All the crew had returned. Teach climbed up from the deep water, dripping and breathing a little hard. The signs were obvious: he had just finished another brutal training session beneath the waves.
He spread the West Blue map on the table, picked up a pen, and marked Crody Island. Then he circled Trade Island, Modern Island, and the Kraken Kingdom. The three points formed a triangle. Starting from Crody Island, through Modern Island, and finally to the Kraken Kingdom, he drew the route the Nightfall Pirates would sail next.
On a tiny West Blue isle called Dovi, a single village of a few hundred people hugged the shore. Behind the village a low mountain rose, and on that mountain sat a small temple. Three lives belonged to that temple: an old monk and two young novices.
"Bones, Clemons, go fetch water," the old monk said, and the boys obeyed.
"Okay, Master," they answered. They headed for the spring behind the mountain and came back quickly with two buckets each. Bones, only nine, and Clemons, twelve, moved like children who had been raised by discipline. Both wore the simple robes of warrior monks. Clemons had a character tattooed on his chest; Bones carried another. Both had been adopted by the old monk.
As they walked, Clemons glanced at Bones. "Have you noticed more people coming by lately? The incense is stronger and we get better food."
Bones nodded. "Ever since the Great Pirate Era, more pirates come through. Master's reputation keeps the worst away."
The village had been scorched by piracy before. Once there were a thousand souls, now barely half remained. The old monk had driven off marauders more than once, and the villagers had learned to post watchers by the shore. When a ship appeared, the lookout's cry went out and the village packed in minutes.
The cry went up again that morning. From the hill, a villager raised his spyglass and shouted, "Pirates! They're coming!"
On the horizon a black flag rolled toward the shore. The ship's hull was painted with ghastly faces. This was the Ghost Face Pirates, led by "Ghost Face" Fossman, a notorious man with a thirty million berry bounty.
"Looks like the villagers are running," a pirate called. "I hear an old monk here once drove off 'Silver Hammer' Lumiere. What a joke. He was only repelled, not killed."
Fossman laughed. "If he wants to stop us, we'll take him too."
At the temple, villagers ran up the slope and told the old monk what they'd seen. Tears streaked on their faces. "Please, Master, save us."
The old monk sighed. He was over seventy. Time had ground him down. Still, his voice was steady. "I am old. I cannot always protect you. Some enemies are beyond me."
The villagers protested, but the old monk's mind was made up. He had not always been a monk. Decades ago he had been a pirate. He and his crew once came by greedy, stolen Devil Fruits. He had taken two of those fruits and fled. The rest of the crew had later been annihilated because of what happened. Guilt had hunted him until he shaved his head and hid on Dovi, where he adopted the two boys and lived in seclusion.
"Go. Live," he told the boys. "Remember. Under the Buddha statue."
Bones and Clemons spent only a moment wiping their faces. They had loved the old man like a father. They ran into the mountain, though neither fully understood the meaning of the instructions.
Down by the shore the pirates had already landed. The villagers, laden with bundles, were slower. The Ghost Face men closed in and began taking prisoners.
The old monk walked down to meet them. He knew he could not beat all these men now. He paced forward with a quiet acceptance. "This end is good enough for me," he thought. Memories of his old crew flashed past—laughs, songs, the greed that had destroyed them. He squared his shoulders and charged.
Fossman laughed at the frail figure. He was wrong to judge by appearance. The old monk moved like a man who had seen a hundred fights. His punch carried the compact, practiced force of a lifetime. The blow landed with the sound of a struck bell. Fossman staggered, then recovered and swung back.
Experience met brute force. For a moment the two were matched. The old monk's breath came shorter, his joints stiffer, but he kept pressing. He hooked his left arm against Fossman's blade, then drove his right fist into the pirate's belly. Fossman fell three steps and hit the ground.
Bad luck for the old monk came fast. Fossman drew a pistol and fired twice. The monk rolled aside in time to avoid one shot, but the other struck his waist. The old man stumbled. "Open fire!" Fossman barked. Guns cracked, and the old monk collapsed under the volley.
From a thicket above the village, Bones and Clemons watched with tears burning their faces. They had hidden and watched helplessly as their master fell.
The pirates set about looting. "Search the houses. Take what's useful. Send men up to burn the temple," Fossman ordered. With the villagers down, there were piles of bundles and scattered goods to pick through.
Bones and Clemons could only watch. They had been told, "Under the Buddha statue." They had no idea what that meant. All they had was a vow to survive and the grief for the man who had given them a home.
Meanwhile, at sea, on the Nightfall Pirates' ships, the tide of events rolled on. Teach had finished training and planned his course. The world was growing stranger and more dangerous, but he moved through it with a map and a purpose. On Dovi Island a small tragedy unfolded, one of many islands left in the wake of the Great Pirate Era—but in the sea beyond, Teach's shadow passed over many charts yet to be written.