One Piece: The Chisel in the Sea

The moon hung heavy above the cove, painting the docks in pale silver. Lanterns bobbed on mooring lines, their glow broken and wavering over the dark water.

Francis crouched low behind a stack of crates at the edge of the dock, his grin sharp and hungry. He checked one of the preset rifles — a fused musket with a sleeker, sturdier barrel — then shifted to the next.

He had planted them carefully: three separate firing stations, each stocked with two or three of the modified muskets, primed and aimed at different choke points.

He inhaled.

Then, he fired the first shot. A pirate near a lantern dropped backward with a muffled gasp.

Francis ducked low, darted to the second station. Another shot — a gunner above a walkway toppled over the rail, splashing into the sea.

At the third station, he fired twice more in quick succession, each shot echoing sharp and sudden. Pirates scrambled, shouting, their eyes wild as they searched for shooters in the shadows.

"Enemies on the rooftops!" one screamed.

"No — there! In the crates!" another bellowed.

Francis snorted under his breath, shifting to his final station. The illusion was working: they thought they faced an entire army.

---

As the panic spread, oil-soaked crates ignited at the edges of the dock. Art had set them earlier — small fusions of oil barrels and broken lantern glass, timed to fall and spark.

Flames roared up in sudden blooms, spilling smoke and fire across the nearest planks. Pirates stumbled, slipped, and crashed into each other.

In the chaos, Nico slipped through the maze of barrels, crossbow aimed and steady.

He took out a pirate who carried a torch, then another who tried to signal with a bell.

The pirates staggered, turning every which way, unable to form ranks.

---

Art advanced next. The silent rifle glided up to his shoulder as if it belonged there since birth.

Crack.

A pirate commander barking orders crumpled, his hat flying.

Crack.

A lookout in a crow's nest pitched backward, crashing onto a lower deck.

Musket fire finally answered, but too late — Art was already moving, stepping around crates and broken rails.

Another shot, and another. The enemy's return fire was wild and blind, pinging off walls and sinking into barrels.

---

Francis now moved into close range, drawing his knives in one hand, a pistol in the other.

A pirate lunged toward him with a cutlass. Francis kicked a loose barrel into the man's shins, toppling him. The knife slipped under the pirate's chin a heartbeat later.

Another pirate rushed from the side. Francis fired the pistol point-blank into the man's ribs, then whipped a pouch of sand into the next one's eyes, forcing him to stagger and claw at his face.

He ducked low, slicing tendons, kicking tables into charging legs, weaving between strikes like a snake through tall grass.

---

Nico stayed high, scrambling across scaffolds and netting. He picked off torch carriers and musketmen, preventing any real coordination below.

A pirate scrambled up behind him. Nico turned, eyes wide, and loosed a bolt at close range — the pirate tumbled backward, crashing through a half-finished walkway.

Nico shivered but forced himself to keep moving, reloading bolts with trembling fingers.

---

Art's shots were precise and relentless. Each time he fired, he pulled the bolt back smoothly, ejecting a casing that clinked faintly onto the deck. Another round loaded, another target fell.

Pirates collapsed in twos and threes, their defensive line folding like wet paper.

Art finally advanced toward a half-docked ship, palm pressed flat against the anchor chain. Metal shrieked, the chain fused into the deck, locking it in place. He pivoted, eyes cutting across the remaining defenders.

---

By the time the last rifle station fell silent, the entire outer dock was littered with fallen pirates and broken crates.

Francis moved between the sprawled bodies, checking for alarms or hidden traps, occasionally nudging a corpse aside with his boot.

Nico descended slowly, crossbow still up, eyes wide and flicking around nervously.

Art joined them, his silhouette sharp under the moon, rifle balanced in one hand like an extension of his spine.

---

They stood at the threshold to the inner cove — a labyrinth of narrow walkways, low buildings, and shadowed alleys.

Francis reloaded his pistol, flicking blood from his knives. "Looks like the front porch is ours," he said, voice low but exhilarated.

Nico swallowed hard, wiping sweat from his brow. "They… they didn't stand a chance…"

Art scanned the dark ahead, eyes hard and unwavering.

"No. But they will regroup," he said softly. "We move now — push deeper, before they find their feet."

Francis grinned, tucking a fresh pouch of sand into his belt. "Then let's finish the dance."

Nico nodded shakily, tightening his grip on his crossbow.

Art lifted the rifle, and together they stepped off the dock, shadows flickering around them.

Tonight, the outer dock had fallen.

Tomorrow, the heart of the cove would follow.