eyes wide. “We found this booth that smelled amazing—like sweet corn, bone broth, and something spicy—and Luffy wouldn’t shut up about it!”

Brook nodded. “Yohohoho! It drew quite the line. But by the time we got there…”

“It was gone,” Luffy said, frowning. “Cleaned out. Even the grill was gone.”

Robin raised an eyebrow. “Another one?”

Chopper’s ears twitched. “People were still in line asking what happened, but nobody had answers.”

Nami looked like she was about to snap her pamphlet in half. “That’s four today.”

Right then, Franky and Jinbe pushed through the crowd to join them, both looking more serious than usual.

“We were over by the fermentation tents,” Franky said, voice low. “Talked to this one old-timer about cola brewing. Super friendly. Said to come back after prep.”

“We circled back ten minutes later,” Jinbe added grimly. “But the gentleman was gone. Just a shuttered stall and two assistants asking around like they had no idea where he went.”

Zoro’s hand dropped to one of his swords. “And I’m guessing no one saw anything.”

“Not a word,” Jinbe said.

Robin stepped into the center of the loose circle the crew had formed. Her voice was calm, but firm.

“This is deliberate. Someone’s pulling specific chefs.”

Chopper looked up, worry in his voice. “You think Sanji’s okay?”

Nami’s gaze sharpened. “He and Usopp were on the east side. We should find them.”

“Let’s regroup,” luffy said. “No more splitting up—not with what we know now.”

“Good thing sanji wasn’t part of the festival,” Robin said gently, trying to sound reassuring. “Maybe he won’t be recognized. As long as he doesn’t draw attention, he might blend in.”

Zoro scoffed, almost too fast. “Yeah, sure. Like that curly bastard knows how to not make a scene.”

But his grip on the sword hilt didn’t loosen.

Brook tilted his head. “That sounded almost like concern, Swordsman-san.”

Zoro shot him a glare. “Im more concerned he’ll get himself snatched up trying to save someone else. Like an idiot.”

But no one missed the way his gaze had shifted, scanning the edges of the crowd more carefully than before.

Sanji and Usopp moved at a steady pace, not rushing, just weaving through the press of bodies with practiced ease.

“We’re never going to spot them in this mess,” Usopp muttered, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. “I swear, every booth looks the same from this angle.”

“They’ll be looking for us too,” Sanji said, eyes scanning rooftops and side paths. “Stick close.”

Sanji slowed slightly, his eyes narrowing as two figures stepped into their path just ahead. At first glance, they looked like festivalgoers—tall, clean-cut, well-dressed—but a little too polished.

“Excuse me,” one of them said smoothly, stepping just to the side of Sanji’s stride. “We couldn’t help but notice—”

“Yeah, sorry,” Usopp cut in quickly. “Not interested. We’re kinda in a hurry.”

“Really in a hurry,” Sanji echoed without looking at them.

They tried to move past, but the two men simply adjusted their pace, falling into step beside them like it was planned.

“No need to be rude,” the one with a large scarf said, tone calm and almost amused. “We just want a word.”

“Not interested,” Sanji said through clenched teeth.

“You’re quite the chef, aren’t you?” said the man with red tinted glasses. “Sanji, was it?”

Usopp winced. “Oh, come on.”

Sanji stopped walking.

Slowly, he turned his head just enough to make eye contact. “What the hell do you want.”

The scarfed man smiled. “Let’s call it… a special invitation. There’s a kitchen with your name on it. All expenses covered. Prestige. Power. Opportunity.”

“I’ll pass, thanks.” Sanji said flatly, turning again.

But they kept walking with him.

“It’s a serious offer,” Glasses added, still calm. “Your talent’s are wasted on that pirate ship. We’re talking about a future.”

Sanji exhaled sharply, a slow hiss of breath through his nose. “You’re really not listening.”

Usopp tugged at his sleeve. “Maybe we should just—”

“No,” Sanji snapped. “They can either walk the other way, or I make them.”

The two men paused, just briefly.

“No need for threats,” said Scarf, though his smile had stiffened. “We’ll give you time to consider.”

Sanji’s voice dropped. “I’m fresh out of patience. Move.”

A brief silence.

The scarfed man didn’t budge. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, that polite smile sharpening just at the edges.

“A shame,” he said smoothly, “if we had to find a substitute.”

His voice dipped colder. “Like that vendor you visited earlier. That omelet stand had a nice, humble charm.”

Sanji froze.

Usopp’s head snapped up. “What did you just say?”

“You weren’t the only ones being watched,” said the man with glasses. “We keep very close tabs on high-value ingredients.”

Sanji’s eyes narrowed, fury building. His cigarette cracked between his fingers.

“I swear,” he growled, “if anything happens to them—”

Before he could finish, the scarfed man stepped close—too close—and placed a hand lightly on Sanji’s shoulder.

“Let’s not make this a mess,” he said, almost whispering now. “We’d rather keep things… clean.”

The moment the hand made contact, something shifted.

It wasn’t visible. Not at first.

But Sanji’s entire posture faltered—just for a second.

His pupils dilated. His skin prickled like it had been burned, or frozen—it was impossible to tell. An unnatural weight passed through him.

Usopp reached for him. “Sanji—?”

The man withdrew his hand just as casually as he’d placed it. “You’ll feel that later.”

Sanji staggered half a step, then caught himself, breathing sharp through his nose.

His voice came out rough. “What the hell was that?”

“A sample,” the man in glasses said, already turning away. “We prefer our recruits fully seasoned.”

The two of them vanished back into the crowd—gone without trace.

Usopp looked at Sanji. “Are you okay?”

Sanji didn’t answer at first. He flexed his fingers. His shoulder still tingled—no visible mark, but it felt like something had sunk beneath the skin and lingered there.

His jaw was tight. Too tight.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s keep moving.”

Usopp didn’t press it, just stayed close as they plunged deeper into the crowd.
The festival lights shimmered brighter now, the sky above stained deep violet. Music swelled somewhere in the distance, and the hum of voices filled every space between stalls.

Then Nami caught sight of them.

“There!” she shouted, pointing through the crowd. “Sanji! Usopp!”

Heads turned as the crew regrouped in the middle of a wide crossroads, half-shadowed by swaying lanterns and drifting smoke from nearby grills.

“Thank god,” Chopper breathed, running over. “You’re okay!”

Usopp was visibly relieved. “We’ve been looking everywhere! You guys have no idea what we ran into—”

Sanji trailed in just behind him, slower than usual. His shoulders were squared, his jaw tight, but his left hand hovered near his upper arm—like something still lingered under the skin.

Robin’s eyes flicked over him, her expression unreadable.

Zoro narrowed his gaze. “What’s the matter with you?”

Sanji didn’t respond. Not directly. “Just an ache.”

Zoro’s eyes scanned over him. “You sure that’s all?”

“Im fine.”

The edge in Sanji’s voice was sharper than usual—not his usual flirty deflection or over-the-top bravado. Just blunt. Short.

Nami looked between them. “What happened?”

Usopp took a deep breath, adjusting the bag on his shoulder. “Okay, so—first thing—Something’s wrong with this whole place.”

He launched into a quick rundown: the rice cake, celistal dragons, the strange men, the threat about the father and son at the omelet stall. The part where they were followed. And—

“Then they left,” Usopp said, lowering his voice. 

“I told them to get lost, let’s just make sure they don’t grab any other chefs,” Sanji snapped again, a little too fast this time.

Zoro crossed his arms, watching him carefully now.

“Did anything happen?” Robin asked softly. 

Sanji glanced away. “No just talked about ingredients and seasoning a lot but we can figure that out later, Let’s focus on helping the missing cooks.”

Everyone exchanged a glance—uncertain, uneasy.

Zoro’s voice cut through the tension. “We should find those weird guys, sounds like they might be apart of this.”

Sanji didn’t answer, just exhaled sharply and looked off toward the deeper festival lanes. 

They moved as one now, drifting along the edge of the crowd until they found a quieter pocket near a row of spice merchants. From here, they could see the festival’s center: a raised performance platform surrounded by rows of cheering onlookers.

Robin folded her arms, eyes scanning the perimeter. “If they’re selecting chefs in public, we’ll need to give them a reason to reveal themselves.”

Zoro leaned against a post, gaze flicking toward the stage. “We put someone up there they want.”

Sanji didn’t miss the glance. “Don’t even say it.”

Zoro smirked. “You’re the one they tried to poach. All I’m doing is offering a solution.”

“You mean serving me on a platter.”

“You’d make a lousy entrée,” Zoro said, crossing his arms. “Too salty.”

Sanji’s eye twitched. “Keep talking, moss-for-brains. I dare you.”

“You two done?” Nami asked sharply.

Usopp stepped forward, trying to refocus the group. “Look, we don’t like the idea. But it makes sense. Sanji draws a crowd. They already made contact once—they’ll try again.”

“And if they do,” Franky said, cracking his knuckles, “we’ll be ready.”

“I’ll stay near the side exits,” Nami said. “If anything starts, I can close off their escape routes.”

“I’ll go high,” Usopp added. “Rooftop coverage. Maybe even lay a few traps.”

“I’ll keep near the front in case someone gets hurt, plus im small enough to hide in the crowd!” Chopper said. 

Luffy was uncharacteristically quiet. He finally spoke, eyes on the stage. “You sure about this, Sanji?”

Sanji reached into his pocket, lit a cigarette, and exhaled slowly. “Let them come. If they want a taste—”

He turned, walking toward the square.

“I’ll give them something to choke on.”

Robin watched him go, eyes narrowing slightly.

Somewhere beyond the lights of the festival, past the edge of the celebratory music and laughter, a long, narrow ship sat moored in the shadowed harbor. Its hull was sleek and dark, etched with the curling emblem of a World Noble—its golden filigree shining even in low light.

Inside a private cabin adorned with velvet cushions and wine cases, a Celestial Dragon lounged in silk. A glass of rare fruit liquor rested on a silver tray beside him. He barely glanced up as two figures entered.

“Well?” he asked, voice thick with boredom. “Is my order ready?”

The man with the scarf bowed slightly, sweeping a gloved hand over his chest. “Target confirmed.”

“Touched, too,” said the one in glasses, adjusting his collar. “I was able to use my rot rot fruit ability’s on him.”

The Celestial Dragon sighed, vaguely amused. “You’re so awful when you speak in metaphors.”

The one in the scarf grinned. “He’s already starting to wear down. Shouldn’t be long now.”

The taller one with the glasses stepped forward, finally removing them. His eyes were sharp and reflective.

“We’ll wait until the crowd peaks, pepper.” he said looking back at the man in the scarf.  “The chaos helps. People don’t notice another vanishing act when the music’s loud enough.”

The Celestial Dragon tapped a manicured finger on the armrest. “I want him alive. No burns, no broken bones, no missing hands. His palate is rare. He’ll serve me.”

“As you wish,” Salt replied smoothly. “We’ve seasoned him properly. He’ll be ready for plating soon.”

The Celestial Dragon yawned and waved his hand. “You and your culinary dramatics bore me. Just ensure I’m eating by sunset tomorrow.”

The two men bowed again and turned to leave.

As they stepped onto the polished deck, lanterns flickering in the salt-heavy wind, the scarfed man adjusted his gloves and cracked his knuckles.

Salt grinned. “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? ‘Salt and Pepper.’”

“I suppose,” Pepper replied. “Though I do all the heavy lifting.”

Salt shrugged. “You rot things. I ripe them up.”

“Yeah yeah, the ripe ripe fruit does wonders. I’ve heard your tales.”

Salt laughed. “This will be delicious!”

They walked side by side back to the center of town.

Chapter Text

Lanterns cast a golden glow across the main stage, where the festival’s cooking showcase was already underway. Smoke curled from the burners, spices filled the air, and the crowd roared with every flashy flip of a knife or burst of flame.

Backstage, tucked behind a curtain strung between poles, Sanji waited.

He shifted his weight subtly, trying not to lean too much on one side. There was a dull ache pulsing up his thigh, creeping upward he hadn’t quite figured out the cause of. 

“You’re up after this guy, break a leg!” whispered a stagehand, barely glancing at him as they passed.

Sanji gave a nod. “Thanks.” Then, quieter to himself as he glanced toward the crowd, “Those idiots better have a plan.”

A rustle behind him made him glance back just as Usopp slipped past the curtain, adjusting his makeshift apron and goggles like he’d always belonged there.

“Yo,” Usopp said, a little out of breath. “You didn’t think I was gonna let you take the stage solo, did you?”

Sanji blinked. “The hell are you wearing?”

Usopp struck a dramatic pose. “Culinary assistant. Specializing in picking only the freshest ingredients by smell alone!”

Sanji gave him a look, unimpressed.

Usopp dropped the theatrics with a shrug. “Robin said to keep an eye on you. Said you were... off.”

Sanji’s eyes narrowed, but Usopp didn’t backpedal.

“She didn’t say it like that exactly,” he admitted. “But she noticed something. You’ve been favoring your left side. Not like a limp—more like something’s eating at you.”

Sanji looked away, jaw tightening. “I’m fine.”

“Sure. And Zoro’s a world renowned navigator.”

Before Sanji could shoot back, the muffled roar of the crowd cut through the curtain again—someone had just flambéed a full roast boar. Flames lit the tent gold.

Usopp exhaled and stepped up beside him, adjusting the spice satchels strapped to his belt.

“I told Franky chopper and I had the floor. He’s got the rooftops locked down, Nami’s guarding the exits with jinbe, and Robin and zoro our tracking movement patterns near the judges’ tent. Luffy’s…” Usopp frowned. “Well. Luffy.”

Sanji huffed, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “He’s probably stealing food from the last cook.”

Another wave of cheers shook the stage.

Sanji’s smile faded as he peeked through the curtain again. The crowd stretched as far as he could see—wall to wall, shoulder to shoulder, eyes waiting, wanting, watching.

“If I go out there,” he muttered, “and I screw this up, they might just grab someone else instead. Maybe another chef like the kid from Omiyake’s. Or a vendor just trying to feed their family with no idea what’s coming.”

Usopp adjusted his goggles.

“Then let’s not screw this up.”

Sanji turned to look at him. The ache in his thigh was worse now—burning, pulsing, but he hid it well. Mostly.

“You’re sure about this?” he asked. “You don’t have to risk it just because Robin—”

“I’m not doing this because Robin asked,” Usopp interrupted. “I’m doing this because I know how much you care. So if anyone’s gonna watch your back… it’s gonna be me.”

Sanji looked at him for a long beat.

“…You’re gonna be a terrible sous-chef.”

Usopp grinned. “But I will be great at causing a scene.”

A nearby bell chimed once—sharp, clear.

“You’re up,” said the stagehand again.

Sanji exhaled, stepped forward, and flipped his lighter open with a sharp flick.

“Let’s go start a fire.”

He strode out through the curtain, smoke curling at his heel.

Usopp followed, hand twitching near the pouch of smoke bombs on his hip.

The crowd pressed in from every side of the square, lanterns bobbing in the heat like stars hung too low. The main stage gleamed with polished iron burners, sauce-splashed counters, and a wide flat-top grill still sizzling from the last competitor.

A new wave of cheers erupted as Sanji and Usopp stepped into the spotlight.

“LADIES AND GENTLECHEFS!” Usopp shouted, bounding forward with arms outstretched. “Presenting a never-before-seen, full-throttle, nose-melting, palate-destroying, flavor spectacle! From the All Blue to your mouths—”

He threw a pouch of herbs into the air. Sanji flicked his lighter.

WHOOSH.

A tower of blue flame caught the bundle midair and burned it down to spice-laced smoke.

Usopp coughed dramatically, eyes watering. “—Led by the culinary heartthrob of the high seas! The man who makes soufflés sing and fish line up to be cooked—STRAW HAT SANJI!”

The crowd roared.

Sanji gave an annoyed grant looking over at Usopp, “seriously?” 

Sanji moved into action. One hand behind his back, the other working the pan like a conductor. Butter cracked and foamed. Blades flashed. Garlic hit the oil and the scent slammed the crowd like a wave.

He worked in silence—methodical, sharp, but full of grace. He pulled a carved sea bass filet from a chilled tray and flicked it onto the grill in one clean, fluid motion.

Usopp circled him with energy like a ringmaster. “What’s this? Oh, folks—he’s going for the North Blue Threefold technique—sear, steam, AND flambé in under sixty seconds!”

Another cheer. The crowd was glued.

Sanji’s body wasn’t.

He felt it just as he bent to grab the sake bottle.

A sudden, twisting sensation—like his thigh had torn from the inside.

His breath caught.

The pan handle slipped slightly under his grip. His balance shifted. One knee buckled—just a fraction—but enough.

Usopp caught it. And so did Robin.

Sanji straightened, jaw locked, sweat collecting beneath his collar. He tried to move his legs—but the pain in his thigh had climbed higher now, clawing up through his hip. His shoulder spasmed once, an echo of the spot where Pepper’s hand had touched him.

He leaned forward under the steam to hide it.

“Usopp,” he muttered, barely audible, “something’s wrong. I—I can’t feel my leg.”

Usopp blinked mid-sentence, words catching in his throat. “O-oh! Ha! That’s right folks, we’re just getting started! Look at that control! The balance! The… uh…” He spun in a full circle, voice climbing. “The flamboyance!”

He glanced at Sanji—saw the tight grip, the locked jaw, the smoke curling too close to his face.

His eyes darted to the crowd. Where are they?

Zoro’s eye caught the shift.

Robin. Already moving.

She was calm—always calm—but the way she changed direction toward the stage wasn’t casual. It was fast. Intentional. Urgent.

Zoro followed her line of sight into the crowd.

And there they were.

Two men, standing too still in a sea of motion. Dressed like civilians, but too polished. Too quiet. Not watching the stage with interest—watching it with purpose. Their posture screamed control.

One—tall, lean, in a long scarf—raised his hand, just slightly.
The other—rounder face, tinted glasses, hand resting flat over his own belly—smiled like he’d just smelled something tasty.

Zoro’s hand dropped to his sword.

The scarfed man’s fingers twitched once.

And then—

PLOP.

A papaya on a nearby cart dropped. Swollen. Split down the side.

PLOP. CRACK. SPLAT.

Bananas blackened in seconds. Strawberries foamed and slumped into juice. Peaches popped with the sound of meat hitting hot oil.

All at once, the fruit stands around the plaza began to implode—sugars fermenting, skins rupturing, juices spraying across stunned vendors.

Screams.

The crowd panicked, surging away from the stalls as pulpy bursts showered down like edible fireworks.

Zoro didn’t wait for an order. He was already moving.

“Luffy!” he barked.

“I know!” Luffy yelled, launching into the air with a Gum-Gum Rocket, teeth gritted, eyes locked on the two.

They reached the ground before the men could retreat, landing hard between them and the rising stage.

The scarfed man chuckled and stepped back once, as if admiring the chaos. “My, my,” he said smoothly, “they’re faster than advertised.”

The man in glasses slowly removed them and tucked them away. “And far louder.”

Zoro gritted his teeth. “You two the ones causing this mess?”

The scarfed man bowed low and wide, one hand on his chest like a theatrical performer. “Ah, so sorry—where are our manners?”

He straightened, and with a twirl of his fingers, flung off the scarf.

“I am Salt,” he announced, spinning once with absurd flourish. “Specialist in decay, critic of the culinary world, and personal handler of the noble palate.”

The other adjusted his cufflinks. His uniform matched—darker, glossier, and ringed with wax-sealed buttons like stacked wine corks. The symbol on his chest showed a fork blooming with overripe fruit.

“I am Pepper,” he said simply. “Enhancer. Refiner. Purveyor of the perfect bite.”

They stepped forward together, side by side, red spotlights from the rafters catching their trim silhouettes like stage performers entering a final act.

Salt threw his arms wide.

“Together, we are the judges of taste and torment, chosen by his celestial appetite to cleanse the menu of mediocrity!”

Pepper’s voice dropped an octave, cold as steel.

“And tonight’s main course… is him.”

He pointed past Luffy and Zoro—straight at Sanji.

Zoro stepped forward, blade half-drawn, the tip catching the nearby light from paper lantern.

He tilted his head, gaze locked on Salt and Pepper with a look that could slice on its own.

“You talk too much for appetizers.”

Salt laughed, delighted. “Oh, I like this one.”

But Zoro was already done listening.

He shifted into stance—low, centered, every muscle coiled like a blade still sheathed but itching to be drawn.

Without looking away, he muttered, “I’ll take the loudmouth.”

Luffy cracked his knuckles, grinning. “Fine. I’ll handle the fat one.”

Pepper flinched. “I’m well-nourished!”

Then they moved.

Sanji slumped against a stack of crates behind the stage, sweat dripping into his collar. His fingers twitched weakly at his sides like he still expected them to move with purpose, to hold a knife, flip a pan, do something.

But nothing obeyed.

It felt like his own body was collapsing inward, like bones weren’t connecting, like muscles were unspooling and rotting out from under his skin. Every time he tried to shift, a burning weight dragged at his limbs.

“Damn it,” he muttered, barely able to stay upright. “What the hell did they do to me...?”

“Sanji!”

Chopper skidded in, hooves hitting the cobblestones hard. His doctor’s bag slammed to the ground beside him as he dropped to his knees, already scanning Sanji with frantic eyes.

“Are you bleeding? What hurts? What happened?!”

Sanji opened his mouth—but his jaw locked for a second. “It’s not—” he hissed. “It’s not normal. My leg… it’s like it’s gone. Like it’s still there but it won’t listen.”

Chopper’s expression shifted from panic to laser focus in an instant. His hooves pressed gently along Sanji’s thigh, his arm, his shoulder.

“No bruising. No impact trauma. But your temperature’s rising, circulation’s messed up—what is this?”

Then, from overhead—

“YO, BACKUP’S COMING IN HOT!”

Franky’s voice bellowed from above, echoing off the plaza walls. He stood perched on a rooftop with a smoking shoulder cannon.

“WE GOT A WHOLE PARADE OF SUITS AND RIFLES COMIN’ IN FROM THE DOCKS!” he yelled. “LIKE A LOT OF ‘EM! I’M TALKIN’ KITCHEN NIGHTMARE LEVELS OF BAD!”

He struck a pose, nipples gleaming.

“ENGAGING SUPER NIPPLE RAYS!!”

Tiny beams of red-hot light zipped from his chest into the alley, zapping crates and scattering the first wave of armed men trying to flank the stage.

From the ground, Nami whipped around, snarling, “Jinbe! That alley—go!”

“On it.” Jinbe bolted forward with his trident drawn, crashing through the crowd like a wave, while Nami turned and raised her clima-tact. Lightning sparked at the tip.

“I’ll hold the west side!”

Robin barely looked up, arms already forming across her back in layered spirals. “I’ll cover you, Chopper.”

“This isn’t good,” Chopper snapped, eyes wide. “This isn’t exhaustion, this is something else—like a systemic breakdown. Internal decay. It’s like your body’s shutting down piece by piece—”

Usopp’s voice cut through, calmer than expected, but certain.
“A Devil Fruit user.”

Chopper blinked. “What?”

Usopp met his eyes. “That guy we ran into. He touched Sanji. Just briefly. Right before we ran into you guys.”

Chopper froze, the pieces snapping into place. “That would explain the progression… localized to systemic...”

Robin’s jaw tightened, her gaze sharp. “Then we’re not just up against your average kidnappers.”

Sanji groaned behind them, trying to sit up.

Chopper pushed him gently back. “No. Don’t move. You need to conserve your strength—whatever this is, it’s still spreading.”

Sanji grit his teeth and shoved weakly at Chopper’s arm. “I’m not sitting this one out.”

Chopper tried to push him down again, but Sanji struggled—clumsy, angry, a flicker of fire still burning behind his eyes.

“I can still fight,” he hissed. “I can still kick, damn it—!”

His leg buckled halfway through the sentence. His shoulder spasmed, and pain cracked across his ribs like lightning.

“Sanji!” Usopp caught him under the arm just in time.

But Sanji snarled through gritted teeth, “let me fight—!”

“That’s enough!” Chopper barked, and in the next breath, his body shifted—fur thickening, limbs lengthening—

“RUNNING POINT!”

With a heavy thud, Chopper transformed into his towering reindeer form, eyes blazing with determination. He dropped to one knee beside Sanji.

“We don’t have time for pride,” he said, voice firm. “You’re not safe here—and you’re not helping anyone if you collapse in the middle of a battlefield.”

Sanji opened his mouth to argue again, but Usopp was already hoisting his other arm over his shoulder.

“We’re surrounded,” Usopp said tightly, eyes flicking to the rooftops. “Franky’s holding the line, but there’s more coming from every direction. You wanna protect people, then let us protect you first.”

Chopper leaned in, “We’re getting you out of here. Now.”

For once, Sanji didn’t fight it.

He clenched his jaw, nodded once, and let himself be lifted.

Chopper surged forward, hooves slamming against the cobblestone as he sprinted through the alley behind the stage, Usopp running beside him, checking corners, ducking gunfire, shielding Sanji’s body with his own.

Robin moved with them at first, arms blooming out behind her to swat down incoming debris and disarm the first wave of attackers slipping through the smoke. Her footfalls were light, precise—measured protection.

“Keep moving,” she said, voice steady. “I’ll hold the rear.”

Chopper nodded and surged ahead, hooves pounding, Sanji gritted between his antlers, Usopp sprinting at his side.

Just before turning the corner, Robin paused. Six arms erupted from the stone walls to form a temporary barricade, slamming into place with enough force to knock two charging guards off their feet.

Then she turned, vanishing back into the haze, toward the center of the fight.

Luffy leapt high, rubber limbs snapping mid-air as he went in for a classic Gum-Gum Gatling. His fists blurred toward Pepper—

Who simply held up a hand and smirked.

“I think you could use a little growth, Straw Hat.”

He snapped his fingers.

“Ripe-Ripe Bloom.”

Luffy blinked. “Huh?”

Suddenly, his limbs stretched in all the wrong ways—his arms puffed, his chest ballooned, and with a loud FWOMP his entire body swelled like an overinflated beach ball.

“Wha—WHAT IS THIS?!”

He bounced once on the stage.

Then twice.

Then—BOING.

Luffy shot off the platform like a rubbery cannonball.

“AAAAHHHHH—!!”

Chopper rounded the corner, hooves skidding slightly on the stone, Usopp panting at his side, one hand on Sanji’s back to keep him balanced.

“We’re almost—”

BOING.

A massive shadow fell over them.

Usopp turned just in time to see a wide, glistening, Luffy-shaped orb hurtling toward them through the smoke, arms flailing, screaming like a kettle.

“WHY AM I LIKE THIS—?!”

“IS THAT LUFFY?!” Chopper shouted.

“WHY IS HE HUGE?!” Usopp shrieked.

Sanji opened one eye and rasped, “that rubber brain idiot.”

BOOM! Luffy bounced off the alley wall at the last second, narrowly missing them, pinballing into a stack of barrels that exploded like fireworks.

A long beat.

“…you got to be kidding me,” Usopp muttered.

Chopper groaned, “He’s gonna bounce into the crowd!”

Luffy’s voice echoed from inside the wreckage: “I can’t stop! Help—BOING—I’m too round—BOING—this isn’t fun—!!”

Chopper skidded to a halt, hooves digging into the stone.

“Usopp—take him!”

Usopp stumbled as Chopper lowered Sanji from his antlers into his arms. “What? Wait—where are you—?!”

“Just do it!” Chopper shouted, already twisting mid-motion.

With a burst of steam and shifting limbs, he transformed again—
“HEAVY POINT!”

His muscles swelled, fur bristling as he lunged down the alley and caught Luffy mid-bounce, tackling the rubber beach ball of a captain just before he could launch into the unsuspecting crowd.

“GOTCHA—!!”

Luffy yelped as Chopper wrapped his massive arms around him, squeezing like a human-sized stress ball. “CAN’T BREATHE—IS THIS WHAT A GRAPE FEELS LIKE—?!”

But the pressure worked.

With a sudden PFFFFT of expelled air, Luffy shrank back to normal, the force of it launching both of them into the air with a rubbery scream.

BOOM.

They slammed into a merchant’s spice tent, cloth and cumin flying like confetti.

Usopp staggered under Sanji’s weight, keeping him upright with one arm wrapped around his back, guiding him toward cover.

Around them, the plaza was beginning to collapse into chaos.

Booths cracked. Fireworks ignited prematurely. Smoke blurred the air in streaks of color and ash. Crates toppled as vendors scrambled for safety, some already fleeing toward the docks.

Then—CRASH!

A wooden ramen stand exploded inward as Zoro burst through it, sword drawn, eyes blazing.

He landed in a crouch beside them, already scanning. “You two alright?”

Usopp nodded quickly, breath shallow. “We’re good—mostly—he’s not.”

Zoro’s eyes flicked to Sanji—really looked this time. His chest rising too fast. The color drained from his face. Legs shaking even while still.

“…Shit,” Zoro muttered under his breath. “What did they do to you?”

Sanji didn’t answer. He looked up at him through half-lidded eyes, voice barely audible. “You’re late mosshead.”

Zoro opened his mouth to respond—

“Ah, don’t worry.”

The voice floated in from above the wreckage, slick and casual.

Salt.

He descended lightly onto a shattered vendor cart, arms out like he was presenting a show.

“We wouldn’t damage the goods,” he said, smiling coldly. “We just needed them tenderized a little. Makes packaging so much easier.”

Zoro’s grip on his sword twitched.

Usopp’s jaw clenched. “He’s not goods, you creep—”

“Oh?” Salt tilted his head. “Then why’s he still being delivered?”

Zoro stepped forward once, placing himself squarely between Salt and Sanji.

“I dare you to try.”

Salt’s smile widened.

And somewhere behind them, Pepper’s laughter echoed, bouncing off the walls like the aftershock of something ripening in the dark.

Zoro’s sword slid from its sheath with a clean, chilling shhnk, the metal catching the flicker of broken lantern light.

Salt didn’t move.

He just smiled wider, adjusting the lapels of his absurd velvet uniform as if this were a red carpet, not a battlefield.

“A swordsman,” he said, admiring. “How quaint.”

Zoro didn’t reply. His gaze was flat, unreadable, but his feet shifted—one subtle motion into stance.

Salt raised one hand and snapped.

The ground at Zoro’s feet cracked.

From rot.

The wood of the broken booth beneath him began to curl inward, crumbling like wet paper. Nails rusted instantly. A stack of crates nearby turned black, sagged, and collapsed into dust.

“You’ll find I don’t chip away at people,” Salt said, stepping down casually. “I ruin them. Slowly. Like a bad review.”

He snapped again—Zoro lunged.

CLANG!

Their first clash sent sparks up the alley.

Zoro’s blade met Salt’s outstretched palm—not a weapon, just the edge of his glove—and for a moment, it looked like Salt might get sliced clean through.

Instead, the air around his hand withered. Zoro’s blade hissed against it, the very edge of the steel turning gray—turning dull.

Zoro leapt back, flipping onto a nearby crate, eye narrowing.

“Tch.”

Salt grinned. “Ahh. You felt that, didn’t you?”

He waltzed forward now, hands open, gliding through the destruction like a judge on his final round. “Steel decays. Wood crumbles. Flesh rots. Even willpower breaks down eventually.”

Zoro crouched slightly, measuring him.

“Good,” he muttered. “I’ll just have to cut you faster you can talk.”

He launched forward again—

Salt flicked his wrist, and the air distorted—a wave of spore-like particles puffed outward, curling around Zoro’s slash like steam.

But Zoro didn’t stop.

He cut through it.

CLASH!

A heavy blow slammed Salt back into a splintered stall, the velvet of his coat singed at the sleeve.

Salt stood, brushing off imaginary dust. His smile remained, but his eye twitched.

“Rude,” he said softly.

Zoro cracked his neck. “You’re not the only thing that’s corrosive.”

He lowered into his stance again, breath steady, voice low.

“You lay one more hand on him—and I’ll break yours.”

Salt's grin faltered for just a moment.

Smoke trailed behind them like a warning.

Usopp ran, lungs burning, Sanji’s weight draped heavy over his back. Every few steps, Sanji shifted—barely—but his grip was weak, his breath ragged against Usopp’s shoulder.

“Just a little farther,” Usopp panted, eyes scanning the alley ahead. “We’ll find a way out. Gotta be a side path, or a—”

He turned the corner.

Dead end.

A crumbling wall boxed them in, too high to climb, too smooth to scale without gear. Crates stacked to one side, useless for escape. Nowhere to run. No cover.

Usopp froze.

And behind them—

Footsteps.

Heavy, synchronized.

Men in suits, visors down, rifles raised.

Usopp tightened his grip on Sanji, stepping back until his heel touched the wall.

“…Crap.”

The guards raised their weapons.

The world slowed.

Usopp turned his body slightly, instinctively shielding Sanji as best he could—knowing he couldn’t stop bullets with words, and his slingshot was in the wrong position, and his legs were shaking too hard to dodge.

BANG—

The first shot fired—

CRACK—

A black streak cut through the smoke.

Sanji moved.

His body didn’t rise—he was still slumped against Usopp’s back—but one leg snapped upward in a flash of obsidian shine.

Armament Haki.

The bullet hit the reinforced sole of his shoe and sparked away, ricocheting into a crate.

BANG. BANG. BANG—

Sanji grunted, jaw clenched, forcing his leg up again—again—blocking shot after shot with a protective arc over Usopp’s shoulder.

Until his muscles gave out.

He collapsed fully against Usopp, legs limp, breath ragged.

“…Stay down,” he rasped. “Don’t let them—”

Then silence.

Sanji’s eyes remained open, jaw tight, heart racing—but he couldn’t move.

Usopp’s chest heaved.

Then—he did the only thing he could think to do.

He stood straighter. Swallowed hard.

And lied.

“Alright, alright—enough!”

The guards hesitated, guns still trained.

Usopp lifted his hands—palms up, trembling. “You don’t want to shoot me. Or him. He’s no good to you dead, right?”

He nodded toward Sanji, who was barely holding onto consciousness.

“You saw me with him on stage,” Usopp continued, trying to keep his voice calm, easy. “I was assisting. See I’m the nose here! That’s why he needs me to help him cook! This poor guy can’t smell a thing on his own!”

He forced a grin.

“We’re a package deal.”

The guards exchanged a glance.

One stepped forward, tapping a communicator at his wrist. “Second target confirmed. Original asset… partially mobile. Requesting medical containment.”

Usopp swallowed again. His knees felt weak. But he didn’t move.

Not when they reached for restraints.

Not when they yanked Sanji from his back and dragged him out. 

Not when cold steel closed around his own wrists.

He looked back at Sanji’s pale face and whispered, “We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

Chapter Text

The Thousand Sunny bobbed gently in the cove just off the coast of Carnelle Island, waves slapping her hull in a rhythmic lullaby.

Brook sat cross-legged on the Sunny’s deck, skeletal chin resting in one bony palm, violin bow dangling from his free hand like a sigh.

“Watch the boat, they said…” he muttered in his usual melodic monotone. “Make sure nothing happens to the ship, they said…”

He leaned forward dramatically. “It’s not like I spent the last fifty years on a boat or anything. Oh wait—I DID. YOHOHOHOHO~!”

No response. Just the sound of seabirds and distant festival music.

Brook glanced toward the island, the distant lights twinkling. “I suppose I could play a tune. Perhaps something to pass the time while my friends throw themselves headfirst into danger.”

He lifted his violin with a flourish.

BOOM.

A sudden plume of purple smoke and fire erupted from somewhere deep in the city square.

Brook lowered his violin slightly.

“…That’s quite the firework show…or we’re off schedule.”

WHOOSH.

A massive airborne object launched into the sky, flipping, spinning—

It passed right through a cloud, leaving streaks of steam and panic.

Brook squinted. “Is that—?”

The shape tilted mid-air.

A round, bouncing Luffy, arms flailing, flew overhead in slow, rubbery chaos.

“AAHHHHHHHHHH—!!”

Brook tilted his head. “Ah. That is Luffy.”

Another explosion.

Then more smoke. A crash. A flaming cabbage stand did a somersault in the distance.

Brook reached for a teacup.

“Tsk. I leave them alone for one hour and they start redecorating the island.”

He stood, dusting off his pants—though he had no skin to collect dust—and turned toward the shore, gaze sharpening beneath the shade of his top hat.

That’s when he saw them.

A sleek, royal ship rounding the island’s far side. A group of men in black suits scrambled on the sandbank, setting up what looked like a dock ramp extension toward the shore.

Two figures were being carried down a narrow gangplank by force—limp, hunched.

One had blonde hair.

The other in a very recognizable sense of panic.

Brook straightened. “Hmm…”

A beat.

“Was that Sanji and Usopp… being kidnapped?!”

He drew his cane sword.

“Yohohoho… I suppose someone else should’ve watched the boat.”

flick.

“… well then. I suppose it’s time for a little improvised boarding music.”

He stepped off the bow, bones light as air, and landed gracefully on the water ice forming underneath—his shoes barely skimming the surface as he dashed forward, cane tucked beneath his arm like a violin bow at the ready.

The enemy ship creaked faintly as it cut through the water—sleek, black-hulled, with golden embellishments curling like claws along its frame. It moved like it didn’t want to be seen.

Too bad for them, someone was watching.

From just beneath the dockline, a shadowy figure clung to the side of the ship, balanced with unnerving grace atop the smallest rivets in the hull.

Brook hummed to himself as he crept along sideways, barely a ripple on the water beneath his feet.

“🎵 Tip-toe toes though I don’t have feet,
Through the shadows light and fleet—
Just a bony spy with a cane and hat,
Sneakin’ up quiet like a gentleman rat~
Yohohoho… SHHH~🎵”

He peeked up through a porthole, one empty eye socket blinking.

“Ah. A hallway. Carpeted. Gaudy. Someone has noble taste and no restraint.”

He slinked upward, slipping effortlessly through the cracked window with the fluid ease of a ghost—and landed neatly behind a marble column, unseen.

The ship’s interior was lavish but cold: crystal chandeliers, velvet curtains, and ornate paintings of food—though the food in every painting looked… unsettling. A steak still bleeding. A fruit split open with something that might have been a tongue.

Brook straightened his tie.

“I see we’re in the haute cuisine horror section.”

He moved swiftly and silently through the halls, cane tucked under one arm, humming just under his breath.

“🎵 Sneaky sneaky skeleton,
Nobody knows where I’ve been—
One skull, no skin, no moral delay,
Just a sword and a suit and a will to slay~🎵”

Then—he paused.

Voices.

Brook pressed himself against a wall, tilting just enough to see two guards pass—speaking in clipped tones.

“…move the crates. Saint Gourmand Roscarde wants the new recruits processed before the next course…”

“…two from the square, one from the fermentation tent, and the kid with the egg shack…”

Brook waited until they passed, then slipped behind them, his footsteps silent.

As he reached a heavy hatch near the lower decks, he froze.

A faint clatter.

A whisper.

Voices. Multiple. Desperate.

Brook crouched, pressed an ear to the door.

“…They said we were getting a deal—just a contract…”

“…Where’s my son? He was with me—we were cooking together—he—he—”

“…That wasn’t apart of the deal.”

Brook’s light tone dropped.

He straightened slowly.

“…So it wasn’t just a contest after all.”

He placed a hand on the hatch.

“Hang on, my dear chefs,” he whispered.
“I do believe dinner service is about to be… interrupted.”

Chapter Text

The gangplank creaked under Usopp’s boots as he stepped onto the Celestial Dragon’s ship, Sanji draped across his back. Usopp’s throat tightened.

The wood beneath them was so smooth it looked lacquered. Gilded patterns curled along the railings like claws. Carved silver lanterns glowed faintly along the corridor, giving the whole ship the feel of a ballroom.

Sanji groaned faintly on his back.

“Still with me?” Usopp whispered, glancing over his shoulder. “Just hang on, alright?”

Two suited men stepped forward—one with a clipboard, the other holding what looked like a needle kit inside a velvet-lined case.

Usopp stiffened. “Hey, wait—what is that? He needs a doctor, not a—”

“He’ll get what he needs,” said the clipboard man curtly. “We’re not here to kill him. He’s an investment.”

Usopp’s jaw clenched. “You can’t just—! I’m his assistant. You can’t take him without me!”

Clipboard barely spared him a glance. “You’re not dying. You’re being reassigned.”

Another guard grabbed Usopp’s arm, pulling him away. “Let go!”

Usopp fought to stay near Sanji, his heels skidding on the polished floor. “SANJI! Don’t touch him! He’s not—he’s not yours—!”

Two guards reached for Sanji.

Usopp twisted away, nearly stumbling. “He can’t stand on his own—!”

A gloved hand grabbed his arm.

Usopp’s whole chest surged with panic. “No! I’m not leaving him! I’m his sous-chef remember! His assistant! His personal spice consultant! I’m the ONLY ONE who knows how he likes his onions sliced—!”

“You’ve been replaced.”

“What are—!”

A second pair of hands gripped his shoulders. Usopp fought.

His heel scraped the floor as they began to drag him back.

“Let go! Sanji—SANJI!”

The cook didn’t move.

The last thing Usopp saw was Sanji’s profile, slack and still, as the ornate double doors closed between them.

CLACK.

Silence.

The echo of boots and the low groan of something mechanical humming below. The deeper they went, the more the ship changed.

The rich trim turned sharp. The light dimmed. The hallway narrowed. They stopped at a plain door near the bottom of a spiral stairwell.

“You’ll be put with the others. Leftover stock,” one guard muttered.

The door swung open. A faint hiss of stale air seeped through.

They shoved him inside.

WHAM.

Usopp hit the floor hard.

The slam of the metal door echoed like cannonfire.

For a moment, he just lay there—ears ringing, chest heaving, heartbeat kicking behind his ribs like it wanted out.

“…Sanji…” he whispered.

No answer.

He forced himself up, stumbled to the bars. “LET ME OUT! HE’S STILL HURT! YOU CAN’T JUST SEPARATE US!”

Only silence answered.

He slammed his fists on the bars again, one final yell sticking in his throat like a splinter.

Then—

A low rustle behind him.

Shifting shapes in the dark.

Usopp turned.

The cell wasn’t empty.

Several figures sat or slouched against the far walls. Some were wrapped in stained aprons, others still wore kitchen whites. Then someone stood. A broad-shouldered man with a streak of blood down his sleeve and eyes like burnt coals.

Usopp’s stomach dropped. He knew that face.

Ren’s father.

“You,” the man growled.

Usopp held up both hands fast. “Hey—whoa—okay, I know how this looks—”

“You and that cook,” the man said. “The pirates who made a scene.”

“It wasn’t a scene! He was standing up for—”

“You led them to us,” the man snapped. “You painted a target on my booth. On my kid.”

Usopp flinched. “Wait—what happened to Ren?”

The other chefs in the room looked away. One woman murmured something under her breath and started crying into her sleeve.

Usopp’s throat tightened. “Sanji… might’ve been taken to the same place.”

He looked up again.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I swear. We didn’t mean for any of this.”

”It’s too late for sorry.” Rens father left out a sigh as he sat back down.

Everyone was slumped. The woman who had been crying earlier was now just staring at her hands. The father—the one who’d nearly decked him—was hunched in the corner, his jaw set tight with fury and shame.

They were breaking. He could feel it.

That wouldn’t do. Usopp stood up and cleared his throat.

And said, “I once took down a ten-story sea king that tried to eat me and a whole town just because it looked in my general direction.”

The chefs looked up.

He rolled his shoulders and stepped into the center of the cell like it was a stage.

“It had fangs like anchor chains, breath like low tide, and a scar right over its eye. You know what I did?”

Pause. Dramatic lean-in.

“I yelled at it.”

One of the chefs blinked. “You yelled?”

“Yelled,” Usopp repeated, hands on hips. “Told it this town was under the protection of Captain Usopp of the Straw Hat Pirates, and if it didn’t want to get turned into sashimi, it better back off.”

Another chef mumbled, “What happened next?”

“It backed off.”

Silence.

Then: “Really?”

Usopp shrugged. “Okay, maybe Zoro cut its jaw off first. And maybe Luffy punched it into the sky second. But! It was my yelling that confused it long enough to give them the opening.”

He grinned. “That’s what we do. We work together.”

He pointed to his chest.

“I’m Usopp. Warrior of the sea and one of the straw hat pirates.”

Then he raised a hand and started ticking off fingers.

“We’ve got a swordsman who could cut this whole ship in half. A cook who can make fire with his legs. A navigator who weaponizes weather. A doctor who turns into a literal monster. A robot who shoots lasers from his nipples. A fishman who’s a master of Karate and Jujutsu. A pervert skeleton. A archaeologist-“

He smiled, softer now.

“And we’ve got a captain who doesn’t care if the enemy’s a king, a dragon, or a god. If you mess with his crew, he’ll knock you out of the sky just to protect his friends.”

The chefs stared at him.

“Right now, I know it looks bad. But the Straw Hat Pirates don’t leave people behind.”

He looked around the room, making eye contact with each of them.

“They’re not coming just to rescue me or Sanji. They’re coming for all of you. Because that’s who they are.”

He clenched a fist, lifting it high.

“So don’t give up.”

A pause.

Then from the back: “…Are you sure about the nipple lasers?”

Usopp nodded solemnly. “Saw it with my own eyes.”

A slow laugh started somewhere, then another.

Usopp let himself sit back down, chest a little lighter. “Don’t worry we’ll be out of here in no time.”

Sanji woke suddenly, His breath caught. His body jerked. For a split second, he expected the pain—the rot, the weight, the fire under his skin. But it wasn’t there. Just dull soreness that stretched across his muscles.

He blinked, vision swimming. He sat up fast. Owtch, Wrong move. The room tilted, his head spinning. He steadied himself with one hand against the cushion beneath him—an actual couch—and forced the fog out of his mind.

Where the hell—?

He looked down.

A fresh white bandage wrapped around the inside of his elbow. The skin underneath stung faintly.

His eyes narrowed.

He didn’t remember being treated. He didn’t remember getting here.

“Sanji!!”

A blur launched toward him—a small body slamming into his side with a thump.

He stiffened, instinct flaring, until—

“—oww, sorry, sorry, you’re still sore, aren’t you? You were all pale and sweaty and—blegh!”

Sanji blinked.

“…Ren?”

The kid backed up just a bit, still clutching Sanji’s coat. “You look way better now, though! They gave you something. Like, right in the arm.” He pointed to the bandage.

Sanji looked around.

A gilded room dressed up like a lounge. Velvet benches, silk curtains, no windows.

He saw other chefs scattered around the room. Most were quiet. One stirred a cup of tea without drinking it. Another stared at the same page of a magazine without blinking.

His jaw tightened.

“A recovery room, huh?” he muttered.

Ren blinked. “It’s more like… a waiting room? I think?”

Sanji’s eyes snapped to him.

Ren bit his lip. “They said they were waiting for you.”

Sanji leaned forward, sharp despite the haze. “Who said that?”

“I dunno. One of the guys in suits. They said we’d be working in the same kitchen once you woke up.” His eyes lit up for half a second. “Isn’t that cool? I’ve never worked with a real pirate chef before! I mean—besides my dad, you’re the best cook I’ve ever seen—”

Sanji grabbed his arm—not hard, but firm.

“Ren,” he said, voice low. “Where’s your dad?”

The kid froze. “I… I don’t know.”

“What about Usopp? Skinny guy, long nose, probably yelling a lot?”

Ren fidgeted. “I didn’t see anyone else. They split us up as soon as we got off the ship. Like… real fast. My dad was still asking questions, but they didn’t let him stay. I haven’t seen him since.”

Sanji went still. The hum of the room faded, replaced by the slow, rising burn behind his ribs.

He looked down at the bandage on his arm, fingers flexing loosely. Whatever they’d pumped into him, it worked. He could move. He could breathe. But he still felt poisoned.

Ren was here. Because of him.

Sanji gritted his teeth.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.

Ren blinked. “Huh?”

Sanji’s hands curled into fists against his knees. “You—your dad—you were just running a stall. Doing your thing. And now you’re stuck in this…”

He didn’t look at Ren. Couldn’t.

Sanji’s eyes flicked up, sharp. “You’re just a kid.”

He stood abruptly, the cushion squeaking under his weight. He swayed once, caught himself.

His jaw tightened, eyes fixed on nothing.

“I’m not gonna let them keep you here,” he said, voice low, rough.

“This was my mess.”

Sanji’s grip loosened.

“Anyone tell you what we’re waiting for?”

Ren looked away. “They said we’ll cook soon. That someone’s watching. And if we do well, we get to stay!”

He hesitated.

“I think it’s supposed to be a good thing.”

Sanji followed his gaze across the room—to the other chefs. No one was smiling. No one looked excited.

He leaned back against the couch slowly, trying to keep his voice even.

“…It’s not.”

Ren flinched. “It’s not?”

“No,” Sanji said. 

Smoke still clung to the streets of Carnelle.

The once-vibrant plaza had thinned, festival stalls torn or abandoned, fruit pulp crusting over cobblestones. Where music once played, now only scattered shouts and the distant crackle of fire could be heard.

The Straw Hats regrouped beneath a crooked festival banner—half-burned, one side hanging limp over a busted cart.

Franky landed with a THUD, steam still hissing from his shoulder vents. “South edge is clear—no more foot soldiers. Not that it was much of a fight. Buncha cowards with fancy coats and zero spine.”

Zoro wiped his blade clean and sheathed it in one motion. “They weren’t trying to win. Just stall us.”

“They stalled us long enough,” Nami snapped, eyes flashing. “Sanji and Usopp are gone.”

Chopper panted from where he crouched beside her, still catching his breath. “I—I checked the alley. They must’ve been taken right after we split.”

“Dang it.” Luffy growled.

He clenched his fists, the rubber around his knuckles stretching tight. His usual grin was gone, replaced with something far sharper.

Robin stepped calmly out of the shadows of a toppled spice stand, her hands folding with quiet resolve. “If they were taken, they weren’t taken far.”

Then—

Riiing… rriiing…

A tiny chirping whine rose from the inside of Franky’s chest compartment.

“Whoa, what the—”

He popped open a panel with a mechanical click, fishing out a baby transponder snail, its shell decorated with a Franky flare. its eyes blinking sleepily.

“Forgot I installed this,” he muttered, tapping the receiver. “YO! who’s calling?”

A familiar voice cut through the static—cheerful and low.

“Ah—finally! Hello, everyone! Yohohoho~ you wouldn’t believe the day I’m having.”

“Brook?!” Chopper gasped. “Where are you?!”

“Are you okay?!” Nami barked.

“Did you find anything?” Zoro demanded, already stepping toward the edge of the square.

Brook’s voice was lighter than the message it carried, the usual melody in his tone sharpened with a quiet urgency.

“Sanji and Usopp were taken. They’re aboard a ship on the far side of the island—a Celestial Dragon’s ship.”

The word hit the group like a thunderclap. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

“…A what?” Franky said slowly.

Brook didn’t miss a beat.

“It’s tucked behind the eastern cliffs—private harbor, heavily shielded. You can’t see it from the festival side. But I followed the guards down. But they weren’t the only ones kidnapped.”

Robin’s voice darkened. “The missing stalls.”

“Exactly. All the ones that disappeared? They’re here. Some of them still think they’re in a contest. Others are below deck in a cell with usopp.”

Zoro’s hand drifted to his sword hilt. “And curly?”

“Looks like He’s in a fancier part of the ship with a few other chefs.”

Then Luffy exhaled sharply. “…There’s two guys. Salt and Pepper.”

Chopper looked up.

“They’re the ones who touched Sanji,” Luffy said, frowning hard. “The round one made me puff up like a balloon. Called it the ‘Ripe-Ripe Fruit.’ The other guy… I think his was rot. He made stuff break down. Real fast.”

Robin’s eyes narrowed. “Devil Fruits.”

Luffy nodded reluctantly. “They must be working for the noble. They got away after I turned into a giant bouncy ball and knocked over half the plaza.”

Brook’s voice returned—dry, but grateful.

“Ah. That would explain the explosion.”

Brook’s voice lowered.

“If they’re back on the ship, I haven’t seen them. But I should assume they’re here.”

Nami stepped forward, already pulling her map from her bag and flipping it open with fast, practiced fingers.

“If the ship’s on the far side of the island, we’ll need backup from the water.”

She pointed sharply to a cove tucked behind the cliffs. “We swing the Sunny around here—come in from the sea and trap them between the crew and the ship.”

Jinbe nodded. “Smart. If they try to flee, we’ll cut them off at the docks. I’ll pilot her through the reef path.”

Chopper hoisted his bag and transformed into Walk Point, puffing up just enough to match their pace. “I’ll get the med bay prepped—if they’ve got prisoners they might be hurt, we’ll need everything ready.”

Nami turned to the others, her gaze hard. “You infiltrate. Find Sanji and Usopp. We’ll bring the Sunny around for extraction, or cannon fire. Whichever comes first.”

Zoro smirked. “Sounds like a plan.”

Robin gave a graceful nod. “We’ll meet with Brook right away.”

Luffy grinned, eyes already scanning the path Brook had described.

“Alright. Let’s get our friends back!”

With that, they split.

Nami, Jinbe, and Chopper peeled off into the side alleys, vanishing toward the far beach trail.

The rest of the crew turned east—toward the cliffs, the stone mouth gate, and whatever hell was waiting on the other side.

Chapter Text

Somewhere deep within the hull of the Celestial Dragon’s ship,In the shadow of a candlelit corridor, a translucent skull drifted quietly through a gilded wall. Brook’s ghostly form hovered just inches off the floor, his skeletal grin fixed in place. “I’m going ghost!”

A pause.

“Because I am a skeleton. And I can’t walk through walls. And—ah, well, you get it.”

He floated into a long hallway lined with portraits—still-lives of dishes too grotesque to be real. A bleeding cake. A roasted boar with human eyes. One painting featured a bowl of soup, but if you stared long enough, the reflection showed someone drowning in it.

Brook whispered to himself, “gross…that doesn’t look appetizing at all.”

He moved on, phasing carefully through one more thin wall—then stopped when he heard voices.

He flattened himself against the air like a practiced spy and peered through a slit in a velvet curtain.

The room was massive—an over-decorated lounge with a crimson carpet and chandelier shaped like a wine glass pouring crystal drops from the ceiling.

At the center of the room, lounging on a throne-like settee, was a man draped in layered silks and a bubble-domed helmet: Saint Gourmand Roscarde.

At his sides stood Salt and Pepper their postures slightly bowed as they listened.

Roscarde reclined with one leg crossed, sipping something from a goblet.

Pepper bowed slightly. “The antidote worked. He’s physically stable, but mentally… still combative.”

“Of course he is!” Roscarde said with glee. “That’s the best part. Taming him will be the best dish. Ah, what an exquisite temper, that one. I do love a chef who simmers under pressure.”

He stood up, drifting toward a display case at the back of the room. With a click, it opened—revealing a pair of golden cuffs , inlaid with red gemstones, humming faintly with sea prism stone.

“These,” he said, caressing them, “are custom a little something extra to prevent his escape. They’ll suppress his temper just enough to keep him in line.”

Brook’s eyes widened, barely keeping in a gasp.

Salt chuckled. “You’re awfully generous for a man planning to enslave someone.”

Roscarde spun once, arms wide. “I really am so kind aren’t I ? I gave him a curated kitchen staff!” He cackled.

Pepper adjusted his glasses. “And the rest?”

Roscarde waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. “Dead weight. Sell them at the next harbor. Or toss them overboard. I could care less what happens to them.”

Brook’s skull twitched in silent rage.

Salt folded his arms. “You’ll be down a lot of chefs.”

“No, no,” Roscarde said sweetly. “I’ll have the only one that matters.”

He picked up the cuffs again, holding them to the candlelight.

“Soon, Vinsmoke Sanji will cook only for me. And when I present him at the next Reverie—dressed in white, obedient, brilliant—all of them will want a chef of their own.”

Brook floated fast through the upper corridors, spectral form flickering past the sickly golden glow of the ship’s sconces blurred as he passed.

He whispered to himself as he turned a corner.

“Alright. That was informative. And horrifying. Horrifyingly informative. Now it’s time to—”

He paused.

“Ah, yes. Time to return to my bones.”

With a flick of will, he dropped downward—phasing through the floor, past thick timber and steel, until he reached a storage level stacked with wine crates and dried meats.

Tucked behind a closed closet near the cold storage room was his skeleton.

Brook’s soul spiraled down into it with a shimmer of light—

CLACK!

Bones straightened. Fingers twitched. Spine cracked back into place with a sharp snap.

“Ahhh~ back in the saddle.”

He brushed imaginary dust off his coat and twirled his cane-sword once before slipping into the shadows.

In the lowest part of the Celestial Dragon’s ship.

The air was stale, heavy with steam and rust. The holding cell flickered under a single overhead light, casting long shadows on the floor and deeper ones on the faces of the chefs packed inside.

Usopp sat cross-legged in the corner, trying not to bounce his knee.

Across from him, Ren’s father hadn’t moved in almost an hour. He sat stiffly against the wall, arms crossed, gaze fixed on nothing.

Usopp glanced at the lock for the fifth time in ten minutes. Still solid. His spoon—his plan A —now resembled a sad, flattened worm.

“Okay…” he whispered to himself. “Think, Usopp. You’ve escaped worse.”

A sudden cold breeze swept through the cell.

CLINK. CLINK. CLINK.

Footsteps?

Usopp sat bolt upright.

Then—through the bars—appeared a skull.

“GAHHH—!!” Usopp flailed backwards into a pile of startled chefs. “DEATH HAS COME TO TAKE US—!”

“Mr. Usopp,” came the familiar, far-too-calm voice, “it is just I. Your friendly neighborhood soul musician!”

The chefs stared, wide-eyed and pale.

Usopp crawled to the bars. “Brook?! What are you-! I mean—you’re here ! I mean—what took you so long?!”

“I had to spy on the most distasteful meeting I’ve ever witnessed,” Brook said, voice dropping slightly. “Salt and Pepper were speaking with a Celestial Dragon. Saint Gourmand Roscarde.”

The room tensed.

Usopp’s heart thudded. “He’s the one behind this?”

Brook nodded solemnly. “He plans to chain Sanji with sea-prism cuffs—custom-made. He’s keeping him in a velvet-trimmed waiting room, surrounded by handpicked assistants—including a young boy.”

Ren’s father sat up straighter. “Ren?! He’s with them?”

Brook turned to him. “I do apologize, I’m not sure who Ren is, but I can confirm they are safe for now, but we better get moving.”

Usopp looked between them, then stood, voice stronger.

“Right...”

The chefs watched him, uncertain.

Usopp turned to them. “Listen. I know most of you don’t trust me. I know some of you blame me for all this. But right now, you’re not just cooks. You’re the last line before this monster gets what he wants. So whose ready to get some celestial butt?”

Brook hovered beside him, now fully solidifying as he phased back into his skeleton body—his cane-sword in hand.

Ren’s father stood up beside Usopp, jaw clenched. “What’s the plan?”

Usopp looked at the lock.

Brook raised his sword.

CLACK.

The cell door popped open.

Usopp turned back to the chefs. “We find Sanji. We get Ren. Then we crash this ship like an overcooked soufflé.”

Brook grinned. “Yohoho~ I do love dramatic finales.”

Ren’s father nodded, finally meeting Usopp’s eyes.

“…Let’s go get my son.”

The hallway changed the moment the guards opened the last set of doors.

From cold steel and flickering sconces, they stepped into a kitchen so pristine, so polished, it didn’t feel real.

The floor gleamed. Counters were carved from polished marble, gleaming under golden pendant lights. Every knife was identical—sleek, balanced, untouched. Copper pots and cast-iron pans hung from walls, catching the light like trophies. A gleaming stone oven sat at the back, its brass dials arranged in a perfect semicircle, untouched by grease or soot.

Sanji stopped walking for a beat. Even he had to admit it.

“…Damn,” he muttered. “This place is nice.”

But even as he said it, something didn’t sit right. It was too perfect. It looked like a kitchen but easily staged.

Beside him, Ren let out a low, amazed gasp.

“Whoa…” The kid’s eyes lit up as he took it all in, spinning slowly in his too-large chef’s coat. “This is amazing! Look at those knives! Do you think I’ll get to use one?”

Sanji blinked out of his thoughts.

Ren’s sleeves were still rolled three times over. The coat sagged at his shoulders. His grin was pure joy.

They moved toward the main prep station.

A chef’s uniform had been laid out for each of them—freshly pressed, labeled with tags. White with red trim, the same colors as the ornate crest carved above the oven: Saint Gourmand Roscarde’s twisted emblem.

Sanji slipped into his coat and tied his apron loose, more out of habit than anything else.

Ren fumbled with his buttons, then gave up and rolled his cuffs again.

Sanji let out a breathy half-laugh.

“…Stylish,” he said dryly.

Ren grinned. “Guess I’ll grow into it.”

Sanji watched him, smiling softly—but something cold moved behind his chest.

Ren pointed to the shining wall of spice drawers. “My dad’s gonna freak out when he hears I worked in a place like this. He always said my cuts were too sloppy, but here… I’ll get better, right?”

Sanji’s smile barely held. “You’ll blow him away.”

Ren grinned even bigger. “You think so?”

Sanji nodded, then bent to roll up the kid’s sleeve one more time so it stopped slipping. “Yeah. You’ve got good instincts. And you care about food. That’s already more than most.”

Ren beamed, practically bouncing in place. “You’re a real pirate chef, y’know? That’s so cool. I bet you’ve cooked while getting shot at.”

Sanji chuckled under his breath. “A few times.”

He remembered standing in a white coat too big for him once.

Aboard the Orbit . Before Zeff.

That coat had smelled like mildew and the fabric scratched at his skin. The sleeves dragged through mop water. He wasn’t allowed to cook—just the dish pit. He earned he’s way to prep. Learned to move quietly. Learned not to flinch when someone shoved him out of the way. He hadn’t even thought about cooking then. Only surviving.

Sanji looked at Ren.

Too small for this place. Too hopeful. Too bright.

He knelt down.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You’re doing great.”

Ren blinked. “Huh?”

“I know it’s a lot. But just stick with me, okay? I’m gonna make sure you get back to your dad in no time.”

“You promise?”

Sanji gave him a small smile—gentle, steady.

“I promise.”

Sanji stood at the prep table, sleeves rolled, watching the heat lamps flicker over untouched plates. Ren fussed with a mortar and pestle nearby, still too excited to realize how unnatural the room felt.

Then the temperature changed.

The door hissed open.

The lighting dimmed just slightly—as if the room itself knew who had entered.

Saint Gourmand Roscarde stepped inside in a swirl of velvet robes, his bubble-domed helmet gleaming under the light. The air seemed to thicken around him.

Flanking him like mismatched shadows, Salt and Pepper followed close behind.

Ren looked up from his station. “Oh, uh—are those the judges or something?”

Sanji’s voice dropped low, even as he took a single step sideways.

“Get behind me.”

Ren blinked. “What?”

Sanji didn’t say it again—just shifted until his body blocked the boy entirely, never taking his eyes off the three figures now gliding into the room.

Roscarde smiled, sickly and pleased.

“A picture of domesticity,” he cooed. “How sweet. The pirate cook and his little sous-chef.”

He reached into the folds of his robe and withdrew something from a velvet-lined box: a pair of golden cuffs , delicate but dense, inlaid with crimson gemstones and humming faintly with power.

Sanji froze.

Even before he saw the slight shimmer of embedded sea prism stone , he knew what they were.

His body tensed, a drop of sweat slipping down his temple.

He didn’t need the explanation.

He didn’t want Ren to hear it.

So he tried to play dumb.

“…Those don’t exactly match my outfit,” he muttered, eyes flicking to the cuffs. “What’s with the seastone? I’m not a Devil Fruit user.”

Roscarde chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. “Oh, of course not. But you never know who might try to slip through the cracks.”

His voice turned sharp for a half-second—irritated.

“As if slipping away were an option.”

Sanji’s eyes narrowed. That tone. The frustration . It wasn’t just paranoia. It had happened before.

Someone else had escaped him.

That alone almost made Sanji smile.

Instead, he raised his chin. “You sure you want to keep me chained? Bit overkill for a guy you’re expecting to cook your meals. You scared I’ll flambé your ugly tastebuds off?”

Roscarde’s smile didn’t falter.

But the cuffs snapped on sanjis wrist.

Without warning, they flared emitting a crackling pulse that struck through Sanjis body immediately.

ZZZT!

Sanji staggered back with a sharp grunt, teeth clenching as the shock raced through his muscles—his knees nearly buckled, but he didn’t fall.

Behind him, Ren gasped.

Sanji grit his teeth and pushed himself upright, forcing the pain down with a shuddering breath.

Roscarde finally sighed—bored and annoyed, like a child.

“Salt. Pepper. He’s still acting out.”

Salt bowed with a theatrical flourish. “Shall we sear him a little, sir?”

Pepper adjusted his cufflinks. “I’d prefer a slow roast.”

Roscarde raised a hand lazily. “Later. For now—prep him.”

Sanji’s jaw locked. His glare never left the noble’s face.

But behind his back, his fingers brushed Ren’s arm—steady, firm, a silent message: Stay quiet. Stay behind me. Don’t look afraid.

Because Sanji could take the heat.

As long as the kid didn’t get hurt.

Then they left The kitchen was unnervingly quiet, the clink of knives and the rustle of peeling vegetables the only sounds as dinner prep began. Pots simmered low on the stoves, but the usual warmth of a kitchen was gone. The chefs from before had arrived, moved like ghosts, chopping and slicing in silence, glancing at the door every time the wind shifted through the vents.

Sanji stood at the center prep table, blade moving steadily through a pile of carrots. Ren was beside him, rinsing greens, his small hands trembling under the icy wash water. He kept sneaking glances at Sanji, eyes wide and unsure.

“Sanji…” Ren’s voice cracked. “Are you… okay? I don’t get why they hurt you. I thought…” He faltered. “I thought we won the prize. That we’d done something right.”

Sanji’s knife stopped mid-slice. He could have brushed the question aside, told the boy not to worry. But the way Ren’s voice shook made lying impossible.

“This isn’t a prize, kid,” Sanji said quietly, his voice rough. “We’re in trouble. All of us. If we don’t get out of here.”

Ren swallowed, staring down at the wet leaves in his hands. “What do we do?”

Sanji forced the faintest smile, more grit than comfort. “We wait. If Usopp’s out there, he’s not the type to give up on anyone, plus he’s one of the bravest guys I know. He may not act like it but he can do anything once he puts his heart into it. And if he’s close, the others won’t be far behind.”

Ren nodded slowly, clutching that hope like it was a lifeline.

Sanji adjusted his grip on the knife, wincing at the ache in his wrists. The cuffs were heavy—too heavy—digging into his bones with every motion. He hated the way they felt, hated how familiar they were.

Whole Cake Island.

The memory slammed into him like a tide: Judge’s voice, cold and absolute, as the explosive cuffs bit into his skin; the shame, the helplessness, the knowledge that even one mistake could kill Zeff.

He shook it off and kept cutting, but the cuffs wouldn’t let him forget. Then something caught his eye.

A soft glow pulsed from the gemstones embedded in the metal, faint at first, then brighter—like a heartbeat.

“What the—”

A sudden wave of exhaustion hit him, dragging at his limbs, heavy and smothering. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright as his knees threatened to buckle.

“Sanji?” Ren’s voice was sharp with alarm. “Your… your bracelets are glowing! What does that mean?”

Sanji glanced down at the boy’s worried face, then back at the faintly humming cuffs. He didn’t have an answer. He didn’t want to think about it.

“Nothing,” he said finally, the word rougher than he meant it to be. “Don’t worry about it.”

But he couldn’t ignore the fog settling over him now, thick and unnatural. His cuts and bruises, normally quick to mend, ached stubbornly. Even his body felt… slower.

He was strong—he knew that. He’d fought through worse, survived worse.

But this was different.

As he resumed chopping, each movement felt heavier, like he was being pulled into the ground. He could feel it creeping through him, a quiet pressure tightening around his will.

Restrained.

Weaker.

And worst of all… obedient.

Chapter Text

The cliffs overlooking the private harbor were steep, jagged, and crawling with guards in pressed white uniforms. Not Marine issue, but close enough.

Robin squinted through the brush. “They’re not expecting anyone from land. All their security faces the sea.”

“Then they’re about to be real surprised,” Franky muttered, cracking his knuckles.

Zoro crouched behind a crooked boulder, one hand on his sword hilt, eyes locked on the glittering golden hull of the ship below. “There’s gotta be at least three dozen on deck, probably more inside. We sneak in, find Sanji and Usopp, then fight our way out.”

Luffy wasn’t listening.

His eyes were glued to the ship, jaw clenched, vest fluttering in the breeze. He’d been quiet the whole hike, every muscle taut with focus.

Robin stepped up beside him. “We need to be careful. If we all rush in—”

“They’re in there,” Luffy cut her off. “I can feel it.”

Zoro shifted. “We know, idiot. That’s why we’re waiting for the right moment.”

A mischievous grin split Luffy’s face. “Like right now!”

He launched himself off the ridge like a cannonball, rubberized arms flinging him straight toward the deck of the Celestial Dragon’s ship.

“LUFFY!” Robin shouted, already moving out from the trees.

“Dammit—!” Zoro cursed, vaulting after him with a blade drawn. “Every time! Every goddamn time!”

Robin couldn’t help but smile faintly as she turned to Franky.

“I suppose we’ll take the side entrance. Look for the missing chefs and reconnect with Brook.”

Franky grinned. “You point, I’ll follow.”

The hillside exploded into motion.

On the Ship

The instant Luffy hit the deck, alarms blared.

“Straw Hat?!”

“Where did he come from?!”

“GET HIM—”

Too late.

Luffy bounced off the planks with a crack, let out a war cry, and slammed his fist into the nearest stack of crates, sending them flying into the air like confetti.

“SANJI! USOPP!!”

Zoro landed behind him with less drama but twice the fury. “Could you not start fights before we find them!?”

“I’m just getting things warmed up!” Luffy yelled, grinning as chaos erupted around him. “We’re not leaving without them anyway!”

More guards swarmed. Zoro stepped forward, swords gleaming. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

The two charged.

Below Decks — A Few Minutes Earlier:

Usopp’s boots pounded against the steel floor, breaths ragged as he checked over his shoulder to make sure the rescued cooks were still following. Brook jogged just behind, urging on the stragglers.

There were maybe seven in total.

“We can slip past the guards here and get through the laundry exit!” Usopp hissed, tightening his bandana.

“Sounds like a clean exit plan,” Brook replied cheerfully.

“We’re almost there. Heads down—when I say run, you run.”

Ren’s father, stocky and gray-bearded, grabbed Usopp’s sleeve. “And you’re really going back for him?”

Usopp didn’t blink. “Of course. I promised, and I’m a man of my word.”

BOOM.

The whole hallway rattled as an explosion thundered above them. Dust sifted down from the ceiling. Shouts echoed from higher decks.

Brook tilted his skull. “I believe someone’s started the party early.”

“That was Luffy,” Usopp said without hesitation. “It has to be.”

Robin and Franky rounded the corner just then.

“Perfect timing!” Brook waved, far too cheerfully for the tension.

Robin’s eyes swept the group, sharp and calm. “Good. Get them out. The ship won’t stay afloat much longer.”

“Where’s Sanji?” Franky demanded, scanning the line. His shoulders tensed when he didn’t see him.

Usopp faltered, clutching his satchel. “He—he’s still inside. There’s a kid, too. Ren. I promised I’d come back.”

Franky’s jaw tightened. “Then we’re not done yet.”

Another blast shook the corridor, nearly knocking the cooks off their feet.

Robin steadied one with a hand. “Brook, Franky—escort them through the exit. Usopp, lead the way.”

Usopp blinked. “Me?!”

Her smile was faint, but steady. “Our chances improve together.”

Brook bowed jauntily. “Understood. I’ll guard the rear!”

Franky clapped Usopp’s shoulder before peeling off with the cooks. “Don’t die, long-nose.”

Usopp swallowed. “Easier said than done.”

The Kitchen:

The ceiling groaned, dust raining down as pots clattered against their hooks. A thunderous crash toppled a stack of plates.

Ren clung to Sanji’s sleeve. “Wh-What’s happening?!”

Sanji’s pulse quickened. He knew that rhythm—those crashes, that chaos. A grin tugged at his lips.

“They’re here,” he breathed. Then, louder: “That’s my crew.”

Another tremor rattled the room. The pristine, unused kitchen was finally cracking. Sanji forced himself upright despite the pain.

“Listen, brat.” He crouched low, meeting Ren’s eyes. “When I say run, you run. Don’t stop, don’t look back. Got it?”

Ren shook his head. “But—”

“Got it?!”

Ren swallowed, then nodded.

Sanji exhaled sharply—only for the door to slam open.

Rosmound swept in, cloak trailing, Salt and Pepper at his heels. In his gloved hand gleamed the controller.

Sanji’s heart dropped.

The cuffs flared with a click. Fire seared his wrists, knees buckling.

“Stay put,” Rosmound commanded.

Sanji’s body seized. Worse than pain—paralysis. His breath hitched. “The hell—”

Rosmound’s smile was razor-thin. “These don’t just hurt. They obey. Even a wild dog can be trained.”

Sanji snarled through gritted teeth. “You think… some cheap trick’ll make me heel? You’re dumber than you look, bastard.”

The ship shook again. Shouts echoed closer. Ren’s eyes lit with hope.

“RUN!” Sanji roared.

Ren bolted. Rosmound lunged—

“USOPP HAMMER!”

Usopp crashed through the doorway, tackling Ren clear. “Gotcha! Told you I’d come back!”

Dozens of arms burst from the ceiling beams, seizing Rosmound before his hand reached the controller.

“Cien Fleur: Clutch.”

CRACK.

Rosmound howled, pinned.

Robin stepped into the room, eyes sharp. “Step away from our cook.”

Sanji gasped, relief flooding his chest. “Robin-chan!” His grin wavered, boyish despite the pain. “You really do know how to make a man’s heart stop.

Her lips curved faintly. “And you really do know how to get yourself caught, Cook-san.”

He tried to rise, but his body refused. Frustration carved his face. “It’s the cuffs. Not just seastone—they… control my movements.”

Rosmound sneered. “Obedience by design. Watch. I’ll make him kill you.”

Sanji’s throat locked as his body twitched against his will—

—and then the ceiling exploded.

BOOM!

Splinters rained as Luffy and Zoro crashed down. Rosmound flew into the oven with a clang.

“ZORO?! LUFFY?!” Usopp yelped.

“Found you!” Luffy grinned.

Zoro brushed dust from his hair, glanced at Sanji, and grunted. “Figures.”

One clean slash—shhk!—and the cuffs shattered.

Sanji collapsed forward, breathing hard. “’Bout damn time.”

Zoro smirked. “What, no thank you?”

“I would’ve managed!”

“You were seconds from stabbing us.”

“That wasn’t me, moss-brain!”

“Whatever helps you sleep.”

“SHUT UP!”

Luffy doubled over laughing. “You guys are so funny when you’re mad!”

Escape:

With Rosmound out cold and the cuffs shattered, the crew surged through the ship. Robin led the way, Usopp and Ren darting ahead. Franky’s booming voice cleared corridors. Brook played a raucous tune mid-battle.

Zoro half-carried, half-bickered with Sanji. Luffy tore through walls like a battering ram.

The golden ship burned behind them as the Sunny drew close, Nami and Chopper waving furiously. One by one they leapt aboard, collapsing in relief.

Sanji lay flat on the deck, dragging in salt-stung air while Luffy laughed beside him. “We won! Now let’s eat!”

Farewell:

The chaos faded as the Sunny cut around to the far side of the island. Ren froze at the rail, then spotted his father waiting on the shore.

“Papa!”

He bolted, diving into his father’s arms. The man laughed through tears, crushing him close.

One by one the cooks disembarked, showering the crew with thanks. Ren lingered, looking back up at Sanji.

Sanji crouched, cigarette dangling, tired but smiling. “Kid, a kitchen’s not about gold walls or spotless counters. It’s about feeding people. Giving them the strength to keep going.”

Ren’s throat bobbed. “Like you did… for me.”

Sanji’s smile softened. “Exactly. Take care of your old man. Cook him something good. Doesn’t have to be fancy—just has to come from you.”

Ren nodded hard, eyes shining. “I will!”

His father gave Sanji a grateful nod before leading him away. From the beach, Ren waved until the Sunny was only a speck.

Sanji exhaled smoke toward the horizon, shoulders easing.

“Bon appétit, brat,” he murmured with a crooked smile.