The Red Force moved like a sleeping beast through the ocean. Its sails caught the last breath of dusk as the stars blinked to life overhead.
Somewhere below deck, the crew laughed over bowls of stew. Dice clacked, boots stomped, and someone belted out a poorly tuned sea shanty that made even Uta pause her singing.
But up here — on the upper deck — there was only quiet.
I sat alone, my knees pulled to my chest, the breeze combing through my hair as I stared out into the water, watching the silver trails of starlight ripple across the black.
It had only been a few hours since I came aboard.
To them, I was a curious survivor. A strange, soft-spoken kid rescued off a deserted island. Only five years old, and yet… not like other five-year-olds.
And they were right.
They noticed the way I walked. The way I sat straight without slouching. The way I listened more than I talked.
I didn't laugh easily. I didn't cry. I didn't cling to anyone's side.
Most kids would've been asking about treasure, or swords, or pirates. I asked about the ocean currents, the rudder alignment, the ship's tilt during starboard turns.
They didn't say it out loud, but I felt it.
They were curious. Not afraid. Not yet.
But curious enough to keep watching.
All except for Shanks.
Shanks wasn't just watching me.He was measuring me.
System Passive:Suspicion Levels: AmbientEmotional Disruption: None
Shanks Observation Score: 67%Passive Awareness: Active
Recommend: Controlled Reveal – Bloodline Origin Only
I could've stayed silent.
I wanted to stay silent. Let the truth sink deeper into my shadow until no one could find it.
But I'd already decided that if anyone deserved to know, it would be him.
Not just because he was the captain who saved me.
But because… I suspected he knew what it was like.
What it meant to be born into power — and then walk away from it.
I heard his boots before I saw him.
Slow. Unrushed. Confident, but light.
He stepped up beside me, leaning against the railing. The wind tousled his red hair, and his eyes drifted out to the horizon like he could see something far beyond it.
"Still not tired?" he asked after a while.
I shook my head. "Not yet."
"You know, I've had grown men on this ship get seasick in less time than you've been standing there."
"I'm not like them."
He smirked. "No. You're not."
We stood in silence again — the kind that meant something, not just a pause between words.
Eventually, I spoke.
"I remember things," I said quietly. "Not everything. But pieces. They started coming back while I was alone on the island."
Shanks didn't respond — just listened.
"They weren't memories of trees, or family, or friends. They were of cold floors. Gold ceilings. Walls that echoed. People who were afraid to look me in the eye."
He looked sideways at me, but didn't interrupt.
"I remember being called 'young master.' I remember the way people bowed to me. I remember guards — faceless, armed, silent. I remember a man who called himself my father. Always distant. Always angry. I don't remember my mother. Maybe I never had one."
Shanks exhaled slowly.
"I was… someone important. A noble."
"You're sure?" he asked, voice even.
I nodded.
"There were slaves. I didn't understand the word back then, but I knew they weren't free. I remember asking why they couldn't eat with me. I got hit for that. I remember sneaking food to one who was coughing. A woman. She looked scared even when I helped her."
I paused, tightening my grip on the railing.
"I tried to treat them like people. I didn't know it was wrong to care. Until another noble came. I don't know who. Just that they took them away. Said I was soft. That I was shaming my family."
I clenched my teeth.
"I think that's when I started to hate everything around me. And I think... I stopped talking for a while after that."
Shanks let the silence linger.
Then, finally, he nodded.
"You were a kid," he said. "And you made the right choice — even if no one else around you did."
"I don't know what happened after," I admitted. "My memories cut off. The next thing I remember clearly is waking up on the island. Alone. Hungry. Weak."
"And you survived for a year," he said. "That's not something most people could do — noble blood or not."
I turned to him.
"I don't want to go back. Not ever. I don't want anyone to know where I came from. Just you."
System Notification: Controlled Truth Shared – Recipient: Red-Haired Shanks
Noble Lineage: Celestial Dragon Descendant – CONFIRMED
Status: Trust Bond Deepened
Public Cover: Crimson D – No registered background
Identity Hidden from All Crew MembersEmotional Response: RESPECT
Shanks leaned back slightly, arms crossed.
"Do you know how rare it is to meet someone like you, Crimson?"
I tilted my head.
"Someone who had the power to be a god… and chose not to be."
I didn't reply.
"Most people never even question the world. But you? You're already planning to reshape it."
He smiled faintly, though there was something sharp behind his eyes.
"I've seen people like you before. They scare the hell out of kings."
I met his gaze, steady. "Good."
He laughed — a full, warm sound that echoed across the quiet ship.
"Just promise me something," he said. "When you decide to start changing the world, do it with people who want to build it better. Not just burn it down."
"I will," I said. "One day… I'll find them."
He nodded. "You will."
He walked away after that, and I stayed where I was.
The wind was colder now, but it didn't bother me. Below deck, Uta's voice drifted up faintly — humming a lullaby only she could hear in full.
I closed my eyes.
And for a moment… I remembered the sound of chains.
And I swore I'd never let others wear them again.
The ship rocked softly in the dark.
Voices from the lower deck carried up faintly — drunken laughter, the scrape of metal, a muffled cheer. Someone had dropped a weapon, or knocked over a stack of swords in storage.
And then — BOOM.
A pistol. Accidental. Too close.
The sound tore through me like lightning.
And just like that…
I wasn't on the ship anymore.
I was back in white halls, too clean, too quiet.
A young boy — me, smaller — no more than four.
I stood in the corner of a lavish chamber, marble beneath my bare feet, a tea tray spilled beside me. There was blood already on the floor.
A woman, older, tattered dress, shaking hands, knelt in the center.
She was crying. Apologizing. For what, I didn't know.
"Please," she whispered. "Please, young master—"
A hand gripped my shoulder.
I turned.
A tall guard. Face hidden beneath a helmet.
"She's not your mother," he muttered, voice low, like it was a secret.
I blinked at him.
"Your mother was executed after your birth," he added, even lower. "She was from the outside. A mistake."
I turned back to the woman.
I didn't know what a mistake meant back then. Only that she was scared.
And then—
BANG.
Her head snapped back.
The pistol smoke drifted across the carpet like a ghost. Her body hit the floor next to me, unmoving.
And behind her…
Another noble. I didn't know his name. Didn't care. He held the pistol like it was nothing more than a cane.
"Disobedient trash," he muttered.
I was shaking. Rage boiled in my chest, but I didn't have the words for it.
Just heat. Just fury.
I screamed, but no one flinched.
Not the guards.
Not the nobles.
Not even my father, watching from his gilded seat like he was observing a business deal.
The memory broke like glass.
I woke with a gasp, bolting upright in my hammock.
Sweat soaked my neck. My fists clenched the fabric beneath me. The sound of the gun still echoed in my head.
The bunkroom was quiet now.
One oil lamp flickered across the wood, swaying with the ship.
I sat there for a long time, breathing slowly, letting the image burn away.
She wasn't my mother.
I never even knew her name.
My mother had died in silence. After giving birth. Executed, because she didn't belong.
I stood quietly, feet hitting the wood as gently as I could manage.
I climbed the stairs to the upper deck and stepped into the night air.
The sky was clear. The sea calm. The moon full.
I walked to the rail and stood there, still shaking slightly, watching the black ocean ripple.
Somewhere in the past, a woman died just for being inconvenient.
Somewhere in that world, a child watched it happen and was taught to believe it was normal.
But I wouldn't be that child anymore.
Behind me, the faint echo of Uta's voice rose again — a soft melody in the dark, almost like she felt something shift in the air.
I didn't move.
Not until I whispered, just once:
"I'll change this cursed world."