Four years later.
Everything was almost ready… I thought to myself as I moved several boxes into the barrel.
A few years ago, an idea had started to form in my mind, one that would eventually pay off. For this, I needed to cross over to another ocean.
First, I needed to figure out how to get there. After exploring all the available options, only one remained, and it was as "reliable" as Swiss watches.
I would cross the ocean using other ships.
Over these years, I studied every route, every island stop, and the travel time. In the end, my plan was ready.
To begin, the journey from North Blue, from the city of Notis, to East Blue would take about two weeks if I followed the carefully calculated route and no unforeseen events occurred. This segment would be the most challenging—not only because of the distance but also due to the number of transfers.
I had thought of everything: which port would have the ship I needed, what flag it sailed under, who the captain was, and when loading typically took place. I had it all mapped out.
Now, how was I going to get there?
Over these years, I had been building my "submarine." While the name sounds grand, in reality, it was more of a capsule, equipped with the bare essentials for the journey.
As a teenager, I had been fascinated by the research and development of submarines, and though it had never been useful before, now was the time to apply my knowledge.
Building a good submarine under my conditions wasn't easy. I had to think long and hard about how to organize everything.
First, I had to construct the hull. I used wine barrels, metal reinforcements, and seals. The ballast system was designed with valves for filling and draining water. The movement system was a manual screw. The rudder was controlled by levers and ropes, and the wheel was for turning.
Ventilation and lighting were also provided for, and safety was ensured with life jackets and ropes. The watertight seal was a crucial point, so I used sealing materials and resin and carried out thorough tests. I also monitored depth using the ballast system, checking pressure and stability.
I had to do a lot of work and testing to make it ready.
And now—why did I need all this? Initially, I had asked myself that question. In my search for a way to cross from one sea to another, I found that no one was willing to take people on such a journey.
Over time, I understood why. There are passages in the Red Line that few know about. Merchants trying to make money wouldn't share information about these places because if the authorities found out, the passages could be closed.
That's why most merchant crews prefer to sail only with a steady team rather than taking on newcomers.
But that's just one reason. I had three.
The first: if I were to sail alone, it would take me months. My submarine was equipped with a system to move using my Devil Fruit powers, but there was a problem—I wasn't a robot, and I couldn't do it constantly. So I decided to latch onto ships heading in the right direction to save energy.
The second: I didn't know all the routes.
The third: I needed it for my plan.
In addition to the routes and how to get to East Blue, I needed to prepare food and water. A journey lasting a week would be very hard to endure without the proper supplies, so I stocked up on long-lasting food and water in large quantities. I used canned goods, dried foods, and large water flasks. Everything had to be compact and store well without losing quality.
Today was the day of departure.
The ship I had chosen for my journey was a merchant vessel, one that had already proven itself in challenging seas. Over the past few years, it had successfully made several trips from North Blue to East Blue, which spoke highly of the preparation and experience of both the captain and the entire crew.
Well, everything's ready—time to set off, I thought, glancing at the clock: 12:32.
I stood before my capsule—the homemade submarine created over years of hard work, planning, and testing. It was secured on a rotating platform by an old fisherman's shed located near a cliff that led directly into the coastal waters. The location wasn't chosen by chance: isolated, without prying eyes, with a convenient descent into the water.
I checked every valve, every gasket. Click—the ballast compartment closed. I tightened the seal on the hatch, turned the slide valve, and a soft metallic click echoed as the lock slid into place. I checked the ventilation tubes—everything was clear. I connected the manual screw system: two handles on the sides that I would have to turn to propel the capsule forward with the propeller.
I stuffed a bag with some of the provisions into the compartment next to the seat. Secured it with rope. Canned goods, dried meat, water—everything sorted by days. I taped a map of the routes and the merchant ship's travel schedule to the wall.
A thin network of ropes and hooks was already prepared on the outside of the capsule—with it, I would be able to hook onto the bottom of the merchant ship and hold on while it sailed.
I took a deep breath. Outside, a light breeze blew, and the waves lazily hit the wooden pylons. It was 12:41.
"Alright..." I muttered to myself, climbing inside.
I closed the internal hatch. I pressed a small lever to release the platform. The capsule tilted forward and slowly, with a soft creak, slid off the cliff.
Splash.
The cold water enveloped the hull. I felt a slight pressure—everything was within normal limits. The watertight seal held. The ventilation system worked. Panic didn't come—I was ready.
A few minutes later, having confirmed that everything was fine, I moved on to the second part of the plan. I released the valve and allowed the water to fill the ballast compartments. The capsule slowly began to sink. Through the porthole, I saw green glimmers of water and glimpses of sunlight from above.
At a depth of about three meters, I stopped the descent—this depth was more than enough to approach unnoticed.
"Spring system… start."
My hand turned into a spring. I placed the tips of my fingers into a special groove in the wall of the capsule—that's where the "spring mechanism" was supposed to lock in.
Click… click… click… — my hand tightened, coiling into a tight spiral.
I began to forcefully compress and release the spring, making it work like a winding mechanism. Each movement transferred into the lower part of the capsule, directly to the homemade propeller attached to the shaft. The propeller started to shudder… then spin… slowly at first, and then faster and faster, accelerating from the powerful vibrations. The boat jolted.
"Come on… come on, my dear…"
Continuing to compress and release the spring-loaded hand, I controlled the movement: a rhythmic pulse sent from me made the propeller spin at a steady pace. Not fast, but fast enough to control the direction and maintain a steady speed.
I started moving along the shore, underwater, heading for the spot under the pier where the needed merchant ship should be. Thanks to the pre-calculated timing and course, I knew exactly where it would be.
The capsule glided almost silently, the propeller softly humming beneath my feet. After a few minutes, I was under the pier structure. The propeller slowed down—I released the spring tension, and the capsule came to a halt.
Now, it was directly above me. The enormous shadow of the hull blocked out the daylight, leaving only a pale shimmer in the murky water. This was the ship—the merchant with the Eastern Guild's marking, the flag hanging just below the waterline. Everything was according to plan.
I froze for a few seconds, watching. Through the porthole, the underwater part of the ship was visible: the cladding, wooden ribs, signs of barnacle growth. Higher up on the hull, I could hear the crew members lazily calling to each other—this meant that loading was already complete, and the ship would soon depart.
I couldn't afford to waste any time.
Turning the handle, I activated the side mechanism—hooks hidden behind a false panel opened up on the outside. They were connected to a pre-made mesh. I reached out with my other hand—not the spring one—and found the control lever on the side.
"Let's go…" I whispered.
With one push, I directed the capsule upward and slightly sideways—towards the belly of the ship. The distance was just over a meter.
The capsule lightly bumped into the ship's bottom, but not too hard. The soft hull absorbed the impact. Quickly—while the propeller was still spinning—I pulled the activation lever for the side hooks. From the compartments on the outside, a net with hooks attached to its ends shot out. The goal was simple— the keel.
One hook slipped past, but the other latched directly onto the wooden keel. Then another one sank into the cladding slightly to the side. I pulled on the ropes—and the whole structure tightened, wrapping around the massive central protrusion of the ship from below, like a predator sinking its claws into its prey.
The capsule trembled, settled, but didn't detach—it hung securely beneath the keel.
"Got the hook," I exhaled with relief.
Through the side periscope, I checked the attachment once again: the net was taut, the hooks were holding tight, none were slipping. If anyone looked overboard, they would only see water. The capsule, however, was hidden in the ship's shadow, in the dead zone of visibility.
I leaned back, resting my head against the wall of the capsule. My heart was pounding. Everything worked.
Now, it was just a matter of waiting. Once the ship set sail into open waters, my journey would begin. The real adventure.