Namor McKenzie In One Piece

As Namor and Arlong stood among the wreckage of the pirate ship, the storm now a distant memory, Arlong noticed something glinting among the debris. He bent down, brushing aside a severed rope and a broken plank to reveal a strange, compass-like device strapped to the arm of a fallen pirate.

The object was small, metallic, and enclosed in glass, with a needle that didn't point north but instead seemed locked in a fixed direction.

"What's this?" Arlong muttered, prying it free from the pirate's lifeless wrist.

Namor glanced over, raising an eyebrow. "A trinket?"

"No," Arlong said, his voice more focused than usual. He turned the device in his hands, studying it carefully. "This is a log pose. It's how pirates navigate the Grand Line."

Namor tilted his head, intrigued. "Explain."

Arlong straightened, the device in his palm. "The Grand Line doesn't work like other seas. A normal compass is useless here because of the magnetic fields and currents. But this thing, the log pose, locks onto the magnetic field of an island and guides you to the next one."

Namor folded his arms, staring at the device as if it were some ancient relic. "Ingenious," he admitted begrudgingly. "A rare display of human intelligence."

Arlong smirked slightly but quickly hid it, his thumb running over the glass. "It's not just humans who use it. Even fishmen need a way to navigate these waters." He glanced at Namor. "Without this, we'd be wandering blind."

Namor scoffed, his blue eyes glinting. "I do not wander. I am always where I need to be. But if this... log pose can expedite our journey, then so be it."

Arlong spat onto the deck, aiming for one of the many bloodstains. "Stupid humans. Even in death, their scraps prove useful. Disgusting."

Namor chuckled, his voice dripping with condescension. "And yet here you are, using it. Practicality over pride, hmm?"

Arlong glared at him but said nothing, strapping the log pose onto his wrist. The needle pointed unwaveringly to the northwest, toward the next island.

"Well," Arlong said, turning back toward the edge of the ship. "At least we have a direction now. Let's get moving."

Namor walked to the edge of the deck and stared out at the rolling waves. He took a deep breath, savoring the salty air. "Lead the way, fishman. I'll tolerate your guidance for now."

Namor again grumbled under his breath, but he couldn't deny the slight satisfaction of having a tangible way forward. He took one last look at the ruined ship, spitting onto its deck one more time for good measure.

"Filthy human flesh-bags ," Namor muttered.

With a powerful leap, Arlong dove back into the water, his streamlined body cutting through the waves. Namor followed shortly after, the small wings on his feet allowing him to soar just slightly above sea level.

The two swam toward the direction of the log pose, the endless horizon of the Grand Line stretching before them. Arlong glanced up occasionally, watching Namor glide effortlessly above the water.

His thoughts wandered as they traveled. The log pose was useful, but it also reminded him of the human crews he had despised for so long. Their ingenuity, their adaptability—it was infuriating how often they found ways to survive in a world where they should have been crushed.

He looked up at Namor, who seemed entirely out of place in this world yet fit into it so seamlessly. The man was more powerful than anything Arlong had encountered, and his disdain for humanity was unmatched. Yet, there was something about Namor that felt... different.

Arlong shook his head. "Focus," he muttered to himself, gripping the log pose tightly.

The needle remained steady, pointing them toward their next destination.

…

Hours had passed since Namor and Arlong left the wreckage of the pirate ship behind, following the unwavering guidance of the log pose.

Namor soared on the surface of the water, the small wings on his ankles fluttering rhythmically as he cut through the seas. Arlong swam below, his powerful strokes propelling him forward with ease. The two traveled in relative silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

But then, Arlong felt something unusual. The water surrounding him was... warmer. Uncomfortably so. He slowed his pace, his sharp eyes narrowing as he rose closer to the surface.

"What is this heat?" Arlong muttered, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow—a rare occurrence for someone so accustomed to the ocean.

Above him, Namor noticed the change as well. He peeked through the cloud cover, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. That's when he saw it: an island in the distance.

"Fishman!" Namor called out, his voice cutting through the stillness. "There's land ahead."

Arlong surfaced, wiping water from his face as he turned to look. The sight made him squint. The island was unlike any he had encountered before. Instead of lush greenery or rocky cliffs, it was a sprawling expanse of sand and golden dunes. The sun above it blazed mercilessly, casting shimmering heatwaves over the horizon.

"A desert?" Arlong said, incredulous. "In the middle of the Grand Line? What kind of madness is this?"

Namor grinned, floating above him. "This sea is full of wonders, is it not? Yet another domain for me to conquer."

Arlong rolled his eyes, though his discomfort was evident. The heat was oppressive, even from this distance. "You won't be so smug when that sun burns your skin, 'king.'"

Namor chuckled, unfazed by the warning. "The sun does not concern me, fishman. I have endured far worse."

As they drew closer, the water itself grew hotter, a stark contrast to the cool depths they had grown accustomed to. Namor finally descended, landing on the surface of the water and walking alongside Arlong as they approached the island.

"This heat is unnatural," Arlong muttered, shielding his eyes from the glaring sunlight. "There's something strange about this place."

Namor glanced at him, a smirk playing on his lips. "Afraid of a little warmth, Arlong? How pitiful."

Arlong glared at him but said nothing, focusing instead on the island ahead.

When they finally reached the shore, the sand burned beneath their feet. Namor stepped onto it without hesitation, his bare chest gleaming under the harsh sun. He took a deep breath, the dry, arid air filling his lungs.

Arlong followed reluctantly, his gills twitching as he adjusted to the unfamiliar environment. He hated it already. The desert was no place for a fishman.

"Why would anyone live here?" Arlong grumbled, scanning the horizon for any sign of life.

Namor crouched, running his fingers through the sand. "Perhaps they have no choice. Or perhaps this land holds treasures we cannot yet see."

Arlong snorted. "Treasure or not, I can't imagine anyone thriving in a place like this."

Namor stood, his white eyes gleaming as he gazed toward the center of the island. "We'll see soon enough. The Grand Line has yet to disappoint me."

The two began walking inland, the heat pressing down on them like a physical weight. Arlong's movements were sluggish, his body ill-suited for the dry heat. Namor, on the other hand, moved with ease, his steps purposeful and unyielding.

As they ventured further, Namor couldn't help but notice the silence. There were no birds, no insects, no signs of life at all. The desert was eerily still, the only sound coming from the crunch of sand beneath their feet.

"This heat is unbearable," Arlong growled, his sweat dripping into the sand. His gills flared with irritation as the dry air sapped his energy. "This is no place for a fishman."

Namor, walking a few paces ahead, seemed unaffected. If anything, he moved with an air of regal determination, his bare chest glistening under the harsh sunlight.

"Quit your whining, fishman," Namor said without turning around. "This land is as much a challenge as the sea. You must adapt, or you will perish."

Arlong scowled but said nothing, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other.

After what felt like hours, the sight of buildings appeared on the horizon. A small village rose from the sands, its clay and sandstone structures blending seamlessly with the desert landscape.

"A village?" Arlong muttered, narrowing his eyes.

Namor smirked. "Perfect. Perhaps the locals will tell us more about this land—or they'll surrender their supplies. Either option suits me."

The two entered the village, drawing immediate attention from the few people milling about. The villagers were thin, their clothes dusty and worn, and their faces lined with exhaustion from living in such an unforgiving climate. They stared at Namor and Arlong with a mix of curiosity and fear.

"Outsiders," one man whispered to another, clutching a bag of goods.

Namor strode forward, ignoring their wary glances. His trident rested casually in his hand, its sharp tips gleaming menacingly. The villagers instinctively gave him a wide berth, sensing the danger in his presence.

Arlong's sharp teeth flashed in a smirk as he muttered, "Seems like they know better than to get in our way."

Namor glanced down the street, his eyes settling on a small shop with clothing hanging outside. Without hesitation, he approached, pushing aside the thin curtain covering the entrance.

The shopkeeper, a frail-looking old man, froze as Namor stepped inside. "W-what can I do for you?" he stammered, his voice trembling.

Namor didn't answer. His sharp eyes scanned the racks of clothing, searching for something more fitting for the desert climate. His current attire, while regal, was ill-suited for the blistering heat.

He grabbed a loose white tunic, a pair of beige pants, and a dark cloak to shield him from the sun. Draping the cloak over his shoulder, he turned to leave.

"W-wait!" the shopkeeper called out, panic in his voice. "You haven't paid!"

Namor stopped in his tracks, turning slowly to face the man. His eyes glowed faintly, and the room seemed to grow colder despite the desert heat.

"Do you know who I am?" Namor asked, his voice low and dangerous.

The shopkeeper shook his head, his hands trembling.

"I am Namor, King of Atlantis," he said, his tone dripping with authority. "I do not pay for scraps."

Before the shopkeeper could respond, Namor stepped outside, tossing his old clothes to the ground.

Arlong, waiting by the entrance, chuckled. "Royalty doesn't pay, huh?"

"Correct," Namor replied, fastening the cloak around his shoulders. He glanced back at the shopkeeper, who stood frozen in the doorway, and smirked. "Consider it a gift for the presence of a king."

The two walked down the street, the villagers keeping their distance as they passed. Arlong couldn't help but notice the fear in their eyes.

"Humans," Arlong muttered, sneering. "Pathetic as ever."

Namor said nothing, his gaze fixed on the end of the village where a plume of smoke had been visible earlier. As they left the last of the houses behind, Namor glanced back briefly, noting the desperation etched into the villagers' faces.

"They're starving," he said suddenly.

Arlong raised an eyebrow. "And? It's not our problem."

"No," Namor agreed, his expression unreadable. "But it is a sign of this land's fragility. A kingdom that cannot feed its people is no kingdom at all."

Arlong snorted. "You sound like a human sympathizer."

Namor's eyes narrowed, his voice cold. "Careful, fishman. I do not sympathize with anyone. I simply recognize weakness when I see it."

Arlong grunted, falling silent as they continued their journey. The plume of smoke had faded, but the log pose still pointed them forward.

Namor looked back slightly, the sight of the struggling people did hurt his chest slightly for some reason, but he tried to brush it off.

But the more he thought about it, the worse it got. With a sigh, Namor waved his hand in the air as he walked away.

The people of that small village were blessed with a weeks worth of rain after this encounter.