One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 48: The girl with red hair(11)

He didn't misunderstand me.

No, no. He understood me perfectly.

The way he scrambled back, hands slipping against the slick, bloodied deck, boots dragging in desperate, frantic kicks—that was all the proof I needed. His breath came fast, uneven, each gasp a ragged choke of disbelief and terror. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, to demand, to threaten, but no words came. No commands. No insults. Nothing but the wet, shallow rattle of a man trying—and failing—to swallow down the fear clogging his throat.

Fear had finally sunk its teeth into him. Deep.

And his crew?

Oh, they had already given up on him.

They were far, far away now, a shaking, trembling wall of bodies pressed against whatever corners of the ship felt the safest—as if there was a safe place left. They were no longer a crew but a herd of prey, huddling together, clinging to the desperate hope that fear alone might make them invisible. That if they just didn't move, just didn't breathe too loud, just didn't make a sound, maybe—just maybe—I would forget about them.

Their eyes told me everything.

It wasn't just fear I saw there.

It was desperation. It was instinct.

Their hands quivered on their weapons—blades, pistols, makeshift clubs—all pointed at me yet held with a grip that screamed hesitation. They were so unsure. Some looked at me, some at their captain, as if waiting for a sign, an order, a shred of confidence that they could hold onto. But there was none. Because he, their great tyrant, their unshakable leader, was on the ground. Crawling. And they had never seen him crawl before.

Were they afraid of me? Or of what I meant? Of what I might be?

Looks like I'm not the only mad one on these waters.

And oh, how fun that is.

A giggle slipped past my lips.

Light. Breathless. Wrong.

It crawled through the silence, slithering into their ears like something alive. Something they couldn't shake off. Something that stuck.

One step forward.

The crew lurched back.

Another giggle—another retreat.

Step. Giggle. Step. Giggle.

Like a dance.

Like a waltz of horror played on a stage of rotting wood and blood-soaked steel.

But they weren't my prize.

He was.

Their tyrant.

Their leader.

Dessert after the main course.

I turned my full attention to him, my body casting a shadow over his crawling, scrambling form. He had stopped trying to speak now, stopped trying to reach for a weapon. His fingers clawed at the wood beneath him, nails scraping against the soaked deck as if he could tear his way through it, carve out an escape where none existed.

He wasn't even trying to stand.

Oh, no. He knew.

He knew something his crew didn't.

Knew something more.

The way he moved—not like a man who had just seen something horrifying.

But like a man who had seen this before.

Like a man who had read about this. Whispered stories in hushed tones. Watched in horror as something just like this played out before his very eyes—long ago.

And now, here it was.

Crawling toward him in the flesh.

He moved the way a man moves from a bear.

Slow. Careful. Praying.

Hoping if he didn't make any sudden moves, if he didn't anger the beast, it wouldn't attack.

Wouldn't hunt.

Wouldn't finish what it started.

Too bad.

Too bad for him.

Because this wasn't some black bear, timid and hesitant.

This was a polar bear.

And I?

I was starving.

I let my fingers glide over his skin, slow and deliberate. Rough. Tight. Dense. A body built from war and labor, from years of strain and survival. A body that should have been untouchable.

And yet—here I was.

My fingers traced the curve of his chin, lifting it ever so gently. I barely applied any force. I didn't need to. He moved anyway.

A man like him should have crushed me. Should have broken me.

If I threw a punch, my own bones would shatter before his flesh ever did. If he so much as wrapped a single hand around my throat, he could snap me like a rotting twig. Pulverize me into nothing but a ball of useless, pulped meat.

But he didn't.

He only stared.

And he trembled.

The whites of his eyes glowed under the sickly light, wide and wet with the terror he refused to voice. I could hear his breath—a ragged, unstable, dying thing. He exhaled too fast, inhaled too shallow, a man not accustomed to fear clawing at his lungs.

Oh, but I could do worse.

Killing him would be impossible. A blade would struggle against his skin, and my strength—ha! laughable in comparison.

But I didn't need to kill him.

I only needed to show him something worse than death.

Slowly, I raised my hand—the one still wrapped in dripping, sickly, congealing blood. The cocooned flesh, encased in a layer of red so thick, it barely looked human anymore.

It pulsed.

It breathed.

And it was still healing.

I brought it to my nose, inhaling deeply.

The blood had already dried in some places, flaking like dead skin. But the scent? The scent was alive. Thick, metallic—a whisper of something deeper than flesh.

I exhaled with a sigh, letting my lips part as I dragged my tongue over the surface.

His breath hitched.

He did not move.

Did not dare to move.

A droplet of sweat ran down his temple, down the bridge of his nose, hanging from his lip like a pearl before falling—a single, quivering drop against the silence.

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I smiled.

And then—

I brought the blade down.

HACK.

A single, brutal strike against my own hand.

His body jolted.

But he didn't move.

HACK.

Again. Deeper this time.

His breath came out in silent, fractured gasps.

HACK.

And oh, the smell.

It changed.

At first, it was just copper, familiar and sharp, clinging to the back of the throat.

Then—iron. A heavy, bitter tang that made the air dense, suffocating.

Then—salt. Thick, oceanic, like seawater drawn fresh from a wound.

And then—

Something else.

Something richer.

Riper.

Something that didn't just smell like blood.

Something that smelled alive.

The moment my fingers tore through the cocoon, prying free a pulsing, twitching, still-healing strip of flesh—

The scent changed.

And he knew it.

The moment it hit him, his face twisted—his lips quivered, stomach convulsing in something close to nausea. His body knew what it was before his mind did. His instincts screamed at him, told him to run, to retch, to get away from whatever this was.

Because this wasn't just human blood.

It was something more.

Something wrong.

Something not meant to exist.

And as I lifted the still-bleeding chunk to my lips, as I let my teeth graze its surface—

I saw it.

The moment his mind finally caught up.

The moment he truly, fully understood.

And in his trembling eyes, I found something much more than what I was looking for.

Not just Fear.

Horror.