Ten agonizing minutes my boots crunched on the treacherous undergrowth, each step a silent question mark in this bewildering journey with my mentor. My senses were on high alert; every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig sent a jolt of adrenaline through me. Where in the blazes was he leading me? And why did this whole expedition feel less like a mission and more like a descent into some bizarre, backwater fable?
Then, through a sudden parting in the oppressive green curtain, it appeared: a house. Not the grand, imposing structure I might have expected from someone of Garp's stature, but a weathered, solitary dwelling, clinging precariously to the edge of the wilderness like a forgotten tooth. Perhaps this was our destination.
Garp, his broad back a familiar silhouette against the fading light, strode forward with his usual unwavering purpose and delivered a series of thunderous knocks on the wooden door. The sound echoed in the stillness, a rude awakening for whatever – or whoever – resided within. We waited, the silence stretching taut, amplifying the nervous flutter in my chest. Had we stumbled upon a hermit? A recluse? Or something far more… sinister? Just as I began to entertain the darker possibilities, a voice, thick with sleep and radiating a primal fury, bellowed from inside, followed by the heavy, dragging thud of approaching footsteps.
The door groaned open, revealing a figure that seemed to defy the very laws of nature: a woman. Towering, her frame a testament to a life lived without restraint, her face a surprisingly rugged landscape framed by a wild explosion of long, orange curls that seemed to possess a life of their own. Her eyes were still squeezed shut, her expression a volcanic eruption of interrupted slumber. "Don't make noise!" she roared, her voice a surprisingly deep baritone that sent a shiver down my spine. "Whoever you are, are you looking for a death wish?!"
My hand instinctively gravitated towards the familiar weight of the concealed blade beneath my cloak, a reflex honed in far more civilized, yet equally dangerous, locales. But Garp… my mentor… simply stood there, his weathered face impassive, a flicker of something akin to weary amusement in his steely gaze. "It's me!" he stated simply, his voice carrying a weight of unspoken history, a history I, as his protégé, was suddenly desperate to unravel.
The woman's eyes snapped open, widening with a jolt that sent a visible tremor through her considerable frame. The sleepiness vanished, replaced by a raw, undisguised fear that washed over her rugged features. Recognition dawned, chasing away the initial fury like a startled beast retreating into the shadows. Her mouth worked silently, a silent gasp trapped in her throat, her formidable presence shrinking under the weight of my mentor's simple declaration.
She stumbled back, her bulk shifting to grant us reluctant entry into a dimly lit space that assaulted my senses with a potent cocktail of woodsmoke, unidentifiable cooked meat, and something vaguely… feral. Rough-hewn furniture, scarred and worn, was scattered haphazardly, illuminated by the flickering glow of a single oil lamp. The air hung thick with unspoken stories, with the residue of a life lived far outside the realm of polite society. We sat, the silence that followed heavy with my burgeoning questions and Dadan's palpable unease. This wasn't just a house; it felt like a lair.
My mentor, oblivious or perhaps deliberately ignoring the palpable tension, cut through the silence with his usual brusque efficiency. "Dadan," he began, his voice losing some of its usual booming quality, replaced by a low, almost conspiratorial tone, "it's late. Where are Luffy and Ace?"
The woman – Dadan, apparently – sighed, a weariness etched into the deep lines around her surprisingly expressive eyes. "Those little devils," she grumbled, though a flicker of something that might have been affection softened the harsh edges of her voice. "Probably up in that blasted treehouse again. Training. Always training. They're like wild animals, I tell you. Might not even bother coming down tonight."
Then, her sharp, suspicious gaze swiveled to me, scrutinizing me with the intensity of a hawk assessing its prey. "And who in the blazes is this you've dragged in from the wilderness, Garp?" she demanded, her voice regaining some of its earlier ferocity, laced with a territorial protectiveness that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. "Another one of your wayward pups, Garp? Honestly, have you no sense of decency? I'm not getting any younger, you know. Chasing after your wild grandkids is exhausting enough."
Grandkids? The word hung in the air, a bizarre, almost comical anomaly in this tense exchange. My blood ran cold. Was this some kind of elaborate jest?My mentor's gaze sharpened, a warning glint flashing in his usually jovial eyes. "He's not my grandchild, Dadan," he corrected her, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Lazarus is one of my men. He'll be staying here for a while. Six months, maybe longer."
My mind reeled, the pieces of this increasingly bizarre puzzle refusing to coalesce into anything resembling logic. With this formidable, volatile woman? A notorious bandit, if the whispers I'd overheard held any truth.Dadan's jaw dropped, her eyes widening in disbelief that quickly morphed into outrage. "Staying here? For six months?! Garp, have you finally lost your mind? I run a household here! I have… responsibilities! And who is going to answer for whatever trouble he brings?" Her voice rose in protest, but the fear in her eyes as she looked at my mentor was unmistakable, a clear indicator of the power he held over her.
My mentor's gaze remained fixed, unwavering, a silent declaration that his decision was absolute. The usual booming laughter was absent, replaced by a granite-like resolve that brooked no argument. Dadan, reading the unyielding determination in his face, visibly deflated. A heavy sigh, laced with a potent mix of resentment and resignation, escaped her lips. "Fine," she conceded, the word sounding like a death knell.
That was my cue. I could no longer remain silent, a bewildered pawn in this increasingly dangerous and perplexing game orchestrated by my own mentor. "Garp," I began, my voice calm but edged with a barely suppressed urgency, "this woman… you said she's a bandit. With a bounty of almost ten million berries. Why am I in her care? Are you completely mad? And why are you even associating with a known criminal like this?" My hand tightened instinctively on the hilt of my blade, the cold steel a small comfort in this unsettling situation.
Garp's sharp eyes snapped to mine, his gaze piercing, as if trying to gauge the depth of my concern. "Lazarus," he said, his voice firm, brooking no argument. "Dadan hasn't been involved in any… banditry for a long time now. She's changed. She's… reformed." He shot a pointed look at Dadan, his eyebrows raised in a silent command that she clearly understood.
Dadan, understanding the unspoken instruction from my mentor, nodded her head vigorously, a forced enthusiasm in her eyes that didn't quite reach their depths. "That's right, kid! Years ago! A lifetime ago! I'm a changed woman! A pillar of the community!" Her performance was theatrical, unconvincing, a flimsy shield against the truth that hung heavy in the air.
[I remained deeply skeptical.] "If that's true, Garp," I pressed, my gaze unwavering on Dadan, "why does she still have a bounty on her head? If she's truly reformed, someone of your standing… my mentor… could easily recommend to the World Government that her bounty be revoked."
My mentor shifted uncomfortably in his chair, avoiding my gaze. "Well," he began, a gruffness creeping into his voice, "things aren't always that simple, Lazarus. There's… paperwork. Procedures. A lot of things to take care of. It's not always a priority to remove old bounties, even if the individuals have… straightened out." He offered a weak shrug, a gesture that lacked his usual confidence, his usual booming conviction. "I just… never got around to it."
His explanation felt like a flimsy fabrication, a blatant lie coming from the man I trusted, the man who was supposed to be guiding me. A Marine Vice Admiral couldn't "get around" to rectifying such a simple injustice if he truly believed in this woman's reformation? It didn't add up.
"It's the truth, kid! We live a quiet life here. Just me and my… family. We haven't caused any trouble in years. Garp knows that."
Despite my ingrained distrust of anyone with a price on their head, something in Dadan's desperate plea, coupled with my mentor's inexplicable insistence, gave me a sliver of pause. Could it be possible? Could this formidable, intimidating woman truly have abandoned her violent past? Was I being too quick to judge, blinded by prejudice and rumor? My mentor, despite his eccentricities, was not a fool. There had to be a reason for this."Alright," I conceded, my gaze softening infinitesimally, though my hand remained close to my hidden weapon. "If what you both say is true, then I have no reason to continue my assumptions." I looked directly at Dadan, wanting to see a flicker of genuine remorse, a spark of honesty in her hardened eyes. "However, I will not stay here and be a burden. I can work for my keep. I can clean, wash clothes, even cook if you need me to." My pride, a stubborn refusal to be indebted to anyone, especially a former outlaw under the watchful eye of my mentor, wouldn't allow me to accept charity.
A surprised expression flickered across Dadan's rugged features, quickly followed by a grudging acceptance, a flicker of something akin to respect. "Well," she said, a hint of a genuine smile tugging at the corner of her lips, "an extra pair of hands wouldn't hurt. My boys aren't exactly known for their… domestic inclinations." She glanced at my mentor, a silent acknowledgment of his strange decision, a silent question in her eyes that mirrored the turmoil in my own.
One by one, the other inhabitants of this ramshackle dwelling – a rough-looking bunch who had been observing the exchange with varying degrees of suspicion and curiosity – nodded in agreement. The palpable tension in the room began to ease, replaced by a fragile, uneasy truce, a silent agreement to coexist in this strange, unexpected arrangement orchestrated by Garp.
As dusk bled into night, casting long, dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls, a sense of weary resignation settled over us. The journey had been long, and the day's events had been nothing short of bizarre. My mentor announced he would stay the night, his presence a silent reassurance, or perhaps a silent warning. Makeshift sleeping arrangements were made, the promise of rest a thin veil over the unease that still clung to me.