Chapter Text
One second prior to my death, my consciousness remained arrested by the cyclical dichotomy of cursing and being cursed.
That despair, that fury—it was a grudge I could not relinquish, not even in the embrace of death.
So, why is it that five minutes have now elapsed, yet I retain the faculty of thought?
Furthermore, why is my nasal cavity flooded with the visceral assault of brine and blood? It lacks the septic stench of Shibuya’s sewer-rot, teeming with Cursed Spirits and decomposing corpses; instead, it is the pure, cloying salinity of a sun-drenched dead sea, nauseating enough to induce retching.
The Stellar Lattice faithfully relayed every minute detail within a ten-kilometer radius: the grey canvas overhead emblazoned with a skull, the humid, sticky wind wrapped in the acidity of sweat and the acrid char of cheap tobacco, and a far more pungent assault—the musk of dozens of virile men packed together, marinating in a primal, agitated heat that frayed one's nerves.
My ears were crammed with a cacophony of male howls, the crisp clinking of glass bottles, and the dull thuds of worn boots stomping on rotting timber.
Where am I?
Are these Somali pirates?
Did these goddamn pirates endure the meat grinder of Shibuya just to kidnap a man clinging to his last breath?
If ransom was the goal, why not approach the Takanashi family directly? After all, it is common knowledge globally that we hold our fixed family dinners on Saturdays, having remained within Japan and Southeast Asia for recent years.
I sensed an approach. A pair of worn leather boots, soles nearly ground to nothing, prodded the space beside my face.
The Stellar Lattice traced its way up the boot shaft—trousers polished by grease, a loose belt, an unbuttoned shirt exposing a chest like an iron plate and centipede-like old scars. Higher still, a stubbled face, three deep claw-marks traversing the left eye, and red hair that was a chaotic mess, like a wind-ravaged coop. He appeared indolent, yet those eyes were thief-bright and piercing.
He stood beside me, observing my lack of movement. After a moment's contemplation, he took that damnable boot and shoved it directly into the bloody cavity of my abdomen.
Goddamn it. He actually dared to churn it around.
I snapped my eyes open, fixing him with a death stare. I swore, the moment I returned home, I would ensure these lawless pirates faced the death penalty in their nation's highest court.
The damned red-haired pirate, seeing my eyes snap open to glare at him, simply grinned. In that instant, he looked less like a pirate and more like a fool.
"Little Bird," his voice cut effortlessly through the surrounding din. "You're hurt bad."
I struggled to rise, but the wings on my back twitched disobediently, flinging droplets of dark red plasma—splat—onto the deck, blooming into filthy little flowers. Glares immediately locked onto me.
Wait. Where did I get wings?
Never mind, that question is irrelevant.
I cracked a grin, forcing out a smile at the redhead, baring my teeth like the family Beagle sunbathing in the yard.
"Takanashi Satoru."
I rasped out my current name, enduring the sensation of two rusty scrapers dragging from my throat down to my lungs, churning my viscera. Yet, my inflection habitually kicked up at the end, carrying a lingering, cloying sweetness.
"Lawyer. Sorcerer." I paused to consider, then added, "Yours truly is Phoenix."
Silence.
Then—BOOM—a tsunami of laughter crashed down. Men beat their chests; ale froth sprayed across faces. A fat man in a tattered straw hat rolled on the floor laughing, knocking over a keg. The air thickened with the stench of swill, sweat, and fish blood.
"Bwahaha! Phoenix? The little bird's a riot!" A man with a red nose wiped tears of mirth from his eyes.
"Phoenix? Shanks, reckon Marco knows he's got a kin out here?"
"Lawyer? Sorcerer? Phoenix! Oi! Boss! We got some freak on board!" A guy with a gold tooth and a floral bandana shrieked.
I was compelled to explain further.
"From the perspective of professional registration and board certification, I am a licensed attorney; simultaneously, based on certain unreplicable congenital traits and post-natal conditioning, I am classified as a Sorcerer. As for 'Phoenix'…… that serves more as a familial aggregate designation rather than a strict taxonomic classification."
They laughed even harder.
The red-haired Shanks laughed along, shoulders shaking, but his mirth sat like oil on water.
He scrutinized me with arrogance, his gaze sweeping over the filthy burden on my back before settling on my wound. The laugh lines around his mouth seemed to deepen by a fraction. He jerked his chin toward the shadows.
Amidst the roaring laughter, that corner remained as silent as the deep sea.
They had never heard of Phoenix, nor did my face incite even a flicker of rage.
This was wrong. My heart sank.
If they were truly Somali pirates—no, even if they were a common criminal syndicate—they would never be strangers to the names Phoenix or Takanashi. After all, barely a year ago, led by our family, we hanged a horde of damned pirates and arrested the majority of criminals fleeing through international waters. And I, in my humble capacity, happened to be one of the prosecuting attorneys.
The Stellar Lattice began to cycle strictly; my consciousness swept every corner of this wretched ship. I surmised that this was likely not my world. After all, my world did not contain such misshapen males, such abundant oxygen, or these bizarre abilities. Is this truly not some comic book reality?
I couldn't help but smile bitterly. I supposed I should be grateful these pirates weren't slavers; their ship held no wailing black Cursed Spirits, only the curses inherent to piracy and the dying screams of their victims.
"Where'd you spawn from?" The voice brooked no insolence, reminiscent of Grandfather. The man stood a few paces behind Shanks, hair slicked back impeccably, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He stood like a silent shadow, toying with an old-fashioned flintlock, the barrel gleaming with a cold, hard blue in the sunlight.
The roots of my wings tightened; I instinctively tried to puff out my chest, but the pain forced me back into a hunch.
"Fell…… from the sky."
The statement was utterly absurd. I sounded like a lunatic.
Predictably, unmasked sneers erupted around me. A young man wearing a pirate bandana laughed particularly loud.
Beckman didn't laugh. The ember of his cigarette flared, then dimmed. He stared at the drab, massive wings on my back, calculating their worth as if eyeing a stubborn lump of Sea King dung—exuding nothing but disgust and inconvenience.
"That thing fly?"
"It can." I nodded, inhaling sharply as the movement tugged at my wounds. "……Temporarily grounded."
"Birdman?" The young man with "YASOPP" written on his bandana spoke with the crude curiosity pirates reserved for oddities.
Shanks’ gaze never left me, carrying the novelty of watching a performing monkey. Finally, he spoke. "You left something out."
"What?"
"Little Bird, you ought to be a bit more honest. You're facing pirates, and we are on the open sea."
Pirates?!
Where did these guys get a private military authorization from the European royalty!
Why didn't Uncle tell me these living fossils still existed!
Honest?
What do these guys know? They know nothing!
My smile remained fixed, laced with obsequiousness. "Come now, I have disclosed all my intelligence to you, my dear Mr. Shanks."
I don't know which nerve I struck, but the pirates began slapping the floor in exaggerated laughter again, rolling around like pigs in mud.
Shanks squatted down and picked up a coagulated clot of blood from the deck. He pinched it, as if it were jelly. He looked at me, eyes full of mirth. "Your blood ain't like a living man's."
Damn it.
"I died once recently. The blood's a bit stale. My apologies."
Tentatively, I disclosed my technique: "Stellar Lattice. My ability. Within a ten-kilometer diameter centered on myself, I can perceive every minute detail, residual taint, and trace."
This skill, which was reasonably effective on Earth, felt laughable even to my own ears here on this boundless sea, a place that seemed to be a nest for Special Grade entities.
A brief silence. Only the seagulls squawked overhead, monotonous as a funeral horn.
"Ten kilometers?" Beckman exhaled a smoke ring, the white mist twisting in the sunlight. "On this sea, what is ten kilometers good for?"
He asked so directly.
"In this hellhole that can fit the whole sky, whose teeth is that gonna fill?" The gold-toothed man looked at me mockingly.
Indeed, whose teeth would it fill?
On this sea that could swallow the sun, ten kilometers wasn't even a dot on the chart.
Scouting? Early warning? A drop in the bucket, utterly useless.
"What can it do?"
A nameless fire ignited, perhaps because my brain was still chaotic from resurrection.
The nearly depleted Cursed Energy in my body churned instinctively. In this world where Cursed Energy was as scarce as water in the Sahara, my energy stood out like a ghost fire in a graveyard—glaringly obvious. An invisible wave—hum—exploded from my body, instantly submerging the entire Red Force and spilling outward.
Domain Expansion: Stellar Echo. It was larger than my usual defective attempts, though still not at its peak.
My vision went black, then exploded into a viscous chaos. All color was drained from the deck, sinking into a bottomless, freezing darkness. Countless pinpricks of light emerged, like red-hot iron filings. Each point of light screamed, carrying the agony of life, the resentment of death, and the indescribable fragments of obsession.
My eyes, disobeying my will, were drawn to the blinding cluster of light on Shanks.
The light wasn't on his iron-forged body, but at the stump of his left arm. The light burned white-hot, stinging the eyes. Inside that light, images lay shattered like a broken mirror. There really was a Sea King—should I pray for Godzilla to save me?
My gaze shifted to Beckman. The muzzle of the rifle in his hand was wrapped in a death aura smelling of gunpowder smoke. Countless moments flashed and extinguished within that aura: a trigger pulled, a life snuffed out; pulled again, another gone…… like pinching out cigarettes one by one.
I saw more.
Lucky Roux gnawing on meat, a hungry, green Obscurus curled deep within his stomach; Yasopp's gunstock wrapped in golden threads of nostalgia, carrying the scent of salty sea breeze, connected to the blurry shadow of a distant island…… Countless traces, countless fragments of the past, countless obsessions of the present. The future twisted, flickered, and whispered before my eyes like a myriad of diverging paths. Standing beside a dirty river flowing with tears, blood, and shards of time, I became a spectator.
The technique was amplified, but the Binding Vow remained.
An ocean of information crashed into my brain like a freezing tide; my temples throbbed violently. The "starry sky" disintegrated instantly, exploding in my face like shattered glass. Blinding sunlight and the rough wood grain of the deck flooded back into my vision.
I collapsed onto the deck, convulsing uncontrollably. I gasped for air like a fish flung ashore, one breath away from death. Vision edges dancing with broken light points and twisted shadows, ears filled with the malicious snickering of the remnant stars.
Speaking of death……
The deck was dead silent. Everyone stared at my pale face. The invisible oppression of the Domain Expansion—these cold-blooded killers had felt it.
I propped myself up on the deck, fingers digging in until they turned white, and slowly raised my head. Muscles twitching, I forced out a polite smile, though exhaustion made me look like a revenant seeking a life to claim.
In this moment, I knew Shanks and the silent shadows behind him inside out.
I repeated Beckman's heart-stabbing question, my voice raspy, trembling with the shock of resurrection. "I suppose…… it can remember the past of every single one of you."
My smile tore open.
"And then, weave a pleasant fiction."
A stone cast into the water kicked up a monstrous wave.
Pfft—laughter exploded, like a fart held in for too long finally bursting free.
Lucky Roux laughed until his blubber shook, nearly dropping his meat bone on his foot. Yasopp clutched his stomach, rolling on the ground like a maggot. Even Beckman's tight lips twitched imperceptibly; he let out a soft tch and relit his cigarette. The tension in the air was smashed to pieces by this sudden, raucous laughter.
Shanks laughed too.
Not the superficial chuckle from before, but a great roar vibrating from his chest like a wild boar.
He slapped his knee hard. "Bwahahaha! Now that's got flavor! Beck! Did you hear that? 'Weave a pleasant fiction'! I love it! I love hearing what sounds good!"
He stood up, his body tall as a mountain, blocking the sunlight as he walked toward me. He squatted down, his rough face almost touching mine, the strong smell of alcohol mixed with the sea stench making my head throb.
"Oi, new little hawk," he breathed alcohol fumes into my face. "This 'pleasant fiction' of yours—you got enough in stock?"
I looked at his face, inches from mine, and the sky behind him, sliced into fragments by the rigging. Under the sun, the liquid on my wings pooled along the edges of the feathers, dripping onto the rough deck to stain a distorted skull.
"Naturally."