The moment Scar-Hawk died, the pirates’ ferocious arrogance instantly collapsed.
Most pirates couldn’t handle a losing battle.
When the strongest and cruelest leader fell, so-called “live and die together” became a joke.
Fear spread rapidly among the remaining grunts.
The bloodthirsty gleam in their eyes was replaced by panic.
“Run!
The captain’s dead!”
“He’s a Devil Fruit user!!”
“Back to the ship!
Get out of here!”
No one knew who shouted first, but the surviving pirates scattered like a disturbed hornet’s nest.
They threw down their weapons and rushed toward the gangplank connecting the two ships.
Some even shoved their comrades into the sea just to get ahead.
They weren’t blind.
They’d seen the rotten fish barrel appear out of nowhere, the cloud of acrid smoke explodes from thin air, the throwing axe materializes from the void.
Those weren’t the tricks of an ordinary man.
That could only be a Devil Fruit, the power of those cursed by the sea yet with terrifying abilities.
The merchant sailors froze for a moment, then erupted with the roar and ecstasy of surviving the ordeal.
Their morale soared.
They raised their weapons and began fighting back, chasing down the fleeing pirates.
Though wounded and exhausted, their survival instinct and thirst for revenge pushed past their physical limits.
When Moren silently joined the cleanup, his long blade still dripping blood, the pirates nearly lost their minds with terror.
They cursed the heavens for not giving them more legs to run faster.
The battle quickly turned into a one-sided rout.
After leaving behind a dozen corpses and even more wounded howling in agony, the last few agile pirates finally stumbled back onto their own ship.
They frantically cut the mooring lines, raised their tattered sails, and fled away from Sabaody’s direction without looking back.
They moved at great speed.
“Don’t chase them!
Get back here!” Lyle wheezed, clutching his chest as he shouted.
His face was pale, and cold sweat ran down his forehead.
Even though his rifle had absorbed most of the force from Hawk’s blow, the internal injuries from the shock and the ache in his arms were still severe.
Most of the other sailors were also exhausted, their wounds still bleeding.
Don’t pursue a desperate enemy.
It wasn’t worth risking lives for a few scattered survivors.
The deck gradually quieted.
Only heavy breathing, the groans of the wounded, and the sound of waves slapping against the hull remained.
The air was thick with the stench of blood, gunpowder, and a lingering foul blend of rotten fish and spice.
Lyle, supported by a crewmate, walked over to Moren.
He looked at the young man’s bloodstained but calm face.
Many words stuck in his throat, and finally he managed only a sincere thank you.
“…Thank goodness you were here, Moren.
Otherwise, this time…”
He didn’t finish, but the lingering fear and gratitude in his eyes said everything.
If Moren hadn’t been aboard this time, the Bang-Bang Orange would have become a pirate’s prize, and everyone on board would have fed the fish.
The other surviving sailors gathered around too.
The way they looked at Moren had completely changed.
The earlier curiosity and slight distance they’d felt toward this “weirdo” were gone, replaced by relief from surviving the ordeal, genuine admiration, and gratitude.
Many remembered mocking Moren privately just days ago for his odd habit of collecting “trash.” Their faces burned.
That wasn’t an odd habit.
That was hidden skill, the key that had saved all their lives.
Moren, surrounded by so many eager gazes, waved his hand uncomfortably.
“We made it.
That’s what matters.
And it wasn’t just me.
I couldn’t have faced that many people alone.”
He meant it.
Without Captain Lyle and the sailors fighting desperately in front to draw attention, without them holding Hawk back, he wouldn’t have had the chance to observe and prepare.
It was a team victory.
After a brief rest, everyone began quietly cleaning up the brutal battlefield, collecting their fallen comrades’ bodies and bandaging the wounded.
Moren didn’t join in.
His gaze fell on Scar-Hawk’s pale corpse, thoughtful.
“Captain Lyle,” he said suddenly.
“This bastard has a bounty on his head, right?”
Lyle nodded while directing the cleanup.
“Yeah.
For any pirate with a bit of notoriety, the Marines put out wanted posters through the newspapers.
Anyone who captures or kills them can take proof to a Marine base or specific locations to collect the reward.”
He glanced at Hawk’s body and added, “Scar-Hawk, bounty 12,000,000 Berry.
He was a bit of a plague on the seas.”
Moren’s eyes brightened slightly.
“So, can I take care of the body?
I was thinking, once we get to Sabaody, maybe I could exchange it for some cash.”
He admitted his situation honestly.
“I’ve got nothing here.
I need some money to survive.”
He smiled a little embarrassed.
“And if I see something interesting, I’d like to buy it for my collection.”
Lyle didn’t hesitate.
“Of course.
It’s your spoils.
You should be the one to decide what to do with them.”
He looked at Moren’s face and clear eyes, feeling a deeper emotion.
This young man possessed such unique and powerful abilities.
He had just killed a pirate with a 12,000,000 Berry bounty.
Yet he remained humble and polite.
That kind of innate decency and upbringing was rare on the cruel seas.
And it was worrying.
Sabaody Archipelago.
That wasn’t a place for politeness and decency.
His concern deepened.
He watched silently as Moren directed two sailors to wrap Hawk’s body in sailcloth and move it to a cool, ventilated spot.
Something flickered in Lyle’s eyes, complex, then hardening into resolve.
…
Night fell.
The sea wind had thinned the smell of blood.
To dispel the day’s terror, to celebrate surviving the ordeal, and to give Moren a proper send-off before he disembarked at Sabaody, Captain Lyle ordered the ship’s stores of good liquor and food brought out.
A simple but lively party began on deck.
A campfire was lit, chasing away the night’s chill.
The alcohol quickly loosened their nerves.
The atmosphere grew warm.
Having shared life and death, the crew’s relationship with Moren had invisibly grown much closer.
The address changed from “Mr.
Moren” to the more affectionate and respectful “Brother Moren” or “Collector.”
“Hey, Brother Moren, tell us.
Why do you like collecting all that stuff?” a ruddy-faced old sailor asked, emboldened by drink.
It was a question on many minds.
“Potato chips, rocks, bread.
What’s so great about collecting things like that?”
Moren took a sip of the sharp rum and paused.
His gaze drifted toward the flickering flames as if looking across space and time.
“The specifics, I can’t really explain.”
“Simply put, I think some things, or some unique states, are beautiful.
It would be a shame if they just disappeared…”
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