Ch. 3

(Word Count: 1370)

Crew POV

The Stormbreaker sailed steadily across the sunlit waves, its black and dark green sails billowing against the salty breeze. Captain Elara Torren stood near the bow, her sharp green eyes scanning the horizon. She had the look of someone who'd seen the worst the seas could offer and dared to challenge it anyway. Her crew worked tirelessly, their movements efficient, their banter kept to a minimum as they navigated the waters around the enigmatic island on the horizon.

It was the youngest crew member, Talo, perched high in the crow's nest, who first broke the silence.

"Captain! There's something—someone—on the shore!"

Elara turned sharply, the golden hilt of her cutlass glinting in the sunlight. "Someone?" she called up, already striding toward the wheel. "Are you certain?"

Talo nodded vigorously, lowering his spyglass to gesture toward the beach. "A man, I think! He's not moving much—looks half-dead!"

The crew exchanged uneasy glances. Stories of this region painted the island as cursed, a place shrouded in whispers of strange disappearances and unnatural occurrences. But hesitation wasn't in Elara's nature.

"Bring us closer," she ordered, her voice cutting through the murmurs. "Rutter, prepare the ship. We're not leaving anyone to die out here, cursed or not."

The helmsman nodded, steering the Stormbreaker closer to the jagged coastline. As they approached, the details came into focus: a figure lay sprawled on the sand, motionless save for the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Blood stained the beach around him, the stark crimson vivid against the pale sand.

Elara snatched her spyglass from her belt and focused it on the man. His clothes were in tatters, little more than strips of fabric clinging to his battered frame. His body was a map of wounds—deep gashes, bruises, and scars carved across his skin. And near his outstretched hand lay a weapon—a blackened sword that seemed to absorb the sunlight rather than reflect it.

"Curious," Elara murmured, a flicker of unease prickling her instincts. She snapped the spyglass shut and turned to her crew. "Be quick but careful. This one's been through hell. And bring the sword—we need answers."

The row boat hit the water with a splash, four sailors rowing swiftly toward the shore. As the island loomed closer, the air grew heavier, the oppressive humidity wrapping around them like a second skin. Jungle vines twisted and hung like curtains from the dense tree line, the shadowy undergrowth seeming to watch them.

When they reached the man, the rowers hesitated. Up close, he looked even worse—a broken, bleeding shell of a person. His leg was twisted at an unnatural angle, his chest rising and falling in labored, ragged breaths.

"Poor bastard," one of the sailors muttered as they carefully lifted him into the boat.

A different sailor reached for the black sword lying in the sand. The moment their fingers brushed the hilt, an icy chill shot up their arm, and they recoiled with a hiss. "Damn thing's colder than death!"

"Give it here," said another, grabbing a thick cloth and wrapping it around the hilt before lifting it. Even through the fabric, the sword seemed to hum with a strange, almost malevolent energy.

"Wait a minute." A fourth sailor, more cautious than the rest, frowned, his voice low. "What if he's dangerous? We don't know what we're dealing with here—or what that sword is."

 The sword itself felt unnatural. The island was no place for ordinary people, and the sword itself felt like something out of a nightmare.

The crew fell silent for a moment, the weight of his words sinking in. The battered man looked harmless now, but his wounds hinted at a battle beyond anything they could imagine. Whatever he'd faced—and survived—was enough to give even the hardiest sailor trouble.

"We'll keep the sword separate," one of the rowers said. "Captain can decide what to do. But we're not leaving him here to rot."

The rowboat rocked as they returned, each splash of the oars echoing in the unnerving stillness. Elara watched from the deck, her expression guarded. When the crew hauled the man aboard, she crouched beside him, her sharp eyes flicking from his battered form to the weapon.

"Take the sword to the hold," she ordered. "Lock it in the brig. I want it far from prying hands until we know what we're dealing with."

The sailors exchanged uneasy glances but obeyed, carrying the strange weapon below deck. Its presence seemed to cast a shadow wherever it went, and even the most seasoned among them felt a sense of foreboding.

Elara turned her attention back to the man. "Get him to the infirmary," she commanded. "And stay on guard. We don't know what came out of that jungle with him."

Her gaze drifted back to the island. Its silhouette was jagged and dark against the shimmering water, the jungle whispering secrets she wasn't sure she wanted to hear.

Jack's POV

Pain. It was the first thing Jack felt as consciousness clawed at him—a searing, throbbing ache that seemed to come from everywhere at once. His ribs protested with every shallow breath, his leg felt like it was on fire, and his shoulder throbbed with an unbearable, relentless agony.

His eyes opened slowly, the world a blur of unfamiliar shapes and movement. The ceiling above him swayed gently, and the faint creak of wood mixed with the distant murmur of voices.

"Where…" His voice was a hoarse croak, barely more than a whisper.

"You're aboard the Stormbreaker."

The voice was gruff but steady. Jack turned his head, wincing as pain rushing back in flashes—the statue, the sword, the desperate fight for survival. His hand twitched instinctively, reaching for where his sword should have been.

"It's safe," the man said, noticing Jack's movement. "Locked away in the brig. Captain didn't trust it. Said it gave off... bad energy."

Jack's throat tightened. "I need it," he rasped, his voice tinged with panic.

"Relax, lad," the man said. "You're lucky to be alive. Rest up."

"What's your name, stranger?" the man asked after a moment.

"Jack," he said weakly.

"Rutter," the man replied, his tone softening slightly. "Quartermaster of this fine vessel. Captain will want words when you're ready."

When Jack awoke again, hours later, the room was dim, the silence broken only by the creaking of the ship's timbers. Every inch of his body seemed to scream in protest with every shift, but his mind raced. How did he get here? Why was he here?

The door creaked open, and Captain Elara Torren stepped in. Her sharp green eyes studied him as she pulled up a chair.

"You've got questions," she began, "but I've got one first. Who are you, and what were you doing on that island?"

Jack met her gaze, feeling the weight of her authority pressing down on him like a heavy stone. "I'm just... someone who survived. Barely."

She leaned forward. "Survived what, exactly?"

Jack hesitated his voice faltering for a moment. "The island," he finally said, his voice steady despite the storm in his mind. "It wasn't kind."

Elara scoffed, leaning back in her chair. "Nothing willingly kind out here. You're in the South Blue, stranger. Near the edges of the Grand Line."

Jack's chest tightened, and he exhaled slowly, forcing himself to maintain his composure. He glanced at her, for a brief moment, his expression hardened, the weight of understanding pressing on him. He was in the One piece world.

When he hesitated. His silence spoke volumes. her suspicion deepened.

she sighed, "You don't seem like someone from the Blues. And that sword…"

She stood, crossing her arms. "Rest up, stranger. But let me warn you—whatever you're hiding, my crew will be watching. We don't know if you're dangerous or not."

As the door clicked shut behind her, Jack lay back, his body still wracked with pain, but his mind spinning with possibilities.

This was the One Piece world. Pirates, marines, and chaos at every turn. How he'd arrived here and why was still a mystery—but one thing was certain: survival was going to get a lot harder.

And somewhere below deck, locked in the brig, his sword pulsed faintly—like a dark promise of the unknown future ahead.