Chapter 34 Ghost Man AkinAfter Hawkeye and Luffy departed, Baratie fell into a stagnant silence.
The stench of blood lingered, and the salty smell of gunpowder mingled with the sea breeze, clinging thickly to every inch of the deck's wood.
The cooks silently cleaned the battlefield; there were no cheers of victory, only heavy breathing and occasional suppressed groans of pain.
Krieg's flagship sank, leaving only traces of oil and fragments of planks as reminders of the brutal crushing destruction that had just occurred.
But even heavier was the indescribable emptiness that followed witnessing the ultimate triumph.
Zoro locked himself in the storage room that had been temporarily converted into a hospital room.
No lights were on inside, only the faint light filtering through the crack in the door, outlining his stiff silhouette as he clutched his three swords.
Zoro's eyes were closed, but his eyeballs beneath his eyelids were twitching violently.
In his mind, the clang of metal clashing as Luffy braced himself against Mihawk's thrust, the slicing of a giant ship in half with a casual swing of Mihawk's sword.
And even earlier, Luffy's assessment that had crushed all his pride…
The images flashed back and forth, each one making Zoro's heart clench as if gripped by an invisible hand, his breath catching in his throat.
Zoro's fingers, resting on his knees, unconsciously mimicked the subtle movements of gripping a sword, adjusting his breathing.
Sanji was in charge of clearing the waters surrounding the restaurant, piloting a small boat, using a long hook to retrieve floating wreckage and… corpses.
He moved mechanically, his golden bangs falling, obscuring his blue eyes that always seemed to leap with hearts.
Luffy's words, "You are not worthy," and Mihawk's all-seeing golden pupils, were like two files, repeatedly scraping at Sanji's nerves.
Just as he was about to hook up a large plank, his movements suddenly stopped.
There seemed to be something wedged beneath the plank.
Sanji used his hook to push aside the debris, his pupils contracting slightly.
It was a man in a Krieg fleet uniform, floating face down in the water, motionless.
But Sanji caught a faint pulse of life, and he hesitated for a moment—
This was the enemy, Krieg's officer, Gin the Demon.
According to pirate rules, and given Baratie's current hatred for the remnants of Krieg, he should ignore it.
Sanji saw what Gin was clutching tightly in his hand even unconscious: an empty leather water bottle and a shrunken ration bag.
Gin's lips were cracked and peeling, revealing dark scabs, and his face was a bluish-gray from extreme dehydration and hunger.
"Hey! Sanji! What did you find?" Paddy shouted from another small boat not far away, his voice filled with exhaustion and frustration after the battle.
Sanji didn't answer.
Images flashed before his eyes: Zeff, dragging his broken leg, stuffing the last bit of food into the hands of that blond boy from years ago on a deserted island.
Sanji took a deep breath, and the next second he lunged forward, ignoring the filthy seawater, grabbing Gin by the back of his collar,
and forcefully dragging him onto the small boat.
Gin was heavy, soaking wet and cold, his gas mask askew, revealing his bluish-purple face.
"What are you doing?"
Patty rowed closer, and upon seeing Gin's face, immediately recognized him.
"It's Demon Gin! Krieg's number one henchman!"
"Sanji, are you crazy? This kind of bastard should be fish food!"
Carne also looked over, his brow furrowed.
Sanji laid Gin flat on the small boat, checking his pulse and breathing—extremely weak.
Without looking up, he said, "Get out of my way. The kitchen and the wounded are my responsibility. This man isn't a pirate anymore."
Sanji tore open Gin's blood-soaked, tattered clothes, revealing a gruesome wound and deeply sunken ribs. "Just a dying wounded man, and a starving one."
"You—!" Paddy tried to say something, but meeting Sanji's raised eyes, the words caught in his throat.
That gaze lacked its usual frivolity, only the obsession of a chef.
Sanji ignored them, quickly cleaning the filth from Gin's mouth and nose, and gently pressing on his chest to help him expel some seawater.
Then he tore off his scarf, soaked it in relatively clean seawater, wiped Gin's chapped lips, and carefully dripped a few drops of water into them.
Gin didn't react.
Sanji gritted his teeth, started the small boat's engine, and returned to Baratie at top speed.
Sanji, carrying Gin on his back, ignored the astonished and bewildered looks of the cooks along the way and rushed straight into the kitchen area, which had been converted into a makeshift medical room.
There were herbs labeled with their uses, as well as some wound medicine prepared by Baratie.
"Hot water! Clean gauze! And bring me the slices of that treasured old ginseng!"
Sanji yelled at the young cooks who were helping him, while he quickly cleared a work surface, laid out a clean sheet, and placed Gin on it.
His movements were swift yet steady. With a sterilized dagger, he removed the necrotic flesh from the edges of Gin's wound, sprinkled on dark green powder, and the powder made a slight sizzling sound upon contact with the wound. Gin's body twitched involuntarily.
Sweat beaded on Sanji's forehead, but his hands remained steady.
He pried open Gin's jaw, pressed the thinly sliced old ginseng under his tongue, and then poured in a small amount of ginseng broth.
Then, taking out a fine needle and catgut suture, he heated them over a fire and began stitching up Gin's deeper wound.
The stitches were fine and neat, as if stitching the grain of a top-grade Wagyu beef.
Throughout the process, Gin, in his unconscious state, murmured incoherently, "Captain Kuro... water... I'm sorry..."
His voice was filled with pain.
Sanji's stitching hands didn't pause for a moment, only his eyes grew more somber.
He remembered Zeff saying that at sea, hunger and despair could twist humanity more powerfully than swords.
Time passed slowly.
Outside, it was completely dark, and Baratie lit the lamps.
Paddy and Carne came in twice, hesitated, and finally left in silence.
The other cooks also gradually avoided this corner, only casting complex glances from afar.
In the latter half of the night, Gin's pulse finally became clearer and stronger, and his complexion improved slightly.
Sanji slumped in a nearby chair, drenched in sweat, the mingled scent of blood and herbs still clinging to his fingers.
He lit a cigarette, but didn't smoke it, simply watching the smoke rise in the dim light.
"Fool." An aged voice sounded from the doorway.
Sanji didn't move, only grunted in response.
Zeff, leaning on his cane, entered, glancing at Gin, who was breathing steadily on the counter, then at the exhausted Sanji.
"Do you know who he is? Do you know what trouble saving him might bring to Baratie?"
Sanji flicked his cigarette ash. "I know, but he's just injured right now. And hungry people should be fed; that's a cook's rule, something you taught me, old man."
Zeff looked at him silently, then snorted after a long pause. "Rules are rigid. At sea, nobody follows rules, only strength and profit. That straw hat kid may be a bastard, but he's right about that."
Sanji looked up at Zeff, his eyes filled with unprecedented clarity. "He's right, which is why we should remember our rules even more.
Otherwise, what's the difference between us and them, or mad dogs like Krieg who only have the instinct to prey? Just because we're wearing cook's uniforms?"