The village appeared slowly, as if it were wary of revealing itself.
That was Joe's first thought as Rook carried him down a winding dirt path. Wooden houses came into view one by one, built close together, their roofs made of old tiles and patched cloth. Fishing nets hung from posts, drying in the salty air. The smell of smoke, fish, and damp wood filled Joe's nose.
People noticed them almost immediately.
Conversations stopped.
A woman holding a basket paused mid-step. Two old men near a dock turned their heads. Children peeked out from behind doorframes, eyes wide with curiosity.
Joe felt it.
Not hostility.
Not kindness either.
Caution.
"So this is Greyshore," Joe murmured.
Rook glanced at him. "You've got sharp eyes for a kid."
Joe didn't reply. He was too busy observing everything—the lack of modern tools, the handmade boats tied near the shore, the way people dressed simply but practically. This wasn't some fantasy utopia.
This was a working village.
A struggling one.
Rook set him down near a well in the center of the village.
"Stay here," Rook said. "I'll talk to the headman."
Joe nodded obediently, though his mind was racing.
This world feels… real.
A group of children gathered a short distance away, whispering among themselves. One of them—a boy a little older than Joe—pointed at him.
"Hey, where'd he come from?"
"Is he lost?"
"Why's he with Rook?"
Joe ignored them and sat near the well, hugging his knees. He suddenly felt very small—not just physically, but emotionally.
A woman approached him cautiously. She had tired eyes but a gentle expression.
"Are you hungry?" she asked.
Joe looked up.
"…Yes."
That single word seemed to break something in her. She smiled softly.
"Wait here."
She returned minutes later with a wooden bowl filled with warm soup and a piece of bread. The smell alone made Joe's throat tighten.
He accepted it with trembling hands.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
As he took the first bite, something inside him cracked.
The soup was simple—vegetables, a bit of fish—but it was warm. Real. Earned.
His vision blurred.
He turned his face away quickly, biting down on his lip.
Don't cry.
But the tears came anyway, silent and unstoppable.
The woman noticed but said nothing. She simply sat nearby, pretending not to see.
Joe remembered another bowl of food.
Another life.
His mother smiling despite her exhaustion, pushing the plate toward him even when she hadn't eaten herself.
I promised I'd protect you, he thought bitterly. And I did… but I couldn't stay.
The realization hit harder than he expected.
Freedom had a price.
Loneliness.
Rook returned shortly after, accompanied by an older man with grey hair and a weathered face. His eyes were sharp, calculating.
"This is the kid?" the man asked.
Rook nodded. "Found him coming out of Greyveil Forest. Alone."
The old man studied Joe for a long moment.
"What's your name, boy?"
Joe hesitated.
"…Joe."
"Just Joe?"
"Yes."
The man hummed. "Strange times we live in."
He turned to Rook. "We'll let him stay. For now."
Rook exhaled in relief.
"But," the old man continued, "he'll work when he's able. No free rides here."
Joe nodded immediately. "I'll help."
The old man raised an eyebrow. "You're not afraid?"
Joe met his gaze.
"I've been afraid my whole life."
That seemed to surprise him.
Later that evening, Joe sat on the edge of the village, watching the sun sink into the sea. The sky burned orange and gold, waves reflecting the light like molten glass.
Rook sat beside him, chewing on a piece of dried fish.
"You don't act like a kid," Rook said casually.
Joe shrugged. "Does that bother you?"
Rook snorted. "Nah. Just means you've seen things."
He gestured toward the horizon. "Pirates pass through these waters sometimes. Marines too. Neither are kind to places like this."
Joe's chest tightened.
"Why stay, then?" he asked.
Rook smiled bitterly. "Because this is home."
The word echoed in Joe's mind.
Home.
That night, as Joe lay on a straw mattress inside a small hut, sleep refused to come.
The village was quiet, but not peaceful.
He felt it again—that strange sensation from earlier. A pressure in the air, subtle but unmistakable, like the world itself was holding its breath.
Joe sat up.
The room felt… heavy.
Outside, voices had gone quiet. Even the insects seemed to have stopped.
His heart thudded.
What is this feeling?
He stepped outside.
People stood frozen, looking around in confusion. Some clutched their chests. Others broke into nervous whispers.
"What's going on?"
"Why does it feel like this?"
Joe didn't understand—but deep inside, something answered.
A voice without words.
Stand.
The pressure vanished as suddenly as it appeared.
Breathing returned. Sounds resumed.
The villagers stared at each other, shaken.
Rook looked at Joe.
For the first time, there was something else in his eyes.
Suspicion.
Interest.
"Kid…" he said slowly. "Did you feel that?"
Joe swallowed.
"…Yes."
Far away, beyond the sea and sky, something ancient stirred.
And for the first time since entering this world—
The world noticed Monkey D. Joe.