The ochre dust, a lingering testament to the week's brutal upheaval, clung to the skeletal remains of the palace. Yet, from those very ashes, a humble, functional structure had tentatively risen – a testament to Sorbet's resilient spirit. I drifted past the young guards, their faces still etched with the recent turmoil, and made my way towards the makeshift royal chamber.
Bulldog, surprisingly, was hunched over a chaotic desk, immersed in the tedious realities of governance. "Bulldog," I inquired, my voice softer than usual, "where's Kuma?"
He looked up, his gruff features softening with a hint of relief. "Lazarus! Thank the heavens. Kuma's southeast of Sorbet. A small church… he's tending to it." A fleeting expression, unreadable yet significant, flickered across his eyes.
"The church," I murmured, a dawning understanding settling within me. Whispers I'd overheard now resonated with a newfound clarity.
"Aye," Bulldog confirmed, then, with unexpected sincerity, "And Lazarus… thank you. For everything."
A curt nod was my only reply, the weight of recent events still pressing heavily upon me. I turned, the familiar pull of my devil fruit lifting me into the air. The church. So, that was his sanctuary. The journey southeast was swift.
The small white church emerged from the verdant landscape, a picture of serene tranquility. But the sounds that spilled forth were anything but – unrestrained, joyful laughter echoed into the quiet air. A peculiar feeling settled over me as I pushed open the door.
The sight that greeted me was… unexpected. Kuma, dancing with Bonney. Their movements were endearingly clumsy, almost comical, yet their shared joy was palpable. They stopped, startled by my arrival. "Uncle Lazarus! We were mimicking the Nika's dance!" Bonney chirped, her youthful exuberance infectious.
I looked at her, a whirlwind of innocent energy. "Nika dance?" I asked, genuinely perplexed. "Is it a local custom?"
Bonney giggled, her small hand waving dismissively. "Uncle silly! We were mimicking Nika, the Sun God!"
"The Sun God?" A forgotten memory stirred within me, a faint echo of suppressed history. "Nika is…"
"Oops! Secret between me and Papa!" Bonney clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she winked.
Kuma offered a gentle smile. "Bonney, it's alright. You can tell Uncle Lazarus."
She hesitated, her gaze flicking towards Kuma. "But Papa…"
"Don't worry," I chuckled, a warmth spreading through me despite the somber topic ahead. "I'll tell you a story in return. About the Weeping Wraith." A slight grimace flickered across her face at the name. "And I'll cook you a feast."
Her eyes lit up, all thoughts of grim wraiths banished. "Anything?"
"Anything."
"Okay! Come on, Uncle Lazarus! It's more secret here." She tugged at my hand, pulling me towards a narrow space between the pews.
"Nika was a hero," she whispered, her voice filled with childlike wonder, and recounted a simple tale of liberation and joy.
A flicker of recognition sparked within me. That imagery… "That's quite a story, Bonney. Now, the real Weeping Wraith…" I lowered my voice, the playful tone gone. "The World Government doesn't want anyone to know this. They twisted it." This story… "My uncle… he encountered him. Barely survived. He knows the truth. He's a Marine Admiral now."
Suddenly, the narrow space felt confining, Kuma's looming shadow adding to the sudden shift in atmosphere.
"Papa! Uncle Lazarus's story?" Bonney asked, a nervous tremor in her voice.
Kuma straightened, his gaze steady. "If Uncle Lazarus doesn't mind."
"Of course not."
The confined space no longer felt appropriate for the tale I was about to unfold, so we moved to a more open area within the small church.
"Well," I began, leaning in slightly, my voice taking on a conspiratorial tone, "we all know the stories, don't we? The ones about the spectral child, or some malevolent spirit forever weeping. The most common one, the tale whispered to coerce silence from children, speaks of a child's tears acting as a summons. This wailing, they say, is a beacon, drawing this sinister entity. And when it finds a crying child, it possesses them, twisting their innocent sorrow into a murderous rage, compelling them to attack all those around them." I paused, allowing the familiar, albeit fabricated, narrative to hang in the air. Bonney shivered dramatically, despite herself. "Boo!" I added with a playful grin, and she swatted playfully at my arm.
"And then there's the lore of the sailors," I continued, a touch of grimness coloring my voice. "Out on the Grand Line, or even in the calmer Blues, the sound of a child crying at sea, especially in the dead of night, is considered a dire omen. They say you must steer as far as possible from that sound, put as much ocean between your vessel and the source of those tears. Because that crying isn't natural, they whisper. It's the Weeping Wraith, luring ships to their doom, its sorrow a siren song of destruction."
I looked at Bonney, her initial bravado now softened by genuine curiosity. Kuma's gaze remained steady. "But those," I said, a hint of steel entering my tone, "those are merely tales to frighten the gullible."
"No," I corrected, shaking my head slowly, my gaze sweeping between Bonney's wide, expectant eyes and Kuma's stoic face. "The Weeping Wraith isn't some phantom of folklore. The Weeping Wraith… was a human child. And what transpired… it was terrifyingly real."
"This child," I continued, my voice hushed, "was unlike anything the world had ever witnessed. The longer he wept, the more potent he became. Anyone subjected to his cries for too long… would simply lose consciousness."
My gaze shifted to Kuma. "Kuma," I asked, "are you familiar with the tale of Fisher Tiger's ascent of Mary Geoise?"
A flicker of profound respect crossed Kuma's features. "Yes, Lazarus."
"Well," I continued, "eighteen years before Fisher Tiger's legendary climb over the Red Line, the Weeping Wraith had already accomplished the same feat. But unlike Fisher Tiger, he went there with a singular purpose: to kill. And at Mary Geoise… he succeeded. He extinguished the lives of more than five Celestial Dragons. Their elite guard, those considered untouchable? They were powerless against his… sorrowful onslaught."
Bonney gasped. "Wow! He's a hero!"
I frowned slightly, a hint of concern in my voice. "A hero? Why do you say that, Bonney?"
Her small face contorted in a familiar expression of childish fury. "Because the Celestial Dragons are evil! So anyone who hurts them… they're a hero to me!"
"I understand your feelings, Bonney," I said gently. "But the Weeping Wraith… he wasn't simply a hero. He killed innocent people too."
I continued, "The incident at Mary Geoise… that was merely the first known instance. The second, and last, occurred twenty-four years ago. In the Sabaody Archipelago. The Sabaody massacre. They attributed it to the remnants of the Rocks Pirates. But the true architect of that devastation… it was the Weeping Wraith. And in a desperate attempt to halt him… they deployed a Buster Call. But it failed. Utterly. Only two out of the five Vice Admirals dispatched survived." The sheer destructive force emanating from that child… it was almost beyond comprehension. But the terror wasn't the only reason the World Government buried the truth. The fact that they, the supposed ultimate authority, the enforcers of global order, were utterly unable to eliminate a single child was an unbearable humiliation. It exposed a vulnerability they couldn't afford to reveal. The legend of the Weeping Wraith, twisted into a ghostly boogeyman, served not only to frighten the populace but also to mask their own profound failure.
Bonney's innocent words hung in the air. "But Uncle Lazarus," she piped up, "the Weeping Wraith a hero but he sounds nothing like Nika! Papa says Nika always laughs and makes everyone happy. But the Weeping Wraith… he just cries and… and kills people. Why does he cry all the time?"
Her simple question struck at the very core of the tragedy.
"You know, Bonney," I added, a new perspective dawning on me, "I never truly considered the reason behind his constant tears either. The accounts merely focus on the destruction. But what if… what if he wasn't inherently sorrowful? What if some profound tragedy befell him? Perhaps… perhaps he suffered the loss of someone he cherished deeply."
Bonney's eyes widened. "Like losing Papa?" she asked softly, her gaze drifting towards Kuma.
Kuma placed a gentle hand on her head, a silent acknowledgment of the profound nature of such a loss.
"Perhaps," I said. "Imagine a young child, Bonney, experiencing a loss so immense, so devastating, that it shatters their entire world. The pain would be unbearable, wouldn't it?"
I continued, "And what if that overwhelming grief, instead of simply breaking him, somehow… mutated? What if it became the very source of this extraordinary power? Maybe his tears weren't just an expression of sadness; maybe they were the physical manifestation of his agony, a raw, untamed force born from unimaginable loss."
I leaned in slightly, sharing this nascent theory. "And maybe… just maybe… that sorrow fueled a desire for retribution. Maybe he grew powerful because of his grief, because he yearned to lash out at the world that had stolen his loved one. The constant crying… perhaps it was an unending reminder of his pain."
Bonney chewed on her lip, her brow furrowed in contemplation. "So… he was crying because he was sad and angry?"
"It's a possibility," I affirmed. "Grief can be an incredibly potent emotion, Bonney. It can transform people. It can drive them to actions they never thought possible. And when that grief intertwines with a strange, uncontrollable power… the result could very well be something akin to the Weeping Wraith."
I looked at Kuma, a silent acknowledgment passing between us regarding the profound darkness that loss could unleash. "It's merely a theory, of course. The true reasons behind his sorrow are lost to the annals of time. But it serves as a stark reminder that even within the most terrifying of tales, there often lies a core of human pain, a reason behind the tears that transcends a simple desire to inflict harm."