One Piece: Nocturne

The groaning had turned into cracking.

Eira stood at the helm of the damaged pirate vessel, steering it through thick fog as the next island came into view—a modest landmass marked by tall stone cliffs and thick pine forest. Smoke curled lazily from what looked like a port town nestled in the cove below.

She had just enough time to exhale when the deck jolted beneath her feet.

A violent snap rang through the hull.

Her heart dropped.

Another snap. Then the keel split somewhere below.

The wheel spun violently in her hands as the ship pitched to the side, tossing barrels and broken rope across the deck. Water burst through the floorboards at a vicious angle.

"No—no, no, not now—!"

She turned to run, instincts screaming, but her foot skidded on the slick deck. The ship lurched, groaned, and began to sink by the bow.

She couldn't go into the water.

She would die.

The sea called to all Devil Fruit users the same way: like a coffin.

She launched herself toward the highest point on the deck, grabbing the mast's lower crossbeam and clinging tight. Cold wind stung her face as the rest of the ship tilted forward and the stern began to rise.

Her ears flicked. Her tail curled tightly for balance.

Every plank below her was groaning like a dying beast.

Then—crack. The mast she clung to snapped from the pressure, hurling her toward the railing. She landed hard, her ribs screaming.

Think. NOW.

She scrambled upright, sprinted across the shifting deck toward the emergency raft—no sail, barely a float—but it would do.

She shoved it over the edge and leapt after it without hesitation.

Splash.

The cold water swallowed her legs.

She kicked violently, arms clinging to the side of the raft like her life depended on it—because it did. Her limbs were already starting to feel heavier. Her strength was being pulled out of her body by the sea.

Her Devil Fruit was trying to drown her.

She gritted her teeth and kicked once, twice, barely managing to hoist her body half into the raft before slumping inside it like a corpse.

Gasping. Shivering.

Alive.

But barely.

The ruined pirate ship behind her gave one final cry before disappearing beneath the surface, torn apart by its own broken ribs.

By the time she reached the rocky shore, she was coughing up seawater, her coat soaked and too heavy to lift properly.

She rolled onto the pebbles and lay there for what felt like hours. Her muscles ached. Her ears twitched involuntarily from the cold wind. Her lungs burned, but she had never felt more grateful for them.

Eventually, she sat up and began to check her gear.

What she had left:

Her pistol, damp but intact, with two bullets in a soaked magazine.

The log pose, still secure on her wrist (and miraculously still functioning).

The black logbook from the pirate captain's vault, water-damaged but mostly readable.

A pouch of roughly 45,000 Berries, tied to her belt and somehow not lost.

The clothes on her back, now heavy with seawater and blood.

A half-destroyed scarf, still useful for hiding her ears.

That was it.

Everything else—food, supplies, rations, even the flint she used to start fires—was lost beneath the waves.

And now, soaked to the bone and shivering under a slate-gray sky, she stared up at the town on the cliffs above.

This would be her next chance.

If she didn't find shelter or steal some dry clothes soon, she wouldn't survive the night.

She stood slowly, her tail hanging low and dragging in the sand.

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The remains of the ship bobbed behind her—broken planks and rigging swallowed slowly by the waves. Eira lay face down in the wet sand, gasping for breath, coughing up brine that clung to her lungs like poison. Her coat was soaked. Her muscles screamed. The taste of salt and blood burned on her tongue.

She couldn't swim. The Devil Fruit had ensured that.

And yet, she'd made it.

Her stolen ship, already barely holding together, had cracked against the rocks just beyond the cove. The mast snapped like a twig. The hull shattered. She had clung to debris and forced her mind to stay conscious, to keep her body afloat just long enough to reach the shore.

Now she lay there, trembling.

Alive.

When the cold wind hit her again, she slowly rose to her knees, fingers trembling as she inventoried what had survived.

Her soaked clothes and tattered coat

Her pistol, jammed in its holster—two bullets left

The black leather-bound logbook she'd taken from the Mind-Mind Fruit user's vault

The log pose, still miraculously intact and strapped to her wrist

A pouch tied to her belt with a few hundred berries, kept dry in a waxed wrap.

That was it.

She exhaled, breath fogging in the air. The crash site behind her smoldered faintly, smoke curling from the waterlogged remains.

She turned inland, dragging herself up the wet sand and over the grassy bluff.

Selvert revealed itself piece by piece.

It was a trading town, built on tiered cliffs overlooking the Grand Line. Wooden houses with reinforced glass clustered around dockside taverns and cargo holds. Sailors came and went, unloading crates under the watchful eyes of hired mercenaries. The scent of brine, oil, and sea spice hung thick in the air.

To anyone else, it might look quaint.

To Eira, it was a battlefield of opportunity.

She moved through the alleyways like a shadow, keeping her ears down beneath her hood and her tail tightly wound around her waist like a belt. Her coat, salt-stained and ragged, gave her the look of a drifter, one of the many lost in the chaotic churn of Grand Line commerce.

No one noticed her.

Perfect.

Her stomach growled. She hadn't eaten since the day before the shipwreck. Two days now? Maybe three. Her body had burned through everything trying to survive the wreck and swim.

She passed a bakery, the warm scent of meat-filled buns and honeyed rolls igniting a deep hunger.

She waited.

Watched.

A delivery boy set down a crate. The owner argued with a dockhand. A single bun sat on the edge of the cart.

She took it without a sound.

No Devil Fruit tricks. No projection. Just movement—natural, practiced, unseen.

It tasted like heaven.

She took a second one before slipping away again.

By nightfall, she had a map of the streets in her head and three more targets in mind. A weapons shop. A clothing vendor. And a bar with loose lips and looser wallets.

She needed information. She needed supplies.

And above all, she needed to not get caught.

The first real job came that night.

She watched the clothing shop for over an hour—small, run by a single man who left the back door open while sweeping. He counted his coins too loudly and drank too often. She slipped in through the back, swapped her soaked coat for a dry, darker one with tighter cuffs and a looser hood. Something with flexibility.

She left two hundred berries on the counter.

She wasn't ready to be cruel.

Not yet.

The next day, she hit the weapons vendor.

No bullets.

No gunpowder.

Just a small, rusted knife tucked beneath a display. It fit easily in her boot.

She took it.

No regrets.

She needed to survive.

That evening, she listened in the tavern, hidden in a quiet corner beneath the creaking stairs. Sailors spoke of Warlords moving again. Of a marine base that had "gone dark." Of a Cipher Pol agent with a grudge.

And of something else.

The undercurrent.

Black market routes. Ships that didn't sail under flags. Names that bought information or bodies. A world hidden behind trades and treaties.

The underworld.

She drank a weak ale and let the noise wash over her. Her Devil Fruit, still weakened from its clash with the Mind-Mind Fruit, barely responded. She couldn't push emotions right now. Not without exhaustion setting in. But she could feel them.

And fear?

Fear walked these docks.

The kind she understood too well.

Late that night, she climbed to the rooftops and sat alone beneath the half-moon.

This wasn't peace. Not really. But it wasn't the labs. It wasn't the needles. It wasn't glass and metal and screams.

It was wind. Wood. Cold.

And choice.

Eira curled her tail around her legs, pistol resting in her lap. She stared down at the logbook beside her.

Inside, somewhere, was a trail.

She didn't know where it would lead yet.

But she would follow it.

And if the world wanted her dead for being born?

Then maybe it was time to start stealing something more dangerous than food.

Freedom.

One piece at a time.