Patrol

The sun rose as usual the next day.

The townspeople went on with their lives as usual. The unease brought by the warship yesterday had faded considerably after a night.

By the dock, the warship lay quietly at anchor. Its gray-blue hull looked dimmer than yesterday in the morning mist. The gangway was lowered, and Garp walked down from the deck. His boots struck the stone pier with solid, muffled thuds. The young Marine followed half a step behind him, his cap pulled low enough to hide most of his face.

Garp glanced toward the town. The households along both sides of the dirt road had just begun preparing breakfast. Smoke drifted from chimneys and mingled with the fog. Someone stepped outside carrying a wooden basin to pour out water. Seeing the two Marines pass by, they bent at the waist in greeting. Garp waved a hand.

"Let's go. Today's assignment is to make a circuit around the island."

He set off along the dirt road toward the outskirts of town. The young Marine followed, and their white uniforms soon disappeared into the mist.

Once the road left town, it narrowed. The paved stone gave way to packed earth. White Wax Forest lay on both sides, where the morning fog had gathered even thicker. Dew clung to the leaves, and every now and then a drop fell onto a shoulder epaulet, bursting into a small wet stain.

"Bogart, this island isn't very big, is it?" Garp said. His voice seemed even louder than usual in the forest.

"From south to north, we could probably cross it in half a day. Where do you think that group of pirates could be hiding?"

Bogart did not answer immediately. He walked far more quietly than Garp, his boots making barely a sound on the muddy ground, as though he was used to avoiding unnecessary noise.

"Maybe they never came ashore at all."

"If they didn't come ashore, where could they go? Their ship is gone."

"Then they sank with it."

Garp snorted.

The two continued onward.

The fog began to clear. Sunlight filtered through gaps in the leaves, scattering patches of light across the forest floor.

"East Blue," Garp suddenly said. He slipped his hands into his pockets and slowed his pace. "This sea is too quiet."

"Isn't quiet a good thing?"

"Of course it is. But if it's too quiet, people easily forget what the outside world is like."

Garp raised a hand and pointed toward the sea. "East of here, beyond these waters and past the Calm Belt, is the Grand Line. That sea is a completely different world from this one. People in East Blue spend their entire lives in these peaceful waters and think this is what the sea is—fishing boats, little islands, calm winds and gentle waves. They don't know how high the storms on the Grand Line can raise the waves, nor do they know how many pirate ships sail those waters every day."

Bogart walked beside him without replying.

Garp looked back at him. "You're from West Blue, right?"

"Yes."

"What's West Blue like?"

"More chaotic than East Blue," Bogart said. "The pirates in West Blue are fiercer, but they're also less organized. The big groups have the mafia, while small factions are everywhere. Wipe out one group today, and two more will pop up tomorrow."

"So that's why you came to East Blue?"

Bogart fell silent for a moment. "Transfer orders."

Garp gave a short laugh, more like a breath expelled through his nose.

"Transfer orders? Transferred from West Blue to East Blue, from a chaotic place to a peaceful one. Who did you offend?"

Bogart did not answer.

Garp did not press him.

"What about you?" Bogart suddenly asked. "Have you always been in East Blue?"

"Me?" Garp rolled up his damp sleeve. "I was born in East Blue, on a small island. There was a village on that island, much like the one on this island."

He paused.

"Then I went to sea."

"And became a Marine."

"I didn't become a Marine right away," Garp said. His tone grew a little heavier, though his expression did not change. "First, for a while, I was a..."

He stopped, as though searching for the right word.

"Drifter."

Bogart glanced at him.

"I drifted around the sea. If I ran into pirates, I fought them. If I ran into merchant ships, I helped them. If I ran into Marines, I avoided them. Back then, I didn't think much about it. I just thought pirates deserved a beating, so I beat them."

Garp pulled a hand from his pocket and mimed a punch. "Later, after fighting for a while, I realized one person was too slow. The sea was so vast, and there were so many pirates. With only my two hands, how long would it take me to beat them all?"

"So you..."

"So I became a Marine." Garp tucked his hand back into his pocket. "At least the Marines have ships, and ships are faster than one man's fists."

Bogart nodded once and said nothing more.

They had reached the end of the forest.

From here, the white wax trees began to thin out. The ground changed from dirt to gravel, and beyond it lay Gravel Beach. The sea spread beneath the sunlight, blue enough to dazzle the eye.

The fog had completely dispersed. The horizon was empty, save for a few seagulls.

Garp stepped onto Gravel Beach, his boots crunching over the stones.

He walked a few steps toward the sea, then stopped.

His gaze fell on the edge of the beach, where sea met land.

A corpse was caught there.

It lay face down, half submerged in the water and half resting on the gravel.

Its clothes had been soaked by seawater until their original color could no longer be made out. The exposed skin was a decayed grayish white, marked with bites from fish.

The tide rolled in, nudging the corpse gently back and forth like a stranded piece of driftwood.

The body appeared to have been soaking in the sea for some time. Most of the smell had already dispersed.

Bogart walked to the corpse's side. He crouched down, one hand resting on his sword hilt, and slowly swept his gaze from its head to its feet.

His eyes paused briefly on the corpse's left wrist. Then he stood and walked a few steps along the waterline, picking up a dead branch washed ashore by the tide.

He used the branch to turn the corpse's head over.

Part of the flesh on its face had already been eaten away by fish, exposing its cheekbone. One eye socket was empty. The other eyeball remained, cloudy like boiled egg white.

"It's that One-Eyed Dragon," Bogart said.

Garp looked at him.

"One of those wandering pirates. I saw his face from the watchtower."

He tossed the branch aside, crouched down, and leaned in for a closer look.

His gaze moved from the corpse's face to its neck.

There was a horizontal cut across the throat, stretching from the left side of the Adam's apple to the right carotid artery.

The edges of the wound were neat. Even after two days in seawater, the decisiveness of the strike was still apparent.

"One strike." Bogart gestured across his own throat. "A horizontal cut. Judging by the angle, the blade was held in a reverse grip and slashed upward. There was no hesitation when the edge entered his throat. It went straight through in one motion."

His gaze continued downward and stopped at the corpse's right wrist.

There was another wound on the inside of the wrist, different from the one on the throat. This cut was shallower and shorter, just enough to sever the wrist tendons. It was not fatal. It was meant to cripple the hand that held the blade.

"The wrist was disabled first, then the throat was cut. Whoever attacked knew he used a blade. The first strike wasn't meant to kill him, but to leave him unable to fight back. The second was the killing blow."

Bogart stood.

"The attacker was trained. This wasn't wild slashing."

Garp was not looking at the corpse. He was looking at the forest.

Inland from Gravel Beach, the White Wax Forest grew dense again. At its edge was a narrow path hidden beneath the tree shadows, nearly impossible to notice without looking carefully. The path extended deep into the woods, leading north.

He remembered that direction.

At the end of the path stood a two-story building made of white wax wood. Logs were stacked behind it, and saws and planes hung beneath the eaves.

When the door opened, a girl with messy hair leaned against the doorframe, her eyes narrowed and the corners of her lips curved in a perfectly measured smile.

Behind her stood a brown-eyed boy. Two older brothers returned along the dirt road—one broad-shouldered, with calluses from chopping wood on his hands; the other carrying a ledger, his face entirely expressionless.

Four children.

Garp turned to face the forest.

"Let's check that house."

Bogart brushed the sand from his hands and followed.