One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 51: The girl with red hair(14)

The blood pulsed in my hand, thick and wet, warm as fresh kill.

I opened my fist, and the crimson blood pooled in my palm, glistening under the dim light. It reeked—copper, iron, the raw stink of life—a scent so sharp it burned in the lungs. The liquid throbbed, alive, waiting.

I held it out to him, let him see it, let him understand.

But his eyes—oh, his eyes.

Blank. Empty. Void of fire. Void of resistance. The eyes of a man already dead, though his body had yet to catch up.

Pathetic.

He had given up too easily. So easily it was almost laughable. Almost.

But I did not laugh for pleasure this time. No, this was anger.

A man who surrendered this quickly, who crumbled like wet parchment in the face of madness.

A pirate he maybe, but he did not deserve the sea. Did not deserve the title of sailor. These waters, vast and wild, belonged to men who clawed at survival with bloodied fingers, who fought against the tides of death with every fiber of their being.

And he?

He had simply let go.

Disgust curled in my gut, sharp and venomous. The sheer insult of it. The audacity of this mongrel.

A man like this did not deserve to sail.

He did not deserve to breathe.

And so I did laugh.

A sound riddled with fury, sharp and cruel, splitting the air like the crack of a mast in a storm. The sound rattled in my throat, not from joy, not from the thrill of the game—but from sheer, unbridled rage.

And he knew it.

His pupils shrank, his lips trembled—he understood now. Understood that his cowardice was an insult. That his lack of fight was a crime.

His body tensed. A flicker of resistance sparked in his ruined eyes—a fragment of his pride as a sailor of these waters.

Pathetic.

"You don't get to call yourself a sailor of these waters.."

My voice was low, reverberating with something ancient, something cruel. My fingers curled around the blood in my palm, squeezing it so the thick liquid oozed through my fingers, dripped onto the floor in viscous strands.

"You are NOT WORTHY."

The words crawled from my throat like a death sentence.

Not worthy of these waters.

Not worthy of the waves that carried men greater than you.

Not worthy of the title of man.

I exhaled sharply and let my hand drop to my side, fingers unclenching, relaxed. The blood still pulsed, thick and glistening, soaking my palm, my wrist, dripping in slow, taunting beads to the floor.

And then, softly, firmly, I spoke.

"Eat."

The word slithered from my lips like a curse, low and commanding. Undeniable. Absolute.

His lips quivered. His throat bobbed. He did not blink.

He knew there was no choice.

There was only the blood.

And my command.

He crawled on his knees to near my hand. He clutched my hand in his trembling fingers. His lips pressing against my blood-slicked skin with desperate reverence. Frantic. Pleading. Like I was some aristocrat whose mercy could be bought with pathetic displays of civility. As if manners could save him.

As if he were worthy of being spared.

Pathetic.

If he had been a true sailor of these waters, he would have known—the sea does not forgive weakness. The sea has no place for cowardice.

Yet he groveled, shaking, his lips moving feverishly. Kissing. Sucking. A dog begging for scraps.

But there would be no scraps.

The blood seeped between my fingers, slithering like a living thing. Thick and red, warm and unnatural, it pulsed as it dripped—not downward, but toward him.

And he felt it.

A sharp inhale. A tremor in his spine. The slight jolt of realization—too late.

The blood, rich with power and hunger, wriggled like tendrils, creeping across his lips, pushing past his teeth, crawling down his tongue.

He choked.

A wet, strangled sound. His throat convulsed, trying to resist. But there was no need to swallow.

It moved on its own.

The moment it touched his flesh, it dug in.

His eyes went wide—wider than before—as the first true bolt of pain ripped through his nerves. He jerked, fingers twitching violently, his breath catching in his throat as the blood slithered deeper, a thing with purpose.

I watched. I waited.

Then I saw it.

The movement.

The shifting bulges beneath his skin.

At first, tiny ripples—a crawl of something foreign moving through him, burrowing like maggots through meat. Then came the spams as the blood forced its way into his veins, coiling, expanding, taking.

His flesh rebelled, twisting in unnatural ways. His skin stretching grotesquely as if something inside was multiplying, feeding, spreading.

He gagged, his mouth foaming blood.

The veins in his throat bulged, darkening as the infection spread, thick as rope beneath his skin. They pulsed—throbbed—as the blood slithered through his arteries, tearing into his organs like serpents with a hunger that could never be sated.

He screamed.

Oh, how he screamed.

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

A wretched, high-pitched sound, full of pure, animalistic agony.

His hands flew to his throat, nails tearing into his own flesh, as if he could claw it out. As if he could stop the inevitable.

But the blood was inside him now.

It was part of him.

It was eating him.

I stepped back, watching in rapt attention as his body betrayed him, twisting into something unrecognizable. His skin rippled, bulging with lumps as the blood moved deeper, feasting on his intestines, his stomach, his lungs.

His ribs snapped.

One by one.

His chest caved inward for a moment—then expanded violently, his bones cracking, stretching, reshaping into something they were never meant to be.

I could hear the wet, squelching sound of his flesh being unmade.

His eyes—those broken, empty eyes—filled with horrified clarity. He knew.

He understood.

And he was so afraid.

He fell to his knees, body convulsing, as the last remnants of who he was were devoured from the inside out.

His stomach split open like a rotten fruit.

A wave of black-red pulp spilled onto the deck. Not organs. Not flesh. Just mush, his insides turned to nothing but liquid rot.

His fingers twitched. His lips mouthed something, but no words came. No pleas. No cries.

Only gurgling.

And I stayed there.

Watching.

Waiting.

I wanted him to feel it. Every second of it.

I wanted ME to be the last thing he ever saw.

And as his final breath rattled out, his eyes locked onto mine—empty, wet, full of terror.

Then—nothing.

Just a hollow, lifeless husk, sagging into a pile of gore and twisted bone.

I smiled.

Weakness had no place on these waters.

And now, neither did he.

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So a thing to note. Whatever that is happening is happening in 1st pov i.e. Mc's pov. He is still seeing everything in red and the ocean in blue. Its just that he doesn't give a damn anymore. Frankly the Mc at this point is too twisted to describe in words. So after the fight, the MC will get to cool, relax a bit. That is if he wants to. He is Too twisted at the very first volume. I think I have outdone myself in the regard of making a different MC in comparison to the rest and dare I say almost all fanfic.

Though that would be a plain lie until the story is completed. Still whats your thought on the MC.