Chapter 2: The Oppressive Presence of the Arlong Pirates
As expected.
When Nojiko and Nami woke up and realized their beloved treasures were gone, they were overwhelmed with panic and grievance. The two girls burst into tears, little faces soaked as they cried like delicate rain sprites.
Shano, filled with righteous fury, joined Bell-mère in scolding the shameless thief. "What kind of scum steals from kids? Lower than an animal!"
Without delay, he rushed off to the market and bought a bunch of new hair clips and headbands. After a long session of coaxing and comforting, the two girls finally managed faint smiles through their tears.
After all that fuss—and a few follow-up experiments—
Shano finally managed to piece together the offering system's rules.
1. The item offered must be closely tied to a manga character. Its value is directly related to the strength of that connection.
For example, Nami's beloved orange blossom hair clip was worth much more than a pair of her smelly, discarded socks.
2. The item's value is also tied to the strength of the donor and their importance in the manga's story.
That made sense—items tied to powerful characters are harder to obtain, and therefore more valuable.
Story importance was another factor. An item from Nami, a main heroine, was in a whole different tier than something from Nojiko, a side character, or Bell-mère, who only appeared in flashbacks.
To verify this, Shano even waited until Uncle Genzo dozed off, then had his top lieutenant, "little thief cat" Nami, steal the pinwheel from atop his head.
The prize? A measly 10 points.
Still, even a mosquito is meat. The value was low, sure—but then again, most manga readers probably didn't even remember who that guy was.
3. Offerings from the same source can only be made once a year.
In other words—
There's a cooldown. A very long cooldown. No exploiting a single goldmine over and over.
Staring at the measly 25 points left in his balance, Shano sighed in frustration. That rule was the whole reason he was broke.
If that restriction didn't exist…
Give him a few years to grow strong in silence, and by the time he set sail as an adult… Shano couldn't even imagine how powerful he could become.
He even wondered—could the combined might of the three Marine Admirals take a punch from him?
"What are you zoning out for?"
Bell-mère waved her hand in front of his face, snapping him out of his thoughts. "You're already dressed. Go eat! After all that work this afternoon, aren't you starving?"
Yeah… food first.
…
Warm light filled the kitchen, rich with the aroma of meat.
The two little gluttons were already digging in, but their mouths and stomachs were so tiny that despite their efforts, the table still looked untouched, dishes piled high.
As soon as Shano walked in, Nojiko quickly straightened her posture and sipped corn soup like a refined lady, while Nami was locked in a fierce battle with the crunchy top of her caramel pudding.
But once Shano clapped his hands and declared "Let's eat," the atmosphere changed completely.
Honey-glazed ribs vanished at a rate of one every three seconds. The steamed fish was stripped to the bones in a blink. Mashed potatoes with rice and garlic bread—gone in seconds, sucked into a black hole of appetite.
Plates stacked up like a mountain.
Anyone unfamiliar with the household would've been left speechless.
But to this family, it was just another day.
Ever since a year or two ago, Shano had been shooting up like a weed. His appetite grew day by day.
—Boys hit their growth spurts, and he did manual labor daily. It was normal for him to out-eat the little girls!
Bell-mère leaned on her elbow, watching Shano devour food with a warm smile.
She sometimes wondered if she'd saved the East Blue in a past life, to be gifted such sweet angels. Especially Shano—steady, thoughtful, hardworking, dependable.
If angels really existed, he'd probably be the most beloved in all of heaven, wouldn't he?
That said—
Though her time in the Navy had left her stronger than most, raising such a large family on her own was still exhausting.
The kids' childhoods were marked by hardship. Nami even had to wear Nojiko's old clothes for a long time. Bell-mère often blamed herself.
It wasn't until Shano became the family's main labor force that things started to turn around.
Especially in the past two years—during harvest season, Shano could clear the entire orchard in just a week. Back then, it would've taken her an entire month.
Finishing harvest and sorting early meant they could sell everything as soon as the first merchant ships arrived, fetching better prices than the later ones.
With each successful cycle, their income steadily rose.
Bell-mère had counted it herself—once this year's harvest sold out, she'd have over 300,000 Beli saved!
Whoa… was her childhood dream really about to come true? A few years ago, who would've thought she could become a millionaire?
"Is this today's paper?"
Shano's voice interrupted her daydream.
"Eh?"
Bell-mère came back to reality and saw Shano already done eating, newspaper in hand.
"Yeah, the news bird dropped it off at noon," she said, complaining, "Can you believe the World Economic News upped the price again? It was 40 Beli last week, now it's 50! Back in my day, it was 20!"
She hadn't always subscribed to the paper—it used to be too expensive.
It was only in the past few years, after their finances improved, that she started getting it regularly, mostly because of Shano's persistent requests.
He read every issue carefully, though she never understood why he cared so much about world news. Weren't those big sea events far removed from their quiet, orange-growing life?
While she rambled, Shano offered the occasional "mm-hmm," scanning the pages.
Then his eyes stopped—caught by a headline near the front page.
"Deal Reached! Captain Jinbe of the Sun Pirates Becomes the Newest Warlord of the Sea!"
Beside it was a photo: a blue-skinned, round-bodied fish-man wearing a yukata and wooden sandals, standing calmly beside several Marine officers.
Shano stared at that photo for a long time, unmoving.
His hand clenched the paper tighter and tighter.
"It's coming…" he muttered.
"What is?" Bell-mère tilted her head, puzzled.
"Nothing."
Shano shook his head, quickly flipping through the rest of the paper.
Once he confirmed there was nothing else of note, he glanced out the window, pushed back his chair, and stood up.
"Looks like the rain stopped. I'll head to the orchard to train. If it gets late, don't wait up for me."
He smiled, grabbed the wooden sword from the corner, and stepped out the door, his silhouette fading beyond the glass window.
"…Hmm."
Bell-mère rubbed her chin, thoughtful.
She wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed—her hometown elders used to say she was a stubborn blockhead.
But after all these years, she knew Shano well. Something was definitely bothering him.
She vaguely remembered—
When he was ten, he once had a long, vivid nightmare during a nap. He woke up drenched in sweat, begging her to move—said a terrifying band of pirates would one day take over the island.
He told her to leave as soon as possible, to find a new home on a distant island.
Of course, that was impossible. This was her hometown. Who moves based on a child's nightmare?
Besides, she used to serve in the 16th branch of the East Blue Navy. It was close.
If pirates ever showed up, the Navy would step in, right?
She had comforted him for a long time before he calmed down.
From that day on, Shano grew quieter, steadier—never mentioned leaving again. With time, he became the family's pillar.
She always thought he was just maturing early, shaped by hardship.
But now…
Could that nightmare have left a deeper, longer-lasting mark than she ever imagined?
——
"Whew!"
Late autumn nights were frigid, the air cold enough to see his breath.
Shano jogged around the orchard a dozen laps to warm up and digest his dinner.
Then he reached an open area, stripped off his shirt, revealing his well-trained torso.
He planted his stance, set the wooden sword aside, and began practicing a breathing-based martial art.
He had saved up for a long time to purchase it—spent a massive 700 points at the market last year.
Its core resembled the breathing techniques from the world of Demon Slayer, but it was clearly different in practice.
At the edge of the grove, a circular area had been cleared.
Nine thick wooden stakes stood tall in an irregular formation, each banded with iron rings.
They were made from old orange trees Bell-mère had culled, repurposed by the village carpenter at Shano's request.
Each post was covered in childish crayon doodles—clouds, moons, bunnies—courtesy of Nami.
If not for those, the place might've actually looked like a proper dojo.
Inside the circle, there was a half-basket of oranges—most were spoiled or insect-bitten rejects from the harvest.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
Three bad oranges were tossed into the air. As they fell, the black-haired boy sprang into action.
Right foot planted on a stump's rings, hips twisted, elbow struck the first orange mid-fall—pop!—it burst evenly into eight pieces.
Before the juice hit his lashes, his left knee smashed the second fruit.
As the third orange hovered thirty centimeters from the ground, he stopped short—lowered his foot, canceling the strike at the last moment.
Drip.
Sweat fell from his jaw onto dead leaves, hissing into steam.
Sudden muscle relaxation after full exertion—this was a key technique mentioned in the martial art's scroll.
Without pause, Shano grabbed three more oranges, repeating the process.
Again and again, until only a few remained in the basket.
He finally stopped, washed his face with cold water, then kicked the basket aside with a sharp clang.
After a short rest, the black-haired boy turned to a nearby row of old orange trees.
These were early strains Bell-mère had bought long ago—poor yield, worse taste.
They'd be removed after this winter.
Just like certain detestable fish-men, destined to be sliced into sashimi!
Breathing Fist, Form Eight!
"Hah!"
With a low growl, Shano's left foot ground the fallen leaves, and his right fist shot out like a diving seagull.
Each punch cracked like beans in a hot pan.
Bam! Bam!—blows rained down like a storm. His knuckles turned an iron-grey, the result of muscle hardening beneath the skin.
Similar to Armament Haki, though smaller in scale and weaker in strength—just a cheap imitation, for now.
After a full round of strikes, a soft crack came from within the trunk. But on the outside, it only bore a few finger-deep dents.
More!
After a few seconds' rest, Shano resumed—tree groaning under the assault.
Bam! Bam! Bam!
The orchard, silent beneath the night's shadow, rang with his unrelenting rhythm.
"One thousand nine hundred ninety-six, one thousand nine hundred ninety-seven—two thousand!"
Done!
Shano returned to the starting point, planted his stance, and exhaled deeply.
From his shoulders and crown, faint wisps of white breath curled into the dark.
His entire torso trembled violently, gradually calming.
Every pulse of muscle matched his heartbeat. Heat rolled off his skin in waves, melting frost and stirring up swirling eddies.
"Not bad at all!"
Feeling the strength in his exhausted body, Shano twisted his neck and grinned wide.
No doubt about it.
He had a knack for this.
He'd trained in the Breathing Fist for a year and a half. From clumsy beginner to steady progression, each breakthrough came faster than the last.
It took him a year to get started. Three more months to reach proficiency by late summer.
And now, not even winter yet, he could already feel the final barrier ahead.
At this pace—
He was confident. In ten more days of intense training, he'd master it completely.