Soul Shanked 1/4
Main Masterlist Here
One Piece Masterlist
Soul Shanked Masterlist
Picture
Chapter Title: Marked and Mildly Deranged Length: 8.5 K+
Next
“What Is a Man?”
You were nine.
Curious. Bright-eyed. Holding a weathered story scroll in your lap and trying to puzzle out a sentence that read:
“The man took her hand gently…”
You blinked.
Then wandered down the palace hall to where Elder Gloriosa sat on a veranda cushion, drinking bitter tea and scowling at birds.
You approached carefully, the way one does when poking a large, judgmental cat.
“Elder Gloriosa,” you asked sweetly, “what’s a man?”
She froze mid-sip.
Then very slowly lowered her cup.
Her eyes narrowed. A wind stirred. Somewhere in the distance, a hawk cried.
“A man,” she said at last, voice grave, “is a selfish, sweaty beast.”
You blinked. “…Oh.”
She stood, joints cracking like angry firewood, and began pacing.
“They are crude and ugly. Faces like scarred potatoes. Hair like wet dogs. Smell like smoked failure.”
You clutched your scroll.
“Are they… dangerous?”
She wheeled on you like you’d asked if snakes could drive ships.
“They drink until they are stupid. Then they fight each other shirtless. Then they find someone smaller, usually a woman or a child, and try to hurt them with charm and shoulder width.”
Your jaw dropped.
“Shoulders?”
“They are weaponized.”
She knelt beside you, eyes wide and tragic.
“They are sentient, but not like us women who are graceful, and poetic. No. It is chaotic. Sticky. Loud. They grunt and wave their bits about like cursed barnacles.”
You turned white.
“Bits?!? What are bits?”
“Weapons.”
“I thought they were gentle. The story said—”
“LIES.”
She slapped the scroll from your hands.
“They cry when you beat them and scream when you ignore them. They name swords after their mothers and ships after their regrets.”
By now, you were backing toward the door.
She followed.
“They talk over you. They interrupt. They grow hair everywhere. Even places that should not be hairy. Backs”
You were shaking.
“They eat with their hands. Laugh like donkeys. Think they deserve power just for breathing! And worse—they believe in themselves.”
A pause.
Then, low and grim:
“And sometimes… if you’re not careful…they look at you like you’re a goddess.”
You blinked, trembling. “Why is that dangerous?”
She stood tall. Looked out to sea like she could see all her mistakes lined up on the waves.
“Because you might start to believe them.”
You didn’t sleep that night.
Carved protective runes on your bedframe.
They were crooked and backwards, but you meant them. Slapped a training dummy that vaguely resembled a chin. Painted it red. Called it “Captain Grossbeard.” No one said anything otherwise.
You marched around the temple halls muttering,
“I am the storm. I am the sword. I fear no man.”
And in the dead of night, wrapped in your blanket and resolve, you whispered with all the righteous fury your little heart could muster:
“No man creature will ever get me.”
You meant it.
With every scrap of fire your nine-year-old soul could summon.
You were ready.
Unshakable.
Unseduceable.
Untrickable.
—
Fate, however, was not so humorless.
The women of Amazon Lily came in every shape and size. Towering warriors, thunder-hipped sword dancers, graceful archers with legs like spears and tempers like fire.
The empress, Boa Hancock, was as fierce as she was beautiful.
And then there was you.
No statues in your honor. No warriors fighting over your affections. No chaotic marriage proposals from lovestruck pirate captains or suitors turned to stone in the palace courtyard.
You were level-headed, practical, and, according to Hancock, a ‘reasonable creature, which is to say, only mildly insane’.
Meaning, you had come out of the Amazon Lily once before and survived without succumbing to the filth of men.
Which was exactly how you liked it.
You didn’t crave glory or attention. You liked routine. Simplicity. Being useful. And so, when Amazon Lily needed someone to run messages, inspect trade ships, deliver threats with a smile, or retrieve a tea shipment from Sabaody, you were the one they sent.
Alone on a small ship from the Amazon Lily.
The usual route consisted of very few direct interactions with men and their ilk, and it made a nice diversion for regular work.
There was no clue that today would be any different.
You stepped off the longboat onto Sabaody soil, paid the toll, and adjusted your cloak. You're frowing, striking, and very out of place in your Amazon Lily cloak and braid adorned with shells. A curved staff rests across your back.
And then your palm ignited with a dash of heat, and as you lifted it you immediately noted the soft, glowing script that appeared.
You stared at it.
At first, you thought it was a prank. Some weird ink. Maybe pollen?
You rubbed it.
It stayed.
You squinted.
“Shanks.”
That was the word. Slanted. Gold. Elegant. Disgustingly confident cursive. Written in soft cursive, right across the center of your palm.
“What the-“
You blinked.
You rubbed harder.
You shook your hand like it was cursed.
“What the hell is a shanks? Did someone infect me with a disease?”
A nearby vendor looked up.
You glared at them. “Don’t look at me. I’m having a medical emergency.”
You ducked into a quiet alley, and stared at the name again like it was a venomous snake.
Shanks, the word unchanged by your poking.
What. The. Hell.
You ran your thumb over it. Tried spitting on it. Rubbing it with dirt. Muttered a few prayers under your breath. Nothing helped.
It glowed cheerfully back at you.
Mocking you.
A type of fish? A devil fruit?
A disease?
Written in soft gold, right across the center of your palm. You narrowed your eyes at the thought of what your sisters would say.
“She caught a case of the shanks.”
“We had to put her down.”
You sat down on a crate and buried your face in your hands.
This couldn’t be happening.
Across the sea, ten miles away, Red-Haired Shanks sat cross-legged, watching his crew bustle on the deck with a sake jug in hand.
Suddenly, his chest warmed.
He looked down.
There it was.
A name.
Written like it had always belonged there, just under his collarbone.
He grinned like an idiot. “Well, well.”
Benn Beckman, nearby, didn’t even look up.
“That’s new.”
“Well,” Shanks replied easily, tipping back his jug. “Begin the preparations gentlemen!”
He paused. Then added:
“…I’m about to meet the love of my life.”
Benn took a deep drag of his cigarette.
You pushed open the door to Shakky’s Rip-Off Bar with one foot, the other braced against the crate of sealed scrolls you’d brought from Amazon Lily. You were sweating—not from the load, but from sheer existential dread.
The gold-etched name on your palm had not gone away.
If anything, it was glowing harder, like it enjoyed your panic.
“Shanks.” Cursive. Fancy. Aggressively smug. “More like shit.”
You hadn’t dared ask the people of the island, many unfortunately men. Or the harbor guards. Or the fish vendor who said something about a ‘Red-Hair being back in town.’
Nope.
You were going to get through this like a professional.
You were fine.
You blink at the smoky interior like you’ve just entered a dragon’s den.
Shakky waves.
“Welcome, darling. Ignore the mess.”
You drop the crate onto the floorboards with a solid thunk, flex your poor back, and approach the bar like a soldier on a battlefield.
Shakky doesn’t even blink.
“You okay, sweetheart,” she says smoothly, sliding a glass of something chilled your way. “Hancock’s still upset about the soap?”
“She’s considering burning the supplier’s house down.”
“Reasonable.”
“She sends her regards,” you say politely. “And says if the soap supplier raises prices again, she’s sending snakes. Plural.”
“Duly noted.”
You glance around, subtly inspecting the room for… her male creature. The old one with the excessive amount of body hair. Glasses, holding a drink like it’s a character trait, excellent at harassing you.
The coast is clear.
For now.
You exhale.
And then you whisper urgently:
“I have a medical question.”
That earns a slow blink from Shakky.
She tilts her head. “Go on.”
You glance around again, then yank off your glove and slap your palm down on the bar like it’s a crime scene.
“What is this?” you hiss.
There it is.
That damned glowing word.
Shanks.
Still smug.
From the corner, a chair creaks.
You jump.
Rayleigh, lounging in the shadows with a bottle, squints toward your hand.
Motherfucker, how does he hide like that.
He ignores your glare, and for once, you want an answer enough to let him look.
He squints harder.
Then bursts into a laugh so loud it nearly knocks the rum bottle over.
You stare at him like he’s lost his mind.
“What,” you demand, “is so funny? Am I dying?!”
“Only emotionally,” he chuckles, wiping his eyes. “Oh, you poor thing. Couldn’t have happened to a worse woman”
Shakky smirks. “So it was what I suspect.”
You slam your hand down again. “What is happening?! What is a shanks? Why is it on my skin?! Is it a threat? A disease? Some kind of cursed pirate STD?!”
Rayleigh leans forward, clearly enjoying this far too much.
“It’s the name of an old cabin boy of mine.”
You stare at your hand.
Stare at him.
Back at your hand.
“Shakky,” you say flatly. “Is this Shanks a man creature? Did he put a hit out on me? Has your pet husband gone rogue?”
Shakky chuckled, to your consternation.
Rayleigh chuckles again, this time gentler.
“Don’t worry, girl. That’s just a soulmate mark.”
You freeze.
“…Is that a disease?”
Shakky wheezes.
Rayleigh falls off the couch laughing.
You try your best not to spear the man-creature, as you know he’s Shakky’s pet.
“What is so funny?”
“Not quite. It’s… uh, a romantic thing.” Shakky explained with a hand wave, “Like love.”
You clear your throat.
“Love? Like the concept of the curse?”
“Happens when the other half of your fate gets close. Ten miles, give or take.”
Rayleigh winks and you growl.
You sit at the bar, hand still glowing, eyes wide and glassy like someone who just saw their own funeral invitation written in cursive.
Across from you, Shakky pours you another drink— alcoholic, by the look on your face you’ll need it.
“I need clarification,” You croak, not touching it. “About… everything.”
Rayleigh grunts. “She’s gonna need a chart.”
Shakky smiles gently, lights a cigarette, and leans on the bar like she’s preparing to explain gravity to a baby.
“Okay,” she begins, “So. First things first: A man is a person—usually taller, louder, and hairier than you—who you will find deeply aggravating.”
You rolls your eyes, which she ignores.
“They have a different biology. You don’t need to worry too much about it unless you plan on—”
“Absolutely not. I’ve seen yours.”
Rayleigh cackles.
“—Right. So men exist, unfortunately. And outside of Amazon Lily, they’re… everywhere. Now, a soulmate is someone the universe pairs you with.”
“Like… like in combat?”
Shakky pauses.
“No. Not like a sparring partner. More like someone you’re cosmically drawn to.”
You blink.
“That sounds awful.”
Rayleigh wheezes.
“Now,” Shakky continues, trying not to laugh, “Soulmates usually feel a pull toward one another. A bond. Attraction.”
“Like gravity?”
“Sure. Except you might want to kiss them.”
You stare at her.
Then, slowly:
“Why would I do that?”
Rayleigh is fully keeled over now.
Shakky takes a drag of her cigarette and starts listing on her fingers:
“Sometimes people in soulmate bonds end up in relationships. Romantic ones. Emotional connections. Some get married. Some have children—”
You immediately shove the barstool back and stand, horrified.
“Children?! With a man?! That’s what the glowing means?!”
“Not automatically,” Shakky says quickly, clearly entertained. “You don’t have to do anything. Well, to have children you do-“
You cut in.
“Except battle a mythical threat no sister has bothered informing of-“
Rayleigh laughed. “This is going to be fun.”
Shakky grins. “Amazon Lily doesn’t really get male soulmates. It’s not a popular topic.”
You stare at your glowing palm like it just personally betrayed you.
Rayleigh leans back, finishing his drink.
“Best advice I can give you?”
He raises his glass.
“Run now. Or start emotionally preparing.”
You’re already pulling your glove back on like it’s a warding talisman, halfway to the door.
“I was just doing a supply run,” you hissed, pacing Shakky’s floor like a woman betrayed by gravity itself. “I was not emotionally prepared to be icked by destinies assigned man-creature’s.”
Rayleigh was wheezing.
“He’s not that bad, really,” he managed between gasps, one hand slapping the table as his shoulders shook with laughter.
You turned on him sharply. “You know the disease?!”
That was it. Rayleigh whooped like a man being punched by fate itself. He doubled over, tears streaking down his face. You suspected a heart attack was imminent and sincerely prayed for it.
Shakky, far calmer, sipped her tea.
“He comes here on occasion,” she said, as if discussing the weather. “I told you, Rayleighs former cabin boy.”
You looked at Rayleigh, her man-creative and gave him the most disguised look a woman has ever made at him, further sending him into cardiac arrest due to laughter.
You stared down at your palm—the cursed red name that had scrawled itself across your skin like a traitorous tattoo.
Shanks.
The name of doom.
An ill-conceived destiny.
A man.
“Does the shanks disease know?” you asked darkly. “Does he get infected as well?”
“Oh, absolutely,” Shakky replied brightly. “He probably saw your name appear and immediately said something dramatic like, ‘Finally.’ He’s a romantic.”
You went still.
Stone still.
Rayleigh hiccupped mid-laugh, coughing.
You slowly looked between them, horrified. Betrayed by scrolls, tea, and fate.
Then you whispered, utterly mortified.
“I have to flee this island.”
Rayleigh gave a very enthusiastic “Bye bye sweetheart” and Shakky sighed as you fled.
You returned to the docks like a woman possessed.
No delay. No farewell drink. You left the scroll receipt unsigned and muttered something about “soul rot” and “spontaneous name infections” to the stunned sailors as you boarded the ship you used to arrive..
By the time the anchor lifted, you’d already burned a loose scarf and were halfway through scrubbing your palm with seawater like it might dissolve destiny.
It didn’t.
You stared at the elegant, glowing “Shanks” etched into your skin like it was a personal attack.
Shanks barged back into Shakky’s bar, glowing.
Literally.
His shirt was half open and his smile was full chaos. Right across his chest, gleaming like sun-kissed treasure, was your name.
He skidded to a stop in front of Rayleigh and announced, proudly:
“I need a drink,” he said, voice easy. “Something celebratory.”
Rayleigh didn’t even look up from his drink, already smirking. He seemed like he was restraining himself.
“Good news?”
Shanks tugged his shirt open just enough. Gold script shimmered faintly over his heart.
A name. Yours.
Beckman glanced up, sighed. “Don’t encourage him. He’s high on bad ideas.”
Rayleigh squinted. Blinked. Set his glass down a little too hard.
Then dropped his glass and howled with laughter.
Shanks was still proudly displaying his chest like it contained the One Piece itself. He rotated for better lighting. He even leaned into a patch of sun filtering through the bar window, just so your name would really sparkle.
Rayleigh had only just stopped laughing, wiping tears from his eyes with a bar towel and wheezing, “You’ve got no idea what’s coming, do you?”
Shanks blinked.
“…Coming? You mean the great adventure of love?”
Rayleigh snorted and almost choked on his drink again.
Shakky, merciful and amused, stepped out from behind the bar and gently placed a hand on Shanks’ shoulder like she was about to break bad news about his boat engine.
“Sweetheart,” she said patiently. “Have you met the owner of that name?”
“Shanks grinned. “Not a clue. But I got a feeling you do.”
Shakky shook her head slowly.
“No, no. This isn’t a vacation. Not without armed backup and a plan for extraction.”
Shanks stared.
Stared harder.
“…Why?”
Paused.
Rayleigh grinned. “Tell him, Shakky.”
“She’s from Amazon Lily.”
There was a pause.
Shanks tilted his head. “…The Amazon Lily?”
“The very same,” said Rayleigh, pouring another drink. “Land of no men, no mercy, and statues made from the unlucky.”
“She’s not just from there,” Shakky added. “She’s one of them. Top of her class. Favorite of the Empress. Tried to file paperwork to have her mark declared a battlefield injury.”
“…The island that turns men into stone with eye contact and keeps them as warning statues?”
“Exactly.”
His smile faltered.
Shanks’s smile twitched.
“…Wait. So you know who she is?”
“Oh, we know,” Rayleigh said, far too pleased. “We’ve known since earlier today, when she stumbled in here clutching her hand like it was cursed.”
“She asked me if soulmates were a disease,” Shakky muttered, eyes distant. “Dead serious.”
Shanks blinked.
“She meant it,” Rayleigh added, raising his drink.
Shakky nodded grimly. “And now she thinks she’s been infected. By a man-borne plague.”
Shanks slowly sat down, the light dimming behind his eyes.
“So what you’re telling me is—my one and only soulmate… is an Amazonin Lily Warrior, sworn off all men-”
“Correct,” Shakky said.
“…and thinks I’m a walking biohazard.”
“Bingo,” Rayleigh toasted. “To fate.”
Shanks groaned as Rayleigh drank an entire shot and Shakky smiles sympathetically.
Benn refrained from commenting.
Shanks exhaled. “Okay, I can work with that. At least it saves me the trouble of a chase. So I can’t visit the island without—”
Shakky: “No. Don’t cause a war.”
“…” Shanks tilted his head,: “…Can I send something?”
Rayleigh huffed, “Only if you want Boa Hancock to hunt you like a rabbit.”
Shakky smacked his shoulder.
Shanks leaned forward, face in hands. “Maybe I’ll write her a letter?”
“Start with an apology. And maybe… include clarification that you are disease free.” Shakky, dryly replied.
Shanks chuckled.
Then he drew a long breath, adjusted his coat, and rolled his neck with deliberate calm.
He looked up, steady and sure again.
“I’ll speak to whoever’s in charge first- Hancock, right. Properly. Face to face.”
There was silence.
“No.”
Beckman didn’t even look up, but reached for another cigarette.
Shakky blinked. “You’re going to what?”
“I’ll reach out to Hancock,” Shanks said. “Ask for a meeting. Just talk. Emperor to Empress-”
Rayleigh started laughing again—slow, wheezing laughter that didn’t stop.
“She’ll listen,” Shanks added. “If I’m respectful. If I make it clear I’m not a threat.”
Beckman groaned. “You are the threat.”
“She won’t turn me to stone on principle,” Shanks reasoned. “I’ve got manners.”
“You’ve got audacity,” Shakky snapped.
Rayleigh wiped his eyes. “You’re going to walk into Amazon Lily. Alone. After giving the Empress’s favorite a soulmate mark. And you think reason will win her over?”
“I’m an emperor,” Shanks said, shrugging. “Surely she won’t deny a simple conversation.”
“Not with her,” Shakky muttered. “She turned a man to stone for saying hello too confidently.”
“I’ll be diplomatic.”
Beckman sighed. “You’re going to get yourself turned into an art feature.”
Shanks leaned casually on the bar, unfazed. “If she kills me, at least I’ll go out looking good.”
Rayleigh raised his glass. “Send us a statue. I’ll put it in the garden.”
“Life-sized,” Beckman added. “We’ll use it to hang hats.”
Shakky poured herself a double shot of something unlabeled. “You’re all idiots.”
Shanks gave her a slow, confident smile. “What would you do if fate carved a name on your chest?”
“Button up my shirt,” she snapped.
He only chuckled.
“I’ll ask nicely,” he said again. “That’s all I’ll do.”
Beckman exhaled. “Give me one hour’s notice before you sail. Just so I can update your will.”
Rayleigh raised his glass one last time. “To love.”
“To statues,” Shakky muttered.
Shanks smiled and tapped the spot over his heart.
“You don’t meet fate halfway by standing still. Besides, if she kills me, at least it’ll be interesting.”
The moment you reached home, you marched into the palace, slapped the crate of trade receipts down with enough force to rattle the columns, and declared in a clear, unshakable voice.
“I’m never leaving again.”
Ran raised a curious eyebrow.
“Did someone insult the empress?”
“No,” you muttered, pulling your glove back on. “Worse.”
“…worse?”.
“I am spiritually unwell,” you added. “I have been afflicted.”
Gasps echoed across the hall.
The guards stood. “I’ll call for the snakes.”
“No, I need to speak with the Empress, right away.”
And so you were whisked away to Boa Hancock.
You stood before the Empress, palm out, the glow flickering like a curse that wouldn’t die. It shimmered just beneath the skin—his name, etched in gold, resting traitorously against your lifeline.
You had come to her for wisdom. Reassurance. A solution.
What you got instead was—
“WHAT. IS. THAT?!”
The words cracked like a whip across the throne room.
You flinched. Somewhere in the rafters, a dove actually keeled over.
“I—I don’t know,” you stammered, holding out your hand like it might explain itself. “It appeared when I stepped off the ship to go visit Shakky. She said…it might be a… soul… thing?”
Silence.
The word no one dared say hovered in the air like a ghost.
Soulmate.
You didn’t speak it. Neither did the Empress. But every woman in the room felt it sink into their bones like a divine hex.
Hancock was frozen on her throne, eyes locked on your palm. Her expression was a war between horror and something much worse: recognition.
Then she moved.
“What disgusting, treacherous man has dared mark one of my-“
She Grabbed your palm like a curse, reading the name with visible recoil.
Then, she snatched a report scroll from a nearby guard—half unrolled, seawater-stained, stamped with the last Sabaody ship logs. Her eyes scanned the names fast, each flick of her gaze more furious than the last.
She stopped cold.
Her hand clenched around the scroll.
Her face went pale. Then dark.
Then incandescent with rage.
She screeched.
“Shanks!”
You blinked. “You… know him?”
“Know him?!” she roared. “KNOW HIM! Everyone knows him! Do you have any idea who he is? What he is?! The threat he is to women everywhere?”
The word hit you like a slap. It’s not that you didn’t memorize many male pirates, but your experience was limited. To be frank you never memorized male names if you see them regularly.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Tried again. “Rayleigh mentioned he used to train him—”
“Rayleigh’s old apprentice?” Hancock barked. “He is not some scruffy cabin brat! He is a global force of nature with a bounty in the billions and diplomatic immunity because no one wants to risk his crew tearing through the Grand Line like a divine plague!”
Your knees shook. Blood rushed to your head.
“Oh.” You squeaked.
“Oh?” Hancock’s voice shot up an octave. “Oh?!”
“I mean, that’s… it could be worse, right?”
“Worse? He’s one of the Four Emperors! You might as well have gotten branded by a tidal wave!”
Were those stars forming at the edge of your vision?
“Shanks!” You choked, feeling dizzy. “As in Red-Haired Shanks?!”
You were a trained warrior, a scholar of naval threats, and a woman of discipline—but your knees still buckled a little.
You did know of the fucking Emperors who ruled the sea.
You stared at her. “He didn’t do anything—he wasn’t even there! I never saw him!”
“Exactly!” Hancock shot back. “You never even saw him, and still—still—your soul reached for his?!”
Her sisters in the court murmured in terror.
Gloriosa, ancient and unbothered, sipped her tea in the corner. “At least it’s not Kaido.”
“Not the point!” Hancock snapped.
She rose to her feet, the motion sharp and dangerous, her cape whipping behind her like a flag of impending doom.
She pointed at your palm. “That’s not a name. That’s a problem.”
You looked down. The mark still glowed innocently.
Warm. Gold. Unbothered.
“Is there a cure?” You squeaked, not really joking. “Or a way to hide it? Perhaps he’ll find it inconvenient and ignore it?”
Hancock paced now, one hand in her hair, the other gesturing wildly. “He probably doesn’t know every detail, but make no mistakes, he’ll figure it out. He’s a famous romantic- and that man Shakky houses for some reason- he has a soft spot for degenerates. And when he finds out? Oh, he’ll come. Of course he’ll come. Men like him always do. Smiling. Apologizing. Making it worse.”
You stared.
“You think he’s coming here?!”
She stopped. Slowly turned back toward you.
Then said, with the seriousness of a woman already preparing her war face.
“Start practicing your ‘go to hell’ and for the love of the sea gods— do not accept rum from him. Don’t even leave the belly of the Lily, lest he discover a way to…compromise you!”
The entire palace erupted in chaotic wailing.
Sandersonia fanned herself. “A pirate has claimed her!”
Marigold shouted, “Prepare the ship! Prepare the cannons!”
Hancock paced, furious and rattled.
“He’s powerful. Annoyingly flirtatious. Laughs like a goddamn wind chime. And now he’s tethered to her?! One of my own?!”
You raised your gloved hand slowly.
“We have time, don’t we? I didn’t meet him. I didn’t even see his ship. I ran.”
“You ran correctly.” Hancock whirled, pointing a dramatic finger. “We must break the bond before he discovers it!”
“Is that possible?”
“I will try anyway.”
You fainted.
The message was hand-delivered with the kind of care usually reserved for ceasefires and war declarations.
Shanks had written it himself—ink smooth, edges clean, the handwriting firm and respectful. No roses. No flirtation. Just facts. Just a name. Send with a female on an aligned crew.
And an apology.
To Empress Boa of Amazon Lily,
I write with great care and no intent to offend. It has come to my attention that a mark—bearing my name—has appeared upon one of your own. I understand the nature of such an event is complex, unwelcome, and possibly distressing.
Know that I intend no intrusion. I ask only for the chance to discuss with you the implications of such an event.
With respect,
Shanks
The return message arrived exactly three hours later.
Folded into a seared chunk of driftwood.
Branded across the front in aggressive knife marks were two words:
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
Beckman, watching from the deck, just sighed.
“She’s going to try and sink the ship if you push this.”
Shanks unfolded the second, more official scroll tucked inside the burned envelope.
It read:
Should the Yonko known as Red-Haired Shanks approach the shores of Amazon Lily, he will be considered an active threat and treated accordingly.
There will be no meeting.
There will be no negotiation.
This is your only warning.
Shanks folded the message quietly.
Then he looked up toward the horizon, where the Calm Belt lay—still and wide.
“…She didn’t say I couldn’t send word again.”
Beckman rubbed his temple. “You’re going to escalate this into an international incident with that carefree attitude.”
Shanks smiled.
He simply turned, opened a second scroll, and began to write again.
To Empress Boa Hancock,
I got your message.
Dramatic. Charred edges. Good handwriting.
I understand your position. You’re furious, protective, and probably trying to have me classified as a natural disaster.
Fair.
But I’d like to remind you—I’m still asking.
Politely.
I didn’t choose this mark. Neither did she. But it’s there, and now so am I.
And like it or not, this situation now involves me.
I’m not trying to provoke anything. I’m not trying to cause a scene.
If I were, writing first would not be my opening move.
So please—don’t make me come to your island while I’m still being nice.
A quiet meeting. Just once. If you refuse that?
Well.
I’m famously bad at hearing no.
You know where to find me.
Shanks
He tied it with red twine. No wax. Just a smile on his face like he’d already made peace with whatever storm followed.
Beckman, watching, groaned. “You do realize she’s going to throw that in the ocean.”
“She might,” Shanks said. “But I wrote it anyway.”
“She might also fire a cannon.”
“I’ll duck.”
Beckman pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re flirting with death.”
Shanks grinned. “Only if she’s interested.”
The second letter was delivered by a trembling pirate courier, who clearly had no idea whether handing it over counted as a diplomatic act or an execution request.
Hancock ripped the thread binding with one fluid flick of her nail.
She read the first line.
Then the second.
Then she froze.
“Don’t make me come to your island while I’m still being nice?” she repeated aloud.
The entire throne room fell still.
Gloriosa slowly set down her teacup like she was bracing for a seismic event.
Hancock kept reading—face locked somewhere between seething and visibly calculating the surface temperature of lava.
“He thinks he’s being polite?!”
“I believe he does,” Gloriosa said cautiously. “Shanks is notorious for his diplomacy.”
Hancock’s eye twitched.
“I will polish the cliffs with him!”
“He did ask before he came,” Murmured Sandersonia helpfully. “Could be worse.”
“He’s still asking,” Marigold added, eyes wide.
Hancock hissed through her teeth. “You don’t ask an Empress. You bow. You beg. You certainly don’t smirk through the ink!”
“Technically, there was no smirking visible,” Gloriosa offered.
Hancock whipped around. “He charmed. In calligraphy!”
Gloriosa held up her hands. “I’m just the tea auntie.”
Hancock stomped to the edge of the dais, fists clenched, hair fluttering in her fury.
“He thinks this is a game. A charming letter. A little rogue diplomacy. He doesn’t understand. I will petrify him into a lawn ornament.”
There was a long silence.
Then Gloriosa spoke again. Quietly.
“…Should we inform her?”
“Absolutely not. She is in a fragile state, thanks to that pig.”
You were sitting in the palace garden, sipping tea, watching a bird hop sideways in the grass.
It was peaceful.
Which was suspicious.
You’d learned that silence in Amazon Lily usually meant someone was planning something—or someone had just made a very bad decision.
But today?
Today was—
“Hmm,” you muttered, looking down at your hand.
The mark glowed faintly. Again. For the third time this week.
You shook your head and pulled your sleeve back down. “No.”
You weren’t going to think about it. You weren’t going to ask questions. And you absolutely weren’t going to read into the fact that every time it flared, the guards on duty went tense like someone had set a cannon off three islands away.
Across the courtyard, a group of royal guards were whispering urgently with Marigold and Sandersonia. You caught snippets:
“…He wrote again.”
“…Still polite, technically…”
“…‘Don’t make me come while I’m being nice’—is that a threat or a proposal?”
“Empress broke a vase.”
“Make that two vases.”
You blinked. Then looked back down at your tea.
No one had told you anything.
And if the Empress breaking crockery over international pirate diplomacy was about you?
…Well.
You didn’t want to know.
You picked up a scone.
Ignorance was peaceful.
