The village of Oakhaven was primarily populated by idiots, but they were his idiots.
It was a small, unassuming settlement tucked away on an island that didn’t even have a formal name on most Marine navigational charts.
The buildings were made of sun-bleached wood and thatched roofs, huddled together around a deep, natural harbor.
The people here didn’t care about the Great Pirate Era, the newly formed Four Emperors, or the shifting balance of power at Marineford.
They cared about the fish harvest, the changing of the tides, and who was brewing the strongest ale for the weekend festivals.
Elian spent his afternoons navigating this mundane little world, treating it like a fragile glass menagerie he had to carefully protect from himself.
He was currently sitting on an overturned barrel outside the bakery, a warm, slightly squashed sweet bun in his hand.
The baker, a massive man named Silas whose arms were perpetually dusted with white flour, leaned against the doorframe, watching the boy.
“I don’t get it, kid,” Silas grumbled good-naturedly, wiping his forehead with a rag.
“I put extra honey in that one. Fresh out of the oven. Most kids would be bouncing off the walls, but you look like you’re calculating the exact density of the dough.”
Elian took a slow bite.
It was delicious, but his face remained a mask of polite indifference.
“It’s adequate, Silas. The honey-to-dough ratio is acceptable.”
Silas barked a laugh, shaking his head.
“Adequate. Listen to you. You’re ten years old, Elian. Try smiling before your face gets stuck like that.”
Elian didn’t smile, but he did appreciate Silas.
The static in his head—the incessant, cold voice that analyzed everything as a potential threat or target—was relatively quiet around the baker.
*’Target: Human male.
Threat level: Low.
Structural weakness: Left knee bearing previous injury.
Execution method: Unnecessary.
Subject is an ally.’*
Elian blinked the thought away, chewing his bun.
He hopped off the barrel, giving Silas a small nod of thanks, and made his way down the dirt road toward his family’s home.
He passed Old Man Miller, who was currently telling a group of wide-eyed toddlers about the time he supposedly wrestled a Sea King with his bare hands and lost his leg in the process.
Elian rolled his eyes.
He knew for a fact Miller had lost the leg to a severe infection from stepping on a rusty nail behind the tavern.
But let the old man have his glory.
The tranquility of the walk vanished the moment Elian pushed open the door to his own house.
Sitting at the small, worn wooden dining table were Uncle Vane and Aunt Cora.
They weren’t blood relatives.
They were Tomas’s old business partners from a failed shipping venture years ago, but they lingered around like barnacles on a hull.
Vane was a thin, wiry man who always smelled faintly of cheap rum, unwashed clothes, and tarnished copper.
Cora sat next to him, picking at her nails.
She had a sharp, angular face and eyes that darted around the room like a hawk searching for a dying rabbit.
“Ah, there’s the little scholar,” Vane slurred slightly, offering a greasy, yellow-toothed smile as Elian walked in.
Instantly, the static in Elian’s mind roared to life.
*’Target: Human male.
Threat level: Moderate.
Lethal strike zones: Carotid artery exposed.
Liver unprotected by posture.
Target: Human female.
Threat level: Moderate.
Concealed weapon suspected in right boot.
Execution method: A shattered dining plate to the jugular for the male.
Dislocation of the female’s right knee before she can draw.’*
Elian gripped the edge of the doorframe, forcing his breathing to remain steady.
He hated being in the same room as them.
His reincarnated instincts screamed that these two were predators, albeit cheap, pathetic ones.
“Hello, Uncle Vane. Aunt Cora,” Elian said, his voice flat, devoid of any childlike warmth.
“Elian, stop hovering by the door and come sit,” his mother, Elara, called from the small kitchen area, oblivious to the tension.
She set a platter of slightly charred fish in the center of the table.
“Dinner is ready.”
Elian took his seat next to his father.
Tomas patted his son on the back, nearly knocking the breath out of him with his sheer, jovial strength.
“Let the boy be, Elara,” Vane chuckled, pouring himself a generous cup of Tomas’s ale.
“He’s just got a sharp eye. Always watching. It’s a good trait for surviving in this world.”
“He’s a child, Vane, not a watch dog,” Elara scolded gently, passing the plates.
The dinner was loud, mostly because of Tomas’s booming laughter and Vane’s endless, exaggerated tales of his ‘business deals’ in the next town over.
Cora barely spoke, her sharp eyes calculating the value of the few nice things Elara owned—a silver candlestick, a finely woven rug.
Elian barely touched his food.
He watched his parents.
They were incredibly naive.
They saw the good in everyone, believing that sharing a meal and a laugh could bridge any gap.
They didn’t see the greed in Cora’s eyes or the desperate, rat-like ambition in Vane’s posture.
Underneath the table, Elian’s hands curled into tight fists.
He was just a guy who wanted a peaceful life.
He didn’t want to be a killer.
But looking at the simple, blind kindness of his parents, he made a quiet vow to himself.
He would endure the static.
He would use his cursed, analytical brain to act as the shield for this family.
Nothing was going to hurt them while he was around.