Always with new obsessions

Whenever Shanks wasn't busy or occupied with whatever captain's duties were, he was always at the little girl's side, always on a nearby stool, watching Hongo tend to her wounds, asking questions about her wounds, whether he thought they were precise enough to be inflicted by a human or whether they had edges that could have been caused by an accident. His attachment to the little girl was evident to the entire crew; some believed it was because Luffy had awakened something within him, something paternal; others believed it was because fate had brought her to them, and Shanks felt responsible.

In any case: It was clear to everyone that they would care for the little girl as if she were a member of the crew.

Night had fallen over the sea, and Shanks felt its weight on his eyelids. The rocking of the waves, which for years had punctuated his sleep, was just a distant sound that night, unable to drown out the incessant buzzing of his thoughts.

The girl.

The Kitetsu.

Images raced through his mind: the arrival of the barrel, the unconscious girl inside, and that blade... that damned wakizashi that carried with it the air of a storm. A dull headache throbbed at his temples. With a sigh that seemed to echo in the silence of the cabin, he ran his hand over his face.

He was wearing only his pants, and for the first time in a long time, he had removed the bandages from his stump. His skin, marked by reddish scars, itched with a feverish insistence. The soothing ointment Hongo had prepared for him seemed an ineffective remedy against an ailment that seemed to be awakening beneath his torn skin. Shanks's attention was drawn to the corner of the room. There, leaning next to Gryphon, the Kitetsu rested in its battered sheath.

But "rest" wasn't the right word.

Shanks closed his eyes, letting his Haki expand. There was no peace in the weapon. It was a dull hum, a suppressed vibration, like the muffled roar of a caged beast.

Shanks stood.

The wood of the floor was cold beneath his bare feet. He reached for his sword, and his hand closed around the hilt. It wasn't like holding Gryphon; there wasn't the familiar response of self-extension here, but the tense sensation of grasping something untamed. He drew the blade.

Instantly, the intricate bluish veins of the metal caught the shafts of moonlight streaming in from the porthole, lighting up with an internal glow. Beneath his fingers, the steel vibrated. It wasn't a simple tremor, but a silent language, heavy with intent.

"Where do you come from?" Shanks murmured, his voice a whisper in the stillness. The question, directed at an object, immediately struck him as foolish. He was about to put it away, half smirking at himself, when it happened. A flash. A thin thread of blue energy shot from the tip of the Kitetsu, striking his bare abdomen. It wasn't pain, but a sharp, startling electric tingle, followed by the faint, acrid smell of burned skin.

"Enough," Shanks said, his voice firmer. "I need to sleep." He returned the blade to its sheath with determination. But as he did so, another detail leaped out at him, finally clear in the moonlight: the sheath.

It was too ordinary, too short, unworthy of housing a weapon with such a turbulent soul. It was like hiding a hurricane in a wooden box.Too many questions. Too many enigmas. He shook his head, as if to physically dispel them. He lay down again, turning his back on the Kitetsu.

Perhaps it was exhaustion, perhaps the momentary relief of having interrupted that silent dialogue with the blade, but this time sleep came quickly, enveloping him, while the wakizashi continued its restless vigil in the shadows.

That night, Shanks had a dream after a long time, and he had the answers he was looking for.

The sky was reflected in the sea below, the stars dotted the sheet of water. Shanks was a boy again and He found himself back on the deck of the Oro Jackson. The silence was a dense presence, broken only by the sound of the waves against the hull and Buggy's soft snores, and by the blurred colors of his friend, seemingly curled up near the mainmast.

It was then that he heard confused voices.

They were coming from the captain's cabin, left ajar; the light reflected in his mind, blocking his vision. A deep laugh, familiar as thunder, that of Gol D. Roger, pierced his mind with absolute clarity, followed by a deeper, more thoughtful one: that of Silvers Rayleigh.

Driven by curiosity, Shanks approached the door, his body moving on its own, retracing the movements of that night many years ago.

"It's not a legend, Rayleigh..." Roger was saying, and there was a tone in his voice that Shanks remembered hearing only when they were talking about Laugh Tale. "It really exists, it's true, we're talking about Aethelpart." The name. He fell silent like a stone in a deep pool.

“It’s an island that doesn’t want to be found,” Roger continued. “Hidden not only by the currents or the eternal mists, but by the very logic of the Log Poses. Its magnetic lines… are absent. As if the island were breathing, and in that breathing, it was canceling out its own magnetism.” Shanks remembered that name as if it were imprinted on his mind.

“The very rock of Athelpart,” the Captain continued, his voice a whisper of wonder. “It’s imbued with an incredible metal. I’ve only seen a fragment of it, brought by a sailor so drunk that no one believed him; they said he was crazy. Blueish veins, like rivers of night sky trapped in the stone. And those veins…not only repel all electromagnetic force. They neutralize the field itself; they call it Deep Sky.”

Rayleigh made a thoughtful sound. “A material that obliterates modern technology.” What a baleful power.”

“Power? Or protection?” Roger retorted.

“Athelpart is not an arsenal, Rayleigh. It is a forge. An island of blacksmiths whose art has been passed down since legends were chronicles. They say they forge blades not with fire and hammer, but with the song of the stars and the patience of the mountains. Swords that do not vibrate, do not resonate, but cut through destiny itself. Weapons so pure they cannot be possessed, only guarded.”

Shanks felt a shiver run down his spine; a cold current had probably made his true body shiver, but he couldn't be sure. Even if those he'd "heard" weren't the words of treasure, wealth, or conquest he often heard. They were words of myth.

“And why has no one ever been there? Why don't they believe it's real?” Rayleigh asked, voicing the question throbbing in the boy's mind. Roger's laugh was as soft as the pillow Shanks rested on, almost wistful.

"Because Athelpart doesn't show herself to those who seek her. She shows herself to those who need her, or to those crazy enough to believe an island can choose its visitors. The Log Poses don't find her because she doesn't want to be a dot on a map. She wants to remain a question in the heart of the sea, a sigh in history."

The conversation shifted to other routes, other seas.

Shanks slipped away, returning to his bed, but Athelpart's name burned in his mind like the embers of a distant forge. The world around him slipped from clarity, bringing him back to a dreamless sleep.

He remembered never having spoken of it to anyone, not even Buggy; it had become his secret, his treasure.

The next morning, the man thought back to the dream as he found himself staring at the ceiling of his room. Perhaps the places and faces were hazy, but he was certain of the words he had heard; they were as clear as the dawning sky.

Shanks looked at the Kitestu, thinking that the dream was merely a coincidence of timing. But deep down, he knew that the sword had responded to him, that it had sought a connection with him after the small shock the night before.

It was Yasopp who broke the strange quiet that had settled that morning. "Captain! Starboard! There's something." His previously distracted tone had instantly become professional. All eyes turned to the spot he was pointing to.

On the horizon, a small dark dot danced on the ripples. "Get it" Shanks ordered, his smile fading, replaced by a concentrated expression. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an authority that immediately set the crew in motion. Limejuice and Building Snake maneuvered the lifeboat with silent efficiency. As they brought it back aboard, the light atmosphere of the Red Force evaporated completely.

The object wasn't a wreck, nor a crate. It was a wine barrel, crudely sealed, floating with eerily stable stability. And from within came a faint, imperceptible thump."There's something...alive in there," Bonk Punch muttered, his face drawn with apprehension. Shanks approached, the other crew members forming a silent semicircle behind him. With a nod, a crowbar was passed to Hongo. The sound of the ripping wood was heartbreaking in the silence. When the lid gave, a musty stench, mingled with something sweet and unhealthy, filled the air.

Inside, wrapped in damp rags, lay a little girl. She couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old. Her dark hair, caked with salt, was plastered to a ghostly pale face. She was unconscious, her breathing barely audible. But what made even the most seasoned of them run cold were her arms. Wrapped in dirty, frayed rags, which Hongo, with incredibly delicate gestures for a man his size, pulled aside. Beneath, the skin was a mosaic of ugly, untreated burns. Some were red and inflamed, others already blackened and crusted, with traces of a clumsy attempt at dried ointment. It stank of infection and pain.A shiver of horror ran through the crew.

"For all seas..." whispered Lucky Roux, his apple forgotten, his usually cheerful face twisted into a grimace of disgust and anger. “Who… who would do that to a child?” Yasopp lowered the telescope, his hands gripping the metal until it creaked. “No one with an ounce of humanity,” he growled, his voice a low rumble.

But the barrel contained more. Beside the child, two objects gleamed in the dim light. Benn Beckman bent, carefully extracting them. The first was a sword, a okatana of exquisite craftsmanship. The blade, even in its rough, worn scabbard of unworked wood, seemed to breathe.

When Benn unsheathed it a centimeter, a cold, bluish glare illuminated his stern features. The steel's grain pulsed with a dull blue light, like ice under a pale moon. It was a Kitetsu, a cursed sword of the highest order, a weapon that exuded an aura of icy power and ancient danger.

“A third-generation Kitetsu,” Benn murmured, his voice filled with a rare wonder. “A sword that chooses its owner… or kills him. What does it do with a child?” The second object was a dagger, made of the same mysterious, bluish-lustrous metal, but its handle was simple, unadorned, almost crude compared to the sword's deadly elegance.

It looked more like a tool than a decorative weapon.Shanks hadn't said a word. He'd surveyed the scene, moving from the suffering child to the weapons, then back to the little girl's face. Her expression was a pool of calm, but beneath the surface, deep, furious currents could be sensed. Her drunken cheerfulness had vanished, revealing the ruler of the seas she was.

"Benn," he said finally, his voice lower than usual but laden with absolute command. "The Kitetsu. Put it in my cabin. No one touches it." The cursed sword was a threat, and in this condition, a danger.Benn nodded, respectfully wrapping it in her own rags before walking away.

Then Shanks knelt beside the barrel. His gaze fell on the child's battered arms, and something in his face crumpled, revealing a flash of rage so pure and cold that the air around him seemed to thin. But when he spoke, his voice was very soft, a tone few in the crew had ever heard him use.

“Hongo,” he said, without taking his eyes off the child. “Whatever you need. Now.”The crew's doctor, a man of brute strength but with the hands of a surgeon, was already ready with his bag. “We're taking her to the infirmary, Captain. The burns… they're neglected. There's infection.”Shanks nodded, and it was he, with surprising gentleness for a one-armed man of his strength, who lifted the child from her rotten wooden bed.

The little girl was light as a feather, a tragic burden in his arms. “Lucky, clean water and sterile bandages. Yasopp, keep an eye on the horizon. I want to know if anyone is looking for this barrel,” he ordered, moving toward the infirmary.

Every word was precise, sharp.The crew, shaken but disciplined, set to work. The cheerfulness of the day had been swept away, replaced by a busy silence, broken only by the soft commands and the girl's labored breathing.

On the deck, only the empty barrel remained, a sinister monument to an incomprehensible cruelty, and the simple dagger with its bluish blade, which Building Snake picked up gingerly, wondering what tale of escape, desperation, or cursed legacy had brought that girl and those legendary weapons to them.

In Shanks's cabin, leaning against a wall, the Kitetsu pulsed with its cold light. It seemed almost… waiting. While in the hold, Shanks remained seated on a stool next to the cot where Hongo worked, his gaze fixed on the little stranger's face.