The first half of the Grand Line.
Drum Kingdom — Kesta Town.
Snow fell like whispers from a leaden sky, each flake glittering faintly before vanishing against the frozen earth. The whole island lay under its familiar shroud of winter—quiet, cold, and beautiful in its austerity.
Then, two black streaks ripped through the clouds.
Boom!
They struck the ground in twin flashes of light, blasting the snow into spiraling flurries that danced madly in the gale.
Darren straightened from the crater, brushing frost from his coat. A bottle of strong liquor hung in his hand. He looked up toward the half-mountain castle looming over the town, its ancient spires wrapped in drifting fog.
"This must be the place," he muttered.
Behind him, the metal container he'd carried all this way thudded into the snow. Inside lay Zephyr—pale, fever-flushed, breath coming in shallow rasps that crystallized in the frigid air.
Darren's brow furrowed. His Haki brushed the faint rhythm of the old man's heartbeat—uneven, racing, faltering. The fever was burning through his organs. Without immediate help, even if he survived, he'd be left a broken man.
He took a long breath, then called out toward the castle. His voice carried clearly through the icy valley:
"Rogers Darren, seeking medical aid!"
"Dr. Kureha! Please—save my master, Black Arm Zephyr!"
One second. Two. Three.
Nothing.
The silence pressed down like the snow itself.
Darren clenched his jaw, about to force the issue, when the great gates creaked open.
A slender figure leaned lazily against the doorway.
"So tell me, Marine brat," she drawled, voice edged with dry amusement, "if I refuse, are you going to blow up my castle?"
She looked impossibly youthful—tall, sharp, and radiant beneath the gray light. A cropped purple jacket framed her figure; silver-white hair spilled freely down her back. But the faint rasp in her tone betrayed an age that defied belief.
Dr. Kureha.
The Witch of Drum Island. The world's most formidable physician, famed as much for her eccentric temper as for her unrivaled skill.
As far as anyone could tell, she looked thirty—forty, at most. In truth, she was one hundred and thirty-nine.
Darren inclined his head. "If that's what it takes to make you help," he said evenly. "Besides, I'm no Marine anymore." He raised the bottle slightly. "Brought you a gift."
Kureha pressed her fingers to her temple, sighing through her nose. "You troublemakers always show up in pairs—injured fools and idiots who drag them here."
She eyed the unconscious Zephyr, then waved a hand. "Fine. Bring the one-armed relic inside. And don't forget the liquor."
---
Five minutes later, the crackle of a fireplace filled the castle's second-floor wardroom with warmth.
Kureha tossed her sunglasses aside. The illusion of youth melted away under the firelight: wrinkles, sharp nose, eyes still bright as a hawk's.
Without ceremony, she snatched the bottle from Darren's hand, bit off the cork, and drank deep. Color rushed to her cheeks.
"What are you staring at, kid?" she barked between gulps. "Want the secret to staying young?"
Darren's mouth twitched. "Are you sure you can treat my teacher after that much alcohol?"
"Bah!" She slammed the bottle onto the table. "I was saving lives while your grandparents were in diapers."
She turned to Zephyr, fingers already moving with mechanical precision. Peeling back the soaked bandages revealed the ruin of his arm—black-green blood, decayed muscle, and spore-like nodules writhing faintly across the flesh.
"Tsk, tsk… nasty business," she muttered. "This isn't going to be easy."
She pressed a palm to his burning forehead, and her brows knitted tighter.
"Out," she ordered curtly. "You're in my light."
Without looking back, she swept into the adjoining room, glass and metal clinking as she worked.
Darren stepped into the corridor, sat against the wall, and lit a cigar. Smoke coiled upward, mingling with the scent of disinfectant and snow.
Minutes stretched into hours. Dusk bled through the windows. A small mountain of cigar butts gathered at his feet before the door finally creaked open.
Dr. Kureha emerged, gloves stained dark green. She tore them off, tossed them into the bin, and lit a cigarette of her own. Her sigh came out as smoke.
"He came too late," she said flatly. "The poison's reached his organs."
Darren's fingers twitched around his lighter. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," she repeated, "it's everywhere. I've cut out the worst of the tissue and stabilized him for now, but those spores keep multiplying. No known medicine can stop them."
For a heartbeat, the room felt cold again.
Then she added, "Don't start mourning yet. There might be someone else."
Darren's head snapped up. "Who?"
Kureha exhaled slowly. "A man I met decades ago while traveling. A genius—never seen his like. He could heal what others called hopeless. Even the dying walked away under his care."
She flicked ash into the tray. "But he wasn't the sort who stayed put. I returned home eventually; he didn't. Heard he's been working near the Red Line lately. Lighthouse keeper, Twin Capes."
Her eyes narrowed, sifting through memory. "What was his name again… Cro—"
"Crocus," Darren finished quietly, his expression unreadable.
Kureha blinked in surprise.
"…He's now the ship's doctor of the Roger Pirates," Darren said, voice low, tinged with something that wasn't quite irony and wasn't quite dread.
To be continued...