The sails of the Oro Jackson bellied with wind as the crew pulled away from Whitebeard's fleet, taking with them a tangle of thoughts and one very exuberant guest.
Kozuki Oden was like a rare beast let out of its cage, brimming with curiosity about everything on board. One moment he was at the prow, drinking in the wind with his hair flying. The next he was crowding the helmsman, pointing at the wheel and charts with a chorus of excited "oooohs."
His social energy burned like a bonfire. The Roger Pirates, meanwhile, scattered like doused rice grains, giving him a wide berth.
"Hey, Shanks, is that guy seriously going to adventure with us for a whole year," Buggy whispered from behind the mainmast, sneaking a finger toward Oden.
Shanks chewed a grass stem, hands laced behind his head, eyes never leaving the samurai. "Captain Roger asked for him himself. Of course it's real. Still, he does not look like a pirate. More like a country bumpkin who has never left his village."
"He is a division commander under Whitebeard. If a man like Newgate calls him little brother, he is not simple," Scopper Gaban leaned on the rail polishing his twin axes. His tone was mild. His gaze, hawk-sharp, dissected every move Oden made.
If he was honest, the man looked like a fool.
Kael lounged in a deck chair, sunglasses veiling half his face and a faint smile playing at his lips. He watched like an amused outsider while the silent play unfolded: a crew wary to the point of sidestepping, and a newcomer blissfully unaware. The tableau was ridiculous and strangely charming.
The stalemate broke when the Oro Jackson docked at a bustling commercial island.
"Oooh, what a lively town." Oden was the first over the side. Ame no Habakiri and Enma chimed at his hips as he landed.
He took in the streets with shining eyes, then wheeled and bellowed back to the ship. "Everyone. To celebrate me coming aboard, I will treat you to the finest taste of my homeland Wano. Oden hotpot."
He did not wait for an answer. He vanished into the crowd like a gust.
"Oden hotpot," Shanks and Buggy traded baffled looks.
"Oi, Oden." Gaban sighed and slung his axes. "We had better tail him. Before he starts trouble."
Oden strode through stalls like he owned the place. At a vegetable stand he lifted several fat white radishes and flashed the vendor a bright grin. "These are good."
He ducked into a tofu shop, scooped up still-warm aburaage, and clapped the owner on the shoulder. "Great craft."
Fish balls, konnyaku threads, knotted kelp. Everywhere he went he took what he needed, left a gusty thank-you, and moved on. Paying never crossed his mind. In Oden's logic, sharing good food was the right thing to do, which meant ingredients were naturally free.
The vendors froze, then exploded. Shouts chased him down the street.
"Hey, samurai. Stop right there."
"Thief. He is taking things and not paying."
Behind him, Gaban palmed his forehead. A headache pulsed between his eyes. Shanks and Buggy stood thunderstruck, Buggy's jaw practically on the cobbles. "So he really is a fool."
Thick-necked men with bad eyes began to close from the alleys, common clothes doing a poor job of hiding tattoos and bulging waistlines. Local toughs. The scarred leader blocked Oden's path and sneered. "Outsider. You do not take from these streets without asking us."
Oden stopped with an armful of ingredients and scratched his head, honestly puzzled. "I am only borrowing some food to make everyone a delicious pot of oden. Is that not a happy thing."
"Happy," Scarface barked a laugh. "Think we are idiots. Boys, teach him the rules."
Steel flashed. Seven or eight thugs surged with blades and truncheons.
"Good grief," Gaban muttered, but he did not step in. He glanced at Shanks and Buggy instead.
They met eyes and moved as one. Whatever they thought of this weirdo, he was under the Roger flag now. No two-bit gang was laying hands on him.
"Hey, you lot. You want a fight," Shanks drew his rapier, small body braced between Oden and the rush.
"I am no pushover," Buggy fanned throwing knives and struck a pose.
Oden blinked at the two kids in front of him. Then he threw his head back and laughed. "Oooh, together then. Fun."
He set his ingredients down with care, took his swords in both hands, and moved.
"Gun Modoki."
Steel flashed like lightning. The first two thugs did not see what hit them. A tsunami of force lifted them and hurled them through a line of stalls.
"Oh. Nice," Shanks' eyes lit. He parried a chopping blade with a neat snap.
"Do not underestimate us," Buggy's knives traced snake-curves that had three men flailing.
Gaban's smile tugged higher. He waded in. The big axes wheeled with heavy gusts. No one came close.
It was less a fight than a flattening. Oden's cuts were grand and inexorable. Gaban was a rock, deadly and effortless. Shanks and Buggy, young but well drilled under Kael's tender mercies, moved with crisp timing, defending and striking back with cheeky precision.
In under five minutes the street was carpeted with groaning gangsters.
Oden sheathed his blades and looked at the three at his side. His grin broke like sunlight. "You are strong. Hahaha."
Shanks and Buggy panted, faces flushed with pure excitement. That brief moment shoulder to shoulder had burned away the last of their wariness.
"You are the monster here," Gaban said, wiping imaginary dust from an axe edge. There was approval in it.
…
That night a huge iron pot rose on the Oro Jackson's deck. Oden played chef with gusto, trimming and dropping the day's "finds" into a simmering, fragrant broth.
The stock, a careful blend of sea fish and kombu, was the soul of the dish.
Soon a perfume of sweet radish, springy fish balls, and soy richness wrapped the ship.
"Hey, is this really food," Buggy hovered over the pot, dubious eyes on the melting mix.
"Try it," Roger was first with a bowl, piling it high and slurping broth and all.
"Mmm. Delicious. This daikon has drunk the soup dry. Subarashii."
The line formed fast.
"Whoa, these fish cakes have bounce."
"The tofu melts on the tongue."
Shanks and Buggy ate till their cheeks shone, barely able to talk between mouthfuls. Gaban cradled his bowl and ate in silence, satisfaction easy on his face.
Kael took a bowl and held it out. "A little of everything."
He lifted a jewel-clear wedge of radish to his mouth. The warm broth bloomed across his tongue. A familiar sweetness rose, clean and deep, and he stilled a fraction.
How long had it been since that taste.
A faint sense of being split in two drifted through him.
The party ran deep into the night. Oden sat at the center, swigging, singing, and flinging his arms as he spun stories of Wano. Shanks and Buggy had become his shadows, each "Oden-ani" louder than the last.
Roger flung an arm around Oden's neck and drank like a man who had found a new favorite song. He glanced past the circle to where Kael ate his oden alone, and his grin stretched easier.
On deck, the clink of cups, roaring laughter, and the steamy halo lifting from the pot braided together until even the last little itch of strangeness burned off.
From this night on, Kozuki Oden was no loaner, no hired tool. He was one of the Roger Pirates.
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