The night was like water, and the sea breeze carried a trace of chill.
Sanji, who had been jointly "driven" out of the kitchen by the chefs, was now lying spread-eagled on Baratie's empty deck.
An unlit cigarette hung from his lips as he gazed through the drifting clouds at the brilliant starry sky overhead.
The surroundings were quiet, with only the sound of waves crashing against the restaurant's foundations.
In that stillness, long-buried memories surged into his heart like the tide.
It had been ten years ago, on that barren rocky island.
Despair, hunger, thirst.
And that old man who had left all the food for him, then eaten his own leg...
Sanji subconsciously reached out and touched his stomach. It was full now, filled with strength.
"So you bet that leg, and the whole restaurant, on me..."
Victor and Zeff's words from earlier that day echoed in his ears.
—"Is spending your whole life guarding a one-legged old man in this tiny East Blue what you call the Chef's Way?"
—"Get out! You're nothing but dead weight!"
Sanji slowly closed his eyes, a bitter yet relieved smile curling his lips.
"Seriously... what a bunch of idiots with terrible acting."
Sanji took a lighter from his pocket, but his hand trembled slightly. It took several tries before he lit the cigarette at the corner of his mouth.
Smoke rose up, stinging his eyes until they burned.
At last, he understood.
All this time, he had believed that staying here, protecting this restaurant for the rest of his life, and caring for that old man until the end was the best way to atone for that lost leg.
But he had been wrong.
That old bastard had given up everything to save him.
Could it really have been just to