Chapter 60: The Weight of a Promise
Three months had passed since Crocus joined the crew. The Oro Jackson had already faced a kingdom's fleet, a Marine patrol, and a storm that nearly tore the sails. Each time, Crocus's infirmary filled with men who treated their bodies like weapons, and each time, he patched them up with muttered complaints and steady hands.
Today was no different. Nozdon sat in the doorway, a bullet lodged between his molars, his mouth stretched wide. Crocus worked with a pair of tweezers, his face a mask of controlled exasperation.
"You caught a bullet. With your teeth."
"It was coming right for me!"
Crocus extracted the bullet with a sharp pull and dropped it into a bowl. "Next time, duck."
He moved to the next man—Taro, whose arm hung at an unnatural angle. "Dislocated, broken in three places, and you're still standing."
"The fight wasn't over."
Crocus's jaw tightened, but he worked without pausing, setting the bone, splinting the arm. Behind him, a line of crew waited, each with injuries that would have kept lesser men down for weeks.
Shanks and Buggy crept past the doorway, hoping to escape notice. Buggy pointed to a faint scratch on his nose. "Doctor! I felt an enemy's killing intent! I might die!"
Crocus's voice followed them. "Scrub the deck. Both of you."
They fled.
Kyle leaned against the mast, watching. Before Crocus, these injuries would have meant days of recovery, canceled feasts, quiet decks. Now the crew was healed by morning, ready for the next battle. Crocus grumbled, but he worked like a man who had found a purpose.
Roger stood nearby, his bandaged hand already reaching for a bottle. Crocus's harpoon flew past his ear, thudding into the mast.
"Not until I say so."
Roger laughed. "Kuhahaha! You're worse than Rayleigh."
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That evening, the crew gathered around a fire on the deck. The usual feast was subdued—the day's wounds were fresh, and even the most reckless among them had learned to respect the limits of their bodies. Crocus sat apart, cleaning his instruments, his movements slow, deliberate.
Roger settled beside him. "Tell us about Laboon. About the Rumbar Pirates."
The crew went quiet. Crocus's hands stopped. For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he began.
"They were musicians. All of them. They sailed because they wanted to see the world and play for anyone who would listen." His voice was distant, his eyes fixed on the flame. "Laboon was a calf when he found them. He followed their ship for days, drawn by the music. They couldn't get rid of him, so they made him their companion."
He paused, his fingers tightening on the instrument in his hands.
"When they reached the Grand Line, they knew they couldn't take him. The seas were too dangerous. So they left him with me. At Twin Capes. They promised they would come back."
The fire crackled. No one spoke.
"He waited," Crocus said. "At first, he was patient. Then he started trying to follow. He threw himself against the Red Line again and again, trying to break through. He still does. Every day." His voice was rough. "For twenty years."
Buggy's face was pale. He wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "The smoke. It's getting in my eyes."
Shanks gripped his sword hilt, his jaw set. "They made a promise. They should have kept it."
Jabba slammed his cup down. "If they broke their word, we'll find them and make them answer."
The crew stirred, anger and sympathy mixing. They understood promises. They understood waiting.
Roger stood. He walked to the bow, his back to the crew, and looked out at the dark sea.
"Crocus," he said, "I gave you my word. We'll find them. Whatever happened, wherever they are, we'll bring back the truth."
He turned, his face lit by the fire, his voice carrying across the deck. "From today, the Rumbar Pirates are our mission. We find them. We find out why they left Laboon waiting. And we bring that answer back to Twin Capes."
The crew roared. Shanks was shouting. Buggy was shouting. Even Jabba raised his cup.
Crocus said nothing. He looked at Roger, at the men who had already accepted him, and the weight in his shoulders seemed to ease, just a little.
Kyle sat apart, his cup in his hands, untouched. He watched the crew's faces—their certainty, their fire. They believed they could find the Rumbar Pirates, shake them by the shoulders, demand an answer.
He knew what they would find. The ship, drifting in the Florian Triangle. The bones, the silence, the lone figure who still played for his fallen crew. A promise kept, not broken, but never delivered.
He could not tell them. Not yet. The truth would wait.
He drank his juice and watched the fire.
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End of Chapter 60