Chapter 613: Chapter 613
Syrup Village, East Blue
The boy sat with his skinny legs dangling over the cliff’s rocky edge, the ocean breeze tugging at his too-big shirt like it wanted to carry him away. His tiny frame looked even smaller against the vast blue stretching endlessly before him, yet he sat with the straight-backed posture of a dreamer trying to look brave for an audience only he could see.
His hair—already a wild, frizzy mess—curled like black clouds around his small head, tousled by the wind into shapes that mimicked storm-tossed waves below. His nose, far too large for a child that small, cast a long, unmistakable shadow across his face. At this age, he didn’t yet try to hide it; he simply accepted it the way children accept the sky and the sea—as something that just is.
Usopp’s eyes were the most striking part of him: large, round, and filled with a world far bigger than the one the villagers knew. They shimmered with mischief and fear, hope and loneliness, all tangled together. He clutched a slingshot made from an uneven branch and old rubber he’d scavenged, holding it with the seriousness of a warrior guarding a kingdom.
A small rock lay by his foot. He picked it up, weighed it in his tiny palm, and whispered to himself with absolute conviction. "This one would hit... for sure."
The sea breathed softly below the cliff, but Usopp sat unmoving—small shoulders slumped, tiny fingers curled weakly around the fabric of his shorts. For a child so young, his expression carried a heaviness that didn’t belong on a face meant for laughter and wide-eyed dreams. The waves glittered gold beneath the afternoon sun, yet even that light couldn’t lift the shadow clinging to him.
He had cried earlier—quietly, alone—until the tears dried into faint salt streaks on his cheeks. Now he just looked... tired. Tired in a way a five-year-old never should be.
His mother.
His brave, beautiful mother, who once laughed like bells and smiled even when life gave her little reason to. Her breaths were getting thinner, her coughs sharper, and her warmth dimmer with every passing day. The village healer had placed a soft hand on his shoulder and told him she’d be fine soon.
But Usopp knew.
He always knew when adults lied. Their smiles tightened. Their voices softened. Their eyes tried too hard to look kind. And so he knew—knew that the healer’s assurances were nothing more than pretty, useless words. He dug his small fists into the dirt, his throat tightening.
"I just... I just want her to get better," he whispered to no one, voice trembling. "I’ll do anything..."
He had tried. Oh, how he had tried. He brought her flowers—bright ones, because he thought color would chase away sadness. He told her stories—lies, yes, but stories he hoped would make her laugh the way she used to. He tried cooking once, and though he nearly burned the house down, his mother had smiled at him anyway... but not with strength. Not with life.
Every day he came to this cliff searching for an idea—some miracle, some spark of brilliance, some answer the sea might whisper to him. Instead, all he found was the gnawing ache inside him.
His mother had finally told him about his father—about Yasopp, the man who sailed away before Usopp was even big enough to remember his face. The man she still loved, even now, even while her son curled up beside her trying to be strong in her place.
Usopp didn’t know what to feel. He wanted to hate him. Oh, how he wanted to. Hate him for leaving. Hate him for choosing the sea over the family he should’ve protected. Hate him for not being here when Mama needed him most. But he couldn’t fully hate him either.
Because a small, stubborn part of Usopp—a part he didn’t dare admit—wanted to understand.
What kind of world existed out there? What kind of sea could pull a man so strongly that he’d leave everything behind? What kind of dream was worth losing so much? He hugged his knees to his chest, burying his face in them.
"I don’t care about the sea," he lied to himself softly.
"I don’t care about any of it... I just want Mama."
The wind tugged at his hair, and for the first time, he didn’t imagine fleets or monsters or worlds beyond the horizon. All he could think of was the dim lamp beside his mother’s bed, the rasp of her breathing, and the smile she tried to give him even when it cost her more strength than she had.
He needed something—anything—to bring her hope again. A cure, a miracle, a laugh. A reason to keep fighting. But he was small. Too small. Too weak. Too powerless.
And so he sat there, on the edge of the cliff, fighting tears that threatened to spill again—because if he cried too much, he worried he’d have no smiles left to take back home to her. The waves rolled, steady and endless.
And in their sound, Usopp searched desperately for an answer... for a lie grand enough to save the person he loved most in the world. But deep down, he knew the truth would eventually come out.
The sea below the cliff shimmered faintly as the sun dipped into early evening, painting the horizon in hues of soft orange and deep red. Usopp still sat there, knees hugged to his chest, staring blankly into the distance. The breeze was gentle tonight, but his little heart was anything but calm.
His mother was fading. He could feel it. Every cough rattled her frail chest like it might break her ribs. Every time she smiled at him, it felt like she was giving away some piece of the little life she had left. And the healer’s words—"She’ll be fine soon, little one"—had been too sweet, too soft. Too careful.
Adults always thought children were stupid. But Usopp knew lies better than most. Because he used lies to survive too.
That thought alone twisted something inside him—guilt, fear, resolve. He didn’t know what would help his mother anymore. He didn’t know how to make her smile again, how to give her strength, or how to chase away the ghosts in her lungs.
He needed something big, something impossible, something that would make her want to live.
Because even a child could feel it—his mother was giving up. His tiny fingers gripped the dirt. His breath shuddered.
"I just need to make her believe," he whispered. "If she believes... she’ll fight harder. She’ll get better. She has to."
He didn’t understand illness, and he didn’t understand death, but he understood stories. Stories made people smile, stories gave people hope, and stories made people keep going even when reality was cruel.
So maybe—just maybe—a story could save his mother too. He lifted his head slowly, wiping his eyes with the back of his wrist. His vision cleared... and something caught his attention.
Far, far across the horizon—a speck. At first it looked like nothing more than a bird or drifting debris. But Usopp squinted. Harder. Sharper. His reflection shimmered in his pupils like twin mirrors to the sea.
His mother always said his eyes were special. That he had his father’s gaze. That Usopp could see farther than most adults. He swallowed thickly.
Is that... a ship?
A small one. A lonely one. And it was headed toward Syrup Village. A hundred thoughts raced through his mind. Most were childish. One was dangerous. And one—just one—was hopeful.
He hesitated for a moment, his fingers tight as his breath caught. His mother’s tired, fading smile flashed through his memory. He took a deep breath and made a decision.
If I say pirates are coming... she’ll think Father came back. She’ll be happy. She’ll laugh. She’ll... she’ll want to live.
It was a stupid idea; it was a reckless idea. It was an idea that only a desperate five-year-old could ever believe would work. But Usopp stood up anyway. He rose shakily to his feet at the cliff’s edge, staring at that tiny boat like it was the key to saving the world. His heart thumped against his ribs. He took a deep breath and prepared to make the leap of faith.
Just one lie. One lie to make Mama smile again. One lie to give her strength. One lie to save her.
He sucked in a breath as deep as his little lungs could take. And then he screamed—
"PIRAAAAATES!!"
His voice cracked violently with the force of it. But it rang down the cliff. Bounced across the hills.
Shot into the village like an arrow. He didn’t wait. He didn’t breathe. He ran. Bare feet slapping against packed dirt. Arms pumping wildly at his sides. Tears—fear or hope or some wild mix—stinging his eyes.
"PIRATES ARE COMING!!"
"PIRATES!! PIRATES!!"
The villagers had long learned to ignore the boy’s daily antics—his small mischiefs, his little cries for attention, and the harmless lies he used to brighten dull days. Almost the entire village knew of his situation, and they treated his harmless theatrics with gentle patience.
But this time... This time there was something different. This was no playful shout. No childish prank. This was panic—raw, sharp, unmistakably real. The sound of it cut through the quiet evening like a blade. The first door he passed flew open. Then another. Faces appeared in windows, startled and tense. Men and women rushed onto porches, searching for the source of the alarm.
"What’s wrong?"
"Usopp?!"
"What happened?!"
He didn’t slow down.
"PIRATES!" he screamed again. "REAL PIRATES! COMING FROM THE SEA!"
The words dropped like stones into the village’s calm evening. And the quiet little town of Syrup Village—usually drowsy and peaceful—exploded into chaos. Mothers screamed for their children. Fathers ran for pitchforks, hammers, anything that could be used as a weapon.
Doors slammed. Windows shuttered. Chickens scattered in panic, and dogs barked wildly. The healer stumbled outside, nearly tripping over her own feet.
"What do you mean, pirates?!" she cried.
Usopp didn’t answer. He couldn’t stop to think. He couldn’t risk losing momentum. He didn’t have the strength for doubt. He ran from street to street, shouting until his throat burned raw.
"THEY’RE COMING!! GET READY!!"
"PIRATES ARE HEADING THIS WAY!!"
"WARN EVERYONE!!"
Villagers grabbed emergency supplies. A handful of men ran toward the shore trying to get a clearer view. Some prayed. Some cursed. Some began to cry. Syrup Village was small, quiet, and unguarded. Marines rarely came this far inland.
If pirates did attack... if the boy was telling the truth this time... They were doomed. And in the center of it all—a tiny boy ran with desperation, not for himself...but for his mother. He reached the front of his home, panting so hard he nearly collapsed. His small hands shook as he threw open the door.
"MA—MA!" he shouted, voice hoarse. His mother, pale and frail beneath blankets, lifted her head weakly. The movement alone made her chest heave like she’d run a marathon.
"U... Usopp?" she whispered, confused. "Why... why are you shouting?"
He froze at the doorway. His plan—his foolish, childish plan—suddenly made his stomach twist. Seeing her like this... seeing how thin she’d become, how her hands trembled even when resting...
For the first time, he doubted.
Will this really help?
What if it makes her worse?
What am I doing?
Her eyes—soft, tired, but so full of love—met his. And the doubt shattered. Usopp plastered on the brightest, bravest smile he could force onto his tiny face.
"Ma—Mama!" he gasped out. "Pirates! Pirates are coming!"
She blinked slowly. Surprise flickered across her face. Followed by something else—something Usopp desperately needed to see. A spark. A flutter of color in her fading expression.
"Pirates...?" she whispered.
Usopp nodded fiercely, scrambling to her side.
"Y-Yes! I saw them coming from the sea!" he said, breathless and frantic. "A ship! A real pirate ship! Maybe... m-maybe—maybe Father is with them!"
The moment the words left him, his heart stopped. It felt wrong, Cruel. Like cutting his own soul open and offering it to her.
But her eyes widened—just a little. Her lips parted. Her fingers trembled again, but this time not from pain.
"Yasopp...?" she breathed. A whisper so soft it could’ve been a dream. Usopp swallowed the pain in his throat.
"M-maybe," he said, forcing a smile so hard it hurt. "You should rest, Mama! I’ll go help the villagers prepare!"
He stood quickly—too quickly—so she wouldn’t see the guilt in his face. So she wouldn’t see the tears forming. As he ran back out the door, he heard her voice—soft, hopeful, aching.
"Yasopp... If it’s really you... Please come home..."
The door closed behind him. Usopp stopped on the porch, chest heaving, tears slipping silently down his cheeks.
"I’m sorry," he whispered.
"I’m so sorry, Mama..." But then he wiped his face. Straightened his back. And ran back into the chaos. Because even if it was a lie—even if it broke him inside—if it made her smile even once... It was worth it.
And so, on that evening, Usopp told the lie that would echo through Syrup Village for years. Not a lie of mischief. Not a lie of cowardice. But a lie born of the purest, most desperate love.
****
The group of villagers advanced toward the coast with stiff backs and trembling hands, pitchforks, hoes, fishing spears, and rusty blades held out before them. Fear made their legs weak, but pride forced them forward. Syrup Village had no Marines nearby, no soldiers stationed on its shores—if pirates were truly coming, they were the only line of defense.
Every step felt like walking toward their graves. The closer they neared the cliffside path, the more their breathing hitched. The wind carried the steady sound of waves. No cannon fire. No shouting. No drums. Just... quiet. But fear had a way of filling silence with nightmares.
"Stay alert!" one of the older fishermen barked, though his own voice shook. "If pirates are truly landing, we—we must hold them off until the women and children can flee inland."
A few men murmured in agreement. Others whispered prayers. And one man—the broad-shouldered, scarred former guard—walked at the front, eyes hard, jaw sharp with grim resolve. He had already resigned himself when they first heard the child’s cries. If pirates had come, at least he would meet death standing.
But as they reached the rise overlooking the shore... Their weapons lowered. Confusion rippled through them. Then anger.
"Are you kidding me...?"
There was no pirate ship. Not even the shadow of one. Only a tiny, weather-beaten boat—barely more than a dinghy—rocking gently in the waves. No flags. No crew. No threat. It looked pathetic, abandoned, and harmless. A hollow silence followed... then erupted into curses.
"You’ve got to be joking..."
"We came all the way out here for this?"
"Wasted time—my heart nearly stopped!"
And finally—"WHERE IS THAT BRAT?"
The former guard stepped forward, his voice booming with outrage. Moments earlier he had accepted death. He had steeled his heart. And now he felt mocked—like a fool dragged by the nose by a child’s lie.
"Where is that little bastard Ussop!?"
A few men muttered bitterly. Some kicked at rocks. Frustration, humiliation, and fear-turned-anger—all of it swirled into something ugly. But not everyone agreed.
"Come on now," an elderly fisherman said carefully, holding out a placating hand. "He’s a child. Children get scared or confused. Maybe he really thought he saw something."
"No," another man said quietly, rubbing his arms as though the fear still lingered. "There was terror in that voice... I’ve never heard a kid scream like that. Maybe something frightened him—really frightened him."
The former guard scoffed loudly.
"Don’t defend him! He shouted ’pirates’ and sent the whole damn village into a panic. If that’s not lying, then what is?"
"He’s just five," someone whispered.
"And that makes him dangerous," the guard spat. "If he’s old enough to shout lies that could get people killed, he’s old enough to learn the consequences."
The group murmured—torn between sympathy, frustration, and wounded pride. They had faced their mortality because of a false alarm. Their fear now needed somewhere to go.
Footsteps echoed behind them. Ussop came running down the path. The boy was panting, face flushed, eyes wide—not with mischief, but with worry. His little sandals skidded in gravel as he stumbled to a stop, looking at the gathered men with shaking hands.
"I—I’m sorry!" He blurted immediately, voice cracking. "I—I thought—I thought that if I said pirates came, Mama would—would..."
His throat tightened. The words refused to come out. He lowered his head, tiny shoulders trembling.
"I’m sorry," he whispered again. "I’m really, really sorry."
For a moment... A very small moment... Some hearts softened. But the former guard’s face twisted in rage.
"Sorry? SORRY?"
He marched forward, shoving aside two men who tried to hold him back.
"Do you have any idea what you did!?"
"You think this is a game!?"
"We were ready to die, boy!"
Ussop squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself. He did not run, and he did not beg. He didn’t even lift his arms to shield himself. Because deep down... he believed this was the price. The price for trying—desperately—to save his mother. The guard grabbed the front of the boy’s shirt and lifted him clean off the ground. A few men protested.
"Stop, he’s just a kid!"
"Put him down!"
"Let him go—this isn’t right!"
But the guard was once a trained soldier—broad, muscled, and hardened. He shoved the men aside effortlessly, his anger only growing at the sight of the helpless child dangling in his grip.
"You think your lies are cute?" he snarled. "You think it’s fun to send your whole village into a panic!?"
Ussop opened his mouth—but no words came. He simply stared at the man with wide, scared eyes. Then the first blow landed: a fist to the stomach. The air burst from Ussop’s lungs. He folded forward, coughing—but didn’t scream. Another blow struck his cheek, snapping his head sideways.
Still, he didn’t cry. He thought of his mother. Her fading smile. Her dying breath. He told himself pain was okay. If it made her smile—even once more—it was worth it. The guard slammed him into the ground. Gravel tore his knees. Dust filled his mouth. A few men tried again to pull the guard off, but he shoved them back with a growl.
"You want to act grown-up?" he spat. "Then take responsibility like a grown man!"
He grabbed Ussop and shook him violently. Ussop’s vision blurred. But he still refused to cry.
Some men couldn’t bear to watch; they turned away. Others shouted, desperate to stop the madness. A few stared in conflicted silence—torn between understanding the guard’s fury and pitying the bleeding child.
The guard raised his fist again—"STOP!"
A fisherman finally managed to tackle him to the ground, and the other men seized the moment to restrain him. He roared in frustration, thrashing against their grip.
"LET ME GO! He needs to learn!"
"He’s a child!"
Ussop remained on the ground, knees pressed into the dirt, head bowed. Blood dripped from his lip, staining the earth. The men quieted. The only sound was the hiss of waves and the soft, shaky breaths of a small boy who had taken the weight of a village’s fear onto his tiny shoulders.
He wiped the blood with the back of his hand and whispered again, barely audible—"...I’m sorry."
And still—he did not cry. Because in his heart... he believed this pain meant his mother would smile again. And for Ussop... That was worth everything.
