A Thousand Treasures (One Piece)

One

Taking to the sea in search of uncertain wealth and adventure wasn't for everyone. Many tried, but maps of promised gold were sold by the dozen, greedy merchants often embellished their wares to naïve buyers, and most ships sailing under no flag are sunk one way or another. Most fail to ration accordingly and die of starvation or they spend all their savings on a bogus map and come up empty or run into the wrong ship or, worst of all, underestimate the sea and end up having tea with Davy Jones.

For most the sea was a siren. It called sailors to its waters with its ethereal beauty and melodious song. Then it killed those unwise enough to break free of its enrapture. For the few who took to its waters prepared and able, the sea was more liken to an old lover. Welcoming its sailors with arms of relief and loving.

For those few, gold and riches beyond their wildest dreams could be attained. If one knows where to look. Nothing can be gained by following the footpath of pirates that still drew breath. But to walk along the gallows of those with everything to leave and nothing left to lose, and to stroll down the rubble of spiteful kingdoms left trodden beneath the boots of war. There are no dragons to carry gold and riches to some mountain, waiting to be found by the brave. The only natural treasure trove is owned by a legend-made man who was very protective over his hoard. Any who try to steal from him are left vulnerable and must face some of the world's most dangerous beasts in a thick darkness-if they survive the dive. For all that he collects, Davy Jones is not known to share.

Of course, he can't protect everything.

The light at her shoulder illuminated the murky water in a silver hue. Bubbles filtered from the mask that covered her nose and mouth, reinforced goggles sheltering her eyes from the pressure of the water. Shards of wood stuck out of old canon wounds, corral and barnacles climbing the weakened wood as if it were a blanket in the vessel's eternal rest. The mast of the grand vessel continued to stand proud, though twenty meters away, still flying a Jolly Roger whose paint had long faded along with their name.

One hollow section after another, she searched for what would have been the captain's quarters. Near the mast, as if that itself was a signal, laid a chamber whose double doors were still closed as the final shield to its master. Though the bolted hinges were easily pried off by a knife. The wreckage barely reached the room, save for a few knocked over barrels. Silver light crawled along the old boards and broken windows, to a large desk. Behind it, sat in what was once an impressive chair of red velvet, was the captain herself. Poised in the seat with one arm along the rest and the skeletal fingers of the other wrapped around the staff of a war scythe. A weapon used mainly by women. As if she were waiting, fearless, for a battle that never reached her.

Chimaera dashed across the floor, through the opening she created. Sea spiders moved slowly over the ragged cotton and leather, fleeing from her hand as she pulled herself below the desk. The thing she needed was more valuable than a Navy's paddle ship, something like that would only be where the captain was. Where she could easily defend it if anyone came to collect it. She would have fought and sunk with her crew, if she didn't have anything to protect. Yet she sat here, she readied herself to face the enemy here for a reason.

Buried in red algae was a black chest the length of her shoulders. A hand slipped between the rusted handle and pulled. It moved with ease. She reached behind her hips, to a thick rubber belt and pulled a polyester rope free from its hook; looping it over the handle and fastening it for the swim up.

A silver shimmer pulled her gaze to the weapon. This shipwreck was decades old-maybe almost a century. Yet that weapon stood remarkably new. The wood of its handle strong and sturdy and its blade free of any rust, the metal shimmering in the deep sea's darkness. Floating near the object, she carefully pried the fingers loose. The arm fell and with the movement a school of small fish erupt from the clothes, taking to the ocean outside. How can this be this well-kept? Just as she thought. The wood didn't squish under her touch and the blade didn't crumble. Rather, the craftsmanship was still tempered and unchipped. Her eyes widened. This has to be!