In a corner of the American Midwest, in Texas.
This small town built on the desert is called "San Venganza," once the place where countless people's dreams began during the Gold Rush, and also the graveyard where countless dreams were shattered.
Today, there are fewer than three hundred residents left in the town, mostly elderly people who are unwilling to leave their homeland. Dilapidated wooden houses are lined up along the dried-up riverbed, and the air is forever filled with the smell of dry dust.
Outside the church cemetery on the east side of the town, on a patch of ground that could barely be considered flat.
Carter Slade was half-crouched on the ground, carefully wiping the hind legs of a black horse with a damp, coarse cloth. The old man's finger joints were slightly rough from years of labor, but his movements were exceptionally gentle, as if he were treating his most precious family member.
The black horse snorted and flicked its tail.
"Hold still, old friend," Carter's voice was low and gravelly. "Just bear with it for a little longer."
Its mane was sleek, its muscle lines smooth, and even while standing quietly, it exuded an untamed wildness.
Carter's wrinkled hand gently brushed over the horse's back, his eyes revealing a sense of nostalgia. Once upon a time, he too was a cowboy knight who rode such a warhorse, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, galloping across the western wilderness.
Unfortunately, time spares no one; now he was white-haired and could only guard this resting place of the dead, keeping company with his old friend. The heavily worn cowboy hat hanging by the saddle was the only witness to his glorious past.
Carter looked up, squinting at the distant desert.
The midday sun baked the ground until it was scorching, and heat waves twisted into ripples in his vision. He remembered when he was young, riding this black horse across this desert, chasing those illusory adventures and freedom.
Now he only wanted to quietly guard this cemetery, keeping company with those old friends who had long been buried in the yellow earth.
"Hey, mister, do you know what place this is? I think I can't find my way back."
Just as Carter was immersed in his memories, a young and energetic voice came from behind him.
Carter turned around and saw a young man who made him frown.
He was about 1.85 meters tall, looked to be around twenty years old, with short black hair shimmering under the sunlight, and a few freckles on his cheeks.
The most striking thing was the orange cowboy hat on his head, with a smiley face and a crying face badge pinned to the brim, and a skull pendant hanging from the hat string.
He wore a necklace of red beads around his neck and a pair of shorts.
The key was that the kid was shirtless, and on his bronze skin, complex tattoo patterns could be seen on both arms.
And he always had that mindless, goofy grin on his face.
Carter sized up the young man, his brow furrowing imperceptibly.
In the eyes of this old-school cowboy, this outfit was simply ridiculous.
It was like some punk whose brain had been poisoned by so-called "cowboy culture," imitating those shady characters in the movies, putting together a bizarre costume.
No matter how he looked at it, he didn't seem like a decent person.
"This is San Venganza, Texas," the old man said coldly. "Drive twenty miles north on State Route 63 and you'll reach the highway. Walk there yourself."
After saying this, Carter turned back to continue wiping the horse, intending to ignore this strange young man.
But the young man did not leave.
Carter could hear footsteps behind him, light and unguarded footsteps, as casual as if he were taking a walk in his own backyard.
He couldn't help but look back again and discovered that the kid was actually wandering around the cemetery on his own.
"Hey!" Carter raised his voice. "That's a graveyard!"
The young man turned his head and grinned, "I know, mister. I've seen plenty of graveyards, I'm not afraid."
As he spoke, he actually walked into the cemetery, weaving between the mottled tombstones, occasionally stopping to look at the names and years on the tombstones, muttering to himself:
"AD 1867 to AD 1... tsk, only lived to be 35, what a pity."
"I wonder what will happen to my stupid little brother after I die—I'm afraid he'll be very sad, after all, he's already lost one brother—to lose another—hmpf—I can already imagine him crying really ugly."
"I really want to see his expression then, and mock him mercilessly: 'What kind of brother doesn't protect his little brother? Stop crying!'."
The young man continued muttering something quietly afterwards, but it seemed to have triggered his memories, and he stopped grinning, instead staring blankly at a bouquet of flowers in the cemetery.
Carter stood up, wanting to stop him, but didn't know what to say. Although this kid's behavior was strange, he hadn't done anything disrespectful, it was just—too casual.
A few minutes later, the young man finished touring the cemetery, his spirits restored, and walked back to Carter with a light step, his eyes fixed on the black horse.
"Wow, this horse is really cool!"
He reached out his hand, about to touch the black horse's mane.
"Don't!" Carter slapped his hand away. "This horse has a bad temper, watch out, it might bite you."
Carter's exasperation was almost overflowing. He had lived for so many years and had never seen such an oblivious, self-willed guy. This social ability was simply too strong, to the point of being excessive.
"It won't, it won't," the young man said with a grin. "Animals all like me."
As he said this, he reached out again, and this time Carter didn't have time to stop him. Unexpectedly, the usually arrogant black horse actually didn't resist, but instead gently nudged the young man's palm.
Carter was stunned.
His old friend had been with him for countless years and, besides him, never let anyone else touch it. Even those merchants in town who wanted to buy the horse would be kicked away as soon as they got close.
"See, I told you," the young man turned to look at Carter, his smile even brighter. "Mister, you've raised this horse really well, the muscle lines are perfect. Were you a knight in the past?"
"—That was many years ago, back then I was still—"
Carter's voice carried a hint of complex emotion. His gaze inadvertently swept across the young man's back as he turned.
His words suddenly stopped, and his eyes froze.
In the center of the young man's broad back was a huge and striking tattoo. It was a skull, but it had a white mustache that curled upward like a crescent moon.
Behind the skull were two crossed leg bones. The entire pattern was presented in pure black, exuding a sense of dominance and unruliness.
This pattern—
Carter Slade had lived for a long time and had seen more strange things than most people had ever heard stories about. He had made deals with the devil and dealt with Angels. An ordinary tattoo shouldn't have bothered him this much.
But this pattern, and certain sealed knowledge deep in his memory regarding "contracts" and "souls," faintly resonated with each other.
Carter let go of his hand, and his gaze changed. The scrutiny and impatience that belonged to the old cowboy quietly faded, replaced by a deep, inquisitive curiosity.
This grinning, shirtless, strange kid was probably not as simple as he appeared on the surface.
"Kid, what's your name?"
Carter asked the young man in his weathered voice.
"Me?" The young man grinned, revealing a mouthful of white teeth.
"My name is Portgas D. Ace! Mister, you can call me Ace!"