The sun was just beginning to rise over the Grand Line, and it was looking to be a glorious day. The soft coo of birds rang out for miles, a light breeze was blowing, and the smell of the fresh crisp sea was in the air. But this did not last long, as the smell of the ocean was soon overpowered by a rank, foul-smelling odor, as a large dark object floated to the surface of the water.
Anyone sailing past would have assumed it to be a small island, but this was no tract of land completely surrounded by water, not quite large enough to be called a continent, oh no. In fact, it was kraken feces. This would have been quite the thing to see, as the Kraken only excretes waste once every four years, the poor thing. It is usually unable to move much for up to a week after this momentous occasion, which is when most krakens are sighted.
But this event was especially lucky for one miserable fellow, having been eaten by the Kraken just the day before.
A bejeweled hand shot up out of the mound of mu