The three kids lay sprawled out on the grass like they'd just fought a war. Arms stretched, mouths open, panting like old dogs on a summer day.
And to be fair, it had been a war. In their heads, at least.
An epic showdown between courage and catastrophe. Complete with logs from the sky, dramatic fainting, and battlefield oaths. And, of course, their fearless, ridiculous, undeniably entertaining captain: Usopp.
He was narrating the entire thing now, lounging in a crooked wooden chair that looked more unstable than the stories he told. He'd built it himself, naturally. Probably with nothing but nails, pride, and poor judgment.
Usopp waved his arms with each exaggeration, his voice full of thunder and flair. He gave each dodge, stumble, and accidental collision a special move name that sounded like it belonged in a martial arts fantasy novel—Dragon Fang Sidestep, Heaven Splitter Headbutt, and Ultimate Log-Crushing Sacrifice Technique.
The kids, still breathless on the ground, nodded in awe.
I watched from a few feet away, leaning back on my palms. There was no point trying to interrupt. He was in full performance mode now. And the kids were eating it up, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, clinging to every word like it was sacred history passed down through generations.
But even in all that noise and nonsense, I could see it clearly—Usopp was more himself here than anywhere else.
Not in the village, where grown-ups still sometimes gave him those half-laughs and quiet sighs. Not in the market, where old fishermen teased him for his stories, half-joking, half-not.
Here—in this messy, handmade treehouse with his three loud, loyal soldiers—he was exactly who he wanted to be. And maybe, deep down, exactly who he was.
He caught my eye for just a second. I held his gaze and spoke one word I knew would land.
"Tsuri."
Fishing.
He grinned. A simple nod. Then he stood up, brushed himself off, and barked a few short commands at the kids.
They snapped up like they'd been lit on fire.
Salutes. Quick nods. Determined expressions.
You'd think they'd just been ordered to storm a fortress.
Each grabbed a rod—scrappy little things made of mixed wood and salvaged metal, all slightly crooked, each with its own quirks. Usopp had made every one of them himself, probably out of whatever wasn't nailed down at the time. No two looked alike, and yet, each had that rough charm only handmade tools carry.
I followed behind as we descended from the treehouse. The old rope ladder creaked under our weight, swaying gently as we reached the ground.
The sky had begun to shift.
That golden part of the afternoon had passed, and now the sun was slipping into that gentler yellow—mellow and low, casting longer shadows and making everything feel a little more still. The breeze picked up as we walked, cool and light, ruffling my hair every few minutes like a quiet greeting from the sea.
The kids ran ahead, of course. Sprinting down the dirt path toward the beach, holding their rods above their heads like pirate flags. Shouting, laughing, arguing about who would catch the biggest fish. Or the weirdest. Or the most dangerous. Or maybe all three.
Usopp jogged a bit to keep up, already bragging again. Something about having once caught a Sea King the size of a marine battleship using nothing but dental floss and raw charisma. The kids gasped in unison, the kind of gasp that only absolute belief can produce.
They were starry-eyed.
Of course they were.
They circled around him as they ran, peppering him with questions I couldn't make out, hands waving in the air, shouting over each other in their excitement.
Captain of 5000 men, he had called himself. If I remember correctly.
But at the moment, it was probably more like 3. But they made it feel like an army.
I lagged a little behind, just far enough to watch without being pulled into the storm.
Their energy bounced off everything. The road. The trees. The very air.
And for a brief second, I felt old.
Not in the physical sense but in the way you feel when you realize you've stopped pretending.
Those kids still believed. In the stories. In their captain. In whatever magic came with throwing a hook into the sea and waiting for something wild to bite.
That kind of belief was a currency I'd long spent.
I laughed under my breath.
This world was made by Oda. And he was Japanese.
So this world has that Japanese's essence regarding age.
You don't get to be old here.
You just work until you die.
And somehow, even that felt less grim in a place like this.
The beach came into view ahead. The water shimmered in that soft, molten color of early evening. The waves were calm. The breeze cooler now.
The kids had already planted themselves in the sand, rods in hand, chattering with the same urgency as pirates about to uncover buried treasure. Usopp stood with his hands on his hips, chest puffed out, pointing dramatically at the sea like it owed him something.
I watched the four of them—shouting, posing, casting their lines with theatrical form and zero actual technique.
It was a mess.
And it was perfect.
They weren't catching fish.
They were catching something else entirely.
And maybe, just maybe, I'd hooked a bit of it too.
---------------
The sun dipped lower, brushing the sea with long golden fingers as the day began its slow retreat. The kids scattered across the shore like excited crabs, darting in every direction in search of bait.
Tamanegi was the first to drop to his knees near the wet sand, digging frantically with both hands. Sand fleas, I had taught him where they were. And I could tell by the grin on his face he found one. He unearthed the sand flea gave it a blow and held it like a treasure. Piiman darted off toward the tree line with the intensity of someone on a secret mission, coming back minutes later with wriggling worms dangling from his fingers like a prize trophy.
Ninjin was slower, more deliberate. He crouched by the water's edge, picking through pebbles and debris, inspecting everything like a little scientist with far too much time and no clipboard. Eventually, he brought back a small jelly-like creature that may or may not have been alive. Baby crabs, Worms and small fishes.
They piled all their "finds" in front of me like proud hunters. A messy mountain of sand fleas, worms, some seaweed, small fishes, baby crabs, a suspiciously shiny pebble, and—somehow—a half-rusted spoon.
I handed them a small container, and they stuffed the bait inside with the focus of professionals—until the excitement made them giggle again. They argued over whose worm was biggest. I just knew what they were fighting for.
Piiman insisted his worms were the most delicious and fishes would flock to it. Tamanegi claimed his sand flea was "definitely the smartest." and can lure fish by themselves. Ninjin held his baby crab like they would show a way to fish heaven.
Then came the baiting of the hooks.
A disaster.
They poked. Missed. Squished half the bait. Bent the hooks. Tamanegi got his line tangled around his wrist. Piiman somehow stabbed his own shirt. Ninjin managed to get the hook inside the bait, but it hung crooked like a sad ornament.
I couldn't help but laugh. They were trying to copy what they'd seen me do—imitating hand gestures, repeating motions with too much confidence and too little practice. I crouched down and helped them one by one, steadying their hands, threading the hooks, guiding their fingers through the motions.
I gave them most of the bait and was finally left alone. They had learned from experience not to hover over my shoulder while I fished. Too many times I'd turned, silent and annoyed, only to find one of them tangled in their own line like a confused octopus.
The kids looked over and immediately ditched me—except Ninjin, who remained crouched, still adjusting his reel with the patience of someone determined to do it right.
The other two sprinted to Usopp like his presence alone guaranteed fish. Which, of course, it did. Or at least it seemed to.
I appreciated the peace.
I walked down to the water, to a spot I always favored—a little ridge of rocks that extended just enough into the tide. I took my time settling down, testing the line and making sure the bait was right. Then, with a clean motion, I cast.
The line flew effortlessly. Usopp really had done a fine job. It cut through the air like it had always known where to go, landing near the drop-off—where the water deepened into quiet, blue mystery.
I didn't trust deep water.
Not because of monsters or storms, but because I didn't trust myself to win a tug-of-war with something that might weigh more than I did. I brought the line to the shallows, then I waited.
Patience is what makes a good fisherman. It's also what children naturally lack.
Except Usopp he didn't need patience.
He was already on his rock, legs wide, back straight, casting his line like a seasoned sea veteran.
Usopp had that kind of absurd, unpredictable luck you couldn't fake. Within minutes, he was pulling fish after fish from the surf—small, silver ones that shimmered like coins in the light, fat round ones with lazy eyes, and one long eel-looking thing that hissed before he gently tossed it back. A favorite of the sea, no doubt
Time to Time, I could even see him reel in fishes that were big enough to make all the fisherman jealous from my home world. And he let them go after measuring them. We and the Village had a rule, we didn't fish more than we needed and ate.
He was storytelling through every catch, no doubt telling tales of how he once fished the Sea king but had to let it go because it was too big to eat or something. Piiman clapped like a fan at a concert. Tamanegi dropped his rod entirely and just sat beside him, munching on crackers he somehow still had hidden in his pocket. Ninjin was busy fishing by himself.
The Captain of Usopp pirates flexed dramatically once, pretending to battle with an invisible leviathan, and the kids screamed as if he'd just wrestled a sea god.
Then I felt it. A pull.
Not the curious nibble of a small fish.
A real tug. Heavy. Intentional. Solid.
I braced, reeled slightly.
The rod bowed under the pressure. The line whined like it was holding in a scream.
It wasn't massive, but it had weight. I adjusted the tension, leaned back, and waited for it to make its first mistake.
But I knew I wouldn't win this one alone. I didn't have the strength.
No shame to admit that. I called in my free worker.
"Usopp."
His head snapped toward me.
One look at the rod, at the curve of the line, and his eyes lit up. He didn't need to be told more. It had happened more than a few times after all.
He handed his rod to Piiman, said something fast, and jogged toward me with the swagger of a man about to do something legendary. The kids followed, bouncing around him like buzzing bees, asking a thousand questions he had no time to answer.
They reached me just as I handed off the rod.
He took it, squared his stance, gave one tug—and grinned.
I could see the grin of his was a fake. But the way he boasted made it feel like the fish tugging was something trivial for him.
But from the way the kids gasped, He must have bragged to the high heavens. Maybe about reeling in a Sea King. Maybe just another ridiculous claim only Usopp could say with a straight face which only Chopper would believe.
But this was Usopp he always had a way to do a last second clutch. The last trump card. He called in the kids.
Four pairs of hands. One line. One mystery on the other end. And me, standing behind them — not alone, not quite the outsider anymore