Red-Hair's Departure · Foosha Village Banquet

The wind still blew.

It carried the salty scent of the sea, mixed with a trace of scorched smell that had yet to fade.

"Crack—"

Loose rubble shifted, and the figure embedded in the reef moved slightly.

Beckman braced a hand against the rock wall, his knuckles turning white.

He pulled himself free from the shattered reef, his gaze immediately locking onto Shanks.

"Shanks."

He hurried forward.

"Rip—"

He tore open his hem and swiftly wrapped strips of cloth around the wound, pressing them down.

Warm, sticky blood continued to pour out, quickly soaking through the cloth and staining Beckman's palm red.

"Don't move."

He increased the pressure, skillfully trying to stop the bleeding.

At the same time, the other members of the Red Hair Pirates gradually got back to their feet.

Some clutched their ribs, while others dragged trembling legs.

Their breathing was heavy, their faces pale.

Rock had never intended to take their lives. He had controlled his strength perfectly—serious injuries, but nothing fatal.

They slowly gathered around, their gazes falling on their captain's severed left arm.

The air grew heavier by the second as anger, repression, and unwillingness accumulated in everyone's eyes.

Their fists clenched tighter and tighter, blood roaring in their ears.

"Enough."

Shanks spoke. His voice was quiet, yet it made everyone stop.

He lightly waved a hand, his breathing steady.

"It's fine."

He lowered his head to glance at his wound. Blood was still flowing, but his eyes did not waver.

"This..."

He paused slightly.

"...is the best possible outcome."

Everyone froze, and Beckman's movements paused as well.

He looked up and met Shanks's eyes, seeming to understand something. Just as he was about to speak, Shanks spoke first.

"Don't spread the word about his return."

Everyone's expressions changed, but no one objected.

Shanks