The kids pulled with all their might, pouring every ounce of muscle and imagination into each exaggerated tug. Piiman led the charge, leaning back like he was anchoring a ship, his sandals slipping in the sand. Tamanegi, cheeks puffed out, grunted with every pull as if volume equaled strength. Ninjin, ever the serious one, took up a firm stance and reeled with surgical precision—only to be yanked off balance when the rod jerked again.
They stumbled. Fell. Got back up.
They tried again. Not with technique, but with the kind of conviction only kids could muster.
After a while, they gave up pulling the rod and decided pulling Usopp was a better strategy. Tamanegi wrapped his arms around Usopp's waist, yelling something loud enough to register as either encouragement or panic. Piiman grabbed a fistful of Usopp's pants, dragging him backward. Ninjin, who had tried to stay dignified, eventually joined in and latched onto Usopp's arm.
And through it all, Usopp didn't let go.
His stance was wide, knees bent deep into the sand. The sun had started to dip lower, and I could see the light hit his face—tanned skin glowing red, sweat pooling at his brow. He was breathing hard, lips parted, jaw clenched. His eyes squinted with stubborn resolve.
Pride. Pure, dumb pride.
But it was more than that.
Usopp was trying to prove something. Not just to the kids. Not even to me. Maybe to himself. Maybe to some invisible voice inside him that whispered you can't.
And he was answering it with everything he had.
That was Usopp.
People call him a coward. And sure, maybe he is. But he was more than that. He always was. I had come to learn that he's the kind of coward who refuses to run if someone's hope is hanging in the balance. If someone believes in him—even a little—he'll push through anything just to prove that belief was worth it.
It was my rod. My fish. But he held it like he was carrying my trust with both hands.
Still, watching the four of them wheezing, red-faced, tangled in a human rope... even I had some humanity.
I sighed and stepped forward.
One hand gripped the rod, the other tapped Usopp's shoulder.
He looked at me, his chest still heaving, and nodded once. No words. Just that quiet exchange of responsibility.
He let go, and I stepped in.
And for a second, just a flicker, I felt the old fire wake up inside me. The blood that hadn't burned in years. That familiar tension in my arms. The challenge.
It was a stupid thing, maybe. Just to catch a fish, I was burning a chance at resurrection.
But it didn't matter.
Not to me.
Because the fish mattered. Not as food. Not as a prize. But as something shared. Something fought for. A moment I wanted them to remember.
A moment I wanted to remember.
I didn't yank the rod like a madman. I didn't battle it head-on. I just kept the line steady. Tight. Safe. Waiting for the right pull, the right angle.
And then I glanced back.
Ninjin was already there.
I didn't even say a word. He just knew.
He grabbed hold of the base of the rod, dug his feet in next to mine, and pulled. Piiman rushed in next, grabbing onto Ninjin's waist. Tamanegi came in from the side, hooking his arms around both boys, face red as a tomato but grinning ear to ear.
Then Usopp… dramatic as always… marched up, dusted off his hands like a stage actor finishing his monologue, and took position behind them all. He grabbed Piiman by the collar and leaned back, yelling something heroic that echoed into the sea breeze and started pulling me and the kids pulled him.
A whole fishing line of idiots.
I let out a small groan and exaggerated my breathing. My body pretended to shake. Just enough to sell the story.
And then we all pulled.
One long, drawn-out heave.
The rod bent in half.
The reel screamed like it was begging for mercy.
The line sliced through the surf, cutting up waves like silk.
And then… there it was.
The fish broke the surface.
A marlin.
It was a monster. ten meters at least. Shimmering skin that caught every hue of the setting sun. A long, razor-sharp bill, swishing side to side like it could cut the sky. Muscles rippled beneath its silver-blue scales as it fought even now—half out of the water, refusing to admit defeat.
It thrashed. Sprayed us with cold saltwater. Sent Piiman screaming and slipping backward into Usopp's legs. Tamanegi threw both hands up in a silent cheer and nearly fell too. Ninjin let go of the rod and stood just far enough to not get hurt.
And then it landed.
With a massive, thudding splash right at the edge of the tide.
None of us moved.
We just… stared.
Chest heaving. Sand stuck to our clothes. Wet. Exhausted.
The fish blinked once, slowly. As if it too was confused.
And then the laughter came.
First from Piiman, shrill and uncontrollable. Then Tamanegi, snorting so hard he fell over. Ninjin let out a proud little "hmph." arms crossed like he wasn't just holding on for dear life seconds ago.
And Usopp?
He was already crafting the tale. Standing beside the marlin, hands stretched high.
This wasn't just a catch.
It was something bit more. It was a story to remember.
I sat down beside them, still winded but grinning.
No one said it aloud.
But we all felt the same thing.
Proud. Together.
Even if it was just a fish.
Even if the moment was gone tomorrow.
For now, it was everything.
And under that fading sun, surrounded by kids and chaos and laughter, I didn't feel old.
My lips just felt like smiling.
---------------
I caught the marlin by the beak, the tough bone warm and wet beneath my palm. Its body still quivered slightly—reflex, nothing more. The beast had given everything it had to that last fight.
I pierced its head with a finger. Quick. Quiet. Gentle.
A small breath escaped me. A prayer in the form of a silence. Not for the gods. Not for me. For the fish. It had fought well. A hunt worth remembering. A memory worth treasuring.
Usopp approached without a word, a rare thing. He didn't joke or puff his chest. Just nodded, like he understood something unsaid. Maybe he did. He gave his prayer too.
He knelt beside the marlin, pulling a half-charred measuring tape from his pouch. It was frayed at the edges and smeared with oil, but he ran it down the length of the fish with careful precision. His brow furrowed, lips moving in quiet math. Then, with a grin that cracked wide across his face, he shouted out the number with a flair that only Usopp could manage.
"10.53 meters!" I could see the measuring tape.
His voice echoed across the shore.
The kids erupted.
Tamanegi rolled across the sand and flopped down next to the marlin, arms spread wide. Piiman tried to measure himself against it by laying down along its length, arms stretched over his head. Ninjin, determined to get an accurate count, stacked himself on top of the other two, wiggling around until he almost slid off. The marlin dwarfed them all.
Back in my world, catching something like this would've been the story of a lifetime. Fishermen would've come from across the oceans just to catch a glimpse. Marine Biologist would have loved to research it. Here? Here it was a Thursday evening with a little luck.
I smiled.
Usopp didn't waste time. He'd already pulled out lengths of rope and a wide plank of driftwood from his ever-mysterious pile of supplies. I wasn't even going to ask how he had it ready. It was Usopp. Either he built it yesterday "just in case" or he stole it from an abandoned shack.
He tied the marlin's beak and tail with confident knots, looping the thick rope through holes in the wood, fashioning a crude sled. Then, ever the performer, he tried to lift the whole thing onto his shoulder.
The fish didn't budge.
He grunted, strained, gave a dramatic huff, and staggered half a step before giving up and collapsing like he'd just fought a giant.
I gave him a small wave to step back. He did, rubbing his shoulder, muttering things that sounded suspiciously like excuses.
I walked over and checked the knots, tested the balance, then hoisted the contraption onto my shoulder. The weight settled heavy and warm against my back, the kind of burden that didn't feel like a burden at all.
The blood hadn't fully burned off yet. Even if it had would it matter.
This was memory in the making.
I adjusted the rope, shifted my weight, and started walking. Behind me, the kids jumped to their feet and Usopp brushed himself off like he was never tired to begin with.
"Mura." I said.
Village.
They didn't need more.
We started the slow march home.
---
The sun had dipped far enough now that only the horizon clung to its gold. The sky shifted into soft blues and purples, streaked with the first stars blinking shyly through the veil. The air was cool, kissed with ocean salt and the distant scent of woodsmoke.
We walked as a group, unhurried. Usopp took the lead now, no longer carrying the fish but carrying the moment. He started humming—just a little tune at first, soft under his breath.
Then came the words.
"Binkusu no sake wo, todoke ni yuku yo…"
The kids caught on instantly, belting the lyrics in jagged unison. Their voices cracked, stretched, faltered—but they didn't stop. Usopp added vibrato like he was on stage. Piiman whistled off-beat. Tamanegi clapped. Ninjin just hummed, off to the side but smiling.
I hummed with them.
"Shio no mukou de, yuuhi mo sawagu, sora nya wa wo kaku, to.."
The song wasn't just sound. It was belonging in this world. The way voices carried into the sky, into the night, into each other.
Bink Sake.
A song of Freedom, Adventure, Friendship and Camaraderie, and Nostalgia.
We passed trees that lined the path like old friends. A breeze rustled through the leaves. Somewhere far off, an owl stirred. Fireflies flickered in patches of tall grass.
By the time we reached the edge of the village, the light had nearly vanished and we had sang the song for the third times.
We walked into the village. The village square had a bonfire lit.
A ring of villagers sat around it, discussing matters of the village. When they saw us approaching—my shoulder draped with the enormous marlin, the kids dancing around Usopp, still singing—they stood.
"Gochisō." I called out. Feast.
A few heads turned.
Usopp took the cue, cupped his hands around his mouth, and shouted it louder.
"Gochisō!"
The kids echoed like an army.
"Gochisō!"
Laughter erupted from the fire pit. Two older women clapped their hands together. A young man dropped the talk and ran off toward the houses. One by one, doors creaked open. Shadows turned into faces. Smiles. Curious eyes.
In the span of minutes, the square filled with life.
The marlin was laid out on the long prep table outside the old fishmonger's stall. Lanterns were lit. Firewood stacked. Bottles appeared from nowhere—homemade sake, thick fruit wine, rice beer. People passed out bowls and knives. The old men took over the fish. They hummed songs from their youth as they worked the blade with practiced hands, cleaning the marlin like they'd done a thousand times before.
I sat back on the log, warmth on my face, laughter in the air, and the scent of roasted fish rising into the night.