Ancient script.
A thought stirred in Bullet's mind.
"What was that family called?"
"Who knows."
The old man shrugged.
"In the South Blue, there are at least eighty scholar families if not a hundred."
"But…"
He leaned closer and lowered his voice.
"I heard, that family was not studying ordinary ancient writing, but forbidden script."
"The kind the World Government takes a special interest in."
"So when disaster hit later, no one knows if it was an act of nature or an act of men."
Forbidden script.
Special attention from the World Government.
Those words lined up very neatly in Bullet's head, and the direction they pointed at could not be clearer.
He tucked the rubbing away and turned to leave.
At that moment, shouting erupted at the mouth of the alley.
Three tall, heavily built pirates blocked the narrow entrance.
Each of them had the same tattoo on their skin, a bleeding iron hook.
The one in front was bald, with a scar running from his forehead to his chin. When he grinned, a mouthful of gold teeth flashed.
"Oi, old man, time to pay this month's protection fee."
He kicked over a stack of books beside the stall.
The old man's face went pale. His hands shook as he fumbled out a small money pouch.
"Th… this is this month's…"
The bald pirate took the pouch and weighed it in his palm. His face darkened.
"Just this?"
"Are you trying to fob off a beggar?"
"Business has been bad lately…"
The old man begged.
"Business bad?"
The bald man gave a cruel laugh, his gaze sliding over to Bullet.
"Looks like you have a customer right now."
"What did you just buy? Take it out and let me see."
Bullet ignored him and turned to go.
"I'm talking to you!"
The bald pirate reached out to grab him.
A second later, he was airborne.
He was not punched or thrown. It was as if an invisible force had swatted him aside.
Bullet did not even look back.
The bald man crashed into the wall, slid to the ground, and blood seeped from his ears, nose and mouth.
His two companions swore and drew their blades, ready to charge.
This time, Bullet turned.
He simply took a single step forward.
Thud.
When his foot landed, the ground shivered.
A visible shockwave rippled out from his body. The two pirates were hit as if by unseen hammers, flung backwards into the wooden wall of the shop opposite, smashing it in.
The whole thing took less than three seconds.
Bullet walked over to the bald man, crouched down, and took the old man's pouch back from his arms, tossing it onto the stall.
Then he fished in the bald man's own pouch and pulled out a few notes.
Exactly five thousand Beli.
"For medical fees," he said calmly.
After that he took the rest of the money as well, stood up, and walked out of the alley, leaving three unconscious pirates and a wrecked corner of the street behind him.
The old man stared blankly at Bullet's retreating back, then looked down at the pouch in his hand and muttered,
"Mon… monster…"
Once he was out of the junk district, Bullet stopped in a relatively quiet corner and unfolded the rubbing again.
Under the sunlight, those characters looked even more mysterious.
He tried using Observation to feel for the "information" imprinted in the material itself.
He did sense something.
Very faint, but on the surface of the rubbing there lingered a peculiar energy fluctuation.
Something older, deeper, more obscure.
It felt like… sedimented history.
In the lower right corner of the parchment, there was an extremely small mark.
Bullet narrowed his eyes and focused his Observation to the limit.
It was a family crest.
Books, a quill, and a starry motif interwoven into a sigil. Beneath it, a line of tiny words in the common script:
"Oliventa."
A scholar family from the South Blue, Oliventa.
Bullet carved the name into his memory.
Rayleigh had said, if you wanted to read Poneglyphs, you needed people who understood ancient script.
The Oliventa family was obviously that sort of people.
They had "fallen to disaster," and their current state was unknown.
But at least now, there was a trail to follow.
He carefully rolled up the rubbing, wrapped it in a sheet of oiled cloth he carried with him, and tucked it into his shirt.
He had just finished when he heard Shanks yelling from afar.
"Mr. Bullet!"
"So you were here!"
The red haired boy came running around the corner, lugging two big bags, face glowing with excitement.
"Buggy and I went to the arena!"
"I won seven matches, he won… uh, one."
"But we made a lot of money!"
Buggy trailed behind, face a little green. He had obviously taken a beating in the ring, but when he saw Bullet he still shuffled closer.
"Um… the money…"
"I will give it back to you when we get on board tonight," Bullet said.
Buggy's eyes lit up. Even his bruises looked less painful.
The three of them headed back together.
Shanks chattered all the way, retelling every fight in the arena with wild gestures. Buggy would occasionally cut in to correct the more exaggerated parts.
Bullet listened quietly, his gaze now and then drifting over the storefronts and people along the street.
Jaya really was an interesting place.
Chaotic, but full of opportunity.
If not for the rubbing, he might have stayed longer, fought a few rounds in the arena, and devoured a few opponents worth the effort.
But now, he had more important things to do.
Traces of the Poneglyphs.
A scholar family in the South Blue.
The World Government's taboos.
Those mattered more than simple battles.
By the time they reached the pier, the sun was already sinking.
The smell of roasting meat drifted from the Oro Jackson.
Rayleigh stood at the bow. When he saw the three of them return, he gave a small nod.
Before boarding, Bullet turned back for one last look at Jaya.
This island would be his final stop as a member of the Roger Pirates.
And the rubbing in his shirt would be the first goal he pursued once he sailed under his own flag.
Not treasure.
Not fame.
But truth.
The truth of this world, the buried history, the knowledge that had been forbidden.
He wanted to know what all of it tasted like.