Melville

The Melville shipyard was busier than it had been for many years.

Five massive slipways were taken up; and behind their walls, the skeletal forms of five enormous ships were slowly taking shape. Day after day workers had swarmed around them, hammers ringing and saws grinding; all agog at the task they had been granted.

For these were no ordinary ships. These were the younger sisters of the Moby Dick, and had been commissioned by Edward Newgate himself. No one knew for certain what he meant to do with them, but there were only so many things an Emperor of the Sea might do with six mighty battleships.

And almost none of them were good.

Derby was down in the harbor, watching as a half-dozen cargo ships were unloaded. Stevedores chanted and grunted as they hauled on derrick ropes, hauling a roped and chained pallet of timber up from a ship's cargo hold. Derby watched, heart fluttering, as the pallet was swung over the dock, then lowered down onto a waiting wagon; landing with a heavy thud. Ridley, one of his master carpenters, began looking the timber over with a critical eye. Once satisfied, he gave the teamster the nod; and the weary-looking horses began dragging the heavy wagon to the shipyard.

The old shipwright watched on, remembering the looks on the master shipwrights' faces as he had laid out the project. The hulls alone would require thousands of tons of white oak, live oak, the occasional Adam Wood, and pine; all of the finest quality. That meant tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands of those pallets; with hundreds needing to arrive every day just to keep the work going.

The materials alone had cost a literal king's ransom. Luckily they had an Emperor footing the bill.

Now that they were here, the work could begin. Those timber planks would be steamed and shaped, then grooved and fitted together with pegs, and then caulked and varnished. White oak planks would form the inner and outer hulls, reinforced in-between with ribs of live oak and iron cross-braces. Once all that was done, the hull would have to sit for many months while the timber seasoned, and the varnishes - made to recipes his master artisans would die to protect - took proper effect.

It was tricky work, and long work. He could have sped things up by nailing it all together, and launching the ships while their timber was still green; the old cheap tricks. But even without his pride as a shipwright, there would have been consequences. Nails rusted, and rotted timbers from within. He had seen too many ships ruined by crews whose idea of a repair was nailing a plank over a hole and hoping for the best. And a ship that size with an unseasoned hull would snap like a twig in a heavy sea; let alone a battle.

Fortunately, for all his haste, Newgate understood ships; and he would not send his children to war with anything less than the best. Especially if they truly planned to go to war with Kaido.

Roundshot would bounce off the hulls at anything but the closest ranges; and a shell would just splatter on the hull before it could detonate. Even if the shells could be made to detonate close to the hull - a tricky business in a heavy sea - the hull was strong enough to cope. In theory, these ships would be nigh-unsinkable.

In theory.

He shook his head. No sense in worrying about it. Newgate had trusted him to do his best, and his best he would give. No one could ask for more and he would give no less.

Derby glanced at the horizon. The sun was nearing the horizon, the working day was almost done; and he had to be in the yard for shift change. Fortunately there was only one ship left to check before he could head back; and she was quite a sight. He could see her clearly, as he strode along the dock. It was the largest of the six ships to have arrived that afternoon; a hundred meters long, with the sleek lines of a clipper, and the blue banner of Doyle hanging from the mast.

Her name was Lady Snow, but she had not had it long. Mere months ago, under another name, she had carried the Finalem Pirates to Doyle; and had been captured as the siege was lifted. Though stripped of her heavy weapons by order of the Marines, she had been claimed by the Crown of Doyle under salvage laws; refitted, renamed, and sold on to a Doyle shipping company. Now she ran cargo, in any waters where the flag of Doyle was welcome.

Except in this case, it wasn't just any cargo.

Derby shivered as he saw the heavy crates being winched from the hull, and lowered onto a wagon. Each one was big enough for Newgate to lie down in comfortably; and not one could be opened, at least not here. He was one of a handful of people on Melville who knew what was in those crates, and the only one who knew where they had come from. If the job had been done right, then there would be no markings or paperwork to otherwise reveal their origin; nothing Cypher Pol or anyone else could use.

One of the crates came down with a thump, standing atop two more. Workers - unskilled laborers from the shipyard - moved around the wagon, carefully chaining and strapping the stacked crates into place. The teamster cracked his reins, and the wagon groaned as it moved off; the laborers pushing from the sides.

As they passed, Derby's eyes fell on one of them. He was tall and lean, sweat running down his arms as he pushed, his eyes glaring straight ahead; looking into a place Derby did not know, and didn't want to.

It made his heart sink to see him like that; for he was a man Derby had once known well. Once, a little over a month ago, he had been Izou; 16th Division Commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. But to look at him now, few would believe it. His once neatly-coiffed black hair now hung loose around his shoulders. His Wano silks were nowhere to be seen, replaced with a worker's rough clothes. His pale skin was sun-scorched and drenched with sweat; muscles heaving beneath it as he toiled like a peon. Even his signature makeup was gone; though the sweat would have ruined it anyway.

He had needed a job, and Derby had taken him on. It was the least he could do, and he hadn't regretted it. Izou showed up on time, every time, and worked hard; harder than most. None of the overseers had said a word against him.

But Derby had seen the way the others looked at him. They hadn't dared give him any trouble, but they clearly didn't want him around either. Word had soon spread, the gossip spreading around the shipyard, and the town, like a bad smell.

Izou had tried to kill a crewmate.

The thought made Derby ill. Many captains, most even, would have hanged Izou from the yardarm for that. But even if it was true, Newgate wasn't that kind of captain. He could not kill one of his own children, not lightly anyway. But nor would he cast one of them out, not unless they had done something serious.

As he watched the wagon go, he made up his mind. He would finish up at the shipyard, then find Izou and get the truth out of him. He would find out just what Izou had done to get himself grounded; and why he was rotting away in both body and soul.

He would explain everything to his wife and children later.

(X)

Another day, another pay packet, another night in the bar.

That was the totality of Izou's existence right now; as it had been for the past month.

Izou sat in an empty alcove in a dark corner; glowering at his fellow drinkers. The bar was fairly full, packed with shipyard and dock workers fresh off their shifts, and more than a few sailors too. They sat or stood, eating and drinking, talking and laughing together; enjoying the moments they shared.

He raised his glass to his lips, and downed the last sip of throat-burning rotgut. It was truly awful booze, but it was cheap and it got him drunk fast. The sooner he got drunk, the less time he had to spend thinking about everything that had happened.

He was about to rise and head to the bar, when a new glass suddenly appeared on the table in front of him. It was full, and from the look of the color, of something better than rotgut.

"Mind if I sit here?" asked a cheerful voice. Izou looked up, his eyes already blurring, and made out old Derby standing there; smiling pleasantly.

"I don't own it," he replied sourly. Derby clearly took that as a yes, for he promptly sat down opposite him. He sipped his drink, and Izou decided that he might as well try whatever it was Derby had bought him. He took a sip, and hesitated as he tasted whisky; the real thing.

"You've been working very hard this past month," Derby said, smile still in place. "Is there anything I can help you with?"

Izou felt his head tighten, as if his brain was trying to swell up and burst out. What the hell was the Head Shipwright trying to do?

"Did I do something wrong?"

"No no not at all. You've been a model dock worker lad. Wish half my boys had the work ethic you possess."

"It's the least I can do." That much was true. He'd have been selling his gear by now if it wasn't for his salary.

And a part of him had considered doing it anyway. It was no use to him now.

"No need for that lad. We're not in the yard." Something changed in Derby's manner. There was something different in his eyes. Was it sadness? "I was just wondering if there was anything I could do to help?"

"Why would I need help?" Izou instantly regretted the retort, but Derby did not bite.

"No one seems to want to tell me what happened," he went on. "I've been trying to contact Newgate, but he's not answering. But the master of Lady Snow tells me he saw Moby Dick heading from the Red Line a few days back, passing by Hand Island. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

For a moment, Izou almost started. The Red Line? Why was P…Whitebeard going there?

"No, I don't," he retorted, and downed a gulp of the whisky. "I'm not in his confidence these days."

"And why is that?"

Izou gritted his teeth. Why oh why did he have to pry into this?

"You know…they talk about drinking your troubles away, but it never works."

Izou glowered at Derby, but all he got in return was that sad smile.

"If you don't feel ready to tell me, that's okay." Derby downed his drink. "Just be on time tomorrow, okay?"

"Got it, boss." Izou's voice was almost robotic, no passion or drive behind it, just obligation.

Derby sighed, and got up and left, leaving Izou alone. Izou drank some more of the whisky, but it did little to ease his thoroughly foul mood.

Derby was right, and that only made him feel worse. No amount of booze would make this any better. He was stuck on Melville, working like a dog in the shipyard, with nothing to do otherwise except drink away his money in bars like this. He, who had once been a division commander of the Whitebeard Pirates. He, who once had been a personal retainer to Kozuki Oden, Shogun of Wano.

His hand tightened around the glass, his knuckles turning white. It would always be like this, it seemed. Every time he found some measure of happiness, of contentment, it was snatched away. Every time he dared to trust anyone, they would betray him; whether intentionally or not. His father, Lord Oden, and in the end even Pops.

So then, whose fault was it? Their faces rolled around his mind's eye, twisting and distorting, blending into one-another. He grasped at them, trying to hold them in place, to give his hatred something to latch onto; to drag him back from the darkness. It was Pops' fault! Pops had chosen Yamato and Izuku over him! And it was Oden's fault for dragging him into the pirate life in the first place; for endlessly gallivanting around Wano, and the world, and ignoring his responsibilities! And it was Kaido's fault for invading and destroying his country, killing Lord Oden and his family, and leaving him with nothing but the Whitebeards!
And those two!

Their images loomed large in his memory. Yamato's ridiculous smile, Izuku's pathetic face; the pair of them sailing through life, untroubled by grief or anguish or fear, while all around loved and welcomed them!

Just like Oden used to be.

The images faded, and sorrow wrapped itself around his fury, dragging it down into the depths. And with it, came a degree of clarity that he now wished he'd had a month ago.

Of course Pops had thrown him out. He had tried to kill those two, and Pops' duty as a captain had been clear. It was his own fault, not Pops'. He had given Pops no choice. And as for the others…

He slumped in his seat, tears welling in his eyes. Why did it have to be like this? Why was he forever forced to make hard choices? Why had such loyalties and obligations and convictions tormented him for all his days?

Was he simply doomed to suffer from now till the day he died?

The closing bell rang. Izou drank down what was left of the whisky, and staggered out into the street. He wasn't going the right way to his rooms, but he didn't much care. He just wandered on, the night air cold on his sweaty skin, just going…somewhere.

Somewhere…nowhere…this place. This was his life now. This was where his path had led him; after all he had attained and all he had lost.

How he wished it were not so. How he wished these were the old days, traveling around Wano with his lord, striving to become a better samurai. When he was a Whitebeard Pirate, with his family.

Family.

For a moment he could see Whitebeard, eyes twinkling with fatherly affection. But then the twinkle was gone, the old eyes heavy with sorrow, and streaming with tears. Then he saw Marco, his young face full of joy, on the first day they had met. Then the joy disappeared, and so did his youth; leaving only the angry Marco, sending him into exile. Then there was Vista, smiling with pride as he mastered his pistols. And then the pride was gone.

And then there was Kikunojo, running towards him, crying his name; her kimono torn and askew, and a dark shape in the doorway.

Gone. All gone, like his youth, and his hopes, and his honor. Maybe his soul too.

Rain was falling, soaking his cheap clothes, chilling him to the bone. But he barely noticed, or cared. He staggered on, the muddy street slipping away under his feet. He vaguely realized that he had no idea where he was, or where he had been heading.

It didn't matter. None of it mattered. Whether he lived or died didn't matter. If he keeled over and died in the gutter, it would not matter. It was no more than he deserved.

He felt himself falling, and barely noticed the impact. He could just see a figure before him, feel arms wrap around him.

And there was darkness.

(X)

Izou groaned, as he tried to open his eyes.

It had been a while since he'd had a hangover this bad. His stomach was in open mutiny, his mouth tasted like raw sewage, and his head felt like Teach was living in it. How much had he drank last night?

He gritted his teeth, and forced himself to sit up. Morning was morning, and he had to be at the shipyard soon. Time for some of that tea he brewed as a pick-me-up.

He tried to move, then faltered as pain flashed through his body. Then he started, as he realized that he wasn't in his simple apartment in Melville. It looked like a rough wooden hut of some kind, a peasant's dwelling.

Just how much had he been drinking last night?

"Don't try to move," said a voice nearby. "You had a bad fall, and you've a fever to boot."

Izou looked around, and saw a shape approaching. He blinked, and it formed into a skinny, frail-looking woman; wearing a ragged, hooded cloak.

"Good afternoon," she added, sardonically. "You've been sleeping all day. Probably for the best, after the state you were in."

Izou's heart jumped into his mouth. Afternoon!? He had slept in! He was late for work! He tried to swing his legs out of the bed, to stand up, but his head swam and his whole body ached.
"What did I say?" snarked the woman. "You're in no condition to walk anywhere, let alone work. Just stay there."

Izou had to sit still for a few moments while his mutinous stomach and his roiling head calmed down. He looked at the woman, wondering who she was; and why she had bothered to help him. She clearly didn't have much, living in a hovel like this.

Then it hit him.

"You're that crone, aren't you?" he croaked. "From the mountain?"

"So you remember." The woman shuffled over to the fireplace on the opposite side of the hovel; and started stirring a large metal pot. Izou watched her, his shame at the memory of that night mingling with curiosity.

"I've heard tell of you in the yard," he managed to say. "They say you live near the mountain, and you come into town at night carrying sacks."

"That much is true," replied the crone, not looking up from her pot. "I have myself a nice little fruit orchard, and I sell my harvest to a pastry store once a week. The owner's an old friend, you see. He brought me to this island ten years ago."

Izou frowned, as his hung-over mind tried to process what she had said. A friend had brought her here ten years ago, yet she was living alone like this? And who was this friend? He tried to think of the pastry shops in Melville, and then realized that he didn't know a single one. He hadn't cared to find out.

"Now." The crone ladled something into a bowl, then brought it to him. "Drink some of this. It'll help with your hangover."

Izou wrinkled his nose in reflex, then took the bowl regardless. He sipped, and twisted his face. The taste was bitter…yet somehow familiar. He sipped some more, and more, and to his amazement the fog around his mind began to clear.

"You're right. This is helping," he admitted, then finished the bowl. "Are you a doctor?"

"No. I had a lover who was a pirate once…and he liked his booze."

She took back the empty bowl, and Izou lay back; enjoying the simple relief of slowly feeling better. He looked around the hovel, looking for some indication of who this strange woman was.

Then he saw them. There were crude shelves around the walls, with some trinkets sitting on them. Some of them were familiar, from islands he had visited. But one item caught his eye in particular. It was a small pot, with cracks running all over in; gleaming gold in the firelight. He had seen such things before.

In Wano.

Then it hit him. That pot, the taste of that soup, even the sound of her feet.

"Are you…by any chance…from Wano?" he asked, heart pounding. It had been so long since he had encountered someone from his homeland…unless one counted those two.

"So you noticed." The crone turned away from the pot, her geta sandals briefly visible as her cloak shifted. "No, but my mother was. She came from the Ringo province."

"Ringo…I was born there." What were the odds? "I grew up there, well, at first."

How long ago had that been? Back when he was just a boy, the son of a well-to-do dancing family, growing up with his parents and younger sister Kikunojo. Life really had been simpler then, when all he had to do was master dance routines. Though he'd admit learning to use his guns had been enjoyable.

"I see." The woman straightened up. "Though from what my mother told me, she left the first chance she had. People like us aren't popular there." She drew back her hood, running her fingers through long purple hair.

And Izou's blood ran cold, as he saw the curved white horns rising from her temples.

"Oni…" the word came out unbidden. The woman glanced at him, her eyes old and sour.

"Yeah, that's what I am," she said. "Just like that poor girl who tried to help me, concussed I was; the one you tried to kill."

Izou tried to back away, fear and rage warring within him. That crone Yamato had been trying to save was an oni! She'd been helping one of her own kind! And now that same oni had him at her mercy! She would kill him for sure! Maybe even carve up his body and eat it! That was what oni did, after all!

"Oh knock it off," snorted the oni-crone. "If I wanted to kill you, I'd have left you out there in the mud and the rain. No one would have known the difference. And before you ask, I've never tasted human flesh in my life. And my name's Herzla, by the way." She took a spoon to the soup she was brewing. "Mother wanted to give me a non-Wano name after all."

Izou froze. Even recovering as he was, he was too weak to defend himself; and his pistols were in their hiding place back in his rooms. There was no way for him to fight.

"I suppose I know what my mother had meant when she left," mused Herzla bitterly. "Out here in the world, hardly anyone knows what an oni is; and even if they do, it doesn't bother them much. There's scarier things in this world than us, after all. But back in Wano…" She let out a long, sad sigh; and it got on Izou's nerves.

"The oni of old were evil," he hissed. "They oppressed our ancestors, my ancestors; exploited them for their skills and their labor, killed them for the smallest annoyance, or for sport."

"Is that what they tell you?" retorted Herzla, squatting down beside him. "You forget, Izou of Ringo, that Wano was our homeland too. Humans spread all over the world, but we only ever had Wano until nine hundred years ago."

Izou wanted to be angry, to scream and rage at her. But for some reason it would not come. Instead erupting like a volcano, it just lingered around his soul; like the embers of a fire that was dying, but would never go out.

Perhaps those moments of clarity over the last month had dampened his rage.

"So what if it was?" he managed to say. "That doesn't justify what your ancestors did to mine."

"And what did they supposedly do?" Herzla quirked an eyebrow. "What did my people do to deserve being exterminated, and hunted and hated a thousand years afterwards? Isn't a thousand years enough?"

Izou's retort caught in his throat. He wanted to deny it, to say that it was no more than the oni deserved. But something would not let him. Was it that weary, wounded look in her eyes? Was it the slump of her shoulders, that careworn face; so utterly unlike Yamato?

"It's not about what happened then," he growled. "It's about what your kind are now. They are still as warlike as they ever were. Kaido is proof of that."

"Ah yes, Kaido." Herzla sighed. "The World's Strongest Creature, the King of the Beasts. Tell me, oh wise one, just how much time do you think he'd have for a clapped-out old half-breed like me? He'd grind me under his boot heel as soon as look at me."

"And that makes it all right, does it?" snapped Izou, his blood boiling. "My people's suffering doesn't matter because you are different?"

"And what about the suffering your kind has caused?" asked Herzla darkly. "There are other peoples in this world besides humans, and plenty of them have scores to settle for what humans did to them."

"Don't blame Wano for the World Government's crimes!" snarled Izou. "Wano had nothing to do with that! We just wanted to be left alone!"

"Ohhhh, did you now?" sneered Herzla. "You just wanted to be left alone. You were perfectly happy in your perfect little paradise, just so long as everyone else stayed out. Well Wano might have been a paradise for you, but it wasn't for my mother; and not just for oni either." She murmured. "I've heard stories of what happened to non-humans if they washed up on Wano. They all share the same bloody end."

Izou opened his mouth to yell, to curse her. How dare she insult his country, when one of her kind was grinding it into the dirt!?

Except she was right. Wano had not been ideal. He had seen that much for himself. Even in the short time he'd been alive, he'd seen or heard of many of the darker elements of his nation.

The bigotry shown to fishmen and minks, the poverty of Kuri before Oden's arrival…the Kurozumi Massacre. His nation had as much blood on its hands as any other nation.

But how could he say that!? Wano was his homeland; the land where his ancestors were buried! Where his lord and family lived and died. How could he take her side over this!? How could he condemn his own country!?

Then it came again, filling his mind's eye. The leering faces, the mud under his bare feet, the cold and damp. His feet growing sore as he danced in taverns and gambling halls.

Kiku…

"

No!" he screamed, as his mind exploded like a bomb. "You're an oni! A Demon! You hate Wano! You hate everything! Nothing you say is true!"

He felt himself moving, scrambling over the bed and out of the hovel. He staggered, swaying from left to right, blundered into a tree. But he could not stop. He could not even think. He had to get away from that thing and her lies! He was not a traitor! He would never accept what that monster was saying! He would never hate his own country!

Even though it had thrown his father into prison. Even though it had left his mother to die, and he and his sister to scratch a living on the streets.

Even though it left Kikunojo to suffer, to endure agony and shame in order to be who she truly was.

Even though it let his lord die, and did nothing.

He staggered, and blundered, tree branches tearing at his skin. And then he tripped, stumbled, and fell straight into icy water. He coughed and struggled, throwing himself back, falling back on his haunches.

He was cold. He was tired. He was hurt. And now he was soaking wet.

"I can't…" he sobbed. "I can't."

"Oh but you do," whispered a voice that seemed to come from nowhere. "Just accept it, Izou. You really do hate Wano."

"No!" he howled, looking around for the source of the voice. But no one was there. There was only a creek, surrounded by trees. "No! I'm not a traitor!"

"Yes you are. You hate your own people, just like me."

Izou looked down at the water, and saw his face reflected in it. It was pale, drawn, the eyes hooded and bloodshot. He looked more like a corpse than a man.

And then his face was gone. There was a new visage there, one he had never seen, but long imagined, and hated, and feared. It stared up at him from the water; a venomous smirk on its wide face. He had only heard of his description in whispers on the Moby Dick after those two had arrived, telling what had become of Wano.

But he knew his name.

"It's okay," Kurozumi Orochi whispered. "I hate Wano too. I spent my days in terror, hunted by self-serving cowards for the sins of my fool of a grandfather. They killed us for the fun of it, men, women and children, and called it justice. That is the real Wano. That is the Wano you hate."

"No!" Izou shook his head, his soul crumbling like wood in a flame. "No! No! No!"

He slammed his fists down, and the face vanished in ripples. Then the water began to bubble and froth, and Izou flinched back, as hot steam rose around him. He scrambled out of the water, as it boiled like a cooking pot. He could feel the heat on his damp skin; burning him.

And then he cried out in horror, as a face rose from the boiling waters. Its skin was a bright, unnatural red; the color of boiled meat. It rose to look at him, and he cried out again as he saw the face he had known so well.

"Izou… where are my children?" asked the boiled horror that had been Kozuki Oden. "I can't find them, Izou."

Izou screamed and fell backwards, thrashing and tearing at the forest floor; begging the nightmare vision to leave him. He could see Oden boiling in the pot. He could see Kozuki Castle in flames, Lady Toki clutching her children to her, his comrades lying dead around them; as the flames licked closer.

The young samurai felt his pulse speed up further as she looked up at him, blood dripping down her face from a single hole in her forehead. As arrows landed atop of her body, Izou screaming at the sight as his mind waged war on himself.

"Izou…why did you leave us? Why didn't you protect our people, my children?"

Izou's eyes cried rivers of tears and clutched his head in guilt ridden agony. He had failed. He had betrayed Oden, and his wife, and his children. He hadn't been there when they needed him. He had chosen to be a pirate when they needed him to be a samurai. And now they were gone, forever.

It was true. It was all true.

He was a selfish coward. He had done nothing for Wano, nothing to protect or help its people; except when Lord Oden had bidden him. He had lived as a pirate, free at last, while his people had languished under the lash of the Beast Pirates, and Orochi had lived high on the back of their toil.

And he was happy.

He was glad they were suffering. It made him happy to think of them cast down, toiling in ragged and patched kimonos, beaten, tortured, killed for the smallest defiance, or just for the fun of it. Now they knew what it was like to be at the bottom of the barrel, to be despised and sneered-at, used and cast aside, exploited and paid with scraps, to have no hope or dignity or pride. Now they knew what he and Kikunojo had endured!

Because of their shitty father and sick mother, they had to pick up the slack! And… And…

He saw her again; lying under that thin bloodstained blanket, wracked with pain, while that wretch of a surgeon packed up his instruments.

"Can't you do something for the pain!?"

"If you want something, pay me.

"

"We gave you all we have!"

"Not my problem."

"She's in agony!"

"She was a he when we started. Besides… you'll get more later. They pay more for dancing girls."

He clawed at the ground, his fingers driving into the wet, stony soil as he let out a howl, a roar of anger, sorrow and despair mixed into one.

Yes, let them suffer! Let them be defiled and debased. Let the Beast Pirates feast on them!

It's what they fucking deserved!

He should have joined them. Why not? The Kozuki clan was gone, and so was Kiku.

He should have become a Beast. Not a Whitebeard.

Why shouldn't he join in? Why shouldn't he bully, cut up, and crush those rats by day, and drink and feast by night? Why shouldn't he get a taste of the good life for once? What good was Wano that it deserved anything else!? Yes! He should become just like them! He was just like them!

He saw his face in the water again; and he gasped as he saw fangs erupting from his mouth, and horns bursting from his head. An oni! He was an oni!

He was a Beast!

Izou screamed! And then he screamed no more. His breath shut off, and his body went limp. He felt himself falling backwards, his body heavy and numb. His heart pounding in his chest as it thundered in his ears.

Fast. Heavily. Dangerously.

This was it. This was where it ended. He was about to die here, alone, unmourned, and unremembered; except as a traitor and a cruel bully. He would leave no legacy, nothing of any worth to anyone. Not even a fond memory.

It was no more than he deserved.

He wasn't worth saving… Lord Oden made a mistake.

His life… was a mistake.

He could feel his body shutting down, all feeling slipping away as he thrashed in the creek. His heart trying to claw its way out of his chest.

This was it.

And he felt arms around him. Steadying him as he gargled, wailed, and writhed like a gut fish.

He could vaguely hear a voice in the back of his mind, the sound of a gentle song; a lullaby. As the sound grew closer, he realized that he knew it.

It was a lullaby of Ringo province, one his mother had sung to him as a child.

Izou felt tears on his face. Why would she come to him now? After all the wrong he had done, after he had let her and Kikunojo down so badly? When she was surely in Paradise, not the hell he was bound for.

"I'm sorry, Kiku," he croaked, as her smiling face floated before his eyes. "You were always my sister. And I was a bad brother to you. I couldn't protect you… I'm so sorry… I'm so sorry…!"

A voice broke though the heartbeat, his chest rattling as if his own black heart was trying to leave his body.

"You loved her. She knew that."

The beating… slowed.

Had he the slightest strength left, he would have started. It was all he could do to look up, to see where the voice had come from.

It was Herzla, looking down at him with a sad smile. Even if she was old, she… looked radiant under the shade and the sunlight. Her scarred arms were enfolding him, holding him tight, calming his ravaged body, and he felt…

Safe.

As if he was in his mother's arms again.

"That…song…"

"My mother's lullaby," Herzla explained. "Something good from Wano, passed down from mother to child. I had sung it to my own…" She ran an old scarred hand through his long unkept black hair.

"Why?" he croaked. Why was she doing this?

"Because of something she told me," Herzla replied. "Those who hate the most, hate themselves the worst; and she was right. Hatred did her no good, or me, or you. We're from the same land, in the end."

Izou lay where he was, allowing her to hold him, to soothe him. He could not resist, and in spite of everything, he didn't want to. His heart beat slowing down from its mad thrash to escape.

"I let them down so badly," he whispered. "My mother, my sister, my lord, his family. I let them all die. I let them all be mutiliated. And I… I let down Pops… everyone…" His hands went to his eyes. "I'm a failure…"

"You loved them," insisted Herzla, as she stroked his hair. "Love is all we have, really. If you failed as a son, and a brother, then I failed as a mother."

He looked up at her, momentarily surprised. Then he remembered, she had mentioned children.

"I was not a good mother to my children," she admitted sadly. "I didn't know how to be. I barely remembered my own mother; all I had of her was a few trinkets and fewer memories. I'd lived a wild life, a pirate's life, and I hadn't done well. By the time they came, I had no money and no home, my ex… leaving. I shouldn't have given them up, but…it was that or watch them starve. I couldn't bear it…"

Izou's broken heart ached for her.

"It happened…to someone I knew," he replied, thinking mournfully of Whitey Bay. "What…were they like?"

"Well…my son, the younger, was sensitive and a bit of a crybaby. My elder daughter was strong, but a wild child."

"What… were their names?"

"Their names… were-"

(X)

The next day

The stony ground crunched under Derby's feet, as he hurried up the mountainside.

He was worried; worried sick. Two days earlier, Izou hadn't shown up for work. He hadn't even returned to his apartment. He had last been seen wandering through the streets, in the general direction of the mountain, clearly paralytic. Since then, nothing. Not a trace anywhere.

Not in the town anyway. That left only the mountain, but hardly anyone lived up there.

Except Crone Herzla.

Derby gulped as he saw the tiny cottage; hidden away among the trees. He had known Herzla for years, but she kept to herself; rarely coming to town except to sell fruit from the trees nearby. He couldn't imagine Izou wanting anything to do with her; but there was no one else for many miles.

He knocked, and heard movement inside. A moment later the door opened, and there was Herzla, smiling in welcome. He felt a pang of fear as he saw that her hood was down, revealing her white horns and her violet hair. If Izou had seen her…

"Herzla, sorry to bother you," Derby began. "But has a man been here in the last couple of days? Tall, black hair?"

Herzla stepped back, and gestured inside. Derby peered round the door, and almost gasped as he saw Izou lying there; a damp towel on his brow.

"Herzla…"

"He came wandering by here the night before last, drunk as a skunk," Herzla explained. "I took him in, but he had a bit of a bad turn yesterday afternoon. He's been resting since." She finished with a small smile.

Derby stepped into the cottage, and crouched down by the bed, groaning as he knelt down. Izou opened his eyes.

"B-boss," he stammered; his voice was as weak as he looked. "I-I'm sorry, I should have called in sick." The old bearded man smiled, shaking his head.

"That'll be quite enough of that," insisted Derby. "You stay in bed and get well again. You're in good hands here."

He looked Izou up and down, his heart sickening at the sight. The younger man looked like he'd been through the ringer. What on earth had happened to him?

He looked back to Herzla. "Mind if we talked outside?" Herzla nodded, and led the way out of the cottage.

"Herzla, what's going on?" he asked. "What the hell happened to him?"

"Like I said, he had a bad turn." Herzla glanced towards the door. "He fell hard, so I helped him up."

Derby felt a pang of fear.

"Herzla… you know he hates the Oni, right?"

"Hated," Herzla corrected him. "Until yesterday, I hope."

"What do you mean?"

Herzla looked back at him; a strange look he could not quite place.

"His people and mine are trapped in a wheel, Mr. Derby. I could have left him alone but… he needed helping. And I wanted that wheel to stop."

"I see."

He decided that it was best to ask no more. What had happened there was between Herzla and Izou, and not for him to pry into. When Izou was ready, he would explain himself.

To think he would rest in her home, knowing who and what she was.

He bade Herzla good day, and started back down the path. The sun was shining, and he could see Melville and the yard. The new warehouses were ready, and there would be plenty more to do before this job was done.

But for now, he could feel relieved.

"Newgate…" he whispered. "Izou… is healing."

And he continued on his way, back to Melville, and his work, and the rest of his life.

He hoped Izou wouldn't be too long.

Bet ya'll didn't expect an Izou interlude did ya!

Big thanks to Juubi-K for writing this up, and of course, WildJoker000 and IKnowNothing for their help.

This was a very important chapter for us, and for Izou too. He was at rock bottom, and would have died of a heart attack from the drinking and bad mental state. He was stuck in the wheel... and someone had to make that wheel stop, even if they were justified to keep that wheel spinning.

We have more chapters written up, they just need some polishing down the line too.

The nod to Parasyte I was referencing to in thread of course wasn't the "LOCK IN" meme, but of Shinichi and Mitsuyo(the old lady's conversation). It always stuck with me how a lady like her, who only appearing in one episode, would have such a profound impact on our MC. As for Herzla, there's clues. Just gotta look for them

Hope you all enjoyed. And Happy Memorial Day. Chapter 65 should drop in a couple of days too.