Taking break after this chapter till further notice. thanks for all the support
The cannonball sailed through the empty air, a perfect arc of destruction. Three hundred pounds of solid iron, hurled with enough force to shatter oak and claim lives. A guaranteed kill shot.
One second passed. No explosion.
Two seconds. No splintering wood, no screams.
Three seconds. Just... silence.
Someone swallowed. The sound seemed too loud in the stillness. "...Huh?"
HOLLOW FANG PIRATES - CAPTAIN GARROT GARRON
(AKA "GARROT THE CANNIBAL")
A pirate with an annoying smile and a terrible reputation.
Garrot's grin twitched. Just barely. A microscopic falter that sent ripples of unease through his crew. His fingers tightened on the ship's railing, wood creaking beneath his grip.
"The hell was that?" He scoffed, but there was an edge to it now. "A dud?"
He adjusted his shades, squinting toward the spot where the cannonball should have turned wood into floating wreckage. His men were still frozen, staring at the water, waiting for an explosion that refused to come. The air felt wrong somehow. Heavy. Like the moment before a storm breaks, but worse.
Garrot exhaled through his nose, fingers drumming against the hilt of his cutlass. The familiar rhythm of steel on steel did nothing to settle the crawling sensation between his shoulder blades. He wasn't worried. Not yet. But the silence felt off—like a joke everyone but him was in on.
A few of his men shifted uneasily. Weapons rattled. Boots scraped against wood. Someone whispered something that made their neighbor flinch. It wasn't just the cannonball. Something felt—
"Who of you is the captain?"
The voice cut through the air like a blade. Casual. Unhurried. As if asking about the weather.
The pirates snapped to attention, bodies tensing as they turned toward the sound. Weapons raised. Breath caught.
And there he was.
Perched on the upper deck like he'd materialized from shadow itself. One knee raised, an arm draped over it with deliberate laziness. Head tilted slightly—studying them. Like he'd been there the whole time, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to speak.
Then Garrot's grin stretched wider. Too wide. All teeth and no warmth.
"What do we have here?" His voice boomed across the deck, bravado masking the first threads of unease. "A fucking hero wannabe?" His laugh echoed, sharp and harsh. "Do you know that you just stepped foot on the most dangerous ship in the entire Grand Line?"
The figure above them didn't move. Didn't tense. Just... smiled. A small thing. Quiet. Like he knew something they didn't.
Garrot's grin faltered. Just for a moment. But he was a man who'd carved his reputation from flesh and bone, who'd earned his nickname one screaming victim at a time. He didn't understand fear. Not yet.
His men raised their weapons—muskets, pistols, a forest of steel aimed at the silent figure above. Their captain's laughter echoed across the deck again, too loud, too sharp. Covering something that felt increasingly like uncertainty.
"Shoot."
The command cracked through the air like thunder. Triggers pulled. Gunpowder ignited. Metal screamed toward flesh—
And passed through nothing.
The bullets continued their journey, harmless, useless, leaving their target completely untouched. As if he wasn't even there. As if he was nothing but a ghost.
Confusion rippled through the crew. Pirates looked at each other, then their weapons, then back again. Hands trembled. Throats went dry.
"Did you guys fucking miss?" Garrot snarled, fury masking his own growing unease. He spun back toward their target, mouth opening to spew more threats—
Red.
Red.
RED.
Eyes like bleeding stars stared back at him. A kaleidoscopic pattern that spun and spun and spun, hypnotic and terrible. Reality seemed to warp around those eyes, bending inward like it was being pulled into their depths.
Garrot stumbled backward. His legs betrayed him, sending him crashing to the deck. Fear—real, gut-wrenching fear—clawed up his throat.
"KILL HIM!" The scream tore from his lips, desperate and shrill. No longer a captain's command but a prey's plea. "KILL HIM NOW!"
No one moved. No one wanted to.
Then Sykes stepped forward.
Sykes, who always ran his mouth about glory.
Sykes, who never shut up about how captains only respect the strong.
Sykes, who swore he'd be the next big name on the seas.
He felt their eyes on him—his crew, his captain, all watching. Judging.
If he hesitated now, he was nothing.
His fingers clenched around the hilt of his cutlass. This was his moment.
Sykes roared. He charged.
A sharp inhale. The scrape of boots against the deck.
Then—a battle cry.
Obito didn't turn his head, but he heard the rush of footsteps, the frantic clatter of steel against sweat-slick palms. One idiot had taken the bait.
Interesting.
He shifted. Not a full movement—just a subtle shift of weight, like a shadow adjusting to the flicker of a candle.
Sykes swung. A perfect, downward arc. A textbook execution. If he'd been fighting anyone else, it might've worked.
It didn't.
Obito's arm snapped out. A single, fluid motion.
His fingers closed around Sykes' throat.
For a second—just a second—there was silence. The blade hung in the air, inches from Obito's shoulder.
Then he yanked.
Sykes' feet left the ground. His weapon clattered to the deck, forgotten.
A wet, choking sound. A frantic struggle. Hands clawing at the vice around his neck.
Obito's head tilted slightly, like a man idly considering his options.
Then, in one clean motion—he ripped.
The sound was wet. Something tore.
Sykes' body hit the deck with a dull thud.
Something warm splattered against Garrot's cheek. He flinched. He didn't want to look.
But he did.
And then he wished he hadn't.
Because Obito was still holding something.
And Sykes was no longer fighting back.
A thud. Something wet hit the deck. Garrot's stomach lurched.
Silence.
Then—a ragged, panicked yell.
"BASTARD!"
It came from somewhere in the crowd. Someone who hadn't been fast enough. Someone who had watched—frozen, helpless—as their friend was slaughtered.
"HE WAS LIKE OUR BROTHER, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"
A few of them moved. Hesitant, unsure. Hands clenched tighter around their weapons, knuckles white.
Because what else could they do?
They stepped forward. One of them set his jaw, teeth bared, breath shaky but resolved.
We can't let him get away with this.
They didn't want to.
They were terrified.
But they had to.
He moved first. Not because he thought he would win.
Because he had to.
He lunged, blade swinging wildly, trying to reclaim even a shred of control.
Obito moved.
He sidestepped, seized the man's wrist, twisted—
CRACK.
A scream. A knee to the gut. The pirate folded in half before hitting the deck.
The others who had stepped forward froze for half a second—long enough to realize their mistake.
Two of them moved at once. A synchronized attack. A good idea—in theory.
One came from behind, the other from the front. A perfect pincer.
Obito leaned back.
A blade whizzed past his face, close enough to shave skin. Close enough that the pirate thought—just for a second—that he'd hit him.
He didn't.
Obito grabbed his wrist. Then drove his elbow down—CRACK.
The pirate screamed as his forearm shattered, bending in a direction it was never meant to. The sword clattered to the deck, useless.
The second pirate—still lunging—thrust his sword straight for Obito's heart.
A direct kill shot. Precise. Final.
The blade phased through him.
Like slicing through mist.
Like he wasn't even real.
The pirate barely had a second to process the cold, unnatural horror of it before the tip of his sword buried itself into his own crewmate's gut.
A sharp gasp. A slow, wet choke.
The man he'd accidentally run through collapsed.
Silence, again.
And then—movement.
More pirates rushed in. Some still hesitant. Some even reluctant. But they had to.
Their pride wouldn't allow them to stand there and watch their brothers die like insects.
One of them cocked a pistol. A solid click, a breath of stillness—then, he fired.
Obito tilted his head.
The bullet sailed past. Not even grazing him.
What—
He barely had a second to think before a wooden spike suddenly shot forward—straight into his forehead.
The pirate dropped.
Another came swinging from above. A wild arc, full of panic.
Obito ducked.
Then kicked—hard.
A solid, crushing blow to the chest. The man was sent flying. He hit the deck skidding, rolling—stopped moving.
Another charged.
Obito sidestepped, grabbed the back of his head, and drove his knee into his gut.
A dry heave. A choking gag. The pirate crumpled, vomiting.
And that's when it finally hit them.
The realization.
This wasn't a fight.
This wasn't some rookie Marine patrol or bar brawl or rival crew skirmish.
This was a massacre.
And they were on the wrong side of it.
Their breaths turned shaky. Hands trembled around hilts and triggers.
Someone—one of the braver ones, maybe, or just the most desperate—stammered, "H-he's just one guy! If we all—"
"STOP HESITATING!"
Garrot's snarl cut through the tension like a gunshot.
He wasn't smiling anymore.
He wasn't mocking anymore.
He was desperate.
"GET HIM, OR I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU ALL MYSELF!"
They hesitated.
Then moved as one.
A unanimous decision. No words exchanged—just a collective snarl, a lunge, a desperate attempt to end this nightmare.
They surrounded him.
Encircled him.
Obito didn't wait.
Before the noose could tighten, he lunged.
One of the pirates—sword raised high for a downward slash—never got the chance to swing.
A kick to the gut.
Crushing. Breath-stealing. A direct hit that sent him crumpling to the deck, motionless.
Another came from behind. An axe, gleaming, descending.
Obito ducked.
Then returned a chakra-enhanced punch so violent it nearly twisted the man's head a full 360 degrees.
Another.
This one aimed for his foot. A low sweep, meant to trip him.
Obito jumped.
In the same motion, two more attacked from either side, swords raised for twin overhead slashes.
No time to land properly.
So, he didn't.
Instead, he kicked—legs splitting outward, both feet slamming into their heads.
The twin attackers collapsed.
And Obito?
He came crashing down—right on top of the third pirate.
A fist drove into his skull, sending him straight through the wooden boards below.
More men joined the fray.
At first, they could barely perceive him. He was too fast. A blur, a phantom, a demon moving through them without pause, without hesitation, without effort.
But then… he slowed.
Not much. Just enough.
A slice to his left. Close—but the attacker was kicked so hard into the mast it cracked down the middle.
Two more lunged.
Obito dodged back. Fluid, precise—
But in that split second.
In that single breath of movement.
A gap.
One of them saw it.
An opening. A real, tangible, killable opening.
"ATTTAAAAAAACK!"
The yell shattered the air.
Every pirate— every single one of them —moved at once.
Swords.
Axes.
Bullets.
An entire storm of death, crashing down in that single perfect moment.
For a breath, they saw it.
A vision of victory.
They would subdue this fucker.
They would win.
Wrong.
The first sword should've cut into flesh.
It slipped through air.
The second. The third. The tenth.
The axes? Useless.
The bullets? Pointless.
Nothing hit.
Because he wasn't there.
And by the time they realized—
It was too late.
The last thing they saw before their world shattered into red, red, red—
Was his eyes.
And now—now they understood.
The fear, the primal, gut-wrenching, world-collapsing horror that their captain had felt just minutes before.
Obito stood at the center of their ranks, untouched. Untouchable.
One pirate—a young one, barely a man—staggered back.
Then another. And another.
"He's—he's a devil—"
A mistake.
Obito tilted his head. A casual, almost amused observation.
"You're all bunched together."
Before they could even comprehend what that meant—
Katon: Gōka Mekkyaku. (Fire style: Great Fire Annihilation)
It's the last thing they hear before the world ignites.
A wall of fire erupts forward, not fast—but consuming. It devours the deck, swallowing everything in its path. Wood blackens and curls before it even makes contact. The air turns molten, thick with the scent of burning hair, flesh, fear.
The screams start almost immediately.
They are not the cries of men in battle. They are something worse.
Some pirates run. A futile, panicked instinct. The fire chases them, licking at their heels, pulling them back into the inferno.
Some drop, rolling, desperate—as if they could smother it.
Some simply freeze.
The heat is unbearable. It does not pass—it lingers, suffocating, alive. It clings to skin, to clothes, to lungs.
The ship groans, wood cracking beneath the heat. The very air is warped— there was no distinction between fire and oxygen anymore.
And then—finally—the screams begin to die down.
Not because the fire is gone.
Because there is no one left to scream.
The flames retreat only when they are satisfied. The deck is barely recognizable. Bodies are still standing. Some charred. Some hunched. Some collapsed in on themselves—frozen in the moment of their last agony.
One man, miraculously alive, wheezes. His voice is wet, hoarse, a breath away from death.
"M—monster…"
His skin is peeling. His clothes are fused to his body. He does not fall—not yet.
But he will.
They all will.
...
...
...
The second ship had been watching. Not by choice. Not really.
Their eyes were drawn to the flagship like moths to flame—quite literally now, as another explosion tore through its hull. Fire reached toward the darkening sky, painting the clouds in shades of amber and blood.
Through the growing inferno, screams reached them. Not battle cries. Not the familiar sounds of combat. These were... different.
Primal.
"What the hell's happening over there?" A pirate at the starboard rail didn't so much ask as exhale the words, fingers white-knuckled around his rifle.
Their commander—a man whose massive gut and perpetual scowl had earned him equal parts respect and mockery—clicked his tongue. The sound cut through the ambient chaos like a blade, sharp with forced dismissal.
"Tch. Probably just some idiot who burned down the kitchen." His voice carried the kind of artificial confidence that comes from decades of pretending not to be afraid. "Nothing to—"
"Actually, I'm pretty sure they're all dead."
The new voice arrived like a splinter of ice down the spine. Casual. Almost cheerful. As if commenting on particularly nice weather.
The commander turned. Slowly. Each degree of rotation carrying the weight of growing dread.
There was a boy sitting on the ship's rim.
No. Not a boy. Something older lived behind... well, where eyes should have been. He perched there with impossible balance, one leg dangling over the edge, the other drawn up to his chest. In his hands, a kitchen knife caught the firelight from the burning flagship. He was cleaning it. Methodically. Like this was just another chore to be completed before dinner.
The crew collectively hesitated. Muscles tensed. Hands twitched toward weapons. But no one moved. The very air felt wrong.
"Who..." The commander's throat worked, suddenly dry. "Who the hell are you?"
The intruder tilted his head. The motion was too smooth, too precise. Like watching a predator calculate angles.
"Bringer of doomsday?" A smile played at the corners of his mouth. Not cruel. Worse. Amused .
The commander's brow furrowed, confusion momentarily overriding instinct. "Bringer of wha—?"
"Oh, don't worry." The smile widened, showing teeth. "You'll get it very soon."
The words had barely registered when one of the crew—probably some guy with anger issues—snapped.
"Enough of this crap—!" He aimed his pistol and fired.
Bang.
Shisui was gone.
The bullet hit nothing.
The commander barely had time to process before a gust of wind tore through the deck.
A blur.
A scream.
Blood sprayed into the air as a pirate's arm spun, severed clean from the shoulder. The man collapsed, shrieking.
Blood sprayed as one man collapsed, clutching the space where his arm used to be. Another turned, reaching for his sword, but before his fingers could even brush the hilt, a sharp, wet sound filled the air—
Thud.
His sword arm was gone.
Panic.
The first sparks of real fear took hold, the crew collectively taking a step back as more bodies fell, as more limbs vanished into the night like they had never existed to begin with. They swung wildly, shot blindly—but their bullets hit nothing. Their blades cut only air.
One pirate barely caught a glimpse of something—a silhouette, a flicker of movement—before pain bloomed in his chest, and he was thrown back like a ragdoll.
The commander stumbled, breath coming fast, eyes darting in every direction. Where was he?
He looked up.
There, perched atop the mast, framed by the eerie glow of the flames behind him, was the kid.
Shisui sat, one leg propped up, resting his arm against his knee, his other leg swinging slightly, casual, relaxed—like he was simply enjoying the view. The bloodied kitchen knife twirled in his fingers before he flicked it once, sending stray drops of crimson falling to the deck below.
For the first time since stepping onto this ship, the lighthearted expression slipped from his face.
What replaced it was nothing.
A blank, indifferent look. No rage, no malice—just complete, dispassionate detachment. And somehow, that was worse.
"I'll show you," he murmured, voice carrying across the stunned deck.
"Why people feared the Teleporter."
For a moment, the battlefield holds its breath.
Then, Shisui moves.
The knife leaves his hand, vanishing into the air—before a wet, sickening thunk sounds from below.
A pirate stumbles back, eyes wide in disbelief. The blade is buried in his chest, right between the ribs. He gasps, a sharp, rattling inhale.
Before he even hits the floor—
Shisui is there.
A foot slams into his face, caving it in, sending his body flying off the ship like discarded trash.
The knife is airborne again.
Another pirate barely has time to register movement before it buries itself in the center of his forehead. He doesn't even scream—just crumples.
Shisui is already gone.
Another flicker—another target.
A pirate yelps as something sharp tears through his thigh. He stumbles—Shisui appears right in front of him, catching his chin with an elbow that snaps his jaw sideways.
Another blur.
A man feels something sharp prick his spine. His body locks up. His mouth opens to scream—
Snap.
He crumples forward, neck twisted at an unnatural angle.
Then it happens all at once.
A knife in a shoulder—Shisui is there.
A knife in a ribcage—Shisui is there.
A knife in a gut—Shisui is there.
Teleport. Slash. Rip. Flick. The entire battlefield turns into a slaughterhouse, a synchronized ballet of death.
The pirates panic.
They shoot wildly—hitting nothing but air. Hitting each other.
The knife keeps flying, keeps piercing, keeps ending lives.
Their numbers dwindle.
Then—
Stillness.
The storm stops.
Shisui stands in the center of the carnage, covered in their blood, droplets dripping off his blade.
The remaining pirates don't move. They don't breathe.
Shisui tilts his head. Eyes unreadable.
Then—he tucks the knife away.
And starts weaving signs.
The moment Shisui's hands start weaving signs, the remaining pirates snap out of their daze.
A fool's hope sparks in their eyes.
He put away the knife. He's done.
They are so, so wrong.
Katon: Hōsenka no Jutsu. (Fire style: Pheonix Flower Jutsu)
Small fireballs burst from his mouth—scattering like embers in the wind before suddenly curving, twisting, and homing in on the pirates.
Then the screaming starts.
One by one, flames latch onto them like living things, crawling up their bodies, sinking into their flesh. Some try to slap the fire away—it only spreads faster. Others drop to the floor, rolling, but the fire doesn't suffocate. It feeds.
They burn.
They burn alive.
Their skin blackens, peels, bubbles. Some try to run, but their legs crumple beneath them, eaten away by the flames. Some reach for their crewmates—only to be shoved aside, abandoned, trampled by the very people they fought beside moments ago.
Chaos turns to desperation. Desperation turns to silence.
The commander watches it all, frozen in horror.
He can't comprehend it.
A single man—a single boy—did all this.
His crew, his comrades, his future—turned to cinders before his very eyes.
What the fuck have they done?
A fireball surges toward him. His eyes go wide.
He doesn't even get to scream.
The flames engulf him whole.
In mere moments, the deck is covered in charred corpses, the air thick with the putrid stench of burning flesh. The ship itself groans, wood cracking and splintering as the fire hungrily eats away at it.
But Shisui isn't done.
He exhales sharply, the flames at his lips dying out. Then he lifts his gaze to the sky.
To the final act.
He flickers—vanishing from the burning deck—
And reappears above, high in the air, silhouetted against the moon.
Hands moving again.
This time, the seals are different.
This time, there is no escape.
...
Shisui was unlike Obito… or any other Uchiha for that matter.
He was kind-hearted, approachable, and he truly cared.
(He was a coward.)
That's why it seemed like he was different. Different from other Uchiha. He knew what good was. He didn't let love and hatred destroy his mind.
(But he let jealousy do so. His poor former teammate would agree.)
That's why, when he saw those survivors—the state they were in—
He remembered.
(He remembered.)
And oh boy, did it fucking piss him off.
Shisui's hands move faster than the eye can follow.
Tiger. Serpent. Dragon.
The flames in his chest twist, coil, and rage.
Then—he splits.
Four more Shisuis flicker into existence beside him, hanging weightless in the air like vengeful ghosts. Five pairs of identical hands weave the final seal.
Katon: Gōryūka no Jutsu. (Fire Style: Great Dragon Flame Jutsu)
Five colossal fire dragons erupt from their mouths—
Five blazing, snarling behemoths, twisting through the sky, their molten eyes locked onto the ship below.
For the briefest moment, the remaining pirates look up.
They don't even have time to pray.
The first dragon crashes down, swallowing the entire mast in one gulp. The second rips across the deck, sending burning bodies flying. The third, fourth, and fifth strike all at once, engulfing the entire ship in an explosion of fire and fury.
The ship doesn't just burn.
It detonates.
A shockwave ripples through the air, sending debris and ash in every direction. Charred planks, half-melted weapons, what's left of the mast—obliterated, turned to nothing but embers and smoke. The stench of seared flesh clings to the wind, thick and nauseating.
Nothing remains.
No bodies. No survivors. Just ash.
Above it all, Shisui hovers in the night sky, silhouetted against the inferno. The clones beside him dissolve, their purpose is complete. He watches the destruction below—expression unreadable.
Then, with a final glance at the carnage he wrought, he lets himself fall.
...
...
...
Garrot runs.
His boots slammed against the charred deck as he sprinted through the wreckage. Panting, wheezing, wheezing, panting. The scent of burning flesh clogged his throat, but he kept moving. Needed to live. Needed to survive.
"This isn't real."
"This isn't happening."
"That THING"
His mind is screaming at him to move faster. Faster. Get off this godforsaken ship. Get to a lifeboat. Get anywhere but here.
He risks a glance over his shoulder.
The fire still rages behind him. Bodies litter the deck. Shadows dance in the flames, twisting in unnatural shapes.
But no sign of him.
No black cloak. No red eyes.
No demon haunting his heels.
Garrot swallows, his throat tight. His pulse pounds in his ears as he reaches a corner, barely slowing down before whipping around it—
And slamming into something.
Something solid. Unyielding.
Not a wall.
His stomach lurches. His knees nearly buckle. Every nerve in his body screams at him to move—to turn, to run, to do anything—
But he already knows.
Dread crawls up his spine, settling in his throat like a stone. Slowly, shakily, he lifts his gaze.
Red.
Swirling tomoes. A slow spin, hypnotic and dreadful.
Obito towers over him, head tilted slightly—like he's amused.
"Where do you think you're going?"
Obito saw the exact moment Garrot snapped.
Fight or flight was supposed to be a choice. Run or resist. But sometimes—when the mind fully broke—it became neither.
It just lashed out.
Garrot lunged.
No plan. No thought. Just raw, animalistic desperation.
His fist swung wild, cutting through the air toward Obito's face.
Obito didn't move.
Not right away.
Instead, he watched. Curious.
The attack had no discipline, no weight behind it—just a man flailing at a nightmare, hoping to land a hit by sheer force of will.
Pathetic.
Obito exhaled through his nose.
Then—a blur of movement.
His hand shot up, catching Garrot's wrist mid-swing.
Tight grip. Like iron.
Unshakable.
For a moment, they stood frozen.
A predator, staring down its prey.
Garrot twitched. His teeth clenched. Then—
Shhhkk.
Something peeled.
A strange, wet rip.
Obito's fingers curled around dry, dead skin.
And suddenly—he wasn't holding Garrot's wrist anymore.
He was holding the entire arm.
Detached. Shed.
The limb slumped to the floor, lifeless and hollow.
Obito's gaze flickered downward.
The skin was flaking apart, curling at the edges like a dried husk.
A new arm had already regrown in its place—seamless, as if nothing had happened.
Garrot grinned, panting.
Obito blinked.
Then, slowly—
"...Oh, that's disgusting."
Garrot bolted.
Full-speed sprint.
His boots slammed against the deck, weaving between debris, ducking under rigging, throwing barrels behind him to slow pursuit.
Obito moved—
Shhhkk.
A full-body decoy shed.
He left an empty husk of himself behind, a hollow imitation crumpling into itself.
Obito's eye twitched.
Alright. Annoying.
He flicked his wrist.
Wood Style: Nativity of a Sea of Trees.
The deck erupted.
Thick, gnarled roots burst through the floorboards, curling toward Garrot, twisting together into a cage of solid bark.
Garrot barely hesitated.
Shhhkk.
His torso collapsed inward, peeling off like a discarded cocoon.
His new body slipped right through.
Obito's lips pressed into a thin line.
"Persistent little bastard."
Garrot let out a shaky, breathless cackle.
"I CAN DO THIS ALL DAY, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"
His voice was wavering.
Like even he didn't believe himself anymore.
Obito's eye narrowed.
This wasn't just some trick.
This wasn't just a quirk.
It was a problem.
Every hit—shed.
Every restraint—shed.
Every attack—useless.
But—
No.
Not every part.
Obito's Sharingan tracked the patterns.
Garrot lunged again, fist cocked back—
Obito dodged. Let him try.
No shed.
A wild kick—shed.
A grabbed wrist—shed.
But—
Obito's gaze sharpened.
He still hadn't shed his head.
That's it.
That's the limit.
Obito exhaled.
"Figured it out."
Garrot turned—
A fist slammed between his eyes.
CRACK.
His vision snapped black.
His body crumpled instantly. Face-first.
Unconscious before he hit the deck.
Obito sighed through his nose, shaking out his hand.
"Well," he muttered, stepping over the bastard's collapsed form.
"That was annoying."
Another explosion rocked the sea once more,coming from the third and final ship that scattered flames and debris across the dark waters. Obito barely spared it a glance as he adjusted Garrot's unconscious form over his shoulder, the dead weight a fitting trophy for such an annoying chase. His gaze swept over the burning wreckage, cataloging the destruction with the detached efficiency of someone who'd seen too many things burn to find it remarkable anymore.
He assumed Shisui was finished by now—he should be. As if summoned by the thought, Shisui landed lightly behind him. "You done here too?"
Obito rolled his eyes, still slightly irritated at how long the chase had taken. "This one took a while, but the job is done."
Shisui's head tilted, confusion evident in the subtle shift of his posture. "Took a while?"
Obito just exhaled through his nose. "Let's head back."
Space warped, reality bending inward like cloth caught in a drain. When it snapped back into place, they stood on their own deck. He dropped Garrot's body unceremoniously, but something immediately caught his attention.
But before Obito could even dust his hands off, his gaze snapped toward the survivors' ship moored beside theirs.
They were outside—of course they were. Humans and their cursed curiosity. The man who had tried to warn them earlier stood with two others, their faces painted with the kind of awe usually reserved for natural disasters and divine miracles. They stared at the burning remnants of the Hollow Fang Pirates' fleet like children watching their nightmares take physical form, their expressions caught between disbelief and dawning horror.
Obito glanced at Shisui. Shisui shrugged. No words needed to be exchanged; they both understood. It seemed Shisui would play the gentle monster once again.
The men remained frozen, their eyes locked onto the inferno that used to be a fleet. Then, because some lessons about staying put never quite stick, a figure appeared before them, balanced on their ship's rim casually.
"Didn't I tell you guys to stay inside? You could've gotten hurt," Shisui said, his voice deliberately softened, like someone trying not to startle a cornered animal.
It didn't work. It never really does.
The man who had warned them earlier stepped back with startled look. More interesting were the other two, instantly moving to shield him with the kind of coordinated protection that spoke of practice. That's odd.
Shisui blinked, genuine confusion breaking through his careful facade before he raised his hands in a gesture of peace. "Relax. I'm not gonna hurt you. If I wanted to kill you, you'd already be dead."
The blunt honesty seemed to work. The men's postures softened as the reality of their situation sank in. The man they were protecting still watched Shisui warily, his mouth opening and closing before he finally found his voice.
"Who are you?"
The words had barely left his mouth when Obito appeared, walking toward them from the side. His mask caught the orange glow of the distant fires as he spoke.
"No," Obito's voice cut through the night air, sharp and direct. "Who are you ?"
His attention fixed solely on the man being protected. "I noticed it before. You are of importance to these people. When you were huddled earlier, all of them made sure to keep you at their center, as if shielding you from danger." He took another step forward, his tone demanding but not hostile. "Who are you, for them to act like this?"
The man inhaled sharply, as if gathering himself. Obito's observations seemed to have caught him off guard. And it didn't seem like Obito would take no for an answer.
And then, finally, he exhaled.
Something shifts in his posture. Subtle. Almost imperceptible. But Obito sees it—the way his spine straightens, how his chin lifts a fraction of an inch. Muscle memory breaking through disguise. A crown's phantom weight settling on shoulders that have never truly forgotten its burden.
"You saw it in the way they moved." It's not a question. His spine straightens unconsciously—royal bearing breaking through commoner's clothes like sunlight through storm clouds. "The way they shielded me."
One of his protectors shifts closer, the motion fluid, instinctive. Even now, even after everything—muscle memory remains. Guard the king. Shield the king. Die for the king.
Obito's head tilts slightly. "Your people's loyalty runs deeper than fear."
A bitter smile touches the king's lips. His hands—once soft with privilege, now calloused by exile—clench at his sides. "They have lost everything for that loyalty."
Shisui settles more comfortably on his perch, legs crossing. The casual motion does nothing to dispel the weight of his attention. "Tell us."
The king's eyes drift toward the burning horizon. Firelight paints his face in gold, and for a moment, he seems to see something else in those flames. Something lost...
"My people called me King Davos... That title no longer belongs to me."
"Our island..." His voice softens with memory. "We were known for our golden streams. Natural formations—rivers that caught sunlight and held it, turned it to flowing gold. Travelers would come from across the seas just to witness the phenomenon." Pride creeps into his tone, then dies. "We were happy, once. Simple. Feudal, yes, but our people thrived."
He swallows. His protectors move closer, offering silent support.
"Then the World Government discovered something else in our soil. A resource." His lips twist around the word. "They never told us what it was for. Only that they needed it. Desperately." A hollow laugh. "They came with contracts, with promises. Development. Protection. Progress."
Shisui's eyes narrow slightly. The king's fingers dig into his palms.
"I agreed. Of course I agreed. What king wouldn't want prosperity for his people?" His voice cracks. "But then I saw—I saw what their 'progress' meant. Children with bent spines from carrying loads too heavy. Elderly working until their hands split and bled. Mines that swallowed my people whole."
Obito stands perfectly still, Sharingan tracking every micro-expression, every tremor.
"I tried to end it." The king's laugh holds no humor. "Tried to renegotiate. To protect my people. And then—" He stops, throat working. One of his protectors touches his shoulder, steadying him.
"A farmer." The words come out flat. Dead. "Just a simple farmer. No power. No influence. Until suddenly—" His hands spread. "He had weapons. Men. Resources that a farmer should never have. Villages began to burn. People disappeared. His message was simple and clear: surrender the crown, or watch everything burn."
Something dark flickers behind Shisui's eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or memory.
"We begged the World Government for help. For the protection they promised." Bitterness drips from every word. "And all we got back was silence. Our allies? Too far. Too busy. Only the Revolutionary Army answered our call."
His shoulders straighten slightly. "They helped us drive him back. For two years, we had peace. We rebuilt. We hoped."
The silence stretches. Waves lap against the ship's hull.
"Then... he returned." The words fall like stones. "Stronger. More ruthless. The World Government's silence felt... deliberate now. The Revolutionary Army had moved their forcesto the New World—too far to reach us in time." His voice drops to a whisper. "So I chose."
Shame colors his words. "I chose my people's lives over their home. I approached him. Tried to negotiate. Begged him to at least let them stay as civilians. To grant them basic rights in their own homeland."
His eyes close. "'This island is no place for insects.' That's what he said. As he made them kneel. As he drove them from their homes. Children crying. Elderly dying on the roadside. All while he—"
A sharp sound interrupts him. Shisui's snort holds no humor, no warmth. Just recognition of an old, familiar pain.
"Scum really do exist everywhere." The words come out soft, almost gentle. But his eyes unfocus for a moment, seeing another time, another place. Another man who'd burn the world to rule its ashes.
Danzo's faceflickers through his memory—just as cruel, just as certain of his righteousness.
The king watches Shisui's face, recognition dawning in his eyes. "You've seen it too, haven't you?" The question hangs in the air between them. "Men who wrap their cruelty in righteousness. Who'd destroy everything to own anything."
Shisui's smile is sharp as broken glass. "I saw it, until I couldn't anymore."
Silence lingered after Shisui's words. The king's gaze drifted, settling on the charred remains of the Hollow Fang fleet once again. His eyes looked weary, but something else stirred beneath the exhaustion—a flicker of hope.
The king exhales. Slow. Heavy. He looks at his men—the ones who still stand, the ones who trusted him to lead them through this nightmare. His fists clench at his sides.
There's a moment of silence. Not the kind that comes from hesitation, but from calculation. Weighing options. Weighing dignity. Weighing the last scraps of pride against the lives depending on him.
Then, finally—he bows his head. Just slightly. Just enough to mean something.
"I have a request," he says. His voice doesn't waver, but it is careful, measured. "You two are strong—stronger than most people I've ever seen. If anyone could help us take back our home—"
Obito doesn't even let him finish.
"No."
The word was flat, absolute, cutting through the conversation like a guillotine.
The king's lips parted, but nothing came out. His shoulders slumped—not in shock, not even in disappointment. It was an answer he had expected. But somehow, that didn't make it hurt any less.
Shisui exhaled softly, rubbing the back of his neck. He glanced at Obito, who—predictably—was refusing to look at him.
Typical.
Shisui turned back to the king. His voice was gentle, but firm.
"Look," he started. "We would love to help you, but getting involved in another country's business—especially with people like that involved—isn't really in our best interest."
He spread his hands in a vague gesture. "We'd like to stay neutral wherever possible."
The king inhaled deeply, nodding. He didn't argue, didn't plead. He just accepted it.
(That made it worse, somehow.)
Then Shisui smiled.
"But," he added, his tone lightening, "that doesn't mean we won't lend a hand in other ways."
The shift in mood was almost palpable. The king and his men straightened, glancing at each other. There was something in Shisui's voice. Something not quite final.
"You were headed somewhere before the pirates intercepted you, right?" Shisui continued. "Faulkner mentioned it earlier."
The king blinked. "Vira."
Shisui nodded. "Then we'll help you get there."
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then—relief. Pure, unfiltered relief washed over them like a crashing tide.
Bright smiles appeared across the survivors' faces, replacing the exhaustion, the lingering horror. For the first time, they had direction.
The king stepped forward, clasping Shisui's hand in both of his. His grip was steady, but his voice was thick with emotion.
"I don't know how we could ever thank you enough," he said. "You've already saved us from the pirates, and now you're willing to go out of your way to help us reach safety?" He shook his head, letting out a breath that sounded almost like a laugh. "We are very grateful."
Shisui grinned. "It's our pleasure to help."
He released the king's hand and stepped back, turning toward the helm.
"Shall we get going?"