One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 46: The girl with red hair(9)

The gleam of the lead ball, slick with my blood, caught the light just right. It was beautiful—so small, so insignificant, yet holding their eyes like a thing of divine horror. Every flicker of lantern glow against its crimson coat sent another shudder through the crew. They twitched, shifted, unable to look away.

And the big guy?

His breath hitched—just for a second. A flicker of movement, like a man resisting the urge to take a step back. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched so tight I could hear his teeth grind.

I saw the way his chest rose just a little too sharp, the way his fingers curled ever so slightly—like a man holding back the urge to react.

Good. Very good.

And I still had three more bullets to go.

I dragged my fingers toward my chest, where the second wound pulsed with pain. This one was closer to my heart. A deeper nest of agony.

I plunged my fingers in. Flesh tore. Muscles spasmed. Blood, hot and thick, ran over my knuckles. My fingers burrowed deeper, carving, twisting—but the bullet was stuck. Lodged in my ribs.

Not enough strength to pull it free.

So, I took a step forward.

Slow. Measured.

The crew flinched—hard. One man cursed under his breath. Another made the sign of some god, lips moving in a frantic prayer. A third took a step back—then another—until his back hit the railing, as if his body wanted to be anywhere but here.

Then, I found him.

A man gripping his sword like a lifeline. Hands shaking, knuckles white, breath hitching in his throat as I approached. He wanted to strike me down. I could see it in his eyes—the battle between fear and instinct, between survival and terror.

I reached up. Touched his face.

He froze.

No blade. No threats. Just a soft, gentle tilt of his chin, forcing him to meet my eyes.

And I smiled.

A perfect, blood-slick grin.

Whatever will he had to fight crumbled. His fingers went slack. The sword fell into my waiting hand.

I turned it over, feeling the weight, the steel humming with its own silent anticipation.

Then, without breaking eye contact—I drove it into my own ribs.

A sickening, wet crunch.

Pain detonated through my body. A lesser man would have collapsed. A lesser man would have screamed.

I?

I laughed.

The blade bit deeper, pushing into the bullet, forcing it against my shattered rib. The crew gasped, bodies recoiling at the grotesque display, hands tightening on their weapons—but none of them moved to stop me.

Then—with one final shove—I forced the bullet free.

It popped out like a rotten tooth, bouncing against the deck, leaving behind a crimson-streaked hole where flesh and bone once lived.

And then, with a slow, deliberate pull, I dragged the sword out.

CRACK.

The sound of breaking cartilage, of a body pushed past its limits. Blood poured, but I was still standing. Still smiling.

The crew recoiled as one.

Someone gagged.

A man near the mast stumbled backward, his sword clattering to the deck. Another turned away, squeezing his eyes shut, mouthing something soundless. One of them—young, barely more than a boy—made a noise. A whimper. The sound of someone breaking.

And the big guy?

Oh, he was breathing fast now.

He was fighting it—clenching his jaw, squaring his shoulders, pretending this didn't affect him. But his nostrils flared. His fingers twitched at his sides.

His body was betraying him.

He could lie to himself all he wanted, but I saw it.

I had peeled back the first layer of his armor—the first crack in the foundation.

And cracks?

They only spread.

I bent down, plucking the second bullet from the deck, holding it between blood-soaked fingers. I turned it over, letting the light catch its surface, letting it gleam—letting them all watch.

Then I laughed again.

Low. Soft.

Hungry.

And with slow, deliberate cruelty, I looked back at the big guy.

And whispered:

"Two more to go."

The words I spoke—they weren't his language.

Not in sound. Not in structure. Not in anything that should make sense to him.

But he understood.

I could hear it in his heartbeat, pounding like war drums in his chest.

I could see it in his twitching fingers, itching to move, to react.

I could feel it in the way his body betrayed him, that subtle shift of weight—the instinct to step back.

He knew what I meant.

They all did.

But we weren't finished. Not yet.

There was still the third bullet.

Lodged deep in my arm. A parasite of lead, buried deep in my flesh. And I wanted it out.

So I lifted the sword—the very same one I'd driven into myself—and I hacked.

And I hacked.

The first strike—a wet, meaty slap of steel on skin.

The second—a crunch. A splintering. A sound that made the crew's breath hitch.

The third—louder. Deeper. The kiss of metal against bone.

I didn't stop.

Every hack sent tremors through the deck.

Every swing of the sword carved deeper into my own arm.

Every blow made the crew flinch further back—step after step, retreating into the shadows like scared little rats.

And the big guy?

Oh, he wanted to move.

His legs twitched. The instinct to move—to flee—flared in his muscles. But he fought it. A man like him, a tyrant built on fear, couldn't afford to step back. Not in front of them. Not in front of me. His breath was ragged now, uneven, like he was trying to swallow the very thing clawing up his throat.

So, he stood his ground.

Then, he roared.

A command, a desperate bark of power—forcing his men to act, forcing himself to pretend he still controlled this moment.

Only four obeyed. Just four. The big guy's eyes snapped toward the others, jaw tightening, breath shallow. They weren't listening. He barked something—a name, a curse, a desperate command—but no one moved. His own fear was spreading to them, feeding theirs, turning his control into nothing.

And again.

And again.

By the eighteenth swing, the flesh had grown so mangled, so ruined, that it no longer clung to me.

With a final wet rip, a chunk of it peeled away—slapping against the deck like discarded meat.

Silence.

The only sound left was the slow, dripping of blood.

My own.

The crew stared.

Some of them looked sick. Some of them couldn't look at all.

But the big guy?

He was staring at me like he had seen something that shouldn't exist.

Something wrong.

Something beyond understanding.

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His breath, once steady, had shattered. Short, sharp inhales. His fingers twitched—no, shook—at his sides. Sweat clung to his brow, glistening under the lantern light. His eyes darted to the crew, to the blood pooling at my feet, to the sword still clutched in my hand. And for the first time, his mask cracked completely. Fear. Raw, real, unmistakable fear.

And the best part?

I still had one bullet left.

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So to the readers, how are you liking the story so far? While I know I don't have many readers not even in the hundred range. And I got like only one interactive reader. How sad but that's just life. Though it gets pretty boring when I don't even get other interaction except from Inevitable end.

So if you feel like I should improve on something. Do tell me.

And pretty please give me some power stones if you like my work.