After parting ways with Nico Robin, Yashiro sprinted toward Paiwa Tavern on his short legs, the salty breeze brushing past his face. The closer he got to the harbor, the more the scenery blurred in reverse. Before long, the bustling port came into view—alive with shouts, chatter, and the constant clatter of cargo being hauled around.
Coal ships and merchant vessels crowded the docks, so tightly packed it was a wonder they didn't scrape against each other. Bare-chested laborers with muscles like coiled rope hefted sack after sack of goods from the ships, creating a chaotic rhythm that echoed across the pier.
By the time Yashiro reached the port, his once-quick steps slowed to a sneaky crawl. He eyed the back entrance of Paiwa Tavern like a burglar casing a house.
If I'm only twenty minutes late… maybe she won't notice. Yeah. Yeah! No way that fat ogre saw me!
Bolstering himself with blind optimism, Yashiro slipped through the rear of the tavern and into the dishwashing area.
The scene was depressingly familiar—dirty dishes piled into a mountain range of grime. A few kids slightly older than Yashiro were already hard at work, sleeves rolled up, hands submerged in greasy water.
Feigning perfect normalcy, Yashiro shuffled to his usual spot, plopped down, lowered his head, and began scrubbing dishes with a rag and seawater as if he'd been there the whole time.
His expression said, Being twenty minutes late is totally normal. I probably just went to the toilet. Nothing strange here.
Thank goodness… she didn't catch me. If that hideous, thunder-voiced woman found out, she'd beat me half to death and dock my pay again.
Yashiro quietly let out a breath of relief, focusing on the dishes. The other children didn't notice anything wrong—none of them even realized he was late.
Before today, he couldn't understand their language anyway. Not wanting unnecessary trouble, he'd simply pretended to be slow-witted. His routine was always the same: wash dishes, keep his head down, leave on time. No conversations, no friendships, no impressions left behind.
Time trickled by, and soon midday approached. One by one, the kids began slowing down, preparing for their lunch break.
Noon was the busiest rush of the day for Paiwa Tavern, so the children always ate early—if they cleared the morning's mountain of dirty plates first.
Today's assigned task was straightforward: wash every bowl and chopstick used before noon.
Unfortunately, in the world of One Piece, the average adult's appetite was monstrous. A single man could shovel down five bowls of rice before feeling remotely full. And adventurers ate even more.
Which meant the pile of bowls in front of them looked less like dishes and more like an avalanche waiting to happen.
No wonder Yashiro's hands were pruned and raw—he'd been scrubbing all morning and still wasn't done.
As lunchtime loomed closer, the children picked up speed. Bowls vanished rapidly beneath their frantic scrubbing, accompanied by the occasional crash of a plate meeting an unfortunate fate.
After nearly half an hour of chaotic effort, the last dish was finally clean. Yashiro exhaled heavily—his little stomach growled in rebellion, loudly enough that even he winced.
With bowls done, the children grabbed their personal plates and rushed toward Paiwa Tavern's kitchen.
Unlike the foam-covered kids who launched themselves at the kitchen like starving hyenas, Yashiro took a moment to wash his hands properly. As a time-traveler, he refused to gamble with hygiene—dying from food poisoning in another world would be absolutely humiliating.
He followed the others into the spacious kitchen. Pots and utensils were carefully arranged, everything gleaming with cleanliness. In the center stood a massive wooden table nearly five meters long. Five or six large clay pots sat atop it, each overflowing with bread.
These were leftovers from the morning's rush—slightly soft from sitting out, not exactly gourmet, but heavenly enough for starving kids.
A group of children clambered onto the table without hesitation, grabbing bread with soapy hands and stuffing it into their mouths whole, chewing be damned.
Yashiro, ever calm, collected a few crisp rolls, sat down, and quietly began to eat.
The bread supply was generous, and Paiwa herself baked fresh batches to ensure the kids never went hungry.
"Alright, you filthy little gremlins—off the table and back on your seats! If you dirty that table again, I swear—!"
A booming voice cut through the ruckus. A plump middle-aged woman with a cigarette dangling from her lips waddled in, carrying a basin overflowing with more bread.
Without hesitation, she rolled up her sleeves, grabbed each kid off the table, and plopped them onto chairs. She then slammed the bread basin onto the table hard enough to make the entire surface shake.
This mountain of a woman was Paiwa, the proprietor of Paiwa Tavern. Rude, loud, fat, and terrifying—but undeniably a superb cook and surprisingly well-liked by the town.
Worried the children wouldn't get enough to eat, Paiwa had made an extra batch of bread. But the moment she entered the kitchen and saw kids standing on her table with foamy hands, she erupted.
"How many times have I told you brats—wash your hands before eating! Wash! Your! Hands! Why is that so hard?!"
WHACK!
She smacked each child on the head in rapid succession. Large bumps swelled instantly across their little skulls. Even Yashiro—who had washed his hands—got punched for good measure.
A tan-skinned boy with short blond hair and a permanent snot bubble clutched the bump on his head. He sprang up on his chair, cheeks puffed in outrage.
"But Auntie Paiwa! Your bread is so good we forgot to wash our hands! Really, it's your fault!"
Paiwa's rage instantly melted into delight. She gave the boy another playful slap.
"Oh, you little flatterer, Guts! Stay after lunch—I need you to carry something home for me."
She wiggled her massive body with unexpected grace, clearly pleased.
Luoji—full name Guts Roger, apparently—beamed despite the two lumps on his head. He knew Paiwa would ask him to deliver food to his mother and little sister.
Despite her fearsome appearance, Paiwa had a kind heart. She not only fed and employed the orphans and poor children around the docks but often sent food home with them.
The other kids made faces as they watched the fat woman preen under the praise. Watching that much flesh jiggle was… a lot. Their disgusted expressions didn't escape Paiwa's sharp eyes.
BOP! BOP! BOP!Fresh lumps sprouted on their heads.
"You brats finish eating and get back to washing. The tavern's overflowing with dirty dishes!"
With that, Paiwa stomped out of the kitchen to help at the front.
As soon as she left, the kids scrambled back onto the table, fighting over bread like seagulls.
"Adil! What are you doing?!"
"That bread's mine! I grabbed it first!"
"Oh yeah?! Wanna fight?!"
Chaos resumed immediately.
Watching the scene, Yashiro couldn't help but be confused.
…Do these breads even taste different? They're all the same except for the fresh crispy ones. Why fight over them?
Luoji plopped down beside him, intrigued by how out-of-place Yashiro seemed.
"Hey! My name's Guts Roger! What's your name?"
Yashiro looked up, smiled politely, and replied, "Nice to meet you! I'm Yashiro."
Luoji blinked. "Yashiro? That's your name? What about your family name?"
"My family name is Yashiro. My given name is… also Yashiro," he replied with a shrug.
"Ohhh!" Loji nodded sagely, as if that made perfect sense. Then— "Your name's weird."
Yashiro shrugged dramatically. "I know, right? It's too short. Total tragedy."