The boat slowly approached the shore, and the gangway collided with the White Wax Wood dock with a solid thud as it was lowered.
Damian stepped onto the dock, his feet sinking into the warm stone slabs bathed in the setting sun. Familiar scents enveloped him: the fresh fragrance of White Wax Wood, the smell of hemp rope soaked in seawater, and the slightly sweet, earthy aroma of fallen leaves fermenting in the White Wax Forest on the shore.
The port patrol officers saluted the four people in turn, their movements precise and standard.
Damian remembered that the last time he walked this road, the saplings had just been planted, and now they had grown to his waist.
The main house at the end of the road was in sight, its white walls bathed in the warm orange glow of the setting sun. Lights were on in the windows on the first floor, and several figures stood on the roundabout in front of the main house.
Gwen stood at the very front.
She wore a dark blue long dress with the sleeves rolled up to her forearms, and her blonde hair was styled in a bun at the back of her head, the sunset turning it a deep gold.
The iris ring on her left ring finger shimmered faintly in the setting sun. Her posture did not slacken despite the long wait, but when she saw Damian walking up the stone path, her shoulders slumped slightly. Gwen rarely made exaggerated expressions; her emotions were never expressed on her face. It was only in the instant her body weight shifted from being evenly distributed between her feet to leaning slightly forward that she made her move.
Gray stood half a step to the right and behind his mother, his back ramrod straight, the sleeves of his beige shirt rolled up to his elbows, his hair neatly combed, his posture already showing signs of being a little adult.
He stared intently at Damian as he walked down the stone path, his lips pressed tightly together, but his eyes betrayed him—those same black eyes as Damian's, shining brightly.
Damian took three steps across the last section of the cobblestone path, Gwen stepped forward to meet his embrace.
His arms encircled her back, his palms resting between her shoulder blades. She stood on tiptoe, rested her chin on his shoulder, and closed her eyes for a moment.
Then she opened her eyes, stepped back half a step from his embrace, her hand still on his forearm, glanced at him from head to toe, and then turned to look at her son beside her.
Damian crouched down, Gray didn't pounce on him, but instead said formally, "Father, welcome back."
Damian grabbed his wrist and pulled his son into his arms. Gray's face pressed against his father's chest, and all his tense politeness and decorum suddenly dissipated. He wrapped his arms tightly around Damian's waist, his fingers gripping the fabric of the back of his shirt.
Garp stood on the steps at the entrance of the main house.
He was wearing a slightly worn navy blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, two buttons undone at the collar, and slippers on his feet, his arms crossed over his broad chest.
A dragon stood behind him.
He was a head taller than Garp, rather thin, and Garp hair was longer and neater, tied back on his head.
His face lacked the ever-present, wide-open lines of Garp's; his brow bones were higher, and his eyes were deeper.
He stood on the steps behind Garp, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly forward—the kind of posture that would naturally make him stand at the edge in any situation.
As Barlow stepped onto the stairs, he nodded to Garp, Roy followed closely behind, saying, "Uncle, you're here again." Garp replied, "You've gotten even stronger, kid."
Mila walked last. She didn't look at Garp; Garp had come so many times that there was no need for her to greet him.
Her gaze swept over the dragon standing behind Garp on the steps; she had never seen this person before and judged him to be an unfamiliar face.
Then she continued walking, preparing to catch up with Roy.
The dragon's eyes shifted.
His gaze had been fixed on Garp's back, a standard position for a son accompanying his father out the door.
But his gaze shifted, from his father's back to Mila.
Mila wore a white shirt and dark trousers, her short hair neat, and she walked with a brisk pace. The breeze she stirred as she passed by carried a faint scent of White Wax Wood.
The setting sun outlined her profile with a clean, sharp line, clearly showing her forehead, nose, and chin.
Her chin was slightly pointed, her eyes were bright, and the corners of her mouth naturally turned down slightly, showing no sign of trying to please anyone.
The dragon's expression remained unchanged, but his pupils shifted from a relaxed focus at a distance to a close focus, locking onto Mila.
Human will cannot control the pupils; the dragon probably didn't even realize it was watching.
That involuntary following, which even left him somewhat bewildered, was as if something on Mila was emitting a signal that only he could receive, something that no one else could hear, and he was the one searching the world for an antenna.
Mila had already walked past the dragon and was heading towards the main house entrance, completely unaware that someone was watching her on the steps.
She was talking to Roy about what happened last night, her tone indifferent, completely oblivious to her surroundings.
Roy noticed this.
After greeting Damian, he had already taken two steps toward the main gate when he glanced at his sister out of the corner of his eye— Roy's peripheral vision was ingrained in his muscle memory—and then his gaze fell on the dragon behind Mila.
Dragon's "I'm outwardly looking elsewhere but out of the corner of my eye watching Mila" pose offered Roy no concealment whatsoever.
Roy stopped in his tracks, turned around, took two steps diagonally forward, and stood precisely between Mila and the dragon, like a closed door.
His shoulder conveniently blocked the dragon's view, completely shielding his sister from that strangely focused gaze. Then he turned his head, his face peeking out from beside Mila, and looked at the dragon standing behind Garp, his eyes narrowing for a moment.
Roy took a deep breath and raised his voice to the maximum. "Uncle!"
Garp was watching the Damian family reunion with his arms crossed when Roy's sudden shout startled him. "Huh?"
"Keep an eye on your son!" Roy pointed at the dragon with one hand, while his other hand blocked Mila's side. Mila was confused by his blocking, and peeked half her head out from beside his arm, frowning as she asked, "What are you doing?" Roy didn't have time to pay attention to her.
Garp turned to look at his son. Dragon stood expressionless behind him, his hands still in his pockets, his posture unchanged. The only problem was that his position had shifted to the left by a foot's width, exactly the angle at which he would instinctively move aside after Roy blocked Mila.
He himself might not have realized the angle, but Garp recognized it. A young man of that age would lean slightly towards the girl, thinking he was standing perfectly straight.
Without saying a word, Garp clenched his right fist, the veins on his arm throbbing, and punched the dragon in the head.
That punch wasn't just for show; the sound of Iron Fist Garp's fist landing on the dragon's head was both muffled and crisp, making Roy's teeth ache.
Long was so badly beaten that he flew off the steps, tracing a pathless arc in the air before crashing onto the lawn in front of the main house. He rolled twice, leaving a human-shaped mark in the grass.
Several birds perched on nearby ash trees were startled by the force of the punch and took flight, circling twice in the sky before landing back down.
"You brat!" Garp yelled at the human-shaped silhouette on the lawn, his fist still clenched, "What are you looking at!"
Roy lowered his hand from Mila's side, satisfied.
Mila peeked out from beside his arm, glanced at the dragon struggling to get up on the lawn, then at Roy, and finally realized what had just happened. She clicked her tongue in disgust, walked out from behind Roy, and went straight into the main house.
Garp watched as his son got up from the lawn, brushed the grass off himself, loosened his fists, put them behind his back, and turned to face the crowd below the steps.
He exhaled heavily, not out of anger, but out of the complex emotions of a father who, after many years, had witnessed his son doing the same thing he would have done in his youth—a mixture of wanting to punch him again and wanting to sigh.
His gaze lingered for a moment on Mila's retreating figure as she walked into the main house.
When did Garp first meet Mila?
He thought about it. At that time, he had just joined the Navy and was still a sergeant. He chased the wandering pirates all the way to White Wax Island.
The first house he visited was hers. At that time, she was a thin little girl, wearing a faded old dress with frayed cuffs. Her face was very fair, and her eyes were full of innocence.
He still remembers that look in his eyes; it was a clear, untouched gaze, like untrodden spring water deep in the forest.
Let's look at things now.
Power really does nurture people.
Mila's skin was better than before, her hair was shiny, her nails were neatly trimmed, and her white shirt was made of high-count cotton imported from the West Blue, with the collar standing up crisply. Her steps when she walked into the main house were without any unnecessary swaying.
These are details that only people who have been in positions of power for a long time and no longer need to worry about survival would have.
Money really does nourish people.
Her entire outfit was custom-made from the finest materials. She wore no jewelry on her wrists, but the thin gold chain on her ankle was handcrafted by the best goldsmith in Loguetown, with mortise and tenon joints between the links that were almost invisible to the naked eye.
This one bar alone is worth five years' salary for an ordinary worker in the Water 7.
Garp rubbed his temples with his rough fingers.
The underground queen of the East Blue and "Paradise".
When he first saw those words listed alongside Mila's name in an intelligence document, he nearly crushed his teacup.
The Chamber of Commerce has Barlow, the patrol team has Roy, Underworld has Mila.
The three Uchiha Clan each manage their own area, and no one can bypass them in these three fields.
Power and money transformed Mila into a different person, or perhaps they simply amplified her original nature, to the point that it overshadowed the innocent-looking girl.
Garp wasn't sure if this was protection or corruption, nor was he qualified to judge. After all, he had seen too many people, including himself in the mirror, constantly molded and shaped by the world until they became someone he didn't recognize when he was young.
He only hoped that she wouldn't be completely swallowed up by those dark things.
Garp still believes that Mila's feigned innocence at that time was her true nature.
Garp removed his hand from his temple, exhaled, and crossed his arms again.
Long finally stood up on the lawn below the stone steps, clutching his head, a few bits of grass still stuck in his hair, his face bearing an expression that was somewhere between resignation and defiance after being beaten.
He walked back up the steps more slowly than before. His father's eyes were still fixed on him. He dared not walk fast, for he might get punched a second time if he did.
Dragon walked past Garp with his head down and returned to his original position behind Garp.
His expression remained indifferent, revealing neither anger nor shame, except that his eyes, beneath his brow bone, would occasionally lift and glance towards the main house.
Glance at it once, then put it away; glance at it again a few seconds later.
His positioning is different now than before. Before, he was standing behind Garp, slightly to the right, perpendicular to Garp's center line.
His position wasn't special; to others, he was just standing behind his father, but the view of the main gate of the house fell into his peripheral vision from this angle.
From a military reconnaissance perspective, this is called blind spot coverage.