The workshop's wooden door was ajar; Marcus hadn't closed it when he left, probably knowing he might not come back to close it.
Damian pushed open the door.
The sweet scent of White Wax Wood and wood shavings mingled with the smell of rust wafted from the crack in the door—a scent he had known since childhood.
On the workbench lay an unfinished White Wax Wood, with the plane beside it, blade facing upwards, gleaming with a thin layer of silver light in the moonlight.
The chopped firewood was stacked neatly in the corner, with the top few pieces freshly chopped that evening, the cut surfaces still a fresh off-white color.
Everything was as usual, as if the owner had just gone out for a smoke and would be back soon.
Roy was the last to come in, closing the door behind him. The wooden door creaked as it closed; he'd been saying he wanted to oil that hinge since he was eight, but he still hadn't.
Five people stood in the workshop, but none of them spoke first.
Damian walked to Marcus's bedside. The bed was narrow, made of planks, and on the bedside table sat an unlit oil lamp and a worn-out tobacco box.
He crouched down, reached under the bed frame, and felt around. His fingertips touched a groove under the third plank on the side of the bed frame closest to the wall. Marcus's skill in making hidden compartments was as good as his shipbuilding skills; the planks were joined together so tightly that no one in the know could see that there was a compartment there.
Inside the hidden compartment was a small White Wax Wood box, just the right size to be held in both hands.
The lid is uncarved and unpainted, only possessing a warm, smooth luster worn from years of repeated handling by fingers.
Damian took the box out and placed it on the workbench. He opened it, and inside were five letters.
The envelopes were made of coarse paper from White Wax Wood pulp, without seals, and each one had the recipient's name written on the front.
His handwriting wasn't very good; the characters were straight and even, and each one looked as if it had been carved with a ruler, just like the way he drew keel lines when building ships.
The first letter was addressed to "Damian".
Damian picked up the letter, his fingers lingered on the edge of the envelope for a moment, then he tore it open.
"Damian, you're the eldest. Your mother passed away early, and you started helping me take care of my younger siblings when you were seven. While other seven-year-olds were playing at the docks, you were carrying cargo, your hands calloused from the work, and you didn't tell me. I only found out when I saw you sewing Roy's pants under the lamp at night. You've done right by your mother, by me, and by this family. The only person you've let down is yourself. You always feel you have to shoulder everything yourself. Your younger siblings see how you act as the eldest brother, but I know you; you're a deep thinker. Recently, when you and Gwen went back to White Wax Island, you said you felt dispensable." After hearing that, I kept thinking about those words. I lay in bed all night, unable to sleep, constantly thinking about how to write this letter well. Remember, Barlow was able to build the trading company to its peak by standing on your shoulders. Roy was able to single-handedly take down a ship of pirates; he spent many years building his foundation in the training hall, and you were part of that too. Mila could make the entire underground forces of the East Blue bow down; when she was fourteen and bit through someone's throat in a street fight, she remembered her older brother's words. "Never back down." You've given them too much; remember to forgive yourself before you act in the future. Also, Gwen is a good girl; don't let her down."
Damian's hand was steady as he took the letter away from his eyes, but the back of the letter was soaked with tears.
He put the letter away, and as he turned around, Barlow had already picked up the second letter.
The envelope was addressed to "Barlow".
Barlow tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter. Marcus's handwriting was still neat and upright, but this letter was shorter than the one for Damian, the sentences were harsher, and it was more like a conversation between two taciturn men.
"Barlow, you're the second oldest, the smartest and most ambitious in our family. But I always felt you were too young. Later, you took over the Sea Serpent Gang and Orange Town, and I knew I was wrong. You became the president of the Uchiha Trading Company. At first, those old businessmen called you 'Barlow Kid,' but you never complained once you came back. I still remember that. You were right. You can't survive in business without being ruthless. The cooperation in the West Blue went so smoothly that even the Godfather respected you. You accomplished something I, as your father, never even dreamed of in my entire life. But there's one thing I worry about more than anything else: you're too selfish. You keep everything to yourself and refuse to..." Tell people that you revised the entire route map yourself, from hand-drawn sketches to the final draft, all behind the ebony table, Koldo off, you didn't look tired at all. Others might not notice, but you can't hide it from your Pops. Your brothers have always been by your side. You can trust them however you want; they are your family, but this family isn't just supported by you alone. Barlow, I'm happy for you that the Uchiha Trading Company will continue to grow and prosper, but don't forget to eat on time. Every time I see you've gotten thinner, I secretly wonder why you haven't sold that batch of old timber yet. You could make a few new ones; don't use old wood to support too much weight."
Barlow finished reading the entire letter, and the ebony wooden table in front of him still seemed to hold the same budget document that he had marked with countless crosses in vermilion.
He didn't say anything, but folded the letter again and stuffed it into his coat pocket, along with his father's words, "Of course the Chamber of Commerce should continue, but you also need to eat," which he pressed tightly to his heart.
He turned around with his back still ramrod straight, but his Adam's apple bobbed slightly.
Roy tried to smile when he picked up the letter with his name on it, but the smile wouldn't last.
He opened the letter; Marcus's handwriting was larger than the previous two, as if the writer knew his son had very little patience and was afraid he wouldn't finish reading it.
"Roy, you're the third oldest, but you're always the first to fight. When you were little, you'd fight at the docks, come back and brag to me when you won, and want to fight again when you lost. Later, you found the Tomoe and had that dream, and you've been talking about practicing swordsmanship ever since. When you're training newbies in the gym, sweating buckets, it's exactly the same as when you lost and fought again as a kid. I know you don't have any grand theories in your head, and you don't care about those things. But you love this family, you want to protect it, you want your brothers to worry less, and you want your sister to suffer less. Others see you as the combat captain of the Uchiha Trading Company, Pops sees you as a kind-hearted, silly boy. Your kindness is hidden in the teeth you use to take a knife for others after you've bled. Your fighting spirit is more real than any grand words. In the future, you still need to listen to your brothers and continue to protect your sister. Mila may always tease you, but you're the person she relies on the most. Also, don't let the newbies fall for your old tricks anymore; times have changed."
Roy gripped the edge of the letter, his lips pressed into a thin line.
What he feared most since childhood wasn't being stabbed, beaten, or scolded by Barlow for not doing the math properly; it was his Pops telling him the truth in such a calm tone. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket.
Mila didn't wait for her brothers to hand her the envelope; she reached out and took it herself.
She tore open the seal and unfolded the letter. Marcus's handwriting suddenly became softer in this letter, as if the writer had lightened his grip on the pen when writing about his daughter.
"Mila, you're the youngest, but you were the first in the family to obtain the Three-Tomoe Sharingan. You've never cried much since you were little, but I remember when you were a child, before your hair even grew past your ears, you would cling to my leg when you were afraid of thunder. You're the most special girl in the Uchiha Clan, and also the child Pops loves the most. Of all of you, I worry about you the most. You always rush to the front without a word. You've carried those dirty tricks of the underworld alone for years, and you always bring me tobacco when you occasionally come home. I keep the tobacco in a box under my bed, I haven't smoked a single one, I can't bear to part with it. You're like the heartwood of an ash tree, the hardest, but also the easiest to break; your pride is too strong, you want to digest all the suffering yourself. But I want you to remember, you don't need to prove to anyone that you can stand on your own. From the day you were born, you've been my proudest daughter. Don't always shoulder everything alone in the future, your family will always be there for you."
Mila looked down at the letter in her hand, then suddenly turned it over and covered her knees with it.
Barlow reached out to put his hand on his sister's shoulder, but she gently shook her head away.
She wanted to finish crying these silent tears first.
Gwen stood at the very edge, her hands protecting her stomach, and remained silent.
She felt she wasn't a blood relative of the Uchiha Clan, and these four letters were written by her father to his children; she had no right to touch them. But Damian took the last letter out of the box; the envelope was addressed to "Gwen."
Gwen paused for a moment, then instinctively looked at Damian, Damian gently pressed the letter into her hand.
Gwen opened the letter.
"Gwen, you are the daughter of the Capone Family and the eldest daughter-in-law of the Uchiha Clan. I've been deliberating over this letter for a long time. I originally intended to give it to you after the baby was born, but lately I've felt uneasy, so I'm writing it ahead of time. When you first arrived at White Wax Island, you helped me chop wood and boil water in the yard, chopping even more skillfully than I could. Damian has good judgment; I heard a bit about your story from him. I also sailed alone when I was young, so I know what it's like to drift at sea alone. I was very happy the first time you called me 'Pops,' but I didn't tell you. I'm not good with words; I only know how to say 'wooden'." "Speak, Gwen. You're pregnant with the third generation of the Uchiha Clan. I should have helped you take care of the baby myself, so you and Damian wouldn't have to worry so much, but it seems it's too late now. This box contains the half-finished materials for the baby bib you sewed for the child. You didn't use the remaining piece of cloth; it was actually a corner cut from the swaddling cloth your mother-in-law sewed for Damian when he was born. I've kept it for over twenty years and am giving it to your child. Gwen, a part of the Uchiha's future lies with you. Once you're in this family, you're part of the family."
Gwen pulled the cloth from the bottom of the box and placed it on her lap. Mila leaned over, gently pressed her fingers against the edge of the cloth, and silently smoothed it with her fingernails.
The workshop was quiet. The sea breeze outside the window had stopped, and from the direction of the commercial street, there could be sporadic commands from Garp directing the navy to clean up the battlefield debris. But in this small workshop, only the faint creaking of the White Wax Wood as it shrank from the cold could be heard.
He is Uchiha Marcus.
The shipwright of White Wax Island never left the East Blue in his entire life. After his wife died young, he raised his four children alone.
He never said the word "love" to the children. He put love in the chopped firewood, in the keel of the ship he built, in the door hinge that hadn't been oiled for eighteen years, and in five unsealed letters.
His Sharingan only shone for a few minutes, just enough for him to see the trajectory of the Fish-Man's final axe blade.
But in those few minutes, he could pass the Uchiha bloodline from himself to the next generation.
--
Most of the Kakkō on the commercial street have been extinguished.
Garp stood beside the flowerbed, his navy coat still covering Marcus was placed on a makeshift stretcher under the old ash tree on the commercial street.
Garp crossed his arms, his face unusually devoid of its usual playful expression.
Damian emerged from the path through the White Wax Forest, followed by Gwen, Barlow, Mila, and Roy.
The five of them walked back along the cobblestone street of the commercial district. Gwen held her stomach with one hand and held Damian's arm with the other.
Damian was still holding the White Wax Wood box that Marcus had left him.
They walked to the old ash tree and stopped beside the stretcher.
Moonlight filtered through the leaves, illuminating Marcus's serene face, a face as silent and calm as when he was alive, like a rock weathered by the sea for decades.
Damian crouched down and tucked the navy coat that was covering his father.
His fingers touched the word "Justice" embroidered on the back of his coat, his fingertips lingering on the stitches for a moment.
Then he stood up, turned around, and walked straight toward Garp.
Garp turned to look at him. Damian's eyes were still red, but his gaze was no longer as unfocused as it had been by the flowerbed.
Those eyes had returned to their normal pupil color, but deep within the pupils there was something new—a kind of determination that had been burning in the chest for a long time and had finally been tempered.
I want to join the Navy.
Barlow frowned and opened his mouth to speak, but Damian spoke first.
"Having a Marine in the clan would be very helpful, and besides, you all know that the Uchiha can function normally without me."
Damian looked at Gwen, Gwen stood a step behind him, her hands protecting her stomach, a few strands of her blond hair ruffled by the sea breeze.
She had just lost an elder who had treated her like a daughter, and her eyelashes were still wet with tears, but she didn't bow her head or hesitate. She simply said, "I support you."
She paused for a moment, then added another sentence.
"Your path is our path, go."
Garp looked at the couple, at the wife's swollen belly and the husband's still bleeding wound.
He remained silent for a long time, and Bogart closed the notebook behind him.
Garp suddenly recalled the days and nights he spent fighting the Raging Lion Pirates from the Grand Line to the East Blue, and how all the core crew members, whose combined bounties exceeded 400 million Beli, were ultimately killed by the Uchiha.
They were supposed to rebuild their power in the East Blue and wreak havoc, but the Uchiha Clan stood in their way.
"According to the rules, enlistment in the Navy requires approval from headquarters. However, your family wiped out the Raging Lion Pirates, and with a combined bounty of over 400 million, it's enough for you to be admitted to the Navy as an exception."
"Come with me to Marine Headquarters, I'll personally handle the paperwork for you."
Barlow walked up to Damian and said, "Go in peace."
He paused for a moment, then uttered the core conclusion of the route planning proposal that the strategist had already mentally drafted countless times. "We will soon be entering the Grand Line as well."
The two brothers didn't hug. Barlow simply punched Damian on the shoulder, and Damian returned the punch—a secret signal they'd made up when they were kids, working as porters at the docks.
Damian finally turned to Garp, "I'll go with you first thing tomorrow morning."
Garp nodded, glanced down at Marcus on the stretcher, and placed his last bag of senbei next to it, whether out of respect for the deceased or as some kind of explanation for his premonition and hesitation from years ago.
Then he turned and walked towards the dock, the hem of his coat billowing in the sea breeze, the word "Justice" no longer on his back, but lightened by the wind.