The fire kept snapping in the hearth, loud in a room that had run out of words.
Ginny held Bonney closer and tried to smile like she'd been smiling all day—like she could fool the air itself into being lighter. "Well," she said softly, "six months is… generous, isn't it? Some people don't even get told."
The temperature inside the room seemed to lower a bit, despite the fireplace still burning.
Pintel shifted, sensing the cold smiled and tried to stab it with humor. "On the bright side," he said, forcing cheer into his voice, "six months is enough time to—uh—teach the baby how to… talk. At least then she'll remember your name-"
Augur's head turned slowly toward him. "At least read the room before speaking. Do you even listen to what you are saying?"
Pintel blinked. "Right. Sorry."
Ginny watched them and her eyes softened. That was the problem with trying to cheer them up. Their sadness wasn't a thing you could distract.
"I didn't tell you much," Ginny said, voice low. "Not because I didn't trust you. Because… it's hard to say it out loud. The moment you say it, it becomes real again. It feels like reliving them again."
Kureha stood near the table, arms crossed, jaw set. Hiriluk wasn't here—dragged into the capital's mess. The hut felt smaller without his noisy optimism.
Ginny stared into the fire as if it could turn blue.
"I was born in the Porco Kingdom," she began. "Grand Line. I don't know how many years ago. I had a mother who braided my hair so tight I used to cry, and a father who smelled like woodsmoke and ink. I remember… the sound of markets. I remember running. I remember being four and thinking the world was all that existed."
She swallowed once.
"And then I was enslaved."
Gibbs' hand tightened around his cup. The cup creaked.
Jack didn't move. His gaze was on the flames, but his eyes weren't seeing them.
Ginny kept going, because stopping meant the room would fill with the parts she'd been trying not to remember. "They… don't take you like you're a person. They take you like you're a thing that inconvenienced them by existing. I grew up learning how to keep my eyes down and my voice small. That's what kept you alive. Smallness."
Her fingers brushed Bonney's hair. Bonney slept on, trusting the warmth.
"Nine years into it," Ginny continued, "they took me to a place called God Valley."
Crocodile's cigar paused halfway to her lips. Her expression didn't change, but something sharpened behind her eyes.
Pintel's face went blank. Jack looked at Crocodile. She knew something about the place.
Ginny's voice steadied, the way it did when she'd had to speak around pain for too long. "They called it a 'competition.' Like it was a festival. Like it was sport. They made slaves fight for their amusement. They made nobles hunt us."
Robin's hands clenched in her lap.
Ginny's eyes lifted, meeting each face briefly, measuring how much to give. She gave it anyway.
"I wiretapped their communications," she said. "I was small, remember. Small people learn how to move unseen. I heard about the prizes. Devil Fruits. Two of them. One… a dragon fruit. Another that could push pain and people away."
She exhaled, almost laughing, not from humor—something darker, her fate. "I met Ivankov there. Loud, wearing something ridiculous, and impossible to ignore. We planned an escape. The plan was simple: create chaos big enough that the guards would look away for a second. We sent word out about the prizes. We hoped pirates would come. Marines. Anyone. We didn't care. We wanted the island to become a battlefield so we could slip out."
Gibbs' head lifted slightly. Jack's posture changed—subtle, but there.
"We found Kuma," Ginny said. "Bartholomew Kuma. He'd already tried to escape. He was beaten so badly I thought he was dead. But he still… he still looked at us like he wanted to apologize for breathing."
Her voice softened when she said his name.
"He didn't know how to hate," Ginny added quietly. "Even then."
"When the competition began," Ginny said, "Ivankov and I told the other slaves. Five hundred of them. We asked them to run with us. Some looked at us like we were insane. Some looked like they were already ghosts. But they ran anyway."
She swallowed again, and her gaze went distant. "Kuma got that fruit. The one that pushes. The Nikyu Nikyu no Mi. He… he used it to save us. All of us. He pushed us away from the island. Away from the nobles."
Pintel whispered, almost involuntarily, "Five hundred…?"
Ginny nodded. "Five hundred slaves and natives. Gone. Free. Because Kuma chose to bleed for strangers."
A heavy silence fell.
God Valley wasn't just a rumor in the world. It was a crater in history. People spoke about it in half sentences. The official story was always the same: Marine hero Garp and Pirate King Roger joined hands to defeat Rocks.
But Ginny's words… her words were a different angle. Not about glory, but about slaves. Their misery, the darkness of the world.
Crocodile's eyes narrowed slightly, mind working. She didn't say anything, but the attention was there.
Ginny kept going.
"Afterward," she said, "we made it to Sorbet Kingdom. Kuma's home. We lived in his family's church. Ivankov left. He had the sea in his blood. Kuma stayed. I stayed."
Her lips curved, faint and real for the first time in a while. "For a few years, I forgot what it felt like to be owned."
Gibbs' face softened. Jack's jaw shifted.
"Kuma became a pastor," Ginny said. "He spent Sundays taking people's pain. Literally. He would repel it out of them and take it into himself. He'd come home shaking and sweating and still apologize for being late."
Kureha snorted once, low and mean, like she was trying to fight emotion with contempt. "Idiot."
Ginny's smile warmed, even through sadness. "Yes. A saintly idiot."
Her voice hardened again. "But Sorbet was poor. The Heavenly Tribute drained it. People couldn't pay, so the king started enslaving citizens to make up the money. That's what the World Government does. It squeezes until you break, then blames you for bleeding."
Crocodile's hook hand flexed faintly.
"Kuma protested," Ginny continued. "They imprisoned him. I demanded his release, so they imprisoned me too. And in that prison, I realized something simple."
She looked around the room. "If you want to protect anyone in this world, you can't just fight bandits. You have to fight the World Government."
Gibbs looked at the fireplace. He had experienced firsthand how cruel the World Government can be.
"Dragon came," Ginny said. "Ivankov came. The Freedom Fighters liberated the kingdom. Kuma joined them. I joined him. We became...sort of it's founding fathers."
Pintel's face pulled tight.
Jack and Gibbs exchanged a brief look.
They had met Dragon once. In Ohara. Then they had also encountered that weird but smart Einstein, or whoever he was.
Ginny's voice quieted. "Eight years later, I was commander of the East Army. We were going to meet Kuma's group in a country the next day. I never made it. I was captured."
Her fingers tightened on Bonney again, and her expression turned inward. "Mary Geoise. The rest… you already know."
No one spoke. The fire did, though—hissing as a log shifted and collapsed.
Jack's voice finally broke the silence. It was gentler than his usual swagger, "Do you want to stay here," he asked, "or live the rest of your time at sea?"
Kureha's head snapped up. "Sea will kill her faster. And the child too."
Ginny's eyes didn't leave Bonney. "I always wanted to see Kuma again," she said. "But… I don't think I will be able to in this life."
Pintel swallowed hard. "We could take you to Sorbet," he blurted. "Or—wherever those Freedom Fighters are—"
Crocodile cut in, voice flat. "If finding Dragon were easy, the World Government would've done it years ago."
Robin's head lifted. Her eyes were wet but steady. "I won't let you die," she said quietly. "Not if there's any knowledge left in this world that can heal you. The books from Ohara… something has to exist. Somewhere."
Gibbs looked at Jack.
Jack shook his head once, slow—unspoken agreement with Robin's determination. Then he straightened, captain again, voice firm enough to hold the room.
"We're staying in Drum Kingdom," Jack said. "As long as it takes. Until we find a cure. Or at least something that buys time."
No one argued. Even Kureha didn't—though her mouth tightened like she hated agreeing with pirates.
The unsaid thing sat between them anyway: if they failed, Ginny would be buried in snow.
Ginny's shoulders eased slightly, like someone had finally taken a weight from her hands. "Thank you," she whispered. "All of you."
Gibbs stood abruptly, as if movement could chase away the stillness. "Right then," he said gruffly, too loud, too fast. "We'll—uh—we'll make this place lively. Get a routine. Keep warm. Keep busy. We've been in worse states."
Pintel blinked at him. "We have?"
Gibbs ignored him and moved toward Ginny with a forced smile. "And if anyone tells you you're dying, you tell them they're rude. That's what you do."
Ginny smiled again, tears spilling out of her eyes, but not of sadness.
Jack, meanwhile, had already turned away, like staying in the room too long would make him admit something he didn't want to admit.
Crocodile noticed. "Where are you going?" she asked, suspicious.
Jack didn't look back. "Can't help with research," he said lightly. "But I can train. And I've also heard the nurses here are… very competent."
Crocodile stared at his retreating back, then muttered a curse under her breath that sounded like it had too many syllables to be polite.