One Piece: The Chisel in the Sea

The cove glimmered beneath the moon, lanterns bobbing on the walkways, long shadows slipping across the water.

From a ridge above, Art lay prone, the new silent rifle braced steady beneath his cheek. Each breath moved like a measured tide.

Through the scope: pirates patrolled gangplanks and ship rails, some slumped asleep near barrels, others shuffled in lazy arcs, humming or muttering into the night.

Art's finger twitched lightly. A muffled snap — one fell, quietly tumbling into a coil of rope.

Another shot. A pirate leaned over the rail, then vanished backward without a sound.

---

Below, Francis crept across the lower dock, his knives glinting faintly. He slithered under mooring ropes, sidestepped crates, and drifted like a wraith past piles of nets.

A sentry glanced up — Francis flicked a small pouch of sand into his eyes, lunged forward, and drove a knife under the man's chin before he could shout. The pirate's mouth gaped, eyes wild, before going still.

Nico crouched behind him, crossbow trembling. He tracked a guard pacing near the wheel of a ship, held his breath, and loosed — the bolt caught the pirate in the throat, pinning him silently to the mast.

---

They moved from ship to ship, sweeping each deck in careful, quiet waves.

On one deck, Francis grabbed a pirate by the shoulder and slammed him into a barrel, blade darting fast and low. Another pirate nearby staggered backward, only for Nico to fire again — a bolt whistling through the dark, striking true.

Above, Art watched through the scope. Each time Francis threw a barrel or kicked a crate into an enemy's legs, Art shifted slightly, marking new angles. He fired when needed, a guiding ghost in the moonlight.

---

At the stern of a larger vessel, Art pressed his palms to the rudder.

Fuse it shut. Paralyze the ship.

Nothing happened.

He frowned, breath slow and steady, as if sheer force of will might push the fusion through. But the rudder only trembled, its seams resisting.

It's not separate, he realized. It's part of the ship's whole frame.

His gaze flicked along the deck until it found a pile of spare chains and scrap braces. He knelt, grabbed the twisted metal, and pressed it against the rudder seams.

Metal groaned, chains sank, bridging and binding. The rudder shuddered once — then fused solid, locked into the hull like a sealed wound.

Art exhaled slowly, his fingers curling away. Separate pieces… it always needs two.

---

They repeated it again and again: Francis slipping through shadows, tossing crates to disrupt movements, pistols pressed into stomachs at close range before firing.

Nico climbed rope ladders, bolts always ready, sometimes steadying his hand against the mast to keep from shaking.

Art advanced behind them, fusing rudders into place with spare iron, welding anchor chains into docks, knotting deck rails to the pier supports.

On one ship, a pirate reached for a bell alarm — Francis flung a knife into his wrist, then another into his throat. The bell rope dropped from limp fingers, echoing softly on the deck.

---

By the time they stepped onto the main dock, half the fleet lay paralyzed, unable to maneuver or escape. Moonlight spilled across the still decks, illuminating the frozen, silent graveyard of ships.

Francis crouched beside a stack of crates, reloading his pistols and shaking loose the last pouch of sand. "First sweep… clean enough," he whispered, an amused spark in his eyes.

Nico climbed onto the pier, panting, bolts rattling in his quiver. His wide eyes darted to the motionless ships, then to Art's silhouette against the moon.

Art shouldered the silent rifle, gaze fixed deeper into the cove, where torchlight began to flicker and shouts rose in the narrow alleyways.

"The harbor is ours," he said softly. "Next… the town."

Francis grinned, rolling his shoulders as he slipped another blade into his belt. "We've clipped their wings. Now we go for the heart."

Nico swallowed, hands gripping his crossbow as if anchoring himself — but he nodded, stepping forward beside them.

They set their feet on the first narrow walkway leading deeper into the cove. Shadows shifted ahead, pirate shapes unaware.

Art moved first, the silent rifle gliding with him like an extension of his mind.

Tonight, the dock was theirs. Tomorrow, the entire cove would fall — piece by silent piece.