The sea stretched endlessly below them, a vast sheet of ink and silver reflecting the fractured light of the moon. Waves rolled against the cliffs far beneath, their rhythm steady and eternal, as if the world itself were breathing.
Sanji sat at the very edge, legs dangling over the precipice, boots swaying gently above the abyss. The wind tugged at his hair and coat, carrying the salt of the ocean and the quiet of the night. This place—this narrow cliff overlooking the sea—was his secret.
The only place where the noise stopped. The only place where he could pretend, just for a little while, that he was normal. Reiju sat beside him now, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. She was the only person he had ever brought here. The only one he trusted with something that mattered to him.
The sky above was a tapestry of stars, scattered like shards of light across a velvet void. For a long time, neither of them spoke. Then Reiju broke the silence.
"You know…" she said softly, eyes fixed on the horizon, "if you want, you can come with me." Sanji blinked. She turned to him, her expression calm but intent, as though every word mattered.
"If you truly wish it," she continued, "I can talk to Mother. I'm sure she'll understand. And Master Doffy—Ross—everyone… they'd be more than happy to accept you as part of the family."
She wasn't offering out of pity. That much was clear. Reiju believed it. Of all the Vinsmoke children, she knew the truth best. Ichiji, Niji, and Yonji didn't hate Sanji—not in the way hatred was supposed to feel. What shaped them was far crueler than malice. It was absence.
Vinsmoke Judge had tried to play god, rewriting life in the womb. And in many ways, he had succeeded. Enhanced strength. Perfected reflexes. Unnatural vitality. They were superior weapons wrapped in human skin. But every blessing had taken something in return.
The brothers had lost pieces of themselves they would never realize were missing. Empathy dulled. Guilt blunted. Compassion reduced to concepts rather than instincts. They didn't truly understand that what they did to Sanji was wrong.
They couldn't. Reiju knew, because she had endured the procedure fully. She had felt what it took from her—and what it almost took completely. Her brothers, spared the worst of it, still retained fragments of humanity. Enough to be guided. Enough to learn.
Sanji, however—Sanji was different. He had gone through the same hell. And yet, his heart remained. Not only intact but stronger. Stronger than theirs. Stronger, perhaps, than most people she had ever met. He felt deeply. Too deeply. He hurt easily. And he cared even when the world gave him every reason not to.
That was what made him special. That was why she protected him so fiercely. And that was why she was afraid of what kind of life awaited him if he stayed with the revolutionaries—a childhood shaped by loss, indoctrination, and endless war. Reiju shifted slightly, her voice lowering.
"You don't belong in a world that will teach you to harden your heart just to survive," she said. "You'd burn yourself out trying to save everyone."
Sanji stared at the sea, fingers curling in his lap. The idea was tempting. Terrifying. Warm. A place where he wouldn't be alone. Where no one would look at him like he was broken. Where his sister would still be there.
"I…" His voice caught, and he swallowed. "Thank you." He turned to her, offering a smile that was small but sincere. "But I think… I should stay." Reiju's eyes widened just a fraction.
Sanji continued, gaze steady now. "If I leave… then everything Mother went through really would be for nothing. And I don't want to run away just because it hurts."
He looked back at the stars. "I want to be strong too," he said quietly. "My own way."
For a moment, Reiju said nothing. Then she smiled—a soft, bittersweet smile—and reached out, resting her hand gently on his head.
"Of course you do," she murmured. "That's exactly why you're special." The waves crashed far below. And under the quiet glow of the moon, the two siblings sat together, holding onto a fragile moment that neither of them would ever forget.
Reiju let out a long, measured sigh, the kind that carried more weight than words. She reached for the heavy backpack resting behind her and dragged it between them, the leather scraping softly against stone. Sanji tilted his head, curiosity briefly eclipsing the quiet sadness lingering in his eyes.
Reiju unfastened the clasps. One by one, she pulled out three thick tomes, each landing with a dull thud against the rock. The sound alone spoke of their weight—of effort, distance, and care.
"These came in with the last shipment," Reiju said casually, though the faint smile on her lips betrayed her pride. "I had them brought in especially for you. All the way from Dressrosa."
Sanji blinked, then leaned forward, peering at the books as though they might vanish if he didn't look fast enough.
"Make sure Ichiji and the others don't find out about them," she added, tapping the cover of the final tome with a playful grin. "Not that they care about books… but even they might be tempted by this one."
Sanji's gloom evaporated instantly. The leather-bound covers gleamed faintly in the moonlight, worn yet lovingly preserved. He didn't even know what they contained—but that didn't matter. A gift was a gift. And from Reiju, it was something precious.
He nodded vigorously. "I'll hide them," he promised, voice earnest. "I won't let anyone touch them." Reiju chuckled.
"Here," she said, lifting the largest tome and passing it to him. Sanji accepted it greedily—and nearly dropped it as the sheer weight pulled his arms downward.
"Woah—!" The book hit the ground with a heavy plop, but Sanji only laughed, scrambling to open it despite the strain. His eyes widened.
"A… a cookbook?" he breathed. Not printed. Handwritten. Carefully so. Sanji forgot everything else. He flipped through the pages with reverence, fingers tracing the ink as though it might fade beneath his touch. Recipes sprawled across the parchment in elegant script, accompanied by detailed notes, sketches of ingredients, and annotations written by multiple hands.
Reiju watched him, her expression softening.
"I know how much you love cooking," she said. "So I had someone gather the world's most renowned recipes—descriptions of ingredients from all across the Four Blues, the Grand Line… even the Calm Belt."
Sanji's breath caught.
"In there," she continued, "you'll find dishes that haven't been made in centuries. Ingredients the world has forgotten. Flavors that vanished along with the people who once cherished them."
She smiled faintly. "Maybe… you can bring them back to life. With your own hands."
Sanji's eyes shimmered. He didn't even realize tears were threatening to spill as he turned the pages, completely absorbed. Every ounce of sadness he'd carried earlier was swallowed whole by wonder.
Reiju had gone to great lengths for this—he could tell. She had personally asked Giolla to commission it, sending someone trustworthy to scour the deep archives of Green Bit. If true gourmets ever learned this book existed, they would lose their minds. More than half of its contents were recipes thought lost to history.
Sanji was holding a treasure the world didn't even know it had lost. He was so engrossed he barely noticed Reiju lifting the second tome. This one was thinner. Plainer. But somehow… heavier in meaning.
"Maybe check this one next?" Reiju offered gently.
Reluctantly, Sanji tore his gaze away from the cookbook and accepted the second volume. He opened it—and froze. The title alone stole the breath from his lungs. All Blue.
"It contains everything my family could uncover," Reiju said softly. "Rumors. Legends. Half-forgotten sailor's tales. Every fragment, no matter how small."
Page after page followed—maps with speculative currents, eyewitness accounts scribbled in margins, and notes contradicting one another yet refusing to dismiss the idea entirely.
"I hope," she added quietly, "that one day… you truly find the fabled sea." Sanji's vision blurred. Tears spilled freely now, dripping onto the pages as he tried desperately to wipe them away. All blue. The sea where every ocean met. The place where every ingredient existed.
A dream everyone else had laughed at. A fairy tale, they had said. Even among the revolutionaries, belief was scarce. Mentions of All Blue in their libraries barely filled a single page.
And yet—here it was. Hundreds of pages. Proof that someone else believed.
Proof that she believed. Reiju had noticed. She had seen the way he lingered over old books, the way his eyes lit up whenever the name slipped from someone's mouth, and the quiet hope he never dared to voice too loudly. She hadn't dismissed it. She had preserved it. Sanji clutched the book to his chest, shoulders shaking as he laughed and cried all at once.
Reiju watched Sanji for a long moment as he clutched the book to his chest, his shoulders still trembling. The joy in his eyes was real—pure, unguarded. It was the kind of light the world loved to snuff out first. Her expression softened… then grew serious.
"But remember this, Sanji," she said quietly.
The wind rolled in from the sea, colder now, carrying the distant roar of waves crashing against the cliffs below. The stars above felt sharper somehow, as if listening.
"To chase your dreams, you'll have to leave the shore one day." Sanji looked up at her. "The sea out there," Reiju continued, her voice steady but heavy with experience, "is cruel beyond measure. It doesn't care how kind you are. Or how gentle your dreams may be."
She reached into the bag once more.
"You'll meet people who smile as they stab you in the back. You'll see islands where hope goes to die. Storms that swallow ships whole. Monsters that make today's pain feel trivial." Her fingers closed around the final tome.
"And you'll learn very quickly that wanting something… isn't enough." She placed the book between them. This one was different.
The leather was darker, the binding reinforced with metal at the spine. Faint, deliberate markings were etched into the cover—not decorative, but purposeful. The book felt dense, not just in weight, but in presence. Reiju rested her palm atop it.
"Out there," she said, "you'll need people you can trust with your life. Friends who become family. People you'll bleed for—and who'll bleed for you." Her gaze sharpened. "And you'll need the strength to protect them."
Sanji swallowed. Reiju lifted the book and handed it to him with both hands. "This," she said softly, "is how you survive."
Sanji's fingers brushed the cover. A chill ran through him. "This book…" Reiju hesitated for the briefest moment. "This is something even within the Donquixote family; only a few are allowed to read."
Sanji's eyes widened. "It contains the full training regimen," she continued, "personally written by Young Master Rosinante." Sanji froze. Donquixote Rosinante. Even someone as young as him knew the weight of that name.
Reiju exhaled slowly. "I wasn't sure I'd be allowed to give this to you. I thought Master Doffy would refuse outright."
She smiled faintly. "But when I told Young Master Ross it was for my little brother… he didn't hesitate."
Instead, Rosinante had done something unthinkable. He had rewritten it. Updated it. Page by page.
"He personally penned a detailed guide," Reiju said, pride and disbelief mingling in her voice, "on Rokushiki. On Haki—its principles, its dangers, its limits, and its potential."
She shook her head. "Even now, I don't fully understand why he went to such lengths."
Her original plan had been to ask Issho for guidance—a master in his own right. But this? This was something else entirely. A codex. A holy scripture of combat. Even Reiju was tempted to keep it for herself.
"Haki," Reiju said, meeting Sanji's eyes, "is the difference between surviving the sea… and being crushed by it. It's the will to stand when your body fails. The resolve to strike when fear tells you to run."
She placed her hand gently over his.
"If you train seriously—if you follow what's written here—you won't just survive." Her lips curved into a small, confident smile. "You'll become someone who can walk the seas without fear."
Sanji stared down at the book, hands trembling—not from weakness, but from awe. This wasn't just a gift. It was a lifeline. A future. A promise that he didn't have to remain the weak, unwanted child forever. Reiju leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper only he could hear.
"The world will try to break you, Sanji. That's inevitable." She ruffled his hair gently. "But if you protect your heart—and sharpen your will—then no matter how cruel the sea becomes…" She smiled. "It won't be able to take you down."
Sanji carefully set the books aside, stacking them as though they were fragile treasures rather than ink and paper. His hands lingered on the covers for a heartbeat longer, as if imprinting their weight into memory.
Then he turned and threw his arms around Reiju. He clung to her without restraint, face buried against her coat, tears spilling freely now—hot, unashamed, unstoppable.
"Thank you," he choked. "Thank you… for everything."
Reiju stiffened for just a moment—then smiled and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him close. She ruffled his hair roughly, affectionately, the way she always did when words weren't enough.
"You're such a crybaby," she teased softly, though her own voice wavered. "What am I going to do with you?"
They stayed like that for a while, the sea murmuring below them, the stars watching in silence. When Reiju finally pulled back, she reached into her pocket and produced a small square of parchment. It was pale, fibrous, and faintly warm to the touch, as if it were alive. She placed it gently into Sanji's trembling hands.
"Sanji," she said, her tone shifting, "this is called a Vivre Card."
Sanji blinked at it, sniffing. "A… card?"
"It's made from a person's fingernail," Reiju explained, not unkindly. "Once it's created, it will always point toward its owner. No matter how far apart you are."
She placed her finger over the parchment. It quivered—then subtly tugged in one direction, as if pulled by an invisible thread.
"It doesn't just guide you," she continued. "If the owner is injured or dying, the card burns or crumbles. It tells you how they're doing… even when the seas separate you."
Sanji's breath hitched. "This one," Reiju said quietly, "is mine." His fingers tightened around it instantly, as though afraid it might disappear.
"As long as you have that," she said, meeting his eyes, "you'll always be able to find me."
Then she reached into her coat once more and pulled out a small transponder snail. Unlike the standard models used by the revolutionaries, this one was specially modified—sleek casing, reinforced shell, its eyes alert and sharp.
"It's tuned to a private frequency," Reiju said. "Encrypted. Only a handful of people can receive calls from it—and I'm one of them." She placed it carefully beside the Vivre Card.
"If you ever feel like this place becomes too much," she said gently. "If the island, the revolutionaries, or… our siblings start crushing you—call me."
Her voice softened, losing all edge. "I'll arrange for someone to come get you. No questions. No hesitation." She rested her hand on his shoulder.
"If you ever think you don't fit anywhere," she finished, "remember this—" Her eyes shone beneath the moonlight. "You will always have a place in the Donquixote family."
Sanji stared at her, tears blurring the stars behind her silhouette. He nodded over and over, unable to trust his voice. "I won't forget," he whispered. "I promise."
Reiju smiled—wide, proud, and just a little sad. "Good," she said, standing and turning toward the path that would take her away. "Then make sure you live well enough that I'll hear about you someday."
She paused, glancing back once more. "Until then… stay alive, Sanji."
****
Punk Hazard, New World
The island lay beneath a gray, overcast sky, the air thick with salt and sorrow. This was meant to be a dream fulfilled. For generations uncounted, the Fishman race had gazed upward—from the crushing depths of the sea—longing for a place beneath the open sky. A land where sunlight touched their skin without passing through miles of water. A land where their children could breathe freely, where the horizon was not hemmed in by darkness and pressure.
Yet when they finally arrived on land, it was not as a people celebrating freedom. It was as survivors. The last remnants of a race.
All across the island, the Fishmen and Merfolk moved like ghosts through streets that had been prepared for them long in advance. The Donquixote family had kept their promise—perhaps more than anyone had expected. Canals threaded through the land like veins, wide and deep, allowing seawater to flow naturally. Homes were carved with sloping entrances and submerged chambers, designed for both gills and lungs. Reservoirs shimmered under pale light, and coral gardens had already been transplanted, their colors muted beneath grief.
The infrastructure was perfect. The hearts of those who walked it were not. From open doorways came quiet sobs and sudden, shattering cries. Mothers called out names that would never answer. Fathers stood frozen at crossroads, clutching lists of survivors, hoping—praying—to see a familiar name that fate had spared. Children wandered the streets, eyes hollow, holding onto frayed garments that smelled faintly of the sea and of those they had lost.
Punk Hazard had become their refuge. And in doing so, it had forced memory to resurface.
The mad scramble to escape the dying Fishman Island had torn families apart. In the chaos—collapsing domes, flooding corridors, fire, and ash in the water—hands had slipped free.
Voices had been swallowed by the roar of destruction. Now, under open skies, the survivors searched desperately among the living, hoping against hope that fate had been kinder than it had any right to be. Every reunion was a miracle. Every unanswered call, a fresh wound. The island echoed with grief.
Standing apart from it all were the Whitebeard Pirates, moving with quiet purpose. They took the lead without ceremony—hauling supplies, allocating homes, guiding the lost, and offering protection where fear still lingered. Their massive silhouettes and familiar insignia were a shield against the world, a promise that no hunter would reach this place easily.
They, too, had suffered. Several of their brothers had fallen during the catastrophe—crushed, burned, or drowned while ensuring others escaped. Yet not one of them spoke of it. Not now. They swallowed their own sorrow, carrying it silently, refusing to let their grief add weight to an already broken people.
The towering thirteenth division commander knelt to help an elderly Fishman to his feet. Another pirate stood watch through the night, weapon in hand, eyes scanning the horizon for threats that might never come—but could not be risked. Laughter did not exist here yet, but kindness did, passed from calloused hand to trembling one.
Above it all, the knowledge lingered like a storm cloud. The Fishman race was now endangered. Hunted. Nearly extinct. What should have been a historic dawn for an entire people had instead become a bitter reminder of the world's cruelty—a world that had driven them from the depths and slaughtered them for daring to exist.
And yet… as the sun dipped low and lanterns were lit along the canals, faint signs of life began to stir. A child splashed cautiously into the water. An elder traced a prayer in the air. A mother, finding her son alive against all odds, collapsed in tears of relief.
They were broken. But they were alive. On this island—handed over by the Donquixote family, guarded by Whitebeard's banner, and soaked in the tears of the displaced—the Fishman race took its first fragile breath of a future above the sea.