One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 58: The girl with red hair(21)

The cannon still sizzled behind me, its iron throat panting out smoke like a dragon fresh from a kill. I touched the muzzle again—out of instinct, maybe curiosity—and pain bit down on me like a wild dog. Flesh cooked instantly. Skin crackled, bubbled. The scent was... unpleasantly familiar. Sweet. Like roasting pork.

Tempting, almost.

I let my hand linger for a moment longer than necessary.

Then pulled away.

I might be mad—but I'm not that far gone. Not yet.

I left the cannon behind and ascended the steps toward the captain's cabin. My boots thudded softly against the deck, the sound muffled by the smoke curling around me. Up close, the hole we'd carved into the room wasn't just a window—it was a wound. A gaping, smoking mouth ripped open in the side of the captain's sanctum. Sunlight poured in like judgment, unforgiving and sterile.

Where there had once been shadow, there was now truth.

I paused at the threshold. Three knocks. Always three.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

The door hung crooked now, one hinge crying under its own weight. But manners are manners. And the silence that followed? That was enough. Silence is still an answer. I took it as consent.

I entered.

And oh... the room had changed.

Breezy. Sunny. Open.

A fresh new look.

The light poured through the cannon's kiss like holy fire, revealing everything the dark had hidden. It peeled back the layers like skin from a corpse. This wasn't just illumination. It was exposure.

And exposure is cruel.

The garbage was exactly where you'd expect it—piles of broken glass, moldy food, discarded clothes soaked in a variety of bodily failures. Pirates aren't known for hygiene, sure. But this was more than filth. This was decay. The kind you don't clean. The kind that settles in and calls itself home.

But now, it had nowhere left to hide.

Sunlight touched it all.

I stepped further inside. Careful. Calm.

The walls bled splinters where the cannonball had torn through, the edges blackened, weeping smoke like the room itself had been caught exhaling. Dust hung thick in the air, dancing in the light like ash after a funeral.

He was still snoring.

Through the smoke, through the shattered wood, through the cannon fire—still snoring.

Damn.

I've heard of heavy sleepers, sure. But this? This was something else. Different breed entirely. The kind that doesn't dream because he is the nightmare.

The cannon had screamed right past his head. The blast alone should've split his ears, jarred his bones, snapped him awake in a panic. But here he was—arms sprawled out, mouth half-open, a slow, syrupy growl rising from deep in his chest. Like a beast in hibernation. Or something older, deeper, something carved from the dark and left here to ferment.

Now the sun was on him. No more shadows to hide in. No more mystery.

And I wished I hadn't seen him so clearly.

He was... massive.

Two and a half meters, maybe more. Bulky fat physique. Like he'd been poured into that body, like stone settling into a mold made of violence and bad intentions. Mini giant. A bona fide mini giant.

Now, I stood there and saw the truth. No exaggeration. Just terror wearing skin.

The fake tyrant—the last man who thought he ruled this ship—he looked like a child in comparison. And I'd already torn him apart.

But this one? This one was built like the earth decided to grow a man just to see how much damage it could do. His arms were the size of a man's torso. Veins thick as rope crawled across his skin, pulsing slowly like something alive beneath.

He slept on a bed of glass—shattered rum bottles, busted barrels, jagged edges everywhere. Any other man would've been torn open, blood painting the floor. But not him.

His skin didn't break. The glass did.

When he shifted in his sleep—just slightly—it sounded like bones snapping. But it wasn't his bones. It was the shards beneath him grinding to powder under his weight. A casual destruction. Unthinking. Unbothered. Even in sleep, he consumed the room.

I stared.

And somewhere in my chest, something twisted.

It wasn't rage.

Rage is loud. Sloppy. This was colder. Sharper. A clean, surgical kind of hate. The kind that doesn't shout—it whispers. It plans. It waits for the right moment, not just to win, but to undo.

I wanted to break him.

Not kill.

This 𝓬ontent is taken from fгeewebnovёl.co𝙢.

Death would be mercy. Quick. Final. Forgettable.

No, I wanted something slower. Something personal. I wanted to chip away at that mountain until the cracks started showing. To watch the invincible flinch. To hear the breath hitch in that barrel chest. To see that half-smile he wore in his sleep turn to confusion, then panic.

I wanted those massive shoulders to fold inward. Those boulder arms to twitch—not with power, but with doubt. I wanted him to remember what fear felt like. Real fear. The kind that eats your thoughts, paralyzes your limbs, makes you small again.

I wanted to take that fortress of a man and make him a ruin.

Kneeling.

Begging.

Not for his life—but for it to _stop_.

And when the lights go out again, it won't be the dark he fears—it'll be me.

Me in the silence.

Me in the shadows.

Me, watching.

Waiting.

Smiling.

Because I won't scream.

I won't gloat.

I'll just stand there, calm as ever, right before I turn his whole world black.

And he'll know.

He'll know it was me.

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So from the next Chapter the vibes fully change. The previous Chapter were that of fear farming. But now well its gonna be full of rage. And its going to be super dark. So, if you don't like super dark stuff skip the few Chapters. While I have toned it down, its still dark.

I will put warning on the top of the Chapter and in the title.