Chapter Text
Lanterns swung restlessly along the common room walls, casting wavering light on a crew swaying in rhythm with the sea. Ryusui’s instincts were their compass through the storm. In a quiet corner, Senku sat with Chrome, observing as Taiju’s booming voice rolled through the space like thunder, weaving stories of the old world between shipmates. But Senku’s gaze always drifted to the empty spaces—the ones left behind by those who never cared whether they lived or drowned. The ones that wouldn’t question dying for the cause, for any of his orders.
His fists clenched, this role was bit by bit hacking at himself. Senku barely touched the food in front of him. The stew was warm, and the room was filled with laughter and clattering spoons, but it all sounded distant—like he was listening through thick glass.
How many of them would I send straight into the jaws of danger again if it meant progress?
The thought came sharp and unwelcome but honest. That was the worst part—it was always honest.
He leaned back slightly, resting his head against the cool curve of the wooden wall. Lantern light flickered over the faces around him. They trusted him. They followed him. Sometimes, without question.
Is that leadership? Or just... convenience?
Senku had done the math more times than he could count. Risk vs reward. Probability of failure. Margin of sacrifice. No matter how many times he ran the equation, the answer always came back the same: the future demanded more than safety. It demanded courage. Action. Sometimes... loss.
If it came down to one life or the future of humanity, I’d still choose the future.
And that guilt, that sick twist in his gut—it never got easier.
He glanced sideways. Chrome was beside him, slurping loudly, somehow still smiling despite the pitch of the storm groaning just outside the hull. His hair was messier than usual—static from the rain and tension, probably—but his eyes were bright, sharp. Watching.
Chrome caught his glance and grinned. “ You’re thinking too much again. ”
Senku huffed. “ I think just the right amount .”
“ Yeah, yeah ,” Chrome waved his spoon. “ But you’re also acting like we’re all glass. We knew what we were signing up for when we stepped on this boat .”
Senku didn’t reply. He didn’t have to. Chrome leaned in, voice lower.
“ We’re not here because you ordered us. We’re here because we believe in the same thing you do. That future? We want it, too. And we’re not planning to die for it. ” He paused, then added with a crooked smile, “ At least, not all of us .”
Senku snorted under his breath. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Yeah… maybe not all of us. Maybe this time, we’ll beat the odds.
The thought didn’t erase the weight on his shoulders, but it made it bearable—for now.
Outside, the world was nothing but wind, water, and willpower.
Tarps stretched over the aft deck snapped violently in the storm, straining at their ropes like wild animals. Rain hammered down in sheets, soaking everything not shielded, and even the tarp’s cover only muted the sting. Beneath it, Kohaku crouched low, her golden hair plastered to her face, fists clenched around the wet fabric of her cloak.
She wasn’t afraid of storms. Not the wind, not the waves. But she hated how the sky had swallowed the sun whole. She kept glancing upward, searching through the shredded gray for even the thinnest break—just a shard of light, a whisper of gold behind the clouds. It never came.
Beside her, Tsukasa sat unmoving, the storm slipping off him like it respected his stillness. His gaze was locked on the horizon, steady as the ship beneath them rocked and groaned. He, too, was looking for the sun. Not with his eyes—but with his presence. With that unspoken faith that it would return, even if they couldn’t see it yet.
“ Do you ever question it? ” Kohaku asked, her voice barely audible above the wind.
Tsukasa turned to her, patient.
“ Following him ,” she clarified. “ The risks he takes. The ones we choose to take with him. ”
A moment passed. Then, calmly: “ Yes. ”
Kohaku turned to face him fully, the rain streaking across her cheeks like tears that hadn’t asked permission. “ And you still follow? ”
“ Because even in storms like this ,” Tsukasa said, eyes still fixed on the endless dark, “ he’s the only one who never stops searching for the sun. Even when no one else can see it, he believes it’s there .”
Kohaku exhaled, slow and heavy. That familiar ache in her chest returned—not from fear, but from the stubborn, impossible hope that maybe… just maybe… they would make it through.
Under the snapping tarp, the two warriors sat in silence, side by side, eyes on the sky. And though no light broke through the clouds, their search never faltered.
Because if there was even a chance that dawn still waited beyond the storm—
They would be the ones to greet it.
The storm didn’t slow, but Kohaku rose anyway, pushing the tarp aside as another gust slapped her full in the face. Tsukasa didn’t try to stop her—he simply met her gaze with a quiet nod. He knew her well enough by now. She couldn’t sit still in moments like this.
The deck was slick beneath her feet, wind clawing at her cloak and hair like wild hands. Rain blurred the world into shades of black and gray, but she moved forward with purpose, climbing the steps toward the helm with practiced balance.
There, she found him—Ryusui—hands locked around the wheel like it was part of his body, eyes narrowed against the spray. His coat flared behind him like a flag torn at the edges, and yet he stood tall, grinning through clenched teeth as the ship fought against the sea’s rage.
He didn’t look surprised to see her.
“ Came to enjoy the view? ” he shouted over the wind, his voice full of that same irreverent fire, even now.
Kohaku didn’t answer right away. She stepped beside him, bracing herself against the railing, and followed his gaze. There was nothing but darkness ahead, but his eyes were locked on it, like he knew where the sun was, even if no one else could see it.
“ You really think it’s still out there? ” she asked, voice low, barely carried by the wind.
Ryusui chuckled, deep and sure. “ Of course it is. We’re not steering toward a fantasy, Kohaku. The sun doesn’t disappear just because we can’t see it. It’s always there—same place it’s always been. And I’ll get us to it. ”
His grip tightened on the wheel as another wave slammed the hull. The ship groaned but didn’t falter.
Kohaku studied him for a moment—the soaked hair plastered to his face, the raw focus in his eyes, the relentless way he held his course despite the odds.
She didn’t say it aloud, but she felt it deep in her chest: They were all chasing the same light. Just in different ways.
And right now, Ryusui was the one guiding them toward it.
She stood by him in silence, letting the storm rage around them, and for the first time that night, the cold didn’t bite quite as hard.
Kohaku stepped up beside Ryusui, her hand braced against the slick railing as the ship shuddered beneath them. Rain lashed against her face, but he didn’t seem to notice. His grip on the wheel was firm, eyes narrowed against the storm, hair whipped wildly by the wind. And—of course—he was smiling.
“ You look like you're enjoying this, ” she said, not hiding the disbelief in her voice.
Without turning, Ryusui let out a short laugh. “ What’s not to enjoy? The sea’s alive, the wind’s singing, and I’m standing at the helm of the greatest ship this world has seen in thousands of years. This is the pinnacle of sailing .”
She raised an eyebrow, glancing at the black waves crashing around them. “ Most people would call this madness.”
“ Then it’s a good thing I’m not most people .”
He shifted the wheel slightly, gaze still locked on a horizon that didn’t exist. Just darkness and fury ahead, but something about the way he looked at it made it feel like he could see past all that—like he knew where they were going.
“ You really believe that by pure instinct we could just sail towards it? ” she asked.
“ I don’t believe ,” he said, voice quieter now, more focused. “ I know. The sun doesn’t vanish—it just hides. And I don’t need to see it to follow it. That’s the kind of sailor I am .”
Kohaku was silent for a moment, then asked, “ Even if it means sailing blind into danger? ”
His answer came without hesitation. “ Especially then. Anyone can steer when the skies are clear. But this? ” His smile returned, smaller this time, but no less sure. “ This is where it counts. This is when we prove we’re worthy of the future Senku’s chasing .”
She studied him as the wind howled around them. There was no false bravado in his voice—just conviction. And something else. Something heavier beneath the showmanship.
“You sound like someone who isn’t afraid to die .”
Ryusui’s expression shifted, his voice lowering. “ I’m afraid of something worse—failing this crew. Letting them down. Letting him down. ”
The ship rocked violently as a wave slammed the side, sending a spray of seawater across the deck. Kohaku didn’t flinch. She stepped closer to the wheel, her eyes fixed forward.
“ Then I’ll stand with you ,” she said, firm. “ Until the sun shows itself again. ”
Ryusui glanced her way, his smirk returning, this time softer—grateful. “Heh. Warrior and captain. No storm stands a chance .”
They didn’t need to say more. The wind would howl. The sea would thrash. But their course was set—and together, they would chase the light until it found them.
From behind them, a voice rose above the wind—flat, unimpressed, and unmistakably Senku’s.
“So we’re putting our lives in the hands of a guy chasing the concept of the sun now? Wow. Peak scientific methodology, Ryusui. Truly inspiring .”
Kohaku turned, finding him standing just below the helm, soaked through and squinting upward with that familiar half-scowl of his. The wind had plastered his hair to his forehead in wild angles, and his arms were crossed tight against his soaked coat.
Ryusui scoffed, not looking back. “ You're welcome, by the way, for keeping your floating science lab in one piece .”
“ And you’re welcome ,” Senku fired back, “for being the one who doesn’t navigate with poetic instinct and blind optimism.”
He started climbing the steps to the helm with deliberate steps, each one slick with rain and salt. When he reached Kohaku’s side, his voice dropped a little, though the sarcasm didn’t vanish.
“ Since we’re still alive—barely—I’m taking that as my cue. Kohaku, I need you below deck. Chrome’s prepping the radiant sodalite sample and can’t handle it solo. If we get even a fraction of light through the clouds by morning, we’ll need that mineral aligned and ready to channel. ”
Kohaku blinked, torn for a moment as the storm raged behind her. “ You’re sure? ”
Senku gave her a look—dry, knowing. “ I don’t ask you to do things I’m not sure about. We’re going to need that sodalite crystal if we want to harness anything remotely resembling focused light. And Chrome needs someone with actual coordination to keep it from cracking in half .”
Ryusui leaned slightly toward them, grinning. “ So much for standing together at the helm, huh? ”
Senku rolled his eyes. “ You’ve got a death wish, fine. I’ve got a science wish—and mine doesn’t involve dying dramatically in the rain. ”
Kohaku gave Ryusui a nod, firm but not cold. “ Try not to sail us into a wall of water while I’m gone.”
Ryusui raised a hand in mock salute. “ No promises. ”
And with that, Kohaku turned, cloak whipping behind her, and disappeared into the storm once more—toward the belly of the ship, where minerals glowed faintly in the dim lantern light and where the future waited to be shaped by hands steadier than fate.
Senku lingered at the helm for a moment after Kohaku disappeared below deck, arms crossed again as he watched her vanish into the rain.
Ryusui raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways. “ You going to stand there all night judging my sailing technique, or was that your version of concern? ”
Senku didn’t bite. His eyes were still fixed on the lower deck where Kohaku had gone. “ She never hesitates ,” he murmured.
That caught Ryusui off guard. His grin faltered slightly, curiosity flickering through the stormlight. “ You say that like it’s a bad thing .”
“ It’s not ,” Senku replied, tone even. “ It’s just… predictable. Reliable. ” He exhaled slowly, the wind pulling at his coat. “ Even when I send her straight into a storm, she doesn’t flinch. She trusts me more than I deserve. ”
Ryusui let that settle for a beat. “ You’re not used to that, huh .”
Senku shrugged. “ Trust is one thing. But she moves like she already knows the outcome. Like if she runs fast enough, she’ll make sure everything turns out okay. That’s not science. That’s something else entirely. ”
Ryusui kept one hand steady on the wheel, the ship groaning beneath them. “ She believes in people, not just plans. That’s her edge. And yours, whether you admit it or not. ”
Senku glanced at him, one eyebrow raised.
“ Look, ” Ryusui continued, more serious now, “ you build the future with math and minerals, and sure—your brain’s a miracle of evolution or whatever. But her? ” He nodded toward the stairwell. “ She builds it with her hands. Her gut. She moves people .”
A beat passed.
“ Even you .”
Senku looked away, jaw tight for half a second before replying. “ It’s inconvenient, ” he muttered.
Ryusui let out a quiet laugh. “ Yeah. That’s how you know it’s real .”
The two of them stood in silence then—only the wind speaking between them. And somewhere below, the ship’s heartbeat pulsed on: science, instinct, and trust, all moving forward through the storm.
By morning, the sea had grown quiet.
Not calm, not entirely—not yet. The waves still rolled with the weight of a night’s fury, but the wind had softened, no longer screaming through the sails. The rain had thinned to a fine mist, and in the low hush of dawn, the ship rocked with something almost like peace.
Below deck, the faint blue shimmer of sodalite pulsed softly in Chrome’s hands.
Kohaku stood beside him, shoulders stiff from hours of work, fingers lined with fine cuts from shaping the fragile mineral. But it was ready now—fixed into its wooden frame, angled just as Senku had instructed. She glanced toward the sliver of clouded sky visible through the hatch and waited.
Then—it happened.
A beam of gold, thin as a thread, pierced through the parting clouds. It struck the sodalite with perfect precision, scattering a burst of refracted light across the walls like a prism waking from sleep.
Kohaku blinked against it, stunned for a moment. It had been so long since she’d seen light that wasn’t gray or broken.
Chrome grinned beside her, wide-eyed. “ It’s working. Holy crap, Kohaku—we did it! ”
Up on deck, the cry spread fast. Not panic this time. Not orders. Just one word—“ Sun! ”—shouted from sailor to sailor as boots hit the wooden boards and hands pointed skyward.
Senku was already there, shielding his eyes as the golden light slowly broke across the deck. His expression was unreadable for a moment—then softened into something rare. Quiet. Almost... reverent.
Kohaku stepped up from below, blinking in the warmth, and caught his eye.
Senku didn’t speak, but he gave the faintest nod—the kind that said, Yeah. You did it.
And Kohaku, for once, didn’t reply. She just tilted her face toward the sky, watching the sun climb free from the storm.
It hadn’t abandoned them.
They’d chased it. Found it.
And now it was theirs again.
Kohaku found herself walking the upper deck alone again, though the silence wasn’t empty this time. It was full—thick with the aftermath of survival and the things no one had the breath left to say during the storm.
She’d meant to head below, to rest, to peel off the tarp-stiff cloak still clinging to her. But instead, she stopped by the port side, where sunlight shimmered off the soaked wood and the sea stretched endlessly, golden and unknowable.
She didn’t hear Senku come up behind her.
“ You look like someone who didn’t just save everyone’s asses .”
His voice was casual. Too casual. She didn’t turn around.
“ I didn’t do it alone .”
“ No, ” he agreed, stepping up beside her. “ You never do. That’s the problem .”
She blinked, finally facing him, eyes sharp. “ What’s that supposed to mean? ”
Senku didn’t meet her gaze right away. His attention was somewhere out past the edge of the world again. Always there, in that place beyond reach.
“ You throw yourself at danger like it’s personal ,” he said. “ Like it owes you something. Even when I don’t ask you to .”
“ You don’t have to ask ,” she replied. “ You never do .”
That made him pause.
The wind picked up, brushing wet strands of hair across her face. She didn’t bother pushing them back.
“ I follow your orders because I believe in them ,” she said. “ But I stand in front of the storm because you never will. ”
His eyes flicked toward her at that. Quietly. Sharply.
“ That’s not bravery ,” he said. “ That’s recklessness .”
“ Maybe .” She leaned on the railing beside him, letting her shoulder just barely graze his. “ But it keeps you alive .”
Senku didn’t respond for a long moment. Then, without looking at her:
“ I hate it .”
That caught her breath.
“I hate that I need you to do it, ” he added. “I hate that if I asked you not to, you’d still go. And I hate that a part of me would let you .”
Kohaku’s throat tightened. She turned her head, close enough now to see the shadows beneath his eyes, the weight he always carried but never admitted to.
“ You don’t control us, Senku, ” she said, softer now. “ That’s why we follow you. ”
Something flickered in his expression—tired. Grateful. Scared, maybe. Just a little.
And then he said, almost like it hurt: “ If you’d been lost in that storm… I don’t know if I would’ve kept going.”
Kohaku swallowed hard. Her heart betrayed her—stepping forward before her body ever did.
“ But you would’ve, ” she whispered.
He met her gaze. This time, he didn’t look away.
“ Yeah ,” he said quietly. “ I would’ve .”
Their eyes locked in the open air, sun breaking through salt and silence. She didn’t say anything else. Neither did he.
Because both of them already knew—if they ever crossed that line between them, there’d be no going back.
And right now, the world still needed them exactly where they were.
Just... not too far.
Not too close.
Not yet.