章節 2: Chapter 2: A New World
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Davy Jones—or rather, the man who had become Davy Jones—stood at the helm of the Flying Dutchman, his gaze fixed on the endless expanse of the sea. The mist had lifted, revealing the churning waters of the Grand Line stretching out in every direction. The sky above was a tumultuous blend of storm clouds and distant flashes of lightning, casting an eerie, ever-shifting light over the ship.
The wind howled through the rigging, and the sails snapped and billowed, filled with a force that propelled the Dutchman forward with relentless speed. The ship moved as though it had a mind of its own, cutting through the waves with an unnatural grace, untouched by the chaos of the sea around it.
He tightened his grip on the wheel, feeling the rough wood beneath his fingers, the ancient, cursed wood that was as much a part of him now as the ship itself. It was strange—no, terrifying—to think that this ship, this legendary vessel of death and doom, was his to command.
'This is real,' he reminded himself for what felt like the hundredth time. He had woken up on this ship, transformed into a being of legend, and now he was sailing the most dangerous sea in the world. There was no waking up from this.
He glanced down at his hands, still trying to get used to the sight of them. They were rough and scarred, the skin darkened and toughened like the hide of some deep-sea creature. His fingers twitched slightly, the joints stiff, but when he willed them to move, they obeyed, gripping the wheel with a strength that felt unfamiliar yet instinctive.
The sea was calm now, but he knew that in the Grand Line, that could change in an instant. He'd seen enough of the One Piece world to know that this was no ordinary ocean. The Grand Line was a place of constant turmoil, where the weather could shift from a peaceful breeze to a violent storm in the blink of an eye. And then there were the creatures—the Sea Kings, massive beasts that lurked beneath the waves, capable of swallowing a ship whole.
Yet as he stood there, at the helm of the Flying Dutchman, he felt no fear. The power of the ship, of the curse that bound him to it, was a palpable presence, a constant thrum in the back of his mind. He could sense the sea around him, feel the currents and the tides as if they were an extension of his own body. He was the captain of the Dutchman, the master of the seas, and this world, with all its dangers and wonders, was his to explore.
'But where do I even begin?' he thought, a frown creasing his brow. He had no crew to guide him, no map to follow, and no idea where he was about the rest of the world. The Grand Line was vast, with countless islands scattered across its waters, each one home to its own unique dangers and mysteries. And somewhere out there were the four great powers of the sea—the Yonko, the Pirate Emperors who ruled over vast territories with iron fists. If he was going to survive in this world, he would need to find his place, carve out his own territory and establish his own power.
But first, he needed information. He needed to know where he was, what dangers lay ahead, and who the major players in this world were. Only then could he begin to formulate a plan.
He turned his attention to the crew—or what was left of it. The cursed men who had once served under the original Davy Jones were scattered across the deck, their twisted forms slumped against the rails or huddled in the shadows of the masts. They were a pitiful sight, their bodies warped by the curse that bound them to the Dutchman, their eyes hollow and lifeless.
But as he watched, he saw a flicker of movement. One of the crewmen, a hulking figure with a face half-covered in barnacles, stirred and slowly rose to his feet. He moved with a strange, jerky gait as if he were unused to his own body, but there was a glimmer of awareness in his eyes as he looked up at the captain.
"Cap'n…" the man rasped, his voice rough and uneven, like the grinding of stones. "What are yer orders?"
For a moment, he didn't know what to say. These men were cursed, bound to the ship just as he was, but they were also his responsibility now. They looked to him for guidance, for leadership. The original Davy Jones had ruled them with an iron fist, his cruelty and ruthlessness keeping them in line. But he wasn't that man—he wasn't Davy Jones. Or at least, not yet.
"Prepare the ship," he said finally, his voice steady and authoritative, despite the uncertainty gnawing at the edges of his mind. "We set sail for the nearest island. We need supplies, and we need information."
The crewman nodded slowly, his movements stiff and mechanical, but he obeyed, turning to relay the orders to the rest of the crew. The other men began to stir, their hollow eyes flickering with a semblance of life as they moved to carry out their captain's orders.
He watched them for a moment, a strange mix of emotions churning in his chest. These men were monsters, cursed by the sea and bound to a fate worse than death. But they were also his crew, his only link to this world and the power he now wielded. He would need to earn their loyalty, to prove that he was worthy of the title of captain.
As the crew went about their tasks, he turned his attention back to the sea, his mind already racing with possibilities. The nearest island—where would it be? He racked his brain, trying to remember the geography of the One Piece world. The Grand Line was full of islands, each one more dangerous than the last. But he needed to start somewhere.
He could feel the ship responding to his thoughts, the sails shifting and the wheel turning as if the Dutchman himself knew where it was going. The power that coursed through him, the connection to the ship and the sea, was still new, still unfamiliar, but it was strong, and it guided him with a certainty that he couldn't ignore.
'East,' he thought, the word forming in his mind as naturally as if it had always been there. 'We head east.'
The ship veered to the right, its course set. He felt a strange sense of satisfaction as the Dutchman surged forward, cutting through the waves with renewed speed. The mist that had clung to the ship began to lift, revealing the distant outline of an island on the horizon.
He stared at the island, his heart pounding with anticipation. This was it—the beginning of his journey, the first step in carving out his place in this world. He didn't know what lay ahead, but he was ready to face it, whatever it might be.
As the island grew closer, he felt a stirring of something deep within him—an instinct, a drive that he couldn't quite explain. It was the same feeling he'd had when he first woke up on the Dutchman, the sense that he was meant to be here, that this was his destiny.
He tightened his grip on the wheel, his eyes fixed on the approaching island. Whatever this world had in store for him, he would face it head-on. He was Davy Jones, the captain of the Flying Dutchman, and the Grand Line was his for the taking.
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The Flying Dutchman anchored just off the coast of the mysterious island, its ominous silhouette contrasting against the stormy skies. Davy Jones—now a man reborn into this legendary form—stood at the helm, his sharp eyes scanning the dark shores. The pull he had felt toward the island was undeniable, but the curse that bound him to the sea meant that he could not step foot on land, at least not without severe consequences.
He clenched his clawed hand around the ship's wheel, feeling the weight of his predicament. The island's secrets were calling to him, but he would have to rely on his cursed crew to uncover them.
"Send a party ashore," he ordered, his voice carrying a sense of authority that felt both natural and foreign to him. "Scout the island and report back."
Several crew members—twisted, barnacle-encrusted men who had served under the original Davy Jones for centuries—moved to obey. They lowered a longboat into the churning waters and climbed aboard, their grotesque forms silhouetted against the dark sea. The boat rocked as the crew rowed toward the island, their eyes fixed on the forbidding shore.
Jones watched them go, his sharp gaze never leaving the boat as it made its way through the waves. He felt a strange mix of frustration and anticipation. Frustration that he couldn't personally explore the island, and anticipation for whatever secrets his crew might uncover.
As the longboat reached the shore, the crew disembarked, their feet sinking into the wet, black sand. Jones could see through the eyes of one of the men—a strange, ghostly connection that allowed him to observe the island as if he were there in person. The beach was littered with bones, and the remains of long-dead creatures, and the air was thick with the scent of decay.
The crew moved cautiously, their weapons at the ready as they advanced up the beach and into the dense forest. The trees were twisted and gnarled, their branches intertwining to form a canopy that blocked out much of the light. The further they ventured, the more oppressive the atmosphere became, the air growing colder and the silence more suffocating.
Jones could feel the pull growing stronger as the crew moved deeper into the forest, guiding them toward the source of the strange energy he had sensed from the ship. The path wound through the trees, the ground uneven and treacherous, but the crew pressed on, driven by the same force that had drawn their captain to the island.
Finally, they reached a clearing. The trees parted to reveal a massive stone structure—a temple, ancient and crumbling, its walls covered in strange symbols that pulsed with a faint, eerie light. The crew hesitated at the edge of the clearing, their eyes wide with awe and fear as they took in the sight.
"Proceed," Jones commanded, his voice echoing in the mind of the crewman he was linked to.
The men obeyed, their steps cautious as they crossed the clearing and approached the temple. The air inside the structure was cool and damp, and the strange symbols on the walls seemed to glow brighter as the crew entered. Jones could feel the energy in the air, a powerful force that resonated with the curse that bound him to the Flying Dutchman.
In the centre of the temple, resting on a massive stone altar, was an ornate chest. Even from the ship, Jones could sense the dark, ominous power emanating from it. The chest was covered in the same intricate symbols as the temple walls, and the air around it seemed to shimmer with a faint, ethereal glow.
"Open it," Jones ordered, his voice low and commanding.
One of the crewmen stepped forward, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch the chest. The wood was cold beneath his fingers, and as he opened the lid, a blinding light filled the chamber, forcing the crew to shield their eyes.
Jones felt a surge of energy as the chest was opened, a wave of power that seemed to flow through him, filling him with a strange sense of purpose. The connection between him and the chest was undeniable—this was no ordinary treasure. It was something much more important, something that had the potential to change his fate in this world.
The light slowly faded, revealing the contents of the chest. Inside, nestled among ancient, crumbling parchment and strange artefacts, was a heart. Jones's heart—Davy Jones's heart. The sight of it sent a shiver down his spine, a mix of dread and fascination.
"Bring it to me," Jones commanded, his voice a low growl. "Carefully."
The crewman gingerly lifted the heart from the chest, cradling it as if it were the most precious thing in the world. The connection between Jones and the heart was almost palpable, a bond that went beyond the physical. He could feel the pulse of his own heartbeat in the distance, echoing across the sea.
As the crew made their way back to the longboat, the temple began to tremble, as if the very island was reacting to the removal of the heart. The symbols on the walls flared to life, glowing with an intense, burning light, and the ground shook beneath the crew's feet.
"Leave the island!" Jones commanded, his voice filled with urgency. "Now!"
The crew didn't need to be told twice. They sprinted back to the longboat, the chest and heart secured in the arms of the lead man. The ground continued to shake as they rowed furiously back to the Dutchman, the island seeming to crumble behind them as they escaped.
As the longboat approached the ship, Jones felt a deep sense of relief. The heart—the key to his fate—was now in his possession. The crew quickly climbed aboard, the chest and heart delivered into Jones's waiting hands.
The moment his fingers touched the chest, he felt a powerful connection, as if the heart was responding to him, recognizing him as its rightful owner. The air crackled with energy, and the curse that bound him to the Flying Dutchman seemed to tighten its grip, reminding him of the power and responsibility that came with his new form.
But with the heart now in his possession, Jones knew that he had a chance—a chance to change his fate, to carve out a new destiny in this world. The Grand Line was a place of endless possibilities, and with the power of the Dutchman at his command, there was no limit to what he could achieve.
As the island receded into the distance, consumed by the stormy sea, Jones stood at the helm, the chest cradled in his hands. His eyes were fixed on the horizon, his mind already racing with plans for the future.
This world had no idea what was coming. And Davy Jones was determined to make his mark on it.
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