Two years is enough time for a teenager to shed most of his immaturity (well, almost). It's also enough time for a rickety little ship—one that looked like it could fall apart at any second—to evolve into a medium-sized sailing vessel... at least one that seems unlikely to sink in the next moment.
This ship was a 'friendly donation' from a certain short-sighted pirate crew. Right now, the deck was a mess.
"Drink! Drink! Drink!"
A short, stocky man with a thick Viking-style beard was pouring an entire barrel of rum into his mouth. His name was Millet Pine, and his weapon of choice was a massive iron hammer bristling with spikes.
Facing him was Gaban, and the empty barrels stacked between them had already formed a small mountain.
"Burp... Millet, you're losing it—your face is turning purple." Gaban put down his wine barrel and patted his belly, his expression unchanging.
"Nonsense! I'm just... flushed from excitement!" Millet slurred, though his swaying body betrayed his claim.
Not far away, beneath the mast, a man with an X-shaped scar on his forehead and a cigar perpetually stuck between his lips was polishing a pistol.
That was Colonel Mugren, a former naval officer they'd picked up on an island base about half a year ago. He glanced at the two brawlers and snorted smoke in their direction, visibly unimpressed.
"Idiots. A pair of walking distilleries."
"Mr. Mugren, is it not a joy to witness the vigor of youth?" a gentle voice chimed in.
The speaker was Spencer, the swordsman with long, neatly tied crimson hair and noble bearing. He leaned gracefully against the railing, sipping red wine from a crystal glass, the picture of elegance amid the surrounding chaos. He had once been a guard on a merchant ship—until Roger's 'personal charm' convinced him and his crew to switch sides.
"Hmph," Mugren grunted without looking at him, his pride still wounded from the time Gaban got him drunk and made a fool of him two days ago.
Above them, in the crow's nest, a rotund old man was peering through a long-barreled sniper rifle—not on alert, but mid-rant.
"Hey! You noisy bastards down there! You scared off the seagull in my scope!"
That was Petermoo, the ship's sniper.
Kyle sat perched on the massive figurehead, utterly drained.
After two years, this kind of chaos had become his new normal. His eyes swept across the familiar madness on deck—the spiky-headed giant Nozdon, who reminded him of an old friend, the stoic swordsman Isaac with his razor-sharp skills, Bankuro constantly fiddling with bizarre machinery, and Blumarine, the quiet keeper of the ship's log.
The Roger Pirates had grown. What started as a scrappy crew of four had evolved into a proper pirate band, now numbering over a dozen, and finally starting to look like the real deal.
The pasts of these people used to be nothing more than a few scribbled lines and vague silhouettes in history.
Now, they were living, breathing crewmates—each with their own quirks and color.
Kyle still remembered how Roger invited the proud Colonel Mugren aboard: a three-day, three-night game of Russian Roulette. For the highborn Spencer, Rayleigh spent an entire night chatting over topics from politics and history to poetry and song. As for the boozehound Millet Pine, Gaban convinced him with a bar crawl through an entire town.
Each recruit had come with a ridiculous story. As for Kyle, the one who dreamed of becoming the King of Influence, his role was more like... glue.
He remembered to slip a slice of lemon into Spencer's wine—just the way he liked it.
He could have a conversation with Bankuro about gear transmissions, even if he only understood the part about leather belts.
He was also the only person on the ship who could speak a full sentence to Mugren without getting immediately cursed out.
His influence might not yet be powerful enough to mobilize Marine warships—but on this ship, at least, his name had already started to carry some weight.
"Hey, Kyle, daydreaming again?" Rayleigh had somehow appeared beside him, handing over a cup of warm black tea.
"No," Kyle replied, accepting the cup and taking a sip. "Just thinking about the kinds of monsters we've gathered on this ship."
"Kuhahaha! Sunbell is the best monster!" Roger's voice boomed from behind. He dashed to the bow like a whirlwind, stepped onto the ship's edge, and spread his arms wide—as if embracing the whole sea.
"Hey, everyone! That island up ahead looks interesting! Let's throw a party!"
"Ohhhhhh!"
Yes, the age-old tradition of holding a banquet for any reason—or no reason—was still alive and well.
The deck exploded with thunderous cheers. Millet and Gaban tossed aside their barrels, Colonel Mugren holstered his pistol, and Petermoo leapt down from the crow's nest, nearly punching a hole through the deck.
Everyone's face lit up with the same look—pure excitement and heartfelt anticipation.
"Captain, the chart marks it as a Summer Island. There could be unknown dangers," Spencer reminded, ever the responsible one.
"Doesn't that just make it more interesting?" Roger grinned, flashing a mouth full of fangs. His smile was as bright and reckless as the midday sun.
"Exactly! Let's risk it! Let's risk it!" Nozdon roared, waving arms thicker than Kyle's entire body.
Watching this merry chaos unfold, Kyle could only clutch his forehead in exasperation, though a warm current quietly flowed through his chest.
He used to believe the strength of the Roger Pirates came from their three pillars—Roger, Rayleigh, and Gaban. But now, he understood:
Every single person on this ship was irreplaceable.
It was these chaotic, mismatched personalities—clashing, laughing, living—that fused together to form the legendary crew that would one day shake the world.
There was no rigid chain of command here. No schemes or hidden agendas. A captain might change course simply because he felt like it. A crewmate might bet all his belongings on a pointless game.
They'd cheer each other's victories—and hand over a drink in silence when someone lost. It was free. It was easy. It was brotherhood.
Kyle glanced over and saw Roger waving wildly at him, sunlight bathing his figure. That wild, infectious charisma—it was just like that night, two years ago.
He muttered, "Alright, alright, I'm coming! What's the rush?" but still followed, quick on his feet.
Yes, this crew might be exhausting. Yes, none of them were reliable. But... Damn, this is happiness.