Robin's wound was much deeper than it appeared.
On the third day in the abandoned lighthouse, the wound began to develop a low-grade infection.
Seraphilia used boiled rainwater to clean and change her bandages every day.
Robin remained silent throughout.
Only when Seraphilia's fingertips touched the wound would her body tense for a moment, those pale blue eyes staring fixedly at the other's every move.
On the morning of the fourth day, Seraphilia finished checking the wound and finally spoke.
"The herbs aren't enough."
Most of the swelling from the infection had subsided, but recovery was still far off.
"You need real anti-inflammatory medicine and clean food, not hard bread and rainwater."
Robin hugged her knees, leaning against a haystack, her gaze falling on the firelight without responding.
Seraphilia's voice continued calmly, "We can't stay on this island anymore; the pursuers will search here sooner or later."
She paused, her ice-blue eyes turning toward Robin.
"We're going to another island in the West Blue, a larger port town. There's a black market there and a transient population, making it easier to hide and easier to get what you need."
This was the first time she explicitly used "we" and provided a concrete plan.
It wasn't a consultation; it was a statement.
Robin finally turned her face, those pale blue eyes scrutinizing her in the dim light.
"Why?"
Her voice was still dry, but much clearer than it had been on that stormy night.
"You could go by yourself. Taking me along is a burden, a risk."
This question had been circling in the depths of her heart for a long time.
Seraphilia didn't answer immediately; she poked at the fire, making the flames burn brighter.
The orange light reflected in her ice-blue pupils.
"Because you need medicine," she said as if discussing the weather, "and I know a place called 'Black Iron Town'."
"It's the territory of smugglers and information brokers, with underground doctors and... some not-so-legal ancient books and rubbing fragments in circulation."
She looked up, her gaze accurately locking onto Robin.
"You're looking for clues to the 'poneglyph', right?"
"You won't find anything by just hiding and running away."
The word 'poneglyph' was like a needle piercing Robin's heart.
Her hand unconsciously tightened around the worn-out coat covering her.
Seraphilia knew she had hit the mark.
The thirst for knowledge and the burden of Ohara's legacy were the only flames in Robin that would not be extinguished in her desperation.
"I need a cover," Seraphilia completely tied her own motives to Robin's needs. "An 'identity' that allows for quick information gathering in an unfamiliar town."
"A child acting alone is too conspicuous."
"But it's different if we're'sisters'. In ports, homeless sisters who lost their parents and make their own living are very common."
"We look about the same age; pretending to be sisters is safer than acting alone."
The reasoning was pragmatic, calm, and even carried a cold sense of mutual exploitation.
There was no hypocritical "I want to protect you," only a "cooperation proposal" based on survival and goals.
This felt more real to Robin than any empty promise.
Robin was silent for a long time, her brain rapidly weighing and analyzing.
And the bait of "clues to the poneglyph" held an irresistible attraction for her.
"How do we get there?"
After a long time, Robin asked in a low voice.
This meant she had given her tacit consent.
"Smuggling," Seraphilia answered very quickly, clearly having planned it long ago. "Black Iron Town is to the southeast. There's a 'Rat Path' commonly used by smugglers. By utilizing hidden reefs and ocean currents, a fast boat can get there in three days and two nights. I know brokers at the docks who do this kind of business; they don't ask about origins, they only take money."
"And the money?" Robin's question cut straight to the point.
Seraphilia pulled an unremarkable small cloth bag from her bosom and poured out a few dull gold coins and some small gems.
"Brought them from the 'last place'."
She spoke vaguely, but Robin understood instantly—the Celestial Dragons.
This was the only hard currency brought out from that hell.
"It's enough for the boat fare and initial expenses," Seraphilia put away the money bag. "Once we reach Black Iron Town, I have ways to get more. I have my 'craft'."
The plan was crude and the risks were immense.
But this was currently the only path Robin could see leading to "history."
Rather than just endless flight.
She looked at the firelight and finally nodded.
The next evening, Seraphilia set off for the docks.
She left most of the food and water behind and reinforced the doors and windows.
"If I'm not back before dawn," she said with her back to Robin, standing at the door, "take the supplies and go to the cave we stayed in before via the small path on the back cliff. Remember the route."
By the firelight, Robin hugged her knees and nodded.
"Be careful."
After Seraphilia finished speaking, her figure merged into the deepening night.
The docks at night were another world.
The air was thick with the smell of fish, cheap rum, and conspiracy.
Seraphilia wrapped her cloak tightly, her silver hair hidden without a trace, moving through the shadows of the crates like a ghost.
She was looking for signs of the "underground language."
Special notches on the gunwales, a certain color of rag on the mast, secret gestures among sailors.
These were survival skills she had earned with her life while wandering the West Blue for the past few months.
Finally, she found her target.
A scar-faced man squatting on a bollard smoking a pipe, with a string of peculiar shells hanging from his waist—the token of a broker.
Seraphilia observed for a long time from the shadows, confirming there was no danger.
She unfastened her cloak and used her Cloud-Cloud Fruit ability to condense an extremely thin layer of Cloud Mist, close to her skin tone, just below her collarbone where the slave brand once was.
In the dim light, it looked like an ugly old scar.
She adjusted her breathing, making herself look like a destitute but experienced girl rather than an ordinary stray.
Then, she walked over.
"To Black Iron Town, via the 'Rat Path', for two people."
Her voice was kept very low, going straight to the point.
The scarred man lifted his eyelids, his murky gaze sweeping over her, pausing for a moment on the "scar" she had deliberately exposed.
"When are you leaving?"
"Tomorrow night, at high tide."
"Who are the people?"
"Sisters," Seraphilia's voice carried a hint of well-timed anxiety. "My sister is sick and needs a doctor as soon as possible."
The scarred man exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, "The Marines have been on the 'Rat Path' recently; the risk is high, and so is the price."
"How much?"
He quoted a figure that was nearly two-thirds of Seraphilia's assets.
Seraphilia didn't haggle, simply stating her conditions calmly: "Half now, the balance upon arrival. I want an independent lower deck compartment, the smallest is fine, but it must be clean and have a vent. Provide fresh water and food on the way."
The scarred man gave her another look; this girl was unnervingly experienced.
"Fine. Tomorrow night, at the easternmost end of the second pier, the ship with the grey sails. Arrive half an hour early; we won't wait for latecomers."
"How should I address the skipper?"
"Call me 'Old Ghost'," the scarred man revealed his yellowed and blackened teeth. "You know the rules, right? Once you're on board, stay mute. Don't look at what you shouldn't see, and don't ask what you shouldn't ask. Once we arrive, get lost on your own and don't cause me any trouble."
Seraphilia nodded, counted out the gold coins, wrapped them in a black cloth, and handed them over.
The transaction was complete.