One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 29: Rain, Storm and Whales. Again!(2)

Raindrops fell faster now, each one more pointed than the last. What began as a light sprinkle had grown steady, a beat against my skin, a steady drumbeat of something approaching. The clear sky, painted in starlight, was being eaten up by swirling clouds, thick and dark, claiming the heavens piece by piece.

The wind carried whispers of what was approaching. A storm churned on the horizon, restless and ready, its presence felt in the distant rumble that barely touched the air. The scent of rain grew stronger—earthy, electric, with the promise of thunder.

The night was transforming. The glow of the dying starlight continued in a phantom touch on my flesh before completely fading away. The cold encroached in its wake, not catastrophically, but sneakily, a stealthy insinuation through bone and neuron, through the gaps between breathing and thinking. The air was thickening, laden with the weight of something unvoiced, something struggling to erupt.

A storm was coming. The skies trembled with anticipation, heavy with the scent of rain and the distant thud of thunder. The wind sang its warning, blowing through the leaves, rustling them with a gentle accompaniment to chaos.

A rain would be coming, heavier than the drizzle that now lightly kissed my skin. I would be able to sense each drop as it fell, each individual, each carrying its own weight, its own shape, its own story.

I could anticipate where the next raindrop would strike before it did. Some struck my forehead, cutting and cold. Others dripped down the sides of my cheeks, slow and deliberate, mapping out invisible paths across my face. Some accumulated in the crevices of my collarbone, hesitating before slipping further down.

I could feel their texture even before they touched me. Some were soft, hardly perceptible, a faint wetness before they vanished into the material of my clothing. Others were thick, heavy, stabbing like little needles, a reminder of the storm's growing ferocity.

I would know what they tasted if I opened my mouth. Some would taste of the sea's brine, carried inland on the reach of the storm. Others would taste acrid, flavored with the scent of ground, as though the rain had extracted things from the ground to drop upon me.

Each drop would be different, yet all would be the same—part of something vast, something inevitable.

And I would stand beneath it, feeling every single one.

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Nothing.

Nothing happened.

I didn't get swallowed. I didn't return to the Cathedral. I didn't step back into the fog. I didn't see the kids again. I didn't learn more about the realm. I didn't understand why the Seven Sins came out of me.

I got nothing.

I only wanted answers. I only wanted to thrive.

You gave me a reason—then left me in silence. You never spoke more on it. You never told me what I needed to hear. I want answers. I want to smile.

I scraped every last shred of blood-jelly from the hole in my skull. My fingers dug through the wound, searching, desperate. Yet, nothing.

Nothing happened.

I went there without cause. Without affirmation. And now, when I wish to return, you reject me?

It isn't fair.

I just want to know if the kids are safe from the clash of red and blue. I just want to ask the kid one more question.

I just want...

No. What I want doesn't matter, does it?

But I made a promise. I told the kids I would bring them something yummy—something that wouldn't rot their teeth. I promised to bring them a bigger flame, a stronger one, something warm enough to cook a feast.

A pinky promise.

And I intend to keep it. Not for myself—but to see them smile a little longer.

I pinky promised, after all.

I will keep that promise. Along with the others.

The storm moved in, swallowing the stars. The wind howled its warning, and the night deepened, heavy and cold.

I let the raindrops fall. Every single one.

I let the rain wash away everything I didn't need.

Everything except my promise.

A second. A minute. A hour. A day. A month.

I don't know. Time blurred, lost in the endless rhythm of falling rain. The world outside faded, drowned beneath the storm. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the weight of the promise I carried. The rain fell, and I stood beneath it, waiting. For what, I wasn't sure.

I sighed. Another promise that is hard to complete. Yet I still want to fulfil it.

I have gone mad. I really have gone mad. But I like this mad.

I let out another sigh. Now is not the time for sighs. I need to reach to civilization and try to explore the Cathedral in hopes to see the smile once more.

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I looked above me. The cloud spoke of a storm that was coming. The wind carried a metallic scent laded with salt and moisture. The ground laid barren except for clinging to it barnacles, no buggers.

I glanced at the blood-layer. It was still there. Pale. Dead. Hollow.

I crouched and pressed my fingers against it. Even with the rain pouring down, it remained dry. No slimy film. No sentient blood wriggling beneath my fingers. I dug my fingers and pulled. the layers peeled effortlessly.

Layer by layer, I uncovered what lay beneath. I expected more decay, some lifeless abomination. but no, It was wood. Blood red but wood.

I felt a familiarity with it. Not the color but the wood. So, I kept pulling, stripping away the dry layers.

And there it was. Four pieces of log bound together.

No matter how soaked in blood it was, I knew what I was looking at. A raft. My raft.

Blood red, yes but mine unmistakably.

A coincidence? Maybe. But after what I had seen—the Blackish Red, the Blue, the Cathedral, the Seven Sins, the Fog, the 404 System, my unnatural healing—it was hard to believe in coincidences anymore.

Everything was connected.

Thinking about it wouldn't give me answers. Not yet.

For now, I needed to figure out how to use this blood-red raft.

I kept pulling at the dried layers, stripping them from the wood until the top was completely clear. Then, I braced myself, digging my fingers beneath the logs, and tried to flip it over.

Damn. It was heavier than I expected.

I lifted it a few inches before my arms gave out, dropping it back onto the wet ground. My muscles ached from the effort, the weight pressing down like something more than just wood.

Looks I can't use you for now, my friend.

The raft remained where it was, blood-red and unmovable. A presence, yet not a solution. **Not yet.**

I glanced at my surroundings. Nothing but barnacles to the south, clinging stubbornly to the lifeless ground. East and west offered no better prospects—just an endless stretch of uneven slopes, barren and uninviting. And beyond them, perhaps kilometers away, the ocean.

That left only one direction. North.

A risky choice. The storm was coming from the North, rolling in with its cold breath and dark clouds, swallowing the last traces of the sky. It was a path filled with unknowns. But was it any worse than the alternatives? Three directions promised nothing. One carried the potential for something—good or bad.

The answer was clear. North, it is.

I walked. The rain followed.

Every step I took, the droplets hit harder, piercing against my skin like icy needles. The wind, once a gentle breeze, had grown restless, howling through the empty landscape. First a strong gust, then stronger. Then a force that threatened to pull me back.

But my legs didn't stop.

The light faded. One by one, the stars were devoured by the encroaching clouds, swallowed whole until nothing remained but the weight of the coming storm. The world dimmed, the shadows stretched, and the cold wrapped around me, sinking deeper into my bones with every step.

North. Forward. Into the storm.

There was no turning back now.

Like I had any way to turn back.

With every step, my shadow stretched longer and thinner, barely clinging to me before vanishing into the darkness. The light was fading fast, swallowed by the storm rolling in above me. Soon, there would be nothing left to see—only the cold weight of the night pressing down on my skin.

I kept moving. North. Forward. Into the unknown.

The ground became slick beneath me, each drop of rain turning it into an uneven, slippery path to tread on. I didn't slip often—my feet, wrinkled and rough from exposure, found grip where they could.

But the world around me was vanishing.

With every step, the darkness grew thicker, creeping in from all sides. The horizon blurred. The sky and the land became one. Shapes lost definition. Depth and distance became meaningless. My world shrank down to the feeling of rain against my skin, the bite of the wind in my ears, and the sound of my own breath.

There was a certain horror in walking through pitch black.

An instinctual fear. A knowing.

The kind of fear that clings to the bones, whispering of unseen things, of something watching, something just beyond reach. It wasn't just the unknown that unsettled me—it was the idea that something could be there, hidden in the dark, and I wouldn't know until it was too late.

No wonder humans seek the light. **It's not just about seeing. It's about knowing.**

But here, there was no light. No stars. No guiding glow. Nothing but the storm and the path ahead.

My only saving grace was the south, a distant outline, barely visible even through the storm. It was weak, blurred, fading, but it was there. A tether to the world I was leaving behind.

For now, I kept walking.

My feet got cut. A sharp sting, then warmth, then wetness.

I had stepped on barnacles.

I gritted my teeth and glanced ahead. Even in the dark night, I could see the direction I was heading in was crawling with them, a field of jagged shells, waiting, unmoving, indifferent to my presence. A logical person would circle around, avoid the pain, find another way to proceed north.

But I had abandoned logic the moment I chose this path.

So, I walked.

The first few steps were sharp, sudden—edges digging into my soles, slicing through the skin with every movement. But pain, when repeated enough, dulls into something else. Something manageable. Something you accept.

My feet bled. Skin peeled. Flesh tore. But I kept moving, step after step, into the unyielding swarm of barnacles. I still feel it. But I had come to accept pain.

The air smelled of salt, iron. At least to me.

I walked.

The wind screamed past me, cold and furious, but the barnacles didn't care. They bit deeper, burrowing into my steps like they were feeding on my hesitation. Every shift of my weight sent fresh pain lancing up my legs. But stopping wouldn't make it better. Turning back wasn't an option.

So, I walked.

Blood dripped. Skin tore.

Maybe ten minutes passed. Maybe more. Time had lost meaning. The world had shrunk down to the feeling of rain against my skin, the wind howling in my ears, and the relentless tearing of barnacle edges beneath me.

Each step was a decision. A choice to keep moving despite the pain.

And so, I did.

I walked.