One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 56: The girl with red hair(19)

I pushed the door open.

And entered—like a gentleman.

Sure, I'm insane, but that doesn't mean I don't have manners. Even madness has its rules. You don't walk into someone's room uninvited—unless the room asks for you. And that trembling handle? That was permission. The three knocks? My polite little thank-you. An unspoken agreement, sealed in silence.

Consent is consent.

The door creaked inward with the reluctant groan of old wood remembering pain. The darkness inside didn't rush out to greet me—it waited. Thick. Stagnant. Like it had settled here, coiled and patient, for far too long.

This wasn't just a lack of light. It was a presence.

A smothering kind. The kind that clings to your skin, seeps into your lungs, and dares you to speak first. It made every breath feel borrowed.

Not quite pitch black. No—worse. That gray dark. Just enough light leaking through the cracks to let your mind fill in the rest. Shapes that almost made sense. Shadows that threatened to move. Corners that twitched when you weren't looking.

One step in, and crunch.

Glass.

A bottle. No, bottles. All over the floor like forgotten offerings. Rum, maybe. Booze. The stink of it was sharp and cloying, staler than death but just as proud. Some shattered, some rolled lazily against my boots like drunk rats trying to run.

So this is how the mighty Captain lives.

Drowning while his ship bleeds.

I almost respected it.

Still, the room was quiet.

Except for the snoring.

Heavy, wet, obscene snoring. Not the gentle sleep of a man at peace, but the thunderous, gluttonous sucking of air from lungs too used to commanding. It rattled through the space like a dying engine, low and ragged, as if even unconscious he refused to be silent.

Geez.

If he'd had a wife, she'd have been deaf within a week.

He snored like a man who never listened in his waking life either. Loud. Entitled. Unbothered. That kind of sound doesn't come from comfort—it comes from delusion.

Do I wake him gently? A little shake on the shoulder, like a mother waking a son? And then what? Scold him for missing the grand finale outside? Tsk him for napping while his kingdom collapsed?

Or... do I look around a bit? Take a peek into the mind of the man everyone outside was scared of?

The room still hid from me. Every inch cloaked in shadows that leaned in a little too close. The walls were too silent. The corners too deep. I needed light—not just to see, but to expose.

Expose the secrets. The trophies. The rot.

So I turned, glancing over my shoulder at the man-shaped mound still wheezing behind me.

"Be right back," I whispered, not that he could hear—or care.

I stepped out and shut the door behind me.

No change in his breath.

No shift in his body.

Just more of that godless snoring.

I circled the exterior of the cabin like a vulture looking for a soft spot. Something I could crack open. A window, maybe. Something delicate to shatter.

But there was nothing.

No windows. Not a single one.

The walls were solid. Thick. Intentional.

This room wasn't just dark.

It was designed that way.

He didn't just sleep in the dark. He lived in it. Depended on it. The man had sealed himself into his own coffin and called it command.

Cowards don't always hide under beds. Sometimes, they build bunkers.

And now, here I was, stuck outside a tomb that dared to snore at me.

Torchlight? No. Too slow. Too messy. And honestly? It lacked the drama. Bullet holes? Too small. Too surgical.

If I was going to let light into that room, I wanted it to burst in. I wanted the shadows to scream. I wanted the dark to run.

So I giggled.

A real, sharp one. The kind that made the crew nearby flinch.

I spun on my heel and skipped. Skipped down the deck like a child chasing a song only they could hear. The boards under my feet moaned with every bounce, the ship groaning under the anticipation.

To the cannons.

Oh yes.

Let's make a window.

A big one.

Let's carve daylight into the Captain's sanctuary. Let's make the room bleed sun. Let's tear through his carefully constructed darkness and force it to see me.

Let's wake him the right way.

With thunder.

I reached for the biggest cannon I could find.

Not just big—obscene. A beast of iron and fire, half-buried in shadow, its muzzle wide enough to swallow a man's head whole and still yawn for more. The metal gleamed beneath the sun, a dark red sheen like dried blood buffed to a polish. Not fresh. Old. Long-since spilled, long-since ignored.

I laid my hand on it.

It was hot.

Sun-scorched, angry-hot. Not enough to sear my flesh clean off, but enough to warn me. Like it had memory. Like it remembered the things it had done. The skulls it had split. The screams it had ignored.

A perfect tool.

I turned to the crew and pointed.

Didn't even say a word. Just extended a finger toward them. Then back to the cannon. Then made a slow, deliberate pulling motion. Come. Help. Or don't.

Same boring hesitation.

Same dull stares. Same twitching limbs.

You'd think by now they'd know what happened when they made me wait.

But—bless their trembling bones—they came. Scared, but they came. Because fear, when baked long enough, turns into obedience.

I made the motion again, sharper this time—pull it.

They looked at each other like cornered dogs, heads low, eyes darting. One of them finally understood—middle-aged, ragged, a flicker of thought still twitching behind his eyes. He muttered something to the others and, like a disease, understanding spread.

How adorable.

They put their backs into it. Gripped the handles. Heaved. The cannon groaned against the deck as they strained, arms shaking, faces red with effort.

It was heavy, so heavy.

Every inch it moved sounded like something ancient waking up. Wood cried beneath its wheels. Chains clinked like bones on stone. The deck moaned, almost as if the ship itself knew what was coming and didn't approve.

They struggled. Sweated.

One slipped and scraped his palm on the edge of the carriage. Blood smeared across the dark wood like a promise. I smiled at the sight.

It was coming together.

A cannon like this wasn't just a tool—it was a ritual. This wasn't about opening a room. This was a summoning. A birthing. I wasn't just making a window, I was breaking a seal.

A seal built out of fear, silence, and pitch-black command.

And I was going to shatter it with fire and steel.

Let the captain sleep through this. Let whatever thing in there learn that its little darkness wasn't enough anymore. Let the crew watch as the wall blew inward like a lung giving out. Let them feel what happens when you think doors can hold back fate.

Let light flood in like vengeance.

Let it scream.

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So, the Chapters are going to get very dark pretty soon. I was planning on making the MC fear farm all the fight. But it would go against the realism and the world I made for the story. So all I can say is that the scene from tomorrow would be a bit too dark. I had to go and sit in silence like why the hell am I writing stuff like this? But thats just what the story is about. Sigh.

Updat𝓮d from frёewebnoѵēl.com.

Still I did my best to make it respectable to those who deserve it in the story. But for those with overthinking and imaginative thinking. I would like you to tone down your thinking for the few Chapters ahead. I will add some warnings to the front of the Chapter and in the title. And if you don't like the dark part. You can skip it.