One Piece: The Chisel in the Sea

The square burned in hushed echoes. Flames crackled from toppled crates, shadows danced on splintered walls. The smell of oil and blood drifted on the breeze, thick and choking.

Art knelt beside Francis, eyes sharp and unblinking. Francis's face was a pale mask of pain, sweat slicking his hair to his forehead. His left arm was gone below the elbow, a ragged stump wrapped in torn cloth, soaked crimson.

Nico pressed both hands against the wound, trembling. "Stay with me—please—just stay awake!"

Francis tried to laugh, but it came out as a wet rasp. His eyes fluttered, unfocused.

Art's hands moved with deliberate calm, tearing away Francis's bandolier to fashion a tighter tourniquet. He glanced at Nico, voice low and steady.

"Keep talking to him. Do not let him close his eyes."

Nico nodded, voice breaking as he called Francis's name again and again.

Art's mind whirled, each thought sharp as glass. This was no battlefield kill — this was a slow, quiet enemy: blood loss. Weakness. Time.

He looked at the stump, then at the scattered metal around them — knives, buckles, pistol frames, pieces of ship plating. Each piece a fragment of Francis's life, his tools, his identity.

Art's breath grew shallow.

"We don't have time," he murmured, almost to himself.

Francis's eyes cracked open, a weak grin flickering at the corner of his mouth. "What's… the plan… boss?"

Art met his gaze, and for the first time since they met, there was no iron certainty in his eyes — only raw, human urgency.

"You have a choice," Art said, voice low but firm. "I can try to fuse a clean replacement — another arm from a corpse or salvage — quick, simple. Or… I can try something else. Something better."

Francis's eyelids fluttered, but he barked a strained, wet laugh. "Better… sounds more fun…"

Art's fingers curled into fists. He nodded once.

"I need metal. Knives. Guns. Anything."

Art sprang to his feet, scanning the cove. He tore iron braces from fallen barricades, ripped metal strips from wrecked cannons, yanked plating from smashed lantern posts. Sparks flared where he wrenched nails loose with his bare hands.

He dragged it all back to Francis, dumping it in a rattling heap beside him.

Nico struggled to keep pressure on the stump, his small frame shuddering. "Please… hurry…!"

Art dropped to his knees. He pressed one hand against Francis's severed arm, the other against the pile of metal and weapons.

Intent surged up through his spine — violent, vivid, full of every image he had of Francis twisting, dodging, kicking barrels, cheating death.

A perfect blend.

Flesh and steel as one.

Dexterity and warmth of a living limb.

Hardness and lethality of blades and barrels.

Not an imitation — a true, living fusion.

The metal shivered under his touch. Heat bloomed across Francis's stump, bright and blinding.

Francis screamed — a ragged, raw sound that tore into the night — his back arched against Nico's hold. The metal warped and merged, fusing with shredded muscle and splintered bone, nerves intertwining with thin steel filaments.

Art's breath faltered, sweat streaming down his neck, his fingers trembling under the strain. Every second threatened collapse, every heartbeat echoed like a hammer.

Finally, the screaming stopped. Francis slumped forward, limp against Nico's chest, his breathing shallow but steady.

Art pulled back, shoulders sagging. He stared at the new arm — a rough, skeletal shape of dark metal and scarred flesh, segmented plates along the forearm, thin cables twisting beneath like new tendons. Knives curved in tight along the wrist, a hidden blade slot sat in the forearm, and metal fingers curled slowly in a shaky, awkward fist.

Francis's eyes fluttered open, dazed. He stared at the arm as if it belonged to someone else. Then, slowly, he flexed the fingers, the plates shifting and clicking.

A wheezing laugh cracked from his throat. "Guess… I finally look the part… of a monster, eh… boss…?"

Art exhaled shakily, reaching out to touch the still-warm metal. "Not a monster," he said, voice low. "A survivor."

Francis's head rolled back, a crooked, relieved grin fixed on his face. He passed out before he could answer.

---

Art and Nico worked quickly, binding the new arm against Francis's side, covering him in spare tarps and coats to stave off the chill. The square around them quieted, the last pirates either fled or dying in the alleys.

Nico wiped his face with a filthy sleeve, staring at Francis with a wild, protective desperation.

Art stood slowly, rifle slung at his back. His eyes drifted across the smoldering square, then to the half-wrecked ships beyond.

"We've taken the square," Art said, his voice hoarse but unyielding. "But the remnants still breathe. We finish this — all of it."

Nico rose beside him, eyes red but burning bright. "We… we clear the rest?"

Art turned to him fully, shoulders squaring despite the tremors of exhaustion.

"Yes," he said, voice steady, alive with that same quiet, dangerous certainty. "Tomorrow, we hunt the last of them down. Then… we claim it for real."