Red Hair Pirate

19

The wind carried the scent of salt, sake, and celebration across the waves as the Red Force drifted beneath a sky painted gold by sunset. Laughter echoed from the deck—rows of barrels rolled open, music strummed on a guitar, and voices sang wildly off-key. Pirates danced, brawled, and drank like it was the last night before the world changed. And maybe it was. At the ship’s edge, Shanks stood with a bottle in one hand and the sea in his gaze. His crimson cape fluttered behind him, silhouetted by the sinking sun. Beside him, Benn Beckman lit a cigarette, silent as always, while Lucky Roux spun around with a roast leg in one hand and a tankard in the other. It was just another night for the Red-Haired Pirates—free, loud, and alive. But far off on the horizon, smoke curled into the sky—thin, distant, and wrong. Yasopp squinted through his scope. “That’s not just a campfire.” Shanks grinned, his eyes sharpening. “No... it’s the kind of fire that needs interrupting.” The crew quieted as Shanks turned, lifting his bottle in the air. “Alright, boys! Time to see who’s still out there stirring up trouble on our sea.” Cheers erupted. The anchor rose. The Red Force cut across the waves like a blade. None of them knew it yet—but that smoke would lead to a name they'd never forget.