Little White thoughtfully generated a gentle airflow barrier around her, blocking the biting high-altitude cold wind.
The kaomoji on the screen gently changed with the rhythm of the flight: (￣▽￣)~* ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ...
Seraphilia closed her eyes and once again cast her consciousness toward the distance.
The little skylark's presence was like a faint light in the darkness, steadily pointing toward a location in the West Blue.
Little White seemed to have also captured this sensation, slightly adjusting its direction, flying steadier and faster.
She knew this would be a long journey.
Although the kintoun's speed far surpassed that of a ship, crossing the first half of the Grand Line into the West Blue, and then searching for a specific island across the vast West Blue, would take at least several days.
During the day, she replenished dry rations and water on the cloud, occasionally using her ability to condense clean water.
At night, she would choose to land and rest on uninhabited reefs or small islands far from shipping lanes, allowing Little White to 'catch its breath' and absorb the night dew and starlight to replenish energy.
She dared not venture deep into inhabited islands; a Marine Major deserting her post for the West Blue was a breach of discipline in itself, even though she was currently on leave.
Traveling day and night, weathering wind and dew.
When lonely or tired, she would touch the protective amulet around her neck, or look at the kaomoji on Little White's screen, which always changed at the perfect moment to be encouraging, comforting, or playful.
Little White seemed to sense her emotions, sometimes gently rubbing against the back of her hand, its screen displaying: (´･ω･`)ﾉ (Pat pat head)
The next day, she officially entered the sea area of the West Blue.
The little skylark's position in her senses grew clearer.
She continuously corrected her course toward that general direction based on her previous estimations and sensory input.
On the evening of the fifth day, the setting sun dyed the sea a magnificent orange-red.
According to her senses, the target was very close.
Below was a scattering of archipelagos, mostly lush green and sparsely populated.
Seraphilia lowered her altitude, slowed down, and swept her sharp gaze over the islands.
She was searching for a clue corresponding to the little skylark's sense of 'lingering and gazing northward.'
Suddenly, her gaze locked onto one medium-sized island.
On the north side of the island, reflecting a peculiar metallic luster under the setting sun, was a... derelict watchtower?
The tower structure was rusty, but the top structure was unique, resembling an arrow pointing north.
Her heart leaped!
Was that it?
The'signpost' the little skylark was 'gazing' at?
She forcefully suppressed her excitement and maneuvered Little White toward the south side of that island, a relatively hidden edge of a forest, landing quietly.
Her feet touched solid ground, the feeling of unsteadiness from the long flight had not yet dissipated.
Seraphilia retracted Little White onto her shoulder, held her breath, and focused all her perception on the little skylark's location—it was right here! On this island!
Night began to fall, and the light in the forest grew dim.
Seraphilia moved like a gray shadow, silently merging into the forest.
Following the clear, unmistakable sense, she moved toward the interior of the island, toward a direction backed by a cliff face where the sound of flowing water seemed to come from.
With every step, her heartbeat quickened.
Passing through the last patch of dense, vine-entangled woods, the view suddenly opened up.
It was a small clearing half-surrounded by tall rocks, where a slender stream gurgled past.
In the clearing, there were traces of a simple but clearly well-maintained campsite: remnants of a stove built with stones, a rack for drying clothes, and a small patch of reclaimed land where some cold-resistant plants were growing.
And at the edge of the clearing, in front of a rudimentary shelter barely qualified as a 'hut' built leaning against a large rock, a familiar figure was squatting by the stream, back to her, seemingly washing something.
Short black hair, slender yet considerably sturdier shoulders than two years ago, the familiar focused profile...
Robin.
Time seemed to freeze at that moment.
The sound of the sea breeze, the rustling of the forest, and the stream faded away.
Seraphilia stood rooted to the spot, motionless, just gazing greedily at that figure.
In her ice-blue eyes, all the dust from the long journey, the fatigue from rigorous training, and the worry from day and night longing transformed into a deep, scorching warmth that was almost overflowing.
She had arrived.
Crossing thousands of miles of mountains and rivers to fulfill a long-overdue birthday appointment.
Little White on her shoulder also seemed to sense its master's surging emotions; the kaomoji on its screen quietly and silently transformed into the simplest and warmest one:
( ω )
Seraphilia took a deep breath and finally found her voice again.
The voice was very light, carrying the hoarseness of a long journey and an irrepressible slight tremble, piercing the twilight and drifting toward the figure by the stream:
"Robin."
The figure squatting by the stream froze abruptly.
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