One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 43 - 40.2: The girl with red hair(6)

Fear, the knife that carves a man down to his bones. It doesn't shape him into something new. It strips away the excess, the lies, the masks, until all that's left is the truth of what he is. And that truth hidden behind it all is rarely something beautiful. Civilization, morality, honor- Luxuries, I say luxuries afforded to those who have never felt the true weight of fear. Strip them away, all that remains is instinct, raw and unfiltered.

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Some men bare their teeth, snapping like wounded animals, mistaking rage for strength, clinging to violence as if it will make them untouchable. Other crumble, their spines folding like paper, revealing their bravado was nothing but a ruse, a performance based on borrowed courage, a performance meant for the calmer waters.

But fear doesn't just break men- it reveals them. Some will find steel beneath their skin, an unshaken will they never knew existed. Some will laugh in the face of it, not because they are fearless, but because they have made peace with the inevitable.

And when fear peeled me layer by layer, it found something it could not drown. Something it could not crush beneath the weight of the abyss. It found me. Not the man I was before, not the man the world had beaten into shape, but the thing left behind after the ocean had tried to devour me. A thing too rational to be sane, too insane to be broken. A thing that had stared into the gaping maw of the deep and laughed.

I had already been there. I had already felt the water close over my head, had already sunk into the void where light did not reach. And I had clawed my way back.

So I let fear wrap its jagged teeth around my throat, let it pull me close, let it whisper its truths in my ear. And then, I sank my teeth right back into it. Because fear was just another Leviathan, just another beast trying to drag me under. And I did not drown. I did not sink. I fought.

I met fear like I had met every monster before it—with bare hands and bared teeth, with reckless defiance and a grin that did not break. I twisted it, shaped it into something I could use. Fear did not own me and neither did I. But I made it my weapon. My shield. My fire.

And in the end, I did what I hope I always did.

I defied it.

Now, I had to defy my morality. Not question it, not debate it—just tear it apart with my bare hands. There was no space for hesitation, no time to ponder right and wrong. The moment that harpoon sank into my flesh, the moment they decided I was prey, the choice was made for me. I would have to kill. No rationalizations, no "this and that" about whether they deserved it. I had to take human lives, even if they were scum, even if the world would be better off without them. I had to kill just to survive.

How fucking stupid.

A modern man—someone who once lived under laws, surrounded by the illusion of civility, fueled by morality and legality. That was the world I knew. A world where killing was a crime, where consequences existed beyond survival, where right and wrong were dictated by ink on paper. But that world was gone, ripped away the moment I was thrown into the waters. And the waters played by different rules. No, not rules—laws. Immutable, unyielding laws of the fittest.

I don't know if the faces of the men I kill will haunt me. Maybe a week ago, I would have said yes. I would have feared the weight of their ghosts pressing down on my conscience, their lifeless eyes staring back at me in the dark. But now? Now, I almost hope they do. At least then, I won't be alone. At least then, I'll have company in this abyss.

Besides, they had already decided the game we were playing. They had brandished their weapons at me, grinning like wolves, waiting for the moment I faltered, waiting to carve me up like a fresh catch. The moment you pull a gun, a sword, a harpoon, you accept the consequence of battle. The moment you choose to kill, you must be prepared to be killed. That's not morality. That's not some philosophical debate about ethics. That's just reality.

I can't follow the laws of the world I came from, but I can follow the law of the waters. And in these waters, hesitation is just another word for death.

With every tug of the rope, I was drawn closer, my raft scraping against the hull of the ship as I came in. I could see their faces now—wrinkled, battered, chiseled from salt and hardship.

The hardest of the hard, sailors seasoned by storms, by blood, by whatever hell they'd endured. Their skin was coarse, their eyes sharp, their bodies worn like tools that'd been overused. And yet, the more I approached, they fell silent. Not in fear, no, but wary. Their eyes sized me up, their words falling low, whispers floating on the air like a wave away.

They stood along the deck, gazing down, waiting. Others stood bracing themselves on the railing, others off to the side, arms crossed, mouths moving in quiet whispers. A spectacle. Something to break the drudgery of their relentless sailing across the seas.

I let them see it.

And I smiled.

The whispers grew to a roar.

The voices shifted to chanting, each one jostling against the others, creating a wave of uncertainty. A man elbowed his way forward, prominent in the crowd. His boots thudded on the wooden deck, his form cutting through the crowded men like a blade. He held a gun. No sense of hesitation, no theatrics, merely raw, steely efficiency.

He brought it up.

And shot me.

Once. Twice. A third time. A fourth.

The first bullet hit my chest, the force taking the air from my lungs, agony ripping through me like a burning brand of white fire. The second hit a heartbeat later, sinking deep, shaking my ribs as if they were just kindling. The third and fourth hit my arm, my body wrenching from the impact, my fingers spasm-ing, my eyes flashing with a nauseating jolt of red.

The world staggered. My lungs gasped. The rope holding me up constricted as my body plummeted.

But I didn't fall.

And I didn't stop smiling.

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I know too much monologue but bear with me. It will take a little more time to reach the fight scene. And a day ago the interaction was so much different than what I have written now. But if you look at the MC it kinda makes sense that he is acting like this. First he came alive from god knows what horrors and all that. he was broken so many time that its not even funny anymore. So, seeing that he is meeting human scums.

He will use them as punching bag as I had already said. But if you have read the previous Chapter. You will know its not easy. It never is.

Though in my view, I like this MC tactic. using fear as a weapon. Being scarecrow. Maybe if I do this fight scene justice. I will make it his go to fighting way.