The year is 1518 of the Sea Calendar.
Foosha Village, East Blue.
As usual, the day was graced with gentle winds and beautiful sunshine, the sky stretching out in a vast, cloudless expanse of blue. From ti to ti, seagulls drifted across the horizon, their rhythmic cries adding to the sense of comfort and ease that perated the air. True to its reputation, Foosha Village remained a sanctuary of peace and tranquility.
"Makino-san! Makino-san!"
Outside the village's only tavern, a chorus of eager, youthful voices rang out.
Makino, who was busy polishing a glass behind the bar, looked up to see a group of boys, aged eight or nine, boisterously pushing through the picket gates and racing toward the counter, breathless but grinning from ear to ear.
The largest boy in the lead was struggling with a massive gourd nearly as tall as he was. His face was flushed crimson from the exertion, yet he pressed on with determined effort.
"Makino-san! The strongest Shaojiu you have—fill it to the brim!"
He hoisted the gourd onto the bar with a heavy thud, wiping sweat from his brow and beaming. Another boy quickly slapped a 500-Berri note onto the counter, wearing an identical, expectant smile.
"Shaojiu? Young gan, who are you running errands for with spirits that strong? Surely not your father? Since when did he start drinking the hard stuff? I rember just a few days ago he could barely handle Erguotou when we were drinking together."
"Actually, last ti he had Erguotou, gan ended up flat on his face under the table."
"Maybe he's been practicing in secret because of that? Trying to build up his tolerance?"
"Hahaha! With gan's constitution? He could practice for a lifeti and still be a lightweight!"
A wave of boisterous laughter erupted from a corner table where several local n were drinking and boasting. It seed their recent catch at sea had been plentiful, as they had ordered a table full of food. They hadn't eaten much yet, but their faces were already flushed a deep shade of red from the liquor.
The boys gave a collective huff and turned their backs on the n.
Foosha Village was small, and the children often crossed paths with these fishern. Usually, it resulted in being the butt of a joke. The tallest boy, gan's son, rembered it most vividly. He recalled how, when he was younger, these uncles would always try to tease him or flick his 'little treasure' while laughing. Once, he had even succumbed to the lure of their snacks and let them do it. Back then he hadn't understood, but rembering how they had doubled over in laughter now made him realize just how mischievous those n were.
"Hmph!"
Ignoring them entirely, the young gan turned back to Makino with wide, pleading eyes. "Makino-san, please hurry! We're waiting to hear Grandpa Rowan tell us more stories!"
"Yeah! Grandpa Rowan is waiting for us down by the shore!"
At the ntion of that na, the children's faces lit up with reverence and excitent.
Hearing the na 'Rowan,' Makino understood imdiately. These little rascals are pestering Grandpa Rowan for stories again, she thought.
A gentle, kind face surfaced in her mind. She rembered how she, too, used to follow Grandpa Rowan around as a young girl, begging for tales of the high seas. In the blink of an eye, she had grown from a wide-eyed child into the graceful young woman she was today.
Smiling, she took the gourd and began the familiar task. As she poured the liquor, she didn't even use a funnel; a steady, silver stream fell perfectly from her ladle into the narrow mouth of the gourd. It was a skill born of years of practice.
"One gourd is 300 Berris, so you have 200 left," Makino noted effortlessly as she worked. "What snacks do you want with the change?"
The children's hands shot up instantly. "Five-spice peanuts!"
"Takoyaki!"
"Cream cake!"
"Dried fish!"
"I want—"
"Alright, alright," Makino laughed. Her hands moved with practiced speed, and within minutes, the massive gourd was full, and a basket of assorted snacks was prepared for them.
"Thank you, Makino-san!"
The boys flashed her grateful grins, then hoisted the heavy gourd and the snacks, scurrying out of the tavern in a flurry of laughter.
Only after the children had vanished did the fisherman who had been teasing them realize the situation. He rubbed the back of his head in sheepish embarrassnt. "So the Shaojiu was for Old Man Rowan. When did he get a new gourd? I could have sworn his last one was different."
"It's your fault for being such a loudmouth," one of his companions grumbled. "You made us look like fools."
"Exactly. We're lucky Grandpa Rowan is such a patient man, or I'd be too ashad to look him in the eye."
"Watch your tongue next ti."
In the Foosha Village of today, the most respected elder was not the Village Chief, nor was it Mr. Garp, the high-ranking official at Marine Headquarters. It was the centenarian they called Rowan.
"Speaking of the old man," one of the fishern lowered his voice, "when I was out at sea last ti, I heard there's pirate activity near the Turbine Waters. Apparently, they're a brutal lot. The local Marine base even put out a notice. Do you think we should ntion it to the old man? Maybe he could have a word with Mr. Garp about it?"
"Good point. Pirates nearby is no small matter. If we run into them while fishing, we're finished."
"I think we should say sothing. Those Marines at the Goa Kingdom base are useless—all they do is eat. If we rely on them, we might not make it back one of these days."
"Alright then. Next ti the old man is free, we'll go have a chat with him."
"If Mr. Garp steps in, the problem will be solved in no ti."
They spoke casually, as if it were a foregone conclusion that simply because Old Man Rowan spoke, Garp would personally eliminate the pirates.
To anyone else in the world—Marine or pirate alike—this would have sounded like a ridiculous joke.
Who was Garp? He was a Vice Admiral of the Marine Headquarters, the "Marine Hero," the man hailed as the strongest soldier in history. He was the legend who had cornered Gold Roger, the Pirate King himself, on nurous occasions. Among the rank-and-file Marines, his prestige arguably eclipsed even that of Fleet Admiral Sengoku.
How could such a monuntal figure rush from the heart of the Grand Line back to a remote corner of the East Blue just to wipe out a band of nobodies because of one old man's request?
Yet, in Foosha Village, the residents saw nothing strange about this logic.
They didn't care about ranks or global prestige. They only knew one thing: if Old Man Rowan gave the word, the great Marine official Garp would move heaven and earth to see it done.
This was because, in Mr. Garp's own words, he called Old Man Rowan "Pops."
That was all that mattered.
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