Inside a lounge within the Tree of Knowledge, an old man and a young man were engaged in a secret conversation.
"Traveling through time and space?! Hahaha, I never imagined such an incredible thing could actually happen."
Dr. Clover took a sip of tea, his wise old eyes shining with a moving light. "This world is truly magical."
Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Indeed. The more I learn, the more I realize how much I don't know."
"And that is precisely why humans need to record knowledge in books to preserve it." Dr. Clover stroked his beard with a smile, then spread his hands. "This is the meaning of this library's existence."
"It is a treasure belonging to all of humanity!"
Hearing this, Sherlock thought of the future fate of the Tree of Knowledge. He opened his mouth, wanting to speak, but stopped himself.
Dr. Clover seemed to sense what the warlock wanted to say. He offered Sherlock a kindly smile and said meaningfully:
"History is not so easily changed."
Perhaps this world-renowned authority on history, and those scholars studying day and night, knew exactly what they were about to face.
"Since history cannot be changed, why do you insist on risking your lives to research it?" Sherlock pushed up his glasses gently, looking puzzled. "Is that Void Century really that important?"
"Hahaha, you sound just like your grandfather did back then."
The old gentleman with the clover-shaped hair grinned. "That is why, although Fresnel possessed the knowledge required of a doctorate in archaeology, he lacked the [spirit] of seeking truth that an archaeologist should have!"
"For an archaeologist, what could be more meaningful than researching unknown history?"
Speaking of this, Dr. Clover's wrinkled face showed a look of fanaticism. "Knowledge is history!"
"And history should belong to all of humanity!"
"..." Sherlock fell silent. He suddenly realized that this titan of the archaeological world was strikingly similar to a certain idiot wearing a straw hat. They were equally stubborn, and equally possessed a magnificent dream.
Similarly, once a man like this decided on something, even ten oxen couldn't pull him back.
Letting out a long breath, Dr. Clover seemed to recall something. He suddenly stood up from his chair and walked toward a bookshelf.
"Speaking of which, when Fresnel left Ohara, he left behind what he was researching. He instructed me to destroy it, but I never did."
Dr. Clover pulled a book from the shelf and flipped a switch. With the sound of gears turning, a secret compartment was revealed in the bookshelf.
"In any case, this is the crystallization of his life's work." As he spoke, Dr. Clover took out a small, pitch-black leather suitcase from the compartment. Judging by its appearance, it had been stored there for quite some years.
"After all, this belonged to your grandfather. I'm handing it over to you now, returning it to its rightful owner. I hope you won't have a need for it in the future."
Sherlock took the black suitcase but didn't open it immediately. He asked, "What exactly is in here? What was my grandfather researching back then?"
"You'll know when you look for yourself."
(What is this, acting so mysterious...) Sherlock glanced suspiciously at the old gentleman with the bizarre hairstyle, then gently opened the case.
The contents were very simple: a few notebooks filled with writing and protected by special methods, a stack of yellowing old photos, and two black-covered books.
Two large gold letters were stamped on the covers of these black books respectively: one was [F], the other was [ ].
(These two black books... why do they look similar to the ones I saw in the Alubarna Palace Library...?) Sherlock raised an eyebrow and opened one. Sure enough, it wasn't human language at all; even translated, it was like garbled code—Ancient Text.
(My grandfather was actually researching this kind of weird stuff? And what did he find?) With this question in mind, Sherlock opened the research notes left by his grandfather and skimmed through them. Then, his expression changed drastically, his pupils instantly contracting to the size of pinholes.
(Th-This is...)
On the other side of the room, little Robin was holding a book, leaning against the corner of the wall and reading quietly.
However, her attention was not on the book at all.
(So slow, Sherlock. What exactly is Dr. Clover talking to him about?) Closing the book, the little girl sighed faintly, her eyes gradually losing focus...
Time flowed back to that street filled with muskets.
"This isn't sorcery at all; it's just the power of a Devil Fruit." Sherlock didn't even look at the ignorant townspeople who had wet themselves in fear. With a light wave of his right hand, the mirrored images of muskets floating in mid-air slowly dissipated.
He walked up to little Robin and squatted down to be at eye level with the little girl:
"So, there is absolutely no need for you to feel inferior because of your ability. On the contrary, you should be proud. After all, eating a Devil Fruit is a very lucky thing."
"It's just that the taste is a bit 'unsatisfactory'." That hellish taste was something Sherlock definitely didn't plan on experiencing again.
Well, although he had already experienced it several times via Insomna in Alabasta.
"Sherlock, you... why did you do that?" Little Robin's eyes turned slightly red. "If you do this, the people here will hate you too."
"Why ask why? What does it matter to me if the people here hate me or not?"
Hearing this question, Sherlock narrowed his eyes, revealing a rare, brilliant smile.
"Aren't we already [friends]? And naturally, I have to teach a small lesson to those who bully my friend."
(F-Friends...)
Looking at Sherlock's smiling face, little Robin couldn't hold it back anymore. Her nose tingled, and she reached out to wrap her arms around the warlock's neck, crying loudly, seemingly wanting to release all the grievances she had held onto for years.
Although she was very sensible and smart, essentially, Robin at this moment was just a seven-year-old little girl.
"..." Sherlock didn't speak. He held little Robin in his arms and gently patted her back. That feeling was exactly the same as when Robin had held him to comfort him earlier.
Sometimes, a warm hug is far better than ten thousand words of comfort.
Thinking back to how she had lost her composure and cried in Sherlock's arms, little Robin's expression looked a bit awkward. She really had lost her composure back then.
(But both are Devil Fruits, so how come Sherlock's ability is so cool? He can actually create so many guns, while my ability is only suitable for doing housework...)
Ahem, in fact, the Mirror-Mirror Fruit also completely destroys the Flower-Flower Fruit when it comes to housework, as can be seen from the spotless deck of the Going Merry.
(But, no matter what, in this regard, Sherlock and I are the [same].) Robin revealed a sweet smile; she seemed to feel that having something in common with Sherlock was something very worth being happy about.
Just then.
"What are you thinking about? You look so happy."
With a familiar, clear male voice, Sherlock's tall and slender figure appeared abruptly behind little Robin, causing the daydreaming little girl's body to tremble violently.
"Phew~ You scared me to death. Sherlock, why do you always appear and disappear like a ghost?" Glaring at the warlock reproachfully, little Robin patted her small chest—flat as a washboard—and let out a sigh of relief.
Following little Robin's movement, Sherlock's gaze shifted downward, an inexplicable light flickering in the deep black eyes behind his lenses.
(The "gap" really is quite large. After all, twenty years have passed... should I say time flies, and the world changes?) Well, Sherlock's focus is indeed very bizarre sometimes.
Unaware of the other's inner thoughts, little Robin asked curiously, "By the way, what did Dr. Clover talk to you about? You chatted for such a long time."
"Nothing much. One of my relatives is an old acquaintance of Dr. Clover; we were just chatting for a while," Sherlock answered with an unchanging expression. Then, he turned his head to look at a nearby wall clock.
"Oh, is it already this time? It's been a long while since lunch. Robin, have you eaten? Are you hungry now?"
Answering Sherlock was a slight growling sound. Although very faint, it was extremely obvious in the quiet library.
"Alright, I understand." Sherlock pushed up his glasses with a calm face.
Poof~ Little Robin's face instantly turned beet red; her stomach's growl had come at truly the perfect time.
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