One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 47: The girl with red hair(10)

This one was lodged in my other arm. My hand—already mangled from my own doing—was barely holding together. Useless. Weak.

So, I needed to be creative.

Something effective.

Something terrifying.

Something that would drive the fear deeper into their bones.

The big guy?

Oh, he was afraid. I could see it in the way his breath stuttered, in the way his hands twitched at his sides. But it wasn't enough. He was still holding onto the lie. Still clinging to that last scrap of bravado, pretending he was untouched by all this.

I couldn't allow that.

I needed him to break.

So I turned.

Step by step, I moved toward the broken railing—the gaping wound in the ship where wood lay splintered, jagged, waiting.

The crew shrank back.

Silent. Still.

Too scared to shoot. Too scared to thrust their sword in me. Too scared to stop me.

They only watched—watched as I raised my ruined hand, fingers barely responding, skin stretched too thin over crushed knuckles.

And then—

I punched.

Wood met bone with a wet, cracking snap.

Pain detonated up my arm, but I didn't stop.

I wouldn't stop. Not when I was having fun.

So I punched again.

A sickening crunch. My hand twisted at an unnatural angle, fingers curling in ways they shouldn't. Blood splattered across the splintered railing, painting it deep crimson.

But the bullet was still there.

And I still had more bones left.

So I punched.

And I punched.

Every strike sent tremors through the deck, a grotesque symphony of breaking bones and tearing flesh. The sound was wrong-too wet, too hollow, like something that shouldn't be happening.

But it was happening.

And they were watching.

The wood tore into me, carving deep, jagged wounds. My hand was no longer a hand—it was a ruin, a pulped mess of shattered fragments held together by nothing but blood and willpower.

The bullet finally slipped free, rolling to the deck with a quiet, insignificant clink.

Silence.

No one breathed.

No one moved.

A man near the mast vomited. Another sank to his knees, shaking, hands clutched over his mouth like he could shove the horror back inside.

And the big guy?

Oh, he was frozen.

I turned to him, letting him see what I had done. Letting him understand what I had just done.

Then, with my last good fingers, I plucked the bullet from the deck.

Held it up. Let it gleam in the lantern light.

The crew's eyes were locked on the bullet—the tiny, gleaming thing in my blood-soaked fingers.

But the big guy?

He wasn't looking at the bullet.

He was looking at _me._

At my body. At the ruin I had made of myself.

A bleeding hole in my chest, pulsing with every heartbeat.

A fractured rib jutting beneath torn flesh, stark white against the red.

A mangled arm, twisted meat and bone, hanging in shreds.

A shattered hand, once a tool of violence, now little more than pulp and ruin.

His eyes traced **every wound**, dragging over the carnage like a man searching for something—something he knew.

Something he recognized.

Like he had seen this before.

Like he was praying he was wrong.

But I saw it. The flicker of horror behind his eyes. That moment of realization—the split-second where fear snapped the last tether of his mind.

I had peeled him open.

And now? Now, it was time for him to see.

The bullets were gone.

The harpoon had been ripped from me by his own hands.

And now, the blood aching to mend me finally took hold.

This chapter is updat𝙚d by freeweɓnovel.cøm.

It began to pulse—to move—not dripping out but inward.

My wounds swallowed it whole, feeding on it, devouring it, reshaping me.

It wasn't just healing.

It was something unnatural.

The hole in my chest—once a gaping wound, now a pulsing mass, beating in rhythm with a heart that should have never happened.

The mangled arm—wrapped in veins of shifting crimson, cocooned in something between blood and sinew, something alive.

The shattered hand—its bones growing back, stretching, twisting, cracking into place with wet, unnatural sounds.

It was wrong.

Unholy.

And he knew it.

He had seen it before.

His legs buckled.

His breath hitched.

And then—he fell.

Straight onto his back.

Mouth slack. Eyes wide. Hands scrabbling at the deck, as if trying to crawl away, as if trying to convince himself—this is impossible, this is not real, this cannot be happening.

But it was.

And he **recognized it.**

I stepped forward, slow, deliberate. The wet squelch of regrowing flesh filled the silence.

He stared up at me, and I saw true terror in his eyes.

Not just fear of me.

Fear of what I was.

Of what I had become.

And worst of all?

Of the thing he thought I might be.

I grinned, letting him watch my body mend itself, letting him hear the sinew stretch, the muscle bind, the bones snap back into place.

Then, I bent down—so close he could feel my breath against his skin.

And in a voice just for him, I whispered:

"You've seen this before, haven't you?"

And I smiled.

A perfect, blood-drenched grin.