Chapter Twelve: Caring for Grains and Vegetables

No one could stop Qiubai from rushing toward the sea—at least in theory. Although he couldn’t be called insane, there was undeniably a thread of madness hidden deep within him… or perhaps several threads. Individual thoughts coalesce into the consciousness of a community, the community’s consciousness integrates into society’s awareness, and then society turns around to limit the thoughts of individuals. It’s a simple and inevitable process.

In such restrictive circumstances, expressions of personality are always incomplete. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with that; after all, everyone should be bound by some collectively accepted rules—a broad protection mechanism. But for Qiubai now, his life had become so different that the old constraints had nearly vanished… and thus, his true “self” had awakened.

No one can truly know what lies hidden within the hearts of those who dutifully follow the rules in a stable environment. Qiubai was just such a person. After arriving here, he suddenly realized, “Oh, so this is who I am.” That was why he could remain so calm during the earlier incident with the bandits… before experiencing it, he hadn’t known he would be so composed.

He was a spirit yearning for tumult, already living his life in pursuit of it.

And for that very reason, after a brief pause on the island, Qiubai once again sailed forth in a small boat. The sea was calm, but the directionless expanse could easily lead to confusion, stirring memories of the past—especially those most vivid and recent.

Qiubai admitted he possessed an ordinary heart; the importance of things isn’t measured by the length of their existence. Even brief encounters can leave deep marks. Reflecting on the immediate past, he realized it was a significant stage in his life. The memories saddened him so much that he couldn’t help but murmur to himself:

“The first day without the Caesar… I miss it…”

Miss it…

It…

Ryoma was further back in his history; now, Qiubai mourned his Caesar. And the painful yet joyful fact was… like Ryoma, Caesar had become a thing of the past.

Truthfully, no one could stop Qiubai from heading for the sea, but overturning his boat was an effortless matter.

Here’s how it happened: half a day after leaving Baron Harbor, Qiubai and Aien encountered a hailstorm… but in the New World, “hail” was a misnomer. It was more accurate to call it “icebergs falling from the sky.” Ice chunks under fifty tons couldn’t even be bothered to emerge from the clouds.

In the face of this destructive weather, Caesar braved the waves and pierced through obstacles. But it lacked speed and agility.

Qiubai’s sail-handling skills were decent, and he fought stubbornly, refusing to yield…

But luck was not on his side.

So, after successfully dodging the first strike, the second “hailstone” from above smashed off the entire stern of their battered little boat.

Even when left with only half a vessel, Qiubai refused to give up. He even clenched his fists and, utterly shameless, shouted several times in a language foreign to this world at the wreck: “Just hold on, Dad…”

In the end, his brazen sincerity—or perhaps his flirtatious pleas—worked, or maybe they moved heaven, or disgusted it; anyway, the hailstorm stopped.

…Two hours after Caesar had been reduced to a single mast.

So, in the end, it was Qiubai’s fault. Why name a sea vessel after an ape? If it had been called “Blue Whale,” it wouldn’t have capsized unless it sank itself.

Wasn’t this scene eerily similar to the last time? But Qiubai would never name the leftover stick from Caesar again.

“What should we do now? We can’t return to Baron Island with the log pointer anymore.” Aien’s tone was indescribable, but if one needed an exact word, “giving up” would fit perfectly.

They weren’t particularly far from Baron Island, but certainly not close. Having lost their boat, it seemed returning to Baron was their only option.

The problem was that the only log pointer now aimed at the next island—they’d lost Baron’s position.

“Don’t worry, Aien. Do you know what survivors do after a plane crash?” Qiubai wasn’t concerned.

His navigation skills were mediocre at best, but that was a matter of talent. It didn’t mean his survival skills at sea were lacking—quite the opposite, knowing he could capsize at any moment, he’d invested heavily in survival abilities.

Such an optimistic outlook, though it almost made one want to cry.

“I don’t know.”

Aien didn’t even know what a plane was, nor did she care to.

“….”

“I mean, we don’t need to return to Baron. Staying put is the best emergency measure; sooner or later, we’ll be rescued.”

According to the sea charts, they were still on a shipping lane—an exceedingly busy one. Passing ships were plentiful, so their chances of being found and rescued were not small.

The only question was when.

“I’d like to remind you, we’ve lost almost all our fresh water and food—we won’t last long.”

Aien pursed her lips; she was already feeling thirsty.

“I told you, don’t worry. Didn’t we save the money?”

When Caesar sank, perhaps out of a deep-seated fear of poverty, Qiubai instinctively managed to keep about 200,000 Beli on his person.

He really should have saved more essential items.

“What use is money?”

Money is useful most of the time, unless you’re somewhere with nothing to spend it on.

“No, actually, even in a place like this, money is still useful,” Qiubai insisted.

And almost as if to prove his words, something came flying by at a limited altitude.

Seeing the flying creature, Qiubai whistled sharply, then held up a gold coin between two fingers, raising it high.

In a place like this, birds naturally existed—and this was a bird that recognized money: the legendary “little newspaper seller,” the News Bird.

News Birds specialized in delivering real-time newspapers across the sea. With impressive cruising abilities, they could traverse all sorts of harsh weather, and their intelligence made them the fighter jets of the avian world. They even had the ability to sell news on the spot and could, to some extent, understand human language.

So, when this News Bird saw Qiubai’s gesture, it circled a few times before landing on the mast before him… If someone wanted to buy a newspaper, it would sell—no rule said those stranded at sea couldn’t care about world affairs.

Qiubai dropped the coin into the special pouch hanging from the News Bird’s chest, but instead of reaching for the newspaper, he moved his hand up toward the bird’s elegant neck.

And then…

“Snap.”

He snapped it.

The News Bird’s neck was now bent double… Correction: it also served as emergency rations, so Qiubai’s theory was correct: even here, money could be used as bait.

His movements were practiced—this wasn’t his first time at it. Qiubai’s sea survival skills were at least level nine.

“Thirsty, Aien? I’ve just obtained a fresh red drink.”

One could imagine the taste was less than appealing, but since Aien was a Devil Fruit user, a little red drink shouldn’t faze her—she could just pretend it was herbal tea.

“What about you?” Aien asked.

“I’ll wait for the next round.”

The world of news would have to suffer more property loss, but it didn’t matter. They had plenty of birds, and Qiubai couldn’t eat them all—it was just depreciation.

“No, I’ll wait for the next round too,” Aien declined the red drink won with such little dignity—not out of distaste, but rather…

Her gaze slipped past Qiubai’s shoulder to the distance, where the outline of a ship was beginning to appear.