He thought of that thick folder back in his rented room from his past life.
Inside were the reddest maple leaf of late autumn, a strangely shaped pebble he had picked up by chance, chip bags from every flavor he had ever collected, and a photo he had taken at dusk—the city skyline washed in gold and crimson.
Perhaps it was precisely that habit that, when the strange bolt of lightning sent him here, caused the cherries in his pocket—meant to be a simple after-meal snack—to become the so-called “Collect-Collect Fruit.”
The things he collected were worthless, yet they carried scattered fragments of poetry—his own—within an otherwise dull life.
“So, I guess… it’s about wanting to hold onto those beautiful moments,” Moren summed up quietly.
The sailors listened in silence, thoughtful expressions on their faces.
Rough and direct as they were, they might not fully understand such delicate emotions, but the simple idea of “not wanting beautiful things to disappear” still struck something within them.
Drifting across the sea year after year, they had seen countless fleeting sunsets, seas turning mirror-still after storms, and people who briefly met only to scatter in different directions.
“Preserving a moment”—perhaps that was a longing buried deep within every sailor’s heart, one they themselves had never fully realized.
After a moment of silence, the sailor who had helped Moren move the body that afternoon awkwardly reached into his chest and pulled out a string of corks—dozens of them, of different sizes and styles, some worn down, others still new, each stained with the color of different wines.
“Um… Brother Moren, we wanted to give you something, but we didn’t know what you’d like.”
“Since you like collecting special things… these are corks I saved from different ports, from different fine wines.
All… all good wines!”
His face flushed as he pressed the cork string into Moren’s hands.
“For you!
Thank you for saving everyone!”
Moren froze, looking at the unremarkable string of corks, feeling the simple sincerity of the sailors’ hearts.
“Thank you… I love it.
I really do.” he said seriously.
“This is special.
Truly worth collecting.”
Once the first step was taken, the other sailors were no longer shy.
One handed him a shell with an unusual pattern picked up on some island.
Another produced a handful of colored glass beads he had treasured for years, supposedly brought from the South Blue.
A big, honest-looking man scratched his head and handed over a sealed tin, looking embarrassed.
“I heard you like things with special flavors?”
“This is fermented fish sauce from my hometown.
It’s been sitting for five years.
They say… uh… the taste is very ‘profound.’ You might want to collect its ‘flavor’?”
Apparently, that afternoon’s rotten fish barrel had left such a deep impression that it made him think Moren had a peculiar taste for strong odors.
Moren didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but he still accepted the “biological weapon” solemnly and said he would properly “study it for collection purposes.”
Every gift—whether valuable or strange, heavy or light—carried gratitude and blessing.
And that, in itself, was the most precious “condition,” worth preserving.
Captain Lyle had been sitting in the corner the entire time, smiling as he watched, slowly sipping his drink and saying little.
The banquet lasted until late into the night.
Most sailors staggered back to their bunks, and the deck returned to silence, leaving only the sound of waves.
“Moren,” Lyle called just as he was about to leave, his expression turning serious.
“Come to my cabin.”
Moren assumed the captain also had some special “collection” to give him too.
He remembered the sailors whispering earlier that the captain supposedly kept quite a few risqué scenic illustration albums from different seas.
With curiosity and a hint of mischief, he followed Lyle into the cabin.
“Captain, you’ve got some ‘good stuff’ to give me in private?
Don’t worry, I can keep a secret.
And I’m definitely an adult now.” Moren said with a teasing wink.
Lyle nearly lost the serious atmosphere he had carefully built and shot him a helpless glare, coughing lightly.
“What ‘good stuff’?
What do you mean by ‘adult’?”
He walked to the desk, poured two cups of clean water—both of them had already drunk quite a bit that night.
“I didn’t call you here to show you any ‘treasures,'” Lyle said as he sat down, looking at Moren with a complicated expression.
“I want to teach you something.”
Moren straightened his posture.
“Teach me?”
“Yes.” Lyle nodded, gazing out through the porthole at the dark sea.
“Moren, you’re a good kid.
Kind, brave, and gentle with everyone… that’s rare on the sea.”
He paused, his voice lowering.
“But that’s exactly why I worry.”
“The Sabaody Archipelago, and the deeper seas beyond—kindness and a few unusual abilities won’t be enough to carry you through.”
“There are wolves that swallow you whole without spitting out bones, nobles who treat lives like grass, and scum who would sell anything for profit… with your nature, you’ll suffer for it.
You might even end up in mortal danger.”
Moren listened quietly.
He knew Lyle was right.
Back when he read the manga in his past life, it had all seemed exciting—but now, after actually experiencing it, especially after that afternoon’s bloody battle, he finally understood the law of this jungle.
“I won’t tell you to change,” Lyle said, turning back with a calm, steady gaze.
“Good people shouldn’t be forced to become bad.”
“Since you’re destined to sail toward wider and more dangerous seas, the best I can do is make you stronger.
Give you more ways to stay alive.”
He stood, walked to the wall, and took down a sheathed longsword that had always hung there.
The scabbard was plain, without decoration.
“When I was young, I traveled the East Blue and learned a few sword techniques.
Later, I injured my arm and couldn’t swing a blade like before.
But the forms, the timing, the combat experience—they’re still in my head.”
He placed the sheathed sword gently on the desk.
Then he took out a small notebook wrapped carefully in oilcloth from the bottom drawer.
It looked very old.
“About five years ago, I rescued a dying old Marine at sea… He was badly injured and didn’t survive.
Before he died, he gave me this as thanks.”
Lyle carefully opened the notebook.
Inside were rough but clear diagrams and handwritten notes.
“He said this was a Marine Six Styles technique called ‘Shave.’ It allows explosive high-speed movement in an instant.
But I was too old, and my body couldn’t handle it.
I never mastered it.”
He pushed both the notebook and the sword toward Moren.
“My sword techniques… and the training method for ‘Shave.’ Everything I know—I’ll teach you.”
“Your body is different from ordinary people.
You’ll learn it faster than I ever could.
I just hope this… gives you a better chance to survive someday.”
The cabin fell silent, lit only by the trembling glow of the lamp.
Moren stared at the plain sword and the thin notebook containing extraordinary techniques.
His throat tightened.
This wasn’t just combat knowledge.
It was the deepest, most unadorned form of care and farewell from an old sailor who had weathered countless storms—to a stranger from another world.
“Captain Lyle…” Moren stood and bowed deeply.
“Thank you.
This is more precious than any treasure.
I will learn it properly.”
Lyle patted his shoulder, relief and quiet satisfaction appearing on his face.
“Don’t mention it.
We start tomorrow morning.”
“Make use of every moment.
Learn as much as you can.
Once you reach Sabaody… you’ll be on your own.”
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