A small ship glided slowly across the calm sea. From its appearance, it was clearly a cargo vessel meant for transporting goods.
A blond man leaned against the ship's railing, one hand holding a cigarette, the other resting casually as he gazed out at the deep blue ocean, lost in thought.
"Vice-Chef Sanji!" A tall, burly man dressed as a cook approached the blond from behind. His face was rough and menacing, looking more like a pirate than a chef. "This is all your fault! You lost all the money we were supposed to use to buy ingredients! What are we gonna do now? Chef Zeff's gonna kick my ass!" The fierce-looking cook clutched his face in despair, continuing his rant. "Why couldn't you just stay at Baratie and cook like you're supposed to? Why'd you have to come along on this supply run…?"
Sanji's curly eyebrow twitched with mild irritation. He flicked the burnt-out cigarette into the sea, immediately lighting another and taking a long, satisfying drag.
"Damn it," the fierce cook growled, "if I ever see that woman again, I swear I'll…" Before he could finish, Sanji, who had been quietly smoking, suddenly spun around as if a switch had been flipped. He launched a swift kick, his polished black shoe slicing through the air, grazing the tip of the fierce cook's nose. The wind pressure from the kick was almost tangible, startling the man into a cold sweat.
"You bastard! What kind of rude thing were you planning to do to such a beautiful lady?" Sanji's exposed right eye glinted with cold fury as he glared at the panicked cook.
Here's how it happened: Baratie had been seeing fewer customers lately—or more precisely, fewer beautiful female customers. Bored out of his mind, Sanji decided to tag along on the restaurant's supply ship to visit other islands. He called it "helping out," but really, he was just hoping to meet some lovely ladies.
And then, on this trip, Sanji met his angel. Sure, every beautiful woman was an angel to him, but this one? He was convinced she was the most stunning he'd ever seen in all his years.
Then, said angel swindled him out of all their money. No need to delve into the details—Sanji, in his lovesick stupor, had an IQ hovering below 50 at the time.
"But…" As if struck by a sudden thought, Sanji's visible right eye morphed into a pink, heart-shaped glow. His entire body swayed like a noodle, lost in a dreamy haze. "Miss Kate was just too beautiful! Ahhh~…"
"This kid's hopeless," the fierce cook muttered, utterly speechless.
Lovesick or not, Sanji was a man who owned up to his mistakes. Since the funds for ingredients had been stolen, he came up with a plan: hunt a Sea King and use its meat to make up for the lost supplies. Ignoring the fierce cook, who nearly fainted at the sheer madness of the idea, Sanji resolutely steered the ship toward a place marked on the charts as a highly dangerous island—the Devil's Isle.
Luck was on their side. They hadn't even reached the island rumored to harbor Sea Kings when Sanji's crew encountered one in the open sea.
Wiping the sea spray from his face, Sanji looked up to assess the Sea King before him.
One large figure, one small, their eyes locked—or rather, three eyes, since Sanji's bangs covered one of his. Their gazes were strangely identical: the greedy, predatory look of a hunter spotting prey.
Calmly exhaling a puff of smoke, Sanji called back to the crew of cooks and sailors. "Hey, what do you think of this one?" His tone was casual, as if the massive beast before him, as large as the ship itself, was nothing more than a chicken ready for slaughter.
No one answered. The crew he addressed had already turned ashen with fear.
Sanji raised a curly eyebrow, tossed his nearly spent cigarette aside, and muttered to himself, "Eh, I think it'll do."
With that, he stomped his foot, launching himself like a black cannonball toward the Sea King's massive, grotesque head. Twisting his waist, his body spun in midair like a whirlwind.
"Concassé!"
He raised his leg high and brought it down like a meteor, striking with a dull thud followed by the sickening crunch of bone. Sanji's heel slammed into the Sea King's forehead, lightning-fast and thunderously powerful.
It all happened in a flash. The enormous Sea King didn't even have time to scream before Sanji's single blow knocked it out cold. Its gaping maw sank slowly beneath the waves.
"Amazing! That was incredible!" The crew, snapping out of their petrified state, gaped in awe at Sanji's strength.
Still airborne, Sanji felt a moment of calm—until a sudden sense of danger hit him. He whipped his head around, only to see several massive, elongated objects hurtling from the direction of the island. They whistled past him with fierce gusts, one nearly grazing his blond hair, sending another cold sweat down his spine.
Sanji landed on the deck, slightly disheveled, and looked toward where the objects had flown. But all he saw was the endless sea, as if what he'd witnessed was a mere illusion. His gaze shifted to the distant island, where a faint human silhouette was just visible.
Baratie, the floating restaurant, welcomed a peculiar guest.
Having freshened up, Sherlock donned a black suit similar to Sanji's, exuding an air of refined elegance. He sat at a table, knife and fork in hand, gracefully handling a dish of Sea King cuisine. His eyes, framed by clear glasses, were intensely focused.
To the other patrons, he looked like a prince or noble from some kingdom, dining at the restaurant for a taste of the common life—though this impression conveniently ignored the half-human-height stack of empty plates beside him.
Sanji, his face wrapped in a bandage, approached with another plate of food. Watching Sherlock's elegant yet rapid eating, a pang of pity stirred in his heart. Memories of his own childhood hunger reminded him how miserable it was to go without food.
"This guy… how long has he been starving?" Sanji wondered.
Finishing his last bite, Sherlock neatly arranged his utensils, wiped his mouth, and turned to Sanji. "Thank you for the meal. It's been a long time since I've had such delicious food." His words were sincere. The last time he'd tasted something this good was at a noble's banquet in some kingdom. This little restaurant might not look like much, but its chefs were undeniably talented.
"Ha, glad you enjoyed it." Sanji flashed a knowing smile, a hint of pride in his expression. He was about to say more when a voice cut him off.
"Tch, your cooking's still nowhere near good enough."
The speaker was a tall, imposing old man with a stern expression. He wore an absurdly tall chef's hat, and his long golden mustache was braided into two strands, giving him a slightly comical appearance. His right leg was missing, replaced by a wooden prosthetic.
The old man limped over, glancing briefly at Sherlock before fixing Sanji with a mocking look. "Kids these days. A little praise, and you forget your own name."
Sanji scoffed. "Tch, sharp-tongued old geezer."
Ignoring Sanji, the old man addressed Sherlock. "I'm Zeff, the head chef here. What's your next move?"
Sherlock didn't dare underestimate this disabled old man. Earlier, he'd witnessed Zeff—despite his apparent mobility issues—send Sanji flying with a single kick after learning that Sanji had spent their ingredient budget chasing a woman (or so a certain roughneck cook had claimed). Zeff's speed was so blinding, even Sherlock hadn't caught the movement.
"I'd like you to take me somewhere," Sherlock said. Eating for free wasn't his style. He pulled an intricately crafted pocket watch from his coat and placed it on the table. The gemstones embedded in it alone were worth enough to buy the entire Baratie.
"This watch is my deposit," Sherlock said calmly, as if it were an ordinary trinket.
Filthy rich! Absolutely filthy rich!
"No problem, no problem! A paying customer is king!" Before Zeff could respond, a burly cook with a scruffy beard rushed over, snatching the pocket watch with a fawning smile. "Where would you like to go, sir?"
"Hey, Paddy!" Sanji started, clearly annoyed, but Paddy was faster. After asking Sherlock his destination, he grabbed the man and bolted out of the restaurant, as if afraid Sherlock might change his mind.
Zeff watched Sherlock's departing figure in silence, his expression grave as he thought to himself, I can't believe he's still alive… Sarsalian Sherlock.
Then he chuckled softly and turned to the gawking cooks nearby, barking, "Get back to work, you idiots!"