Free Slave (One Piece)

[kowak]

The stench of fear, sweat, and unwashed bodies had seeped into the damp wooden planks of the ship's hold. It was so thick it felt tangible, like you could reach out and touch it. On a ship bearing the flag of the World Government, dozens of people—adults and children alike—shivered in the dank twilight, bound by the clinking shackles on their ankles.

Eight-year-old Francis slept, curled up in a corner. Only in dreams could he escape. Sleep was his sole luxury, the only flicker of happiness in a life torn apart by parents who sold him for a handful of coins.

Nearby, a girl sobbed—the daughter of some unfortunate pirate. Across from her sat a former merchant ship captain who had gambled away not just his ship but his freedom. Each of them was "merchandise," sailing toward the world's grandest market, destined to grovel at the feet of the Celestial Dragons.

The rusty screech of a bolt shattered the silence, making everyone flinch. The door swung open, and a hulking figure appeared in the doorway. Sunlight stabbed at eyes accustomed to darkness, forcing them to squint.

"Move it, you scum!" roared the overseer, a fat man with a scruffy beard, lazily swinging a whip in his hand. "Get up to the deck!"

He had no intention of damaging the "goods," but a crack of his whip against the floor near the closest prisoner spurred everyone into hurried motion.

Francis's dream burst like a soap bubble. Cold reality crashed over him with renewed force. Clinging to one another, swaying from hunger and the ship's rocking, the prisoners stumbled up to the deck.

What they saw was so breathtaking it momentarily erased their misery. Directly ahead, a colossal, blood-red cliff pierced the sky—the Red Line. It split the world in two, its peak lost in the clouds where, rumor had it, the holy land of Mariejois lay, the abode of this world's gods.

"Line up, rats!" bellowed the overseer, whom Francis had learned was named Adam from snippets of overheard conversation.

A whip crack kicked up a puff of dust. Francis didn't wait for a second warning. He saw the adults forming a line and quickly slipped in beside them. The other children, initially hesitant, followed his lead. Survival instinct was the best teacher.

Adam pulled a strange creature from his coat—a snail with a phone-like shell—and barked short phrases into it. The Den Den Mushi clicked sleepily in response. The wait wasn't long. Half an hour later, men in impeccably pressed black suits descended from a platform jutting out from the cliff.

The man leading them, with cold gray eyes and thin lips, scanned the crowd of prisoners with disdain.

"Well, Adam, let's see what trash you've brought us this time," he said quietly, his voice cutting sharper than any shout.

Adam transformed instantly, bowing obsequiously, a sycophantic smile plastered on his face. "All top-quality, Lord Jaime, as you requested! Fresh merchandise, no defects, I assure you!"

Jaime smirked, unconvinced. "I hope so. And I hope you remember our terms, Adam. No more than ten percent defective. Otherwise, our partnership ends. Let's begin. Adults—strip."

Men and women, their faces frozen in humiliation, began shedding their rags. The children started unbuttoning their shirts too, but Jaime stopped them with a lazy gesture. "Not the children."

He inspected each adult like a butcher appraising a carcass—checking teeth, probing muscles, making them turn, shamelessly examining intimate areas. Every scar, brand, or tattoo drew his meticulous scrutiny. Only the best would do for the Celestial Dragons.

When it came to the children, the inspection changed. Jaime didn't touch them. He simply approached each one, staring into their eyes as if probing their souls for sparks of submission—or defiance that needed to be snuffed out.

When he reached Francis, their gazes locked. Most children's eyes held only primal fear, but Jaime saw something different in Francis's—an unbroken will, a flicker of childish pride. The boy didn't look away, accepting the silent challenge.

Jaime's lips curled into a predatory, icy smile. "Well, well, a brave one." He patted Francis's cheek twice, possessively. "You're not bad, kid, but…"

A sudden, lightning-fast knee to Francis's stomach cut off his words. Air rushed from the boy's lungs with a wheeze, the world tilted, and he doubled over, gasping from sharp, blinding pain.

"…lose that look, pup," Jaime finished in a harder tone, looming over him. "You're just a slave now. Lower your eyes and remember this feeling. This is your new place in life. Be grateful I'm the one teaching you this lesson."

The pain burned, drowning out everything except one cold, clear thought that crystallized in Francis's mind with uncanny clarity for a child: You bastard, if I survive, I'll kill you.

The rest of the inspection passed without incident. Jaime straightened and waved dismissively at two gaunt men. "Numbers two and five—unsuitable," he told Adam. "Two out of twenty. Not bad, you stayed within the limit this time."

He pulled a stack of bills from his inner pocket and tossed it to the ground at Adam's feet like scraps to a dog. Adam scrambled to pick it up, muttering thanks.

"The rest, follow me," Jaime ordered the slaves.

As they walked a few dozen meters, two gunshots rang out behind them. No one turned back. That was the fate of those who didn't make the cut.

They were led to a massive platform built into the red cliff—an elevator. Only now did Francis see what powered it. Below, in a vast hollow, dozens of slaves like him, with empty, detached faces, turned a gigantic winch, hoisting the platform toward the clouds, toward Mariejois.

Looking at their hollow faces, Francis realized that could be his fate—or worse.

"Shit."

The elevator stopped short of the sunlit summit. Its gates opened to a vast cave carved into the cliff, lit by torches. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of coal.

"You've arrived at the penultimate stop of your journey," Jaime's voice, amplified by the echo, sounded solemn and sinister. "Now you'll receive the mark of ownership. A brand you should wear with pride. It will show the world who you are and whom you serve."

In the cave's center, a forge blazed. Slave-smiths with indifferent faces fanned the bellows, heating iron brands to a glowing red. Their shape was unmistakable, even to those who'd never seen it: the Hoof of the Celestial Dragon.

A burly pirate was dragged forward first. Two guards pinned his arms, a third pressed his head against a stone wall. The red-hot iron hissed as it seared his back. An inhuman scream of pain, mingled with the stench of burning flesh, filled the cave. Everyone screamed—men, women, adults, children—a primal, instinctive terror.

When Francis's turn came, he squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't help. The pain was all-consuming, a white-hot flash that burned away his screams and tears, leaving only a trembling body and a brand that would burn forever.

Staggering and sobbing, they were herded to vast baths. Ice-cold water shocked their scorched skin. Other slaves, women in plain gray dresses, worked silently, scrubbing the newcomers with rough brushes. Their movements were mechanical, their gazes empty. Francis looked into their faces and saw not people but dolls with their souls scooped out. Each wore a metal collar around their neck. He swallowed hard, imagining the cold weight on his own.

Clean but still trembling, the slaves were lined up and given new clothes: a white robe and matching pants, simple and faceless, with one distinct feature—a large circular cutout on the back, exposing the raw, inflamed brand for all to see.

Now they looked almost civilized, save for their sunken cheeks and lifeless eyes no amount of cleanliness could hide. Jaime surveyed the group with satisfaction, his gaze lingering briefly on Francis. The boy, remembering his earlier lesson, immediately dropped his eyes to the floor. The corner of Jaime's mouth twitched in a smirk.

"Now you look like proper slaves. Acceptable. Just one final touch."

More men in black suits entered, carrying collars. When one approached Francis, the boy felt a strange sensation. The collar, seemingly too large for his thin neck, clicked shut and adjusted itself snugly but not suffocatingly.

"You'll now be assigned to departments," Jaime announced. "Your useful life begins."

They were led to the top. Blinding sunlight forced them to squint. Perfectly trimmed emerald grass, pristine white paths, majestic buildings nestled in greenery, and a crystalline sky overhead—the beauty was so flawless it felt artificial.

"What are you gawking at? You're not here for a tour!" Jaime's bark snapped them back to reality. He delivered a powerful kick to one man's backside, sending him sprawling three meters across the perfect lawn.

They hurried into a massive domed building. Inside a spacious hall, six people were already engaged in heated debate.

"…it's idiotic! Don't you get it, you foolish woman? The future lies in scientific progress! We need the best specimens!" one argued.

"Tell that to the Celestial Dragons when they run out of pretty toys to amuse themselves," came the cold retort.

The arguers fell silent as the slaves entered. Francis quickly sized up the "buyers."

First was a clerk in a white coat from the Scientific Research Center—a dry, pedantic man in a pristine lab coat and thin-rimmed glasses. He viewed the slaves not as people but as biological material.

Second was his recent opponent, Madam Elsa, who oversaw entertainment and leisure for the world's elite. A tall, stately woman in a luxurious silk kimono with a daringly low neckline, she smelled of expensive perfume and scanned the slaves with the lazy, appraising gaze of a predator picking out a new toy.

Third was a stern giant from the Transportation Department, nearly three meters tall with arms as thick as a man's leg. He looked bored, needing only brute strength—human draft animals.

Fourth was a silver-haired woman from the Service Department. Her warm, grandmotherly smile sent a chill down Francis's spine. Only a sick person could smile like that in this place.

The fifth, an unremarkable man, exuded cold menace. His rigid posture and empty, attentive stare marked him as Security Department. He wasn't here to choose slaves but to pick targets for training drills.

The sixth, an elderly man from Life Support, stood with perfect posture despite his age, muscles evident beneath simple clothing. He needed durable, obedient workers for the systems that kept everything running.

"You know the rules," Jaime's even voice cut through the silence. "Each picks one. Order's set. Madam Elsa, go ahead."

The woman in the kimono glided toward the line, her silk rustling softly against the marble floor. She ignored the adults, dismissing them as "used material," and stopped before the children. Her dark, piercing gaze fixed on Francis.

"Such a defiant look… such a spirited face…" she purred, trailing a nail along his cheek. He flinched. "You'd be wildly popular with some of our guests. There's fire in you, and they love to extinguish it."

Crazy bitch, Francis thought, his blood running cold at the fate she implied. Maybe death in the hold would've been better.

But Elsa, chuckling at his reaction, moved on. She stopped before a twelve-year-old girl with long dark hair. "Porcelain skin, perfect hair, a supple body… Amazon blood, isn't it? What a delightfully rare specimen. I choose you."

"Please, Madam, take my sisters too!" the girl pleaded, pointing to two younger girls clinging to her legs. "Don't separate us!"

"Oh, such touching selflessness," Elsa smiled, her expression devoid of warmth. "Admirable, dear, but business is business. They're not as pretty as you."

"I'll do anything!" the girl sobbed.

"You will anyway," Elsa said, lifting the girl's chin with a gentle but commanding touch. "But… fine. If there's room at the end, I might take one of them. Though I had my eye on this boy first."

"Next—Research Department," Jaime announced.

The clerk in the white coat, whom Elsa had called a fool, strolled along the line with feigned interest. "Wow, such big feet! Potential for muscle regeneration studies! And you—unique eye color! Heterochromia, a great genetic marker!"

He stopped before Francis and, without looking at him, declared, "I'll take this one."

He didn't care about Francis specifically—he just wanted to spite Elsa. Her face darkened. "Bastard," she hissed, audible to all.

The clerk only smirked, adjusting his glasses.

"Jaime," the giant from Transportation cut in, "my turn."

He pointed at the largest man, a former pirate, without preamble. "You. Go punch that column."

The man hesitated, then obeyed. The blow was strong, but the giant only grunted. "Weak. But it'll do. I'll take him."

The old man with perfect posture approached a stocky, shorter man. Without a word, he took the man's hand, turned it over, felt the calluses, and studied his stance.

"Worked in a port? Or construction?" he asked.

"A forge," the slave rasped.

"Good. You'll do."

The grandmotherly woman approached a group of women and spoke warmly to a frightened young one. "Can you manage a household, dear? Cook, clean floors? Don't worry, it'll be fine."

She patted the woman's cheek maternally, but her eyes were cold and appraising, like a cattle trader's. The woman nodded silently, and the old lady said, "I'll take her."

Last came the Security man. He moved soundlessly, passing the adults and stopping before the remaining children. Without a word, he pointed at a teenage boy. The boy backed away in terror, but guards seized him. The choice was made. Francis avoided looking, cold sweat trickling down his back.

Surprisingly, the two younger Amazon sisters remained, and Elsa, with a regal gesture, pointed at them. "Those too. No sense wasting merchandise."

"Selection complete. Get to work," Jaime concluded.

Francis and the two men chosen by the clerk followed him out. A carriage awaited, pulled by collared slaves. Unlike the clerk, Dr. Aris, as he introduced himself, the new slaves walked behind.

They approached a nondescript gray building, devoid of ornamentation. "Here it is! The citadel of the future!" Aris proclaimed, arms spread wide.

Inside was a single elevator, revealing the main complex was underground. It moved smoothly, unlike the slave-powered lift from before.

Do they show you your possible fate to break your will? Francis thought. Show you the hell you'll face if you're useless?

The doors opened, not to labs with test tubes but to a sterile white corridor.

"These are the living quarters," Aris explained, striding ahead, his voice echoing. "We have sections A to Z, each for a different project. You'll live in private rooms. A scientist from Section A can't take you if you're assigned to Section G, even though you're slaves. Order is paramount—the foundation of the scientific method."

He pinned a badge with a letter to each of their chests. Francis's was "F."

"Your only duty is to wait in your room until called. Lunch is at noon; doors open automatically. Follow the main flow. You get an hour to eat. You can request books or a music Den Den Mushi if you can't read. We need you sane. A damaged specimen is useless."

He led Francis to a door. "This is yours."

The boy stepped inside. The door closed silently behind him with a click that rang like a gunshot in the stillness.

Silence. It was the first thing that struck Francis. After weeks in the hold amid creaking planks and prisoners' groans, after the screams during branding, this absolute, dead silence pressed on his ears.

The room was blindingly white—walls, ceiling, floor. He stepped forward cautiously, his feet leaving faint marks on the pristine surface. He approached the bed and poked it warily. It gave way softly. For a boy used to sleeping on planks or, at best, a straw mattress, it was a miracle.

His gaze fell on a separate room—a bathroom, with a strange white device like a porcelain throne. A glossy plaque on the wall bore clear, childlike illustrations.

First image: a stick figure smiling, sitting on the device.

Second: the figure stands.

Third: its hand points to a lever, an arrow indicating to push it down.

Fourth: "dirty" brown clumps vanish from the device, replaced by sparkling blue water with stars of cleanliness. A thumbs-up beside it.

Francis approached, never having seen such a thing. With distrust and curiosity, he pressed the lever.

A powerful swirl of water spun inside, disappearing with a sucking sound. He flinched—this was magic, terrifying and incomprehensible. He waited, then peered inside. The bowl refilled with clear water. He pressed the lever again. The same vortex. In his village, there was only a pit latrine out back. This technology was as much a symbol of power as the brand on his back.

He stepped back from the marvel and sat on the bed's edge, then, gathering courage, lay down. His body sank into softness, like lying on a cloud. The comfort was so alien it sparked unease. This luxury was part of the cage. As his body relaxed, his mind raced, replaying everything since leaving the hall.

He hadn't just followed Aris mindlessly. He memorized: left turn at the fountain with winged fish, straight down the alley with perfectly round trees, seven guards at the gray building's entrance, the elevator's position. He ran the route through his mind, burning it into memory. But the conclusions were grim.

He stared at the blank white ceiling, trying to calm himself. Then he noticed it—a tiny black dot in the corner where the walls met. Not dirt, not a flaw—too perfect. Sitting up, he stared. It didn't move, but he felt it watching. A tiny surveillance Den Den Mushi, its lens-eye fixed on him.

A chill erased the bed's warmth. He bolted to the bathroom and checked the ceiling. Another dot, above the strange toilet.

They're everywhere, always watching.

He returned to the room and sat on the bed, now feeling hard and cold. The only exit he knew was the guarded elevator. He had no information about what lay beyond this corridor, no strength to fight even one guard, no allies. He was trapped in a sterile box deep underground, under constant surveillance, his only right to wait for the call to an experiment.

Francis stared at the empty white ceiling. A single hot tear rolled down his cheek. He was alone. Utterly alone.

"Fuck."

 

[kowak]

I woke to the artificial sun on the ceiling glowing brighter. There were no clocks in the room, but my body told me I'd slept long. For the first time in ages, lying on a soft bed instead of filthy planks, I felt rested. It was a trap—comfort lulls you, makes you forget who you are and where you are. I wouldn't let it.

First, I went to the white marvel in the corner of the room. Probably the greatest invention I'd seen in my short life. I still pressed the lever warily, but it was better than a pit in the ground. The sink was another wonder—clean, cool water flowed at my command. I drank and splashed my face, catching my reflection in the polished metal. An exhausted boy with a collar around his neck. The brand on my back burned beneath the robe. That's who I was: Subject F.

I sat on the bed and waited. Two hours of total silence, alone with my thoughts. Where to start? My plan for survival and escape. It sounded foolish, I knew, but without a goal, I'd become like those women in the baths—empty-eyed shells.

Step one: information. I needed to know everything. What was this place? What was "Section F"? What did they want from me? Most importantly, were there any weak points?

Step two: observation. I already knew about the Den Den Mushi cameras. They saw everything I did in this room. So, I had to hide my true thoughts and act the model slave.

Step three: strength. I was weak—an eight-year-old couldn't fight guards. But I could get stronger. I had to try.

Finally, a soft click, and my door slid open. I stepped into the corridor. Other slaves were already there—men, women, even a few teenagers—silently lining up for the elevator. Surprisingly, many looked… normal. Not broken or starved. Their eyes held fatigue and wariness, not despair.

A middle-aged man with thick mustaches and a scar over his eyebrow glanced at me. "New kid?" he whispered.

I nodded, trying to look scared and confused.

"Got it. Name's John," he said. "Listen up, kid. Do what everyone else does. Ten to an elevator, no pushing. It'll take us to the cafeteria. Grab a tray, get in line, take what they give you, no fuss. The food's decent."

Our turn came quickly. We boarded the elevator, and it glided silently downward. The doors opened, and I froze. A massive hall filled with hundreds of tables and chairs. Elevators on three other sides spilled out streams of slaves. Every kind of person was here: some with long arms, a man with shark-like skin, a woman with small horns on her forehead. A kaleidoscope of races and peoples, united by one fate, one brand on their backs.

Guards stood along the perimeter, maintaining order. No weapons—no swords or rifles. They didn't need them. The collars around our necks were their weapons.

I grabbed a tray, as John had said, and joined the line. Two steamed cutlets and a heap of mashed potatoes were slapped onto my plate. The smell was real, edible. My stomach growled. Spotting John at a far table, I sat across from him.

Time for answers. I swallowed a bite of cutlet—better than anything I'd ever tasted. But even this simple joy was tainted. They fed us well to keep our bodies ready for their purposes.

"Thanks for the help," I said quietly, staring at my plate.

"No big deal," John waved it off. "Everyone's new once. Just don't stir trouble, and you'll last."

"Last?" I looked up. "Why last here? What is this place? What do they do to us?"

John stopped chewing. His heavy gaze weighed me, as if deciding whether to talk about such things with a kid. Finally, he gave a humorless chuckle.

"What's that, kid? Planning an escape?" His question was quiet but sharp as a blade.

I shook my head slowly, eyes on my potatoes. "No."

His gaze softened. "Good answer." He resumed eating. "Listen, as weird as it sounds, life here's better than for slaves topside. Good food, warm beds, no beatings without reason. We get to meet basic needs. But there's a price. We don't last long."

He swallowed and lowered his voice, making me lean in. "Some last ten years if they're lucky. Others die in a month. It's no secret—anyone here a week knows it. Just don't shout it. Each section has its task. Mine's L." He tapped his badge. "Drugs. They test new pills on me and others like me. Pop a pill, get scanned, and I'm free till the next time. Our section's the biggest—most scientists, most slaves. Highest death rate, too. So, kid, I won't last long."

He fell silent, staring at his plate, then noticed my badge. His face shifted subtly, showing pity mixed with… superstitious fear.

"Section F…" he whispered. "Lucky and unlucky, kid. There aren't many like you. All we know is F deals with Devil Fruits. You guys can sit idle for months—half a year, a year. But when the experiment starts… no one comes back."

No one comes back. That should've terrified me, but beneath the horror and despair, a tiny, insane spark of hope ignited. It was a chance. The only, impossible chance to get out. Even a village kid like me knew about Devil Fruits. I recalled stories from traveling merchants in our tavern, sipping cheap ale—tales of people turning into fire, causing earthquakes, or becoming giant beasts.

There were three types: Zoan, granting animal powers; Paramecia, giving varied superhuman abilities; and Logia, the rarest, letting you become an element.

A Paramecia controlling space or a Logia making me invincible would be ideal. But the odds of getting something useful were slim. Why give slaves known fruits? The answer hit me: they didn't. They gave us unknown fruits, unlisted in any book. We were guinea pigs—they fed us a fruit, watched what happened, and recorded it.

And then? If the power was useful and controllable, the slave might be taken topside as a trained pet for the Celestial Dragons. If it was too dangerous or useless? Obvious—they'd kill us to keep the power from falling into the wrong hands.

Still… it was a chance.

***

Somewhere on the Grand Line…

Fog drifted over the wreckage-strewn shore of a nameless island. Two Marines in tattered uniforms patrolled, scavenging anything of value.

"Look, Tanaka!" shouted the younger, freckled one, pointing at something stuck in the wet sand.

It was a fruit—oddly shaped, shimmering in dark purple hues with swirling, pulsating patterns.

"A Devil Fruit!" gasped Tanaka, older and more experienced. "Get the book, quick!"

The young Marine pulled a battered tome from his pack—The Devil Fruit Encyclopedia. Tanaka flipped through it, fingers trembling with excitement.

"Wanna eat it?" the younger asked with a nervous laugh. "Might make you invincible."

"Idiot!" Tanaka snapped, eyes glued to the book. "If it's not in the catalog, we can sell it. Not for some measly hundred million like a useless fruit…"

He reached the end, then flipped through again. His eyes widened. "It's not here…"

The young Marine swallowed. "How… how much is it worth?"

Tanaka's eyes gleamed with mad greed. "An unknown fruit starts at a billion beli. A billion! I'll be richer than a king! I—"

A wet, slicing sound cut through the fog. Tanaka gurgled, looking down at the bloody blade of his own sword protruding from his chest. He turned slowly, confusion on his face, to see his partner.

The freckled Marine twisted the sword with cruel precision and yanked it out. Tanaka collapsed face-first into the sand.

"No," the young Marine said, wiping the blade on the dead man's pants. His freckled face twisted into an ugly grin. "I'll be the rich one."

***

Six months passed—182 days, to be exact. I counted each one. Life became a polished routine. Wake to the artificial sun. Lunch in the noisy cafeteria. Then long hours alone in my white cage, dedicated to learning.

I taught myself to read. As promised, slaves could request books, so I started with simple children's picture books. The alphabet was easy; I knew how words sounded, just needed to match them to symbols. Harder were words I'd never heard.

"What's 'rigging'?" I asked John once, pointing at a book.

He stared through the cafeteria wall for a long time. "It's… the set of ropes and gear for securing, lifting, moving, or holding cargo," he finally said. A month later, Section L took him for "testing." I never saw him again.

Training was tougher. I approached a huge former pirate, his muscles like tree trunks, and asked how to get strong. He laughed and said something odd.

"It's not about how you swing your fists, kid," he said. "It's what you put into the punch. Will—that's what matters."

I didn't fully get it. So, every day, I squatted until my legs turned to jelly, did push-ups until my arms gave out. I poured all my hate and will to live into each move. With decent food and exercise, I grew stronger—not the scrawny kid who stepped off the ship anymore.

On the 183rd day, the routine broke. My door slid open not at noon but early morning. A faceless man in a black suit stood in the doorway.

"Subject F, follow me."

My heart skipped, then raced. The day had come.

I was led to a spacious white room, like an office. Three other slaves stood along the wall: an ordinary pirate, a woman, and a quiet teenager. I joined them silently. Six more arrived. Ten of us—ten "Fs." The door closed behind the last.

Dr. Aris stepped forward, tablet in hand, eyeing us like lab rats. "Greetings, specimens," he said evenly. "Today is a big day for science. Remember your order in line. From now until the experiment ends, you are numbers. Number one," he pointed at the pirate. "Number two. Number three."

He reached me. "Number four."

And so on. I was Number Four. My identity erased, reduced to a designation.

"Assistants, bring them in," Aris ordered.

Two men in lab coats wheeled in a large rack. On ten stands lay them—Devil Fruits, each uniquely bizarre. My eyes scanned them, but my mind locked onto one: dark purple, shaped like an elongated pear, covered in intricate patterns. It wasn't the brightest or biggest, but I felt… a pull. An invisible thread connecting me to it. It called me.

"Attention," Aris said, adjusting a recording Den Den Mushi. "Rules are simple. When the countdown ends, you all approach and eat one fruit simultaneously."

I didn't get the point of the rule—why create a rush? But then I realized it played to my advantage. I wouldn't have to wait my turn and risk someone taking my fruit.

"Three."

I tensed my legs, ready to spring.

"Two."

My eyes fixed on the purple fruit. The woman, Number Two, was staring at it too. My heart pounded.

"One!"

Chaos erupted. The pirate shoved someone aside; others lunged for the nearest or flashiest fruits. I bolted for my target. The woman's hands reached for it at the same time. In another life, I might've yielded, but not here, not now. This was my only shot. I knocked her hands away with a sharp move. She yelped, startled, as I grabbed the fruit.

It was warm, vibrating strangely in my palm. Without hesitation, I bit into it. The taste was vile—like chewing rotten earth mixed with manure. My stomach heaved, but I clamped my hand over my mouth, forcing myself to swallow. I had to eat it all. Who knew what would happen with just half? A weaker power? A flawed one? I couldn't risk it. Gagging and choking, I ate every bit.

I looked around. The others had finished too—some crying, some panting, leaning against the wall.

"Excellent," Aris said, a hint of scientific glee in his voice, scribbling on his tablet. "All specimens have consumed the fruits. Testing begins. Number One, to the testing ground."

The humiliating, nauseating taste lingered, but inside… nothing. I closed my eyes, searching for a spark, a new power. I tried to feel something—warmth, a tingle, a surge. But there was only emptiness. For a moment, icy fear gripped my heart. Had it not worked?

Before panic set in, guards entered, moving in unison as if by silent command. Two approached me and snapped handcuffs on my wrists—not the rusty shackles from the ship, but smooth, heavy ones glinting dark blue.

The moment the metal touched my skin, I felt it: overwhelming, bone-deep weakness. Like my bones were gone, my blood replaced with lead. My legs buckled, but a guard steadied me. I glanced around—all nine "numbers" swayed, faces pale. Any power we might've gained was instantly stripped away.

"So you don't get any ideas," Aris said calmly, observing our reactions. "These are Sea Prism Stone cuffs, or Kairoseki. A unique material emitting the sea's energy. It nullifies any Devil Fruit power, rendering the user helpless. Now you understand your place. Watch the tests closely. The sooner we classify your abilities, the sooner you return to your rooms."

He was lying. "Return to your rooms" sounded like "we'll let you go," but the venom in his words was clear.

Number One was pushed toward a large door. It opened, and he entered the next area, separated from us by thick, clear glass. We were spectators in a theater of horrors, knowing we'd soon take the stage.

The testing ground had three distinct zones. The first, nearest us, held a rack loaded with materials: stones, metal chunks, wood, silk spools, vials of slime, spiderwebs under glass, sand, clay…

Aris's amplified voice came through the speakers, linked to a Den Den Mushi. "Number One, approach the first rack. Touch each material in order. Take your time. Report anything unusual immediately."

The pirate, looking confused but clinging to scraps of courage, approached and jabbed a granite boulder. Nothing. He ran his hand over silk. Nothing. He dipped a finger in slime, grimacing. Still nothing. He worked through the rack, his confidence fading with each touch.

"I feel nothing," he said toward our "aquarium."

"Expected," Aris commented flatly. "Number One, proceed to the second zone."

The second zone had another rack, this time with animal samples: fur scraps, scales, feathers, each paired with a photo of the animal it came from. The pirate approached warily.

"Same order. Begin."

He touched a piece of bear fur. Then carp scales. Nothing. He reached the end, where bright, rainbow-hued feathers sat, paired with a photo of a large parrot. The moment his fingers brushed the soft plumage, something extraordinary happened.

His body arched. He screamed—a strange, rattling cry. His hair turned vibrant green, a red crest sprouting on his head. His arm bones cracked, reshaping before our eyes. Skin sprouted feathers, and his arms stretched into huge, clumsy wings.

"What the he-e-ell?! Squawk!" he rasped, his voice now shrill and birdlike, mimicking a parrot's cry.

Aris didn't flinch, scribbling on his tablet with clinical interest. "Specimen Number One," he dictated to the recording snail. "Zoan-type fruit, model: Bird, likely Ara. First activation of hybrid form via tactile contact with corresponding biomaterial. Speech imitation retained but distorted. Interesting…"

Guards entered, grabbing the still-screaming pirate, who flailed his new wings in panic, and dragged him out through another door.

"Number One, dismissed," Aris said indifferently, as if the experiment was over. He turned to us, the nine remaining. I understood: the first zone tested Paramecias tied to materials, the second Zoans, the third… something else.

"Number Two," he ordered. "To the testing ground."

The woman flinched. Guards removed her cuffs. She froze for a moment, but a shove sent her toward the door. She walked like she was headed to execution. The door closed with a heavy thud.

She moved cautiously, almost fearfully, in the first zone, barely touching each material, jerking her hand back as if expecting a burn. Nothing. In the second zone, she moved even slower, her eyes wide with dread at the fur and feathers. Nothing again. When she cleared both racks, a collective sigh of relief rippled through us. At least she wouldn't turn into an animal. But what awaited in the third zone?

The third zone was nearly empty—white walls, white floor. In the center, on a metal chair, sat a man in a perfectly tailored black suit, reading a newspaper, ignoring everything. His relaxed posture radiated concentrated menace, unsettling even through the glass.

The woman swallowed and approached. He didn't look up until she stopped a few meters away. Slowly, without a wasted motion, he folded the paper, set it on the chair, and stood.

"Finally," he said, his voice calm and bored. "I was getting restless."

He stepped toward her. She was tall, but beside him, she seemed fragile. Without warning, he struck her in the stomach with a short, precise blow. She doubled over, gasping.

"What's wrong?" he asked, tilting his head curiously. "I thought you gained a power. Feel it, awaken it. Fight back."

He grabbed her hair and struck her face. She flew back, collapsing. I saw other slaves turn away, unable to watch, but I forced myself to look. I had to see, to understand.

"Stop…" she whispered, trying to crawl away. "Please…"

He loomed over her, his boots squeaking softly. "Louder. I can't hear you."

He raised his foot, and in a final burst of desperation, she screamed, "STOP!"

The word rang like a gunshot. The agent froze, his foot an inch from her face. His neck muscles tensed, but he stood like a statue.

The woman, disbelieving, raised her head. A spark of power flashed in her eyes. "Bite… bite your tongue," she rasped.

Something horrific happened. The agent's jaw clenched. Slowly, against his will, his mouth opened. His body shook with effort. A black aura flickered around his fists, and with a roar, he broke free, staggering back.

He panted, rubbing his neck, then… laughed—a low, chilling sound. "Not bad," he said, straightening. "Very good. But know your place, slave."

Before she could respond, he stepped forward and delivered a precise, almost invisible strike to her temple with the edge of his hand. Her eyes rolled back, and she went limp. The blow was calculated—not to kill, but to knock out.

"Specimen Number Two," Aris dictated. "Paramecia-type fruit, tentatively 'Command.' First activation via vocal order under emotional stress. Effectiveness depends on target's willpower, can be overcome by Haki users. Requires further study."

Guards entered, lifted her unconscious body, and carried it away. The agent retrieved his newspaper, brushed off imaginary dust, and sat as if nothing had happened.

"Number Three," Aris ordered. "To the testing ground."

Guards removed the teenager's cuffs. He took a hesitant step, then another, like walking on thin ice. His face was pale, sweat beading on his temples. He was terrified—and that was the sanest response.

In the first zone, he moved as cautiously as the woman, pausing before touching each sample. Wood, metal, silk—nothing. He reached a small pile of gray ash, likely from burned wood. Hesitating, he dipped his fingers into it.

He froze.

"I… I feel it," he whispered, eyes wide with surprise. "It's… alive."

Aris tilted his head, his voice tinged with scientific curiosity. "Describe the sensation, Number Three."

"It… obeys. I can…" The boy focused, and the ash stirred, rising in a tiny vortex.

"Enough," Aris cut him off, scribbling. "Skip the second zone. Straight to the third. We likely have a Logia."

The boy's face flickered with confusion, then hope. Even I knew what that meant—control over an element, the chance to be more than a beast. He straightened, his fear gone as he walked to the third zone.

The agent set his newspaper aside as the boy stopped before him. "Two interesting ones in a row," he drawled, cracking his neck. "Let's see what you've got."

He didn't wait. His movement blurred—one moment ten meters away, the next his fist aimed at the boy's stomach. Number Three screamed, but the punch passed through him. A hole formed where the fist struck, its edges crumbling into gray ash.

"What…?" the boy gasped, staring at the hole, then the agent. A wild, euphoric grin spread across his face. "I'm… invincible!"

His body dissolved into a swirling cloud of ash. His collar, no longer touching flesh, emitted a shrill beep and exploded in a bright flash. The blast passed harmlessly through the ash cloud.

"HA-HA-HA!" his distorted, vibrating laugh echoed. "I'M A GOD! YOU HEAR ME? SUCK IT, BASTARDS!"

Instead of attacking, the cloud surged toward the floor. He wasn't fighting—he was escaping. The ash began seeping through cracks between tiles. He nearly succeeded, most of his "body" already beneath the floor, when he froze. The vortex jerked, and a screaming, solid boy tumbled out, instantly reverting to ash.

"Tch-tch-tch," the agent clucked. "Such childishness. Time for a lesson."

He raised one finger. "Your first mistake: thinking you could escape. Foolish boy, did you think we'd test you in an unsecured room? This entire chamber—walls, ceiling, floor beneath these tiles—is Sea Prism Stone. You were doomed from the start."

He raised a second finger. "Your second mistake: thinking invincibility makes you all-powerful. In your backwater village, you might've been a local god. But not here."

Though the boy was ash, the agent lunged. His fist, coated in something black and glossy, struck the cloud's center.

A dull, wet sound rang out. The vortex collapsed, and the boy's body hit the floor, eyes rolled back. One punch—one punch to defeat someone I thought was invincible.

"Specimen Number Three," Aris dictated as guards dragged the body away. "Logia-type fruit, tentatively 'Ash.' Allows the user to create, control, and become ash. Specimen showed aggression and attempted escape."

He finished and turned his cold gaze on me. "Number Four. To the testing ground."

My turn. I swallowed, cold sweat trickling down my back. I'd learned three vital lessons. First: power could be an illusion. Second: escape was impossible, at least this way. Third, most crucial: there were people here who could beat even the "invincible" with their bare hands.

And I was about to face one.

The guards removed my Kairoseki cuffs with a soft click. Strength flooded back, the weakness fading like a phantom echo. I stood, rubbing my wrists, awaiting orders.

"Number Four, proceed to the first zone," Aris's voice crackled through the speakers.

I nodded and approached the material rack. My goal was simple: look scared, obedient, and useless. I placed my hand on the granite boulder. Instantly, I felt it.

Not warmth or a tingle, but a low hum in my mind—a mental resonance. I knew the stone: its exact position, weight, density. Strangely, I also sensed my robe, the cold metal of my collar, everything in my field of vision echoing with this odd connection. Like I could extend invisible threads to each object.

I moved to the sand pile and touched it. Nothing—silence in my head. Same with sugar powder and a vial of water. My power didn't work on fine, loose, or liquid substances. That was the first rule. And I wouldn't tell anyone. Hiding information was my only real chance to escape.

"I… feel nothing," I said, my voice tinged with disappointment and fear.

"Expected. Second zone," Aris commanded flatly.

In the second zone, with animal samples, it happened again. Approaching the rack, I felt resonance from every item—bear fur, carp scales, a peacock feather. Then it hit me: I sensed a connection between them.

I looked at my collar and the peacock feather. A vivid, instinctive urge rose—to swap them. I could almost see the cold metal vanishing from my neck, replaced by a weightless feather. A smile threatened to spread across my face at the realization of this incredible power. But I clenched my fists, forcing my expression blank.

"Nothing," I repeated, staring at the floor. "Absolutely nothing."

"Hm. Proceed to the third zone," Aris said, a hint of curiosity in his voice.

The door closed behind me. The agent sat in the center, same newspaper in hand. I was certain he wasn't reading it—just using it to seem more detached and dangerous.

He folded it slowly, set it on the chair, and stood. "Number Four," he drawled, cracking his neck. "You're coming through like an assembly line. Three out of four made it to me. Almost a record."

Like before, he moved—a blur, too fast for a normal eye. But I'd seen it. I couldn't match his speed, but I knew his move and target. As he vanished, I threw myself right, clumsily tumbling aside.

His fist missed by an inch, striking air.

Surprise flickered in his eyes. He hadn't expected it, but it changed nothing. Before I could rise, his foot slammed into my ribs. Air rushed from my lungs, pain darkening my vision.

"Not bad," he hissed, looming over me.

He began beating me—methodically, brutally, each strike calculated. He wasn't trying to knock me out. His goal was to break me, force me to activate my power in desperation.

"Stop… please…" I rasped, tasting blood.

He grabbed my hair, lifting my head. "Want me to stop? Fight back. Show me your power!"

My head rang. His boot was inches from my face. I knew I could do it—one mental effort, and we'd swap places. Or I could swap with his newspaper. But revealing my power would end the pain only to seal my fate. They'd know, prepare, and I'd lose.

No, I had to endure.

He struck again. And again. The world narrowed to a point of pain. He kept hitting until I blacked out.

***

"Interesting case," Aris's voice came as guards lifted my limp body. He watched through the glass with curiosity. "Specimen Number Four showed no abilities. Either deliberate concealment, unlikely, or activation requires a specific emotional or physical trigger not achieved during the stress test."

He paused, his gaze sharpening. "Schedule additional tests for Subject F-4. Increase surveillance."

The guards dragged me from the room.

"Next. Number Five, to the testing ground."

 

[kowak]

Pain dragged me back to consciousness. A dull, throbbing ache seeped into every muscle in my body. I opened my eyes and realized that, for the first time in six months, I hadn't woken up in my blindingly white room. This place was different. Gray stone walls, dim light from a single bulb hanging from the ceiling, a bed, and a toilet in the corner. Clean, but worn. I lay on a thin mattress, and every movement sparked a flare of pain in my ribs and face. I was hungry and thirsty.

I sat up, wincing, and looked around more carefully. My body was covered in bruises, but there were no open wounds. The first thing I noticed was the absence of Kairoseki handcuffs. My hands were free, and for a fleeting moment, my heart skipped with a strange flicker of hope. But I quickly crushed it.

I cautiously stood and approached the heavy bars that served as a door. I reached out and barely touched the cold metal. Instantly, a familiar wave of overwhelming weakness coursed through my body. I yanked my hand back, breathing heavily. The bars were made of Sea Stone.

Beyond them stretched an empty room with a single door. No guards, no visible surveillance. But I already knew better than to trust appearances. I scanned the corners of the cell, the ceiling. Even if I couldn't see a Den Den Mushi spying on me, I was certain it was there, watching, waiting for me to use my fruit's power.

And then it clicked.

This was a new kind of cage. A subtler, psychological trap. They'd removed the handcuffs and visible guards to give me the illusion of freedom and safety. To make me let my guard down and cautiously explore my power. Most people—especially a child suddenly gifted with an incredible ability—wouldn't resist the temptation to experiment when "no one" was watching.

But that wouldn't work on me.

The door to the outer room opened, and Dr. Aris appeared. He slid a tray of food under the bars. The same mashed potatoes and cutlet as always, with a glass of water. "Awake, F-4?" His voice was as steady as ever, but there was a hint of curiosity in it. "How are you feeling?"

I silently took the tray and sat on the bed.

"We've concluded that constant exposure to Kairoseki may negatively affect your physical condition, slowing your recovery," he continued, watching me closely. "So, we've provided you with… a freer environment."

Liar. This was just another attempt to feed me the illusion of freedom.

"Rest, regain your strength," Aris finished, then turned and left.

I ate slowly. The food was, as always, decently tasty. Every word he said only confirmed my suspicions. "Freer environment" meant "observation cage." "Regain your strength" meant "show us what you can do."

Well, I'd show them. But not what they expected.

After finishing the meal, I sat on the bed, leaning against the wall, feigning exhaustion. But my mind was clearer than ever. I focused on the floor. Near the wall, a few small bits of plaster had chipped off. Five nearly identical gray pebbles.

I "reached" toward them with my consciousness, feeling the familiar resonance. Stone A. Stone B. They were almost identical. Even I, staring at them, could barely tell them apart. Perfect objects for practice.

Click.

I didn't see it, but I knew—Stone A and Stone B had swapped places. No sound, no movement. A completely undetectable manipulation.

Click. Stone C and Stone D. Click. Stone A and Stone D.

The problem of mastering my power was solved. I could train for hours, and no one would notice. But there was another, far more serious problem.

My mind flashed back to the fight with the agent. His speed, my clumsy dodge. The barrage of blows I couldn't escape. Even if I perfectly mastered my power, my reaction speed was too slow. I might dodge two, maybe three strikes with this ability, but he'd just speed up and break me.

I needed to change my entire way of thinking. Stop reacting and start acting preemptively.

I needed to plan not one step ahead, but ten. Every movement had to be more than just a dodge—it had to set up the next step. No hesitation, no doubts. After the first "teleport," the second, third, and tenth had to follow immediately. A single delay meant death.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling, knowing full well that somewhere up there, the cold eye of a Den Den Mushi was watching me.

"Keep watching," I thought, feeling a fire of rage ignite within me. "Watch closely. Because when you finally figure out what I'm doing, it'll be too late."

A week had passed since Francis was moved to the new cell, and nothing had happened.

In the control center, buried deep within the complex, they monitored his existence. Dozens of screens lined the walls, displaying feeds from every residential section. At the consoles sat uniformed security personnel—observers. Their job was to record data. Every step, every meal, every sleep cycle, every muscle twitch during exercise—all reduced to dry lines in a report.

The control center door slid open silently, and Dr. Aris entered. He ignored the greeting nods. His eyes were fixed on the central monitor, where Francis was monotonously doing push-ups in his cell.

"Report on Subject F-4. Any changes in behavior?" he asked, addressing the senior observer.

The observer checked his notes. "No results, Doctor. Standard cycle: physical activity, meals, eight hours of sleep. No anomalous energy spikes. No signs of ability activation. The subject is behaving… predictably."

Aris tapped his tablet thoughtfully. "Understood. Continue monitoring," he said curtly and left without waiting for a response.

He walked down the corridor, eyes on his tablet screen, which displayed the experiment results for the "F" group. He updated the statuses one by one.

Subject F-1 (Zoan, Ara): Status—Transferred. Moved to Madame Elsa's jurisdiction at her personal request. Purpose: exotic display for social events. Further scientific study deemed unnecessary.

Subject F-2 (Paramecia, Command): Status—Transferred. Moved to the Security Division. Ability of interest for interrogation techniques. Subject to undergo intensive psychological conditioning and training.

Subject F-3 (Logia, Ash): Status—Terminated. Subject displayed uncontrollable aggression and was neutralized. Assigned to Project Rebirth.

And finally, Subject F-4. Aris paused, staring at the static image of the boy on his tablet. Everything suggested that an eight-year-old child, especially one with a history of defiance, wouldn't have the psychological discipline to suppress a new, incredible power for seven days. The temptation would be too great. Which led to one conclusion: the ability required a specific, yet-to-be-discovered trigger to activate.

Aris opened Francis's file and signed off on the "Emergency Measures" protocol. If the subject didn't show results in these tests, he'd follow number three to Project Rebirth.

Project Rebirth was the research center's most ambitious—and most disastrous—program. Its premise was simple yet horrifyingly crude: extracting a Devil Fruit from a living host. According to one scientist's hypothesis, when a fruit user dies, their "devil" immediately seeks a new host in the nearest suitable fruit of the same or similar type.

Based on this, a special chamber had been built deep within the complex. Its walls were lined with display cases holding hundreds of fruits from around the world, preserved in perfect conditions. "Failed" fruit users were brought there and killed—quickly, efficiently—in hopes that their power would transfer to one of the fruits in the cases.

So far, the success rate was one percent. Ninety-nine out of a hundred experiments ended in nothing. Ninety-nine lost unique abilities and ninety-nine corpses. But that single success kept the project alive with endless funding. If Dr. Aris could raise that success rate to even ten percent, his name would stand among the greatest minds of the World Government. For that, sacrificing a hundred or two slaves was a small price to pay.

Over seven days, the bruises faded from angry purple to yellowish streaks, then vanished entirely. The pain in my ribs dulled to a tolerable ache. I could move freely again, and with each day, my body—used to constant strain—recovered faster. But far more important was what I'd accomplished in those seven days of solitude in the gray cell. I'd explored my power. I'd tested its limits and learned its rules.

Rule One: Living beings. Every day at noon, I heard footsteps, and a guard appeared with my tray. He wasn't just a jailer to me—he was my primary training tool. I focused on him, "probing" him with my new sense. My power perceived him as a single, cohesive object. Not just a person, but a person-in-uniform-holding-a-tray. Everything directly touching his body—his clothes, boots, even the tray in his hands—was part of his "resonance." If I swapped places with him, he'd teleport with all his gear.

Rule Two: Myself. Things were different with me. My clothes and anything touching my body or hands were perceived as separate objects by my power.

Rule Three: Inanimate objects. If I placed a pebble on the bed, it didn't merge with it. They remained two distinct objects. My power didn't combine them.

With a power like this, I could do more than just survive—I could win.

I'd already devised an escape plan. Waiting for a convenient opportunity was foolish. In this place, there were no convenient opportunities—only tests and ways to die. I could feel that Aris wouldn't leave me alone.

Today, with my wounds nearly healed and my body ready, the moment was coming. Around noon, as always, the guard would bring my lunch. That brief, routine moment would be my window to freedom. The plan was risky, hinging on countless tiny details, but it was all I had.

I sat on the bed, listening. My heart beat steadily but loudly, like a drum pounding a war march. I heard the approaching footsteps. The time had come.

 

[kowak]

The sound of footsteps faded at the bars. I heard the familiar scrape of the lock and the groan of the door opening. "Hey, F-4, food's served," came the bored voice of the guard.

I stood up, a perfectly weighted pebble clutched in my hand. I didn't bother pretending to be weak anymore. No need. I looked the guard straight in the eyes. "Catch, you bastard," I said, my voice devoid of emotion.

I threw the pebble. It didn't fly fast, but it was precise, aimed right at his face. The guard instinctively jerked to dodge, but he was out of time. A centimeter from his nose, I activated my power.

Click.

The pebble, mid-flight, instantly and silently swapped places with the heavy metal collar around my neck. Something I hadn't noticed during my training with pebbles became clear: the speed of my throw didn't transfer to the collar. It didn't strike him—it simply appeared in the air right in front of his face.

But that didn't matter. The collar's sensor, no longer in contact with my body, triggered instantly. A piercing beep rang out, and a split second later, the collar exploded.

The blast was deafening, a blinding flash searing my eyes as the shockwave slammed into the bars. The guard's face turned to a bloody pulp, his body hurled backward, collapsing lifelessly to the floor, the tray of food clattering beside him.

I used my power again.

Click.

The world lurched, and suddenly I was standing next to the corpse, while the tray lay on the floor of my cell. I glanced briefly at what was left of the guard.

Crouching beside the body, I felt the sticky warmth of his blood. On his belt, I found what I was looking for—a white plastic card. The key to every door on this floor.

As I stood, a new realization solidified in my mind. Rule Four: inertia doesn't transfer. An object, when swapped, appears with zero velocity. This was both a strength and a weakness. I couldn't launch a "bullet" at an enemy, but an enemy I swapped wouldn't crash into a wall either—they'd simply appear at the new spot. I'd need to account for that.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor. They'd heard the explosion. From around the corner, where the elevator post was, two guards sprinted toward me. "Object F-4 has escaped! Stop, slave!"

They charged straight at me. Near the elevator post were two chairs they'd been sitting on.

Click.

I vanished from the corridor and appeared by the wall, swapping myself with one of the chairs. The guards faltered for a moment, running past where I'd just been. That second was all I needed. I pressed the card to the elevator's scanner. The button lit up, and the elevator began its descent.

They turned, and I saw what I'd feared. Their arms and legs were coated in a black, glossy sheen, just like that agent in the test chamber.

I probed them with my power. Their bodies felt denser, heavier. Moving them would take more effort, but it was still possible.

They lunged at me again. My plan shifted on the fly, adapting to the new rule. I wouldn't dodge—I'd stop them from moving.

The first guard was ten meters away.

Click.

I swapped him with the second, who was fifteen meters away. Their coordinated sprint faltered.

The first was now farther, the second closer. They froze for a moment, trying to process what happened, then charged again.

Click.

I swapped them again, right guard with left.

They couldn't close the distance. Each step forward, I swapped them, resetting their momentum. They were running in place, their faces twisting with rage and confusion. I felt something warm trickle over my lips—my blood vessels were straining under the pressure.

Ding.

The elevator doors opened behind me. Still juggling the guards, I stepped backward into the cabin without looking, my fingers finding the panel. I pressed the button for the lowest floor available.

Click. Click. Click.

I kept swapping them until the elevator doors hissed shut, cutting me off from them.

As soon as the doors closed, I collapsed to the floor, breathing heavily. Blood from my nose dripped onto the clean floor. Holding back just two of them, even with their enhancements, had drained me too much.

The elevator glided downward but suddenly screeched to a halt. The lights flickered and went out, replaced by dim emergency lighting.

They'd disabled the elevator. Expected.

I stood, wiping the blood with the back of my hand. In my hands were my weapons, my tools—a handful of pebbles I'd collected in my cell. I picked one. In the corner near the ceiling, a Den Den Mushi's eye glowed faintly.

Click.

The pebble in my hand swapped with the surveillance snail. It fell into my palm, and I crushed it with a crunch. They didn't need to see what I was doing anymore.

On the elevator's ceiling was a ventilation grate. I didn't have the strength to break it, but I didn't need to. I took the smallest pebble, aimed, and tossed it through a gap in the grate.

Click.

Now I stood on the elevator's roof, in the dark, oil-scented shaft. Below, in the locked cabin, lay my pebble.

Phase one, complete.

The brief respite was over. The guard had brought me lunch, so it was around noon. Most of the slaves would be in the dining hall now. This was my chance to sow chaos, spark a riot—but I needed to climb four levels up the vertical shaft.

I took one of my precious pebbles. Inhale. Exhale. The nosebleed had nearly stopped, but the weakness and dizziness lingered. No time to waste.

First throw. I tossed the pebble straight up as hard as I could. At the peak of its arc, when it hung motionless for a split second, I activated my power.

Click.

The world shifted. I was ripped from the elevator roof, hanging in midair where the pebble had been, before gravity pulled me down. But I was ready.

Without pause, I pulled another pebble. This time, I aimed not just up but diagonally, toward the shaft wall where I could see the outline of the next floor's doors.

Click.

Another disorienting moment, and I was clinging to a metal ledge on the wall. A "teleporting ladder" of sorts—short, exhausting jumps. Each click drained my strength, each throw demanding absolute focus.

Finally, I reached the target floor. I hung, fingers gripping a narrow gap between the elevator doors. The hardest part remained—prying them open. Six months of training had made me stronger, but this was still brutal.

I braced my feet against the wall, straining every muscle to the limit. The metal groaned in protest, resisting every millimeter. My fingers burned, my shoulders ached. Finally, a gap appeared—tiny, barely wider than my hand, but enough.

I slipped my hand through and tossed a small pebble inside. It clattered onto the corridor floor. I locked onto its resonance.

Click.

The bright light of the dining hall hit my eyes. I stood in front of the elevator doors. Nearby, two guards froze, staring at me in shock. They clearly hadn't expected an intruder to appear right behind them.

"What the—?! He's here!" one shouted, grabbing his radio. "The intruder was supposed to be on the lower levels! Kill him!" roared the other.

I smirked crookedly, feeling blood trickle down my chin again. "Looking for me?"

This time, things were different. I didn't need to hold them back. I needed to win.

They rushed me, their fists coated in that black Will again. The first swung for my head. As his fist neared, I swapped places with the second guard.

A dull thud and a choked cry followed. The first guard's punch slammed into his partner's jaw. The second flew back, crashing into the wall, unconscious, staring dazedly at his ally.

In that moment, the second guard—now closest to me—coated himself in Will, making him a tougher target for teleportation. But then he froze, gurgling. Sharp, razor-like teeth pierced his uniform and flesh, sinking into his throat. Behind him stood a shark Fishman, his black eyes empty of emotion. His jaws, infused with Will, were harder than steel. With a sickening crunch, he tore out a chunk of flesh and tossed the lifeless body aside.

He looked at me, his gills flaring predatorily. "Human," he growled with contempt, shaking blood from his chin. "The boss wants to see you."

My original plan—to burst into the dining hall and deliver a fiery speech to incite a slave revolt—crumbled to dust. But this was better. I nodded silently. No point wasting energy talking to him.

I followed him. Clearly, I wasn't the only one plotting an escape. The scene in the dining hall was a bloodbath—not a chaotic riot but a coordinated assault. Fishmen, strong and ferocious, moved as a unit, cutting through the guards. The other slaves reacted differently: some cowered in fear, others, inspired, grabbed chairs and joined the fight. Trays flew, screams echoed, and furniture splintered.

In the center of the chaos was an island of calm. Several tables were pushed together, forming an impromptu command post. Behind it loomed a massive Fishman resembling a whale shark. On the table sat a Den Den Mushi, but not like the ones in this facility—its shell was adorned with patterns, an outsider.

The shark Fishman led me to him and stood silently behind the leader. The giant looked at me with a calm but piercing gaze. "Call me Jimbei," he said, his voice low and rumbling. "You're not wearing a collar. How'd you get it off?"

Before I could answer, he continued, as if thinking aloud. "From what you did to those guards, you can swap yourself or objects with other things. So, you just swapped your collar with something else, right?"

I nodded silently. His perceptiveness was unnerving. "Yes."

He nodded, as if it was obvious. "You fought your way here, boy. You must've had a plan. What were you going to do once you got here?"

I sensed a test. I needed an answer that would satisfy him without revealing my true motives. I gave a half-truth. "Free the slaves from their collars. Sooner or later, they'll send reinforcements through the elevator. We fight them, take the elevator, and go up. I hadn't thought beyond that."

Jimbei stared at me, unblinking. The silence stretched for seconds. "You're lying," he said calmly. "I can feel it. Your intentions speak louder than your words."

Damn.

"Besides," he continued, "your 'plan' has too many holes. We're on the lower levels. After your escape, all elevators are locked. Even if we take one, what stops them from cutting the power again? And it seems you don't know how these collars really work. What's stopping them from blowing us all up with the press of a button?"

He paused, letting his words sink in. "You don't care about these people's lives. You wanted to sow chaos, start a bloodbath, and escape in the confusion the same way you got up here from the lower floors. Use them as bait, a living shield."

How does he know I came from below?

As if reading my thoughts, he answered. "I heard the guards talking when you arrived."

But he wasn't nearby. He was too far, and it's so noisy here—how could he hear?

Jimbei slowly, confidently extended his massive hand—big as my chest—toward me, as if to grab me. "No matter."

I wasn't about to give him a chance. My plan had failed. He knew too much, was too dangerous. In a panic, I locked onto a man in the crowd.

Click.

I was ten meters from the table, among the frightened slaves. But Jimbei, unnaturally fast, pinpointed my new location and charged. He didn't run—he plowed through the crowd like an icebreaker through thin ice.

"CALM DOWN, BOY!" his voice boomed over the dining hall's chaos, freezing many in place. "I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU PLANNED! YOUR POWER IS USEFUL TO US! WORK WITH US, AND I'LL OFFER YOU A BETTER PLAN!"

He stopped a few steps away, no longer reaching for me, showing he wasn't attacking. I was breathing heavily, my mind racing. He was right about everything. My plan to use them as bait was naive—I hadn't even considered saving everyone, dismissing them as dead weight. And that foreign Den Den Mushi—could he contact the outside world?

I straightened, trying to hide my trembling. "I'll hear your plan," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "But first, you answer my questions."

Jimbei tilted his head slightly, his eyes showing not surprise but serious interest. "Ask."

"First: how did you hear what the guards said from so far away? And how did you instantly know where I teleported? Second: how do these collars actually work? You said they could blow us up—why are we still alive? Third: that Den Den Mushi isn't from this facility. You have contact with the outside. Who are you people?

I paused, gathering myself for the last. "And fourth: you're too strong to be just a slave. How did you end up here?"

He listened silently, his face unreadable. Then he exhaled slowly. "Good questions. They show your mind is sharper than most your age. I'll start with the first. What you're asking about is called 'Will' or 'Haki.' There are three types, but you only need to know two for now."

He raised his hand, not clenching it, just letting it hang in the air. "The first is Observation Haki. The world is full of 'voices,' boy. Most people only hear with their ears and see with their eyes. Observation Haki lets you sense the presence of living beings, their emotions, their intentions. I didn't see where you teleported—I felt your presence vanish from one spot and flare up in another. I felt your 'voice.' Just like I felt the lie in your heart when you spoke of your 'plan.'"

He lowered his hand and clenched it into a fist. His blue skin coated itself in a glossy black layer. The air around his fist seemed to thicken. "The second is Armament Haki. Will made into invisible armor. It can protect you or strengthen your strike." He looked me in the eyes. "It's why fists can harm Logia users. Armament Haki is the only thing that can deal real damage to Devil Fruit users."

"Second question. The collars can't be detonated on command. A remote trigger is too risky—what if a stray signal sets them all off? Or rebels seize the control? The collars are a leash. They have sensors tied to this 'holy' place's coordinates. Leave Mariejois, and they explode. That's why our second team is fighting to the central guard post for the keys."

"Third question," he continued, pride in his voice. "We're the Sun Pirates, a Fishman pirate crew. Our goal is to free the slaves, led by our captain, Fisher Tiger."

"And fourth. I wasn't captured, or rather, I let myself be captured. I needed to infiltrate this place. Our plan is far bigger than a simple riot. Up above, on the holiest ground, a battle will soon begin. Our uprising down here is just one strike."

I stood silent, processing. Will… Haki… that's how the agent beat a Logia. Jimbei wasn't alone, explaining their knowledge, organization, and outside contact. This was a planned escape.

I met his gaze. "What do you need from me?"

"Before I lay out the plan, tell me, boy. What happened to your collar after you removed it?" he asked.

"It exploded," I said curtly.

"As I thought. That's good, very good," he said, leaning his massive hands on the table.

"The plan has three stages," Jimbei began, his voice lowering. "Stage one: isolation. This sector has four main elevators. I want you to destroy them. Go to each one, teleport a collar into the cabin or the shaft mechanism, and detonate it. We need to cut off their access here."

"Stage two: breakthrough. Once the elevators are down, my men and I will breach the wall in this hall, creating an opening."

He looked at me, his gaze heavy. "Then comes stage three. Your stage. You'll stand at the breach and teleport collars one by one deep into the rock. Each explosion will carve a cavity, paving our way up. It'll be dangerous, but with Observation Haki, I'll 'listen' to the rock, guide you, and ensure we don't trigger a collapse that buries us all. Explosion by explosion, we'll carve a path to the surface, where the battle will already be raging."

I nodded silently. My strength was low, but I knew moving inanimate objects was far easier than people, especially Haki users.

 

[kowak]

At the same time, beneath the foundation of the Red Line…

Fisher Tiger stood on the deck of a ship hidden within an underwater cavern. Before him stood his brothers—the Sun Pirates. Fishmen of all kinds, united by his ideals. His gaze swept over them, burning with an unquenchable fire.

"Brothers!" His voice, amplified by the cave's echo, rumbled like a volcano. "For too long, we've seen shackles! For too long, we've heard the cries of those broken for others' whims! These chains don't just rust on our wrists—they devour our very souls! But today, that ends!"

He tore off his cloak, revealing the branded scar of a slave, now overlaid with his blazing tattoo—the symbol of the sun.

"We are the Sun Pirates! Our mark isn't that of a master, but of brotherhood! This sun on our bodies burns away the brand of slavery, turning it into the flame of will! Let the world know: no one has the right to own another life! Today, we break the chains of slavery!"

With a deafening roar, hundreds of bodies dove into the dark water. When Fisher Tiger was a slave in Mariejois, he had worked on the water supply system. He knew it like the back of his hand. Beneath the Red Line lay a massive intake well that drew water from the ocean, channeling it upward through a complex system of filters and pumps.

Now, they swam into that well. The powerful current swept them upward, straight toward the heart of Mariejois. Filters and massive grates blocked debris, but they couldn't stop those whose bodies were strengthened by Will.

After swimming a considerable distance, they reached a labyrinth of colossal pipes where water was distributed throughout the holy land. Each Sun Pirate carried a waterproof bomb, specially crafted by a master from Water 7. With precise, practiced movements, they attached the charges to pipe junctions. These would not only create exits at key points but also keep their enemies occupied.

Fisher Tiger and his strongest allies, however, had a different target: the security division. He knew exactly which pipe led directly beneath it. Breaking off from the main group, they swam toward their greatest battle. Fisher was a tiger returning to his cage to tear out the throats of his former captors.

Sirens wailed, bathing the research division's control center in an anxious red glow. Dozens of monitors, usually displaying sterile corridors and obedient slaves, now showed chaos. Cameras, still intact amid the battle's frenzy, broadcast scenes of carnage in the dining hall: fishmen crushing guards, and explosions flaring near elevator shafts.

Dr. Aris, pale and with a twitching eye, stood watching it all. His pristine white lab coat was stained with coffee he'd spilled in a panic.

"Any response?" he barked at a trembling assistant clutching a Den Den Mushi.

"They… they're responding!" the assistant stammered, holding out the snail.

Aris snatched it.

"Security! What the hell is going on?!" he shouted into the snail, disregarding protocol. "We've got a full-scale revolt! Sector D is overrun! My specimens are out of control! All four elevators are destroyed! We're cut off from the world! This is your job—to prevent this kind of thing!"

A calm, almost indifferent voice came through the Den Den Mushi, starkly contrasting the blaring sirens. Static crackled, hinting at chaos on the other end.

"Dr. Aris, remain calm and report the situation. We're detecting multiple unauthorized explosions in your sector."

"Report?!" Aris screeched. "I just told you everything! I need reinforcements! Send a squad, clear out this trash, and get my… my assets back in their cells!"

A heavy sigh came from the other end.

"Doctor, I'm afraid that's impossible. We're dealing with a full-scale invasion. The Sun Pirates, led by Fisher Tiger himself, are attacking on the surface. All available forces, including Geppo users who could descend the elevator shafts, are deployed to protect critical assets. We have no spare personnel to handle a revolt in an underground lab."

Aris froze, his face twisting in disbelief.

"But… you can't just abandon us! My research!"

"Your research, Doctor, isn't going anywhere," the voice cut in. "You're in an isolated sector deep underground. The elevators are destroyed—where are they going to go? Seal the corridors, lock yourself in the control center, and wait. We'll deal with the external threat first. Once it's neutralized, we'll come to you and conduct a full sweep. End of transmission."

The Den Den Mushi's eyes drooped shut, ending the call.

For a moment, Aris stared at the dormant snail. Then, with a furious snarl, he hurled it against the wall, shattering its shell.

"Damn it!" he hissed through gritted teeth.

The air was thick with damp, heavy dust that clogged my nostrils and lungs. Each step across the uneven, molten rock we'd created sent a dull ache through my body. My head throbbed from the strain of dozens of "teleports." I desperately wanted to collapse and pass out, but I pushed the thought away. Now wasn't the time. If Jimbei was right and a full-scale battle was raging above, this was my best chance. Chaos is a fugitive's best friend.

We reached the end of our makeshift cave. Jimbei stepped forward, and the crowd of slaves parted respectfully. He closed his eyes, focusing. I felt the air around him grow dense, heavy. His massive hand gleamed with glossy black Will.

"Karate Fishman Seiken!"

He didn't punch. He struck the ceiling with an open palm. There was barely a shockwave, but the stone above cracked, then crumbled silently into dust, revealing a passage.

For the first time in six months, I saw the sky. Gray, clouded, but real and alive. Fresh, cool air flooded the tunnel, and I inhaled it deeply.

Jimbei and his men climbed out first, quickly taking defensive positions. I followed and froze for a moment. Mariejois's pristine lawns had become a battlefield. In the distance, I heard shouts, explosions, and the clash of steel. The Sun Pirates were fighting agents in black suits.

I didn't say goodbye. Gratitude was a luxury I couldn't afford. Jimbei fought for an ideal, for everyone's freedom. I fought only for my own life. Turning, I ran—not away from the battle, but alongside it, toward the path I'd taken on my first day here. I remembered the route: past the fountain with winged fish, down the avenue of perfectly round trees. There was an elevator platform, the only way I knew to descend this cursed continent. How they planned to get hundreds of slaves down didn't concern me. My plan was simpler: jump off the cliff and swap places with an object before hitting the ground.

I ran, weaving through decorative bushes, sticking to the shadows of buildings. Then I collided with someone. That alone was strange—moments ago, the avenue was empty. Stranger still, my power didn't register him. He didn't "resonate" in my mind like others. It was as if he wasn't there.

Before me stood an impossibly tall man in an elegant yellow pinstripe suit. He adjusted his cuffs, lazily scanning the surroundings as if the battle around him was a mildly amusing show.

"O-o-oh," he drawled, his voice as slow and languid as his movements. "So-o-orry. Didn't see-e you."

He turned to me, a relaxed, almost sleepy smirk on his face.

"Te-e-ell me, ki-i-id," he continued, stretching every vowel. "What's a-a-all this ru-u-uckus about?"

My mind raced. This man was dangerous—on a level I couldn't even comprehend. The best tactic was to play scared.

"A revolt!" I shouted, lacing my voice with panic and righteous anger. "A bunch of filthy slaves dared to rebel! Over there, they're fighting the guards! You have to stop them!" I pointed toward the heart of the battle, where Jimbei was tossing agents aside.

The man glanced in that direction and nodded knowingly.

"A-a-ah, got i-i-it. Tha-a-anks, ki-i-id."

He strolled toward the fight. I exhaled mentally. I'd dodged a bullet. I turned to run, but his voice stopped me.

"Bu-u-ut… wai-i-it."

I froze.

"It's so-o-o weird," he said, turning back. His eyes, behind his glasses, seemed to pierce through me. "You've got a sla-a-ave brand… but no co-o-ollar. Ho-o-ow'd you get it o-o-off?"

"Damn."

My mind raced through options, but I went with the boldest.

"Wanna see a trick?"

He blinked, his smirk widening.

"O-o-oh? A tri-i-ick? Sho-o-ow me."

I raised my hand and flipped him off.

Click.

"Wha-a-at a ru-u-ude ki-i-id."

The world lurched. I swapped places with an agent mid-swing at a fishman in the battle's core. Disoriented, surrounded by screams and the stench of blood, I didn't hesitate. I bolted, trying to lose myself in the fighting crowd. The man in yellow appeared out of nowhere—his speed was terrifying. But I was sure even he'd need time to find me in this chaos.

I'd gone barely ten meters when a flash of light materialized in front of me. The same man blocked my path, standing in that same relaxed pose, as if he hadn't moved.

"No-o-ow…" he began, his voice still maddeningly slow.

I didn't let him finish. Click. I swapped with a slave cowering against a wall thirty meters away. Run! I had to run while—

"Ki-i-id…" His voice came from right behind me.

I spun around. There he was, hands in pockets, appearing faster than I could teleport. Cold sweat drenched me. This was impossible.

Click.

Another jump, this time to the roof of a low building where an agent was firing a rifle. I landed and immediately heard above me:

"…tri-i-ick."

He hovered overhead, arms crossed lazily, his yellow suit gleaming even under Mariejois's cloudy sky. His smirk never wavered.

"Wanna see a-a-another tri-i-ick?" His voice sounded like he was offering candy, not a display of his monstrous power.

I clenched my fists, panting heavily.

"No thanks," I managed.

He sighed theatrically, as if genuinely disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm.

"Bu-u-ut I'm gonna sho-o-ow you anywa-a-ay."

He didn't even move. He raised a finger, and the world ceased to exist. An invisible, overwhelming force crushed me into the roof. The air turned thick as water, and the sounds of battle drowned in a deafening hum in my ears. I tried to activate my power, to swap with any rock or object below, but nothing worked. My gift, my only hope, was… paralyzed by this oppressive aura. My consciousness began to fade. As my strength waned, I heard his distorted voice through the pressure:

"The-e-ere we go-o-o."

But before darkness fully claimed me, a blurred shadow slammed into the man in yellow, sending him flying dozens of meters. The bright light emanating from him flickered out.

"Using Conqueror's Haki on a kid who can barely stand. Have you no shame, Borsalino?"

The pressure vanished instantly. I gasped, the air light again. Before me stood an elderly man with long gray hair and a scar over his right eye. Despite his age, he radiated calm, unshakable power.

The man in yellow—Borsalino—stood, brushing off his jacket as if nothing had happened.

"Didn't expe-e-ect the Dark King himself, Silvers Rayleigh, to sho-o-ow up here," he drawled, his lazy smirk unchanged but his eyes glinting with interest.

Rayleigh ignored him. He looked at me, his gaze surprisingly warm.

"You held up well, kid. Now get out of here."

I nodded without hesitation. My power was back. I focused on the furthest building I could see, sensing a flowerpot on a balcony.

Click.

The world blurred, and I was on the balcony. I leapt to the roof and kept running. I didn't look back. Behind me, I heard the clash of impact and a bright flash, but I didn't dare stop.

And then I reached the edge. The Red Line's cliff. Wind whipped my face, tearing at my slave rags. Thousands of meters below, the ocean roared, and in the distance, Marine ships approached like toys, cutting off escape routes. But one ship sailed away from the island.

I could've tried stealing a docked noble's ship, but I had no idea how to sail. My plan was insane, but it was all I had.

I jumped off the cliff. Freefall, wind screaming in my ears. As I picked up speed, I released a stone I'd kept. It fell with me. Just before it overtook me, I swapped places with it.

Click.

My momentum reset. I hung in the air briefly before falling again at zero speed. In jerky bursts, I descended, finally landing softly on a rocky outcrop by the water.

I looked out. The ship was already far off. I grabbed a handful of heavy stones, perfect for throwing.

First throw. The stone arced toward the ship. At its peak—click. I was in the air, above the crystal-blue ocean, its deadly beauty calling to me. Before I could fall, I threw another stone. Click. A third. Click. A fourth. With each jump, the ship grew closer, my strength fading.

I was halfway there. Fifth throw. Sixth. At this distance, I finally sensed a "resonance" from the deck—not a stone or plank, but a heavy iron cannonball left by a cannon. That would do.

Click.

I crashed onto the wooden deck as the cannonball took my place, splashing into the water. A dozen former slaves stared at me in fear. At the helm stood a woman with short dark hair, calmly smoking a cigarette, oddly composed for someone with Marine ships closing in.

She exhaled a plume of smoke and gave me a faint smirk.

"You made it just in time, kid."

She pressed a button on the helm. From beneath the ship, massive sea serpents, chained, burst forth, pulling the vessel forward with incredible force. We surged ahead, leaving the Marine ships behind. Their cannons fired, but the shots landed far astern.

My strength was gone. Adrenaline faded, leaving only crushing exhaustion. I didn't know these people, but it didn't matter now.

I'd escaped.

 

[kowak]

The air in the Hall of Power atop Pangea Castle was frigid. Here, at the heart of the world, Jamie knelt in the center of the chamber. He dared not lift his eyes to the five silhouettes seated on thrones before him. The Five Elders, the Gorosei, gods in the eyes of mere mortals. Their presence exuded an aura of such ancient and absolute authority that the very space seemed to bow before them.

A bead of sweat trickled down Jamie's temple. His expensive suit, a symbol of his status in the lower world, felt like a pitiful rag here. After several minutes of oppressive silence, one of the Elders, a tall man with long blond hair and a mustache, gave a slight nod.

Jamie swallowed, his throat dry. He began his report, striving to keep his voice steady.

"I report on the incident in the Holy Land. A coordinated attack, led by the fugitive slave, Fish-Man Fisher Tiger, and his group, the Sun Pirates, resulted in a mass slave escape. Preliminary estimates suggest approximately sixty percent of the total number escaped."

He paused, awaiting a reaction. None came.

"Their primary goal, it seems, was the liberation of slaves of all races," Jamie continued, choosing his words carefully. "For evacuation, they used flying fish to descend the Red Line, and their ship was coated with Yarukiman mangrove resin, allowing them to escape underwater. The Marines and our forces were unable to pursue them into the depths."

"But the greatest and most irreplaceable loss," he added, "was the research facility beneath the Red Line. Due to the uprising, ninety percent of the 'assets' were lost. Some were killed in the chaos, while others escaped with the main group of rebels."

Jamie dared a fleeting glance upward. Saint Jaygarcia Saturn, responsible for science and defense, wore an impassive expression, but his eyes glinted with cold fury.

"The cause and catalyst of the research sector's revolt was Subject F-4, an eight-year-old boy named Francis," Jamie continued. "During an experiment, he consumed an unknown Paramecia-type Devil Fruit, granting him the ability to instantly swap living and non-living objects within his line of sight. With this power, he neutralized the guards, disabled all elevators, and carved a breach through the rock, linking up with the main rebel group."

"Vice-Admiral Borsalino was immediately dispatched to apprehend him," Jamie added hastily, trying to show that measures had been taken. "However, Silvers Rayleigh, the former first mate of the Roger Pirates, intervened. A battle ensued, and in the confusion, Subject F-4 escaped."

Finishing his report, Jamie fell silent, bowing his head and awaiting his fate. The silence that followed was even more terrifying than before.

The first to speak was Saint Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro, the Elder with a large sword. His voice was calm. "Silvers Rayleigh... The Dark King was supposed to fade into legend, not meddle in the world's affairs."

"That doesn't concern me. What irritates me is the disruption of order," rumbled Saint Topman Warcury, stroking his massive mustache. "The very idea that slaves—lowly creatures—could stage an organized uprising in the heart of the world is an insult to the divine order. It must be punished, harshly and publicly."

Finally, Saint Jaygarcia Saturn spoke. His voice remained level, but each word dripped with icy rage. "We must show these Fish-Men and the world that their pathetic attempts are futile. For every spark of their so-called 'freedom,' darkness will engulf their entire kind. I propose tripling the market price for Fish-Man slaves immediately. Let the hunt begin. Let their race drown in the consequences of Fisher Tiger's actions."

He turned his gaze to Jamie, who felt his insides twist with dread. "A bounty must also be placed on the boy. For his dead head, one hundred million belly to start."

Then he addressed Jamie directly, his voice devoid of mercy. "You, Jamie, brought this 'merchandise.' Your failure cost us unique specimens and destabilized the situation. You have one chance to redeem your worthlessness. You will find his relatives, his friends, every soul he has ever been connected to. You will learn everything about him: where he was born, what he ate, what he feared as a child. And you will deliver everyone you find here, in chains. They will serve as leverage—and excellent material for future experiments."

Jamie bowed deeply, his forehead nearly touching the floor. "It will be done, Your Holiness."

"Get out," Saturn said dismissively. Jamie backed out of the hall.

When the heavy doors closed behind him, he finally straightened and caught his breath. He had survived, but now his life depended on capturing a boy who, in a single day, had transformed from a slave into a global threat.

Consciousness returned slowly, pulling me from the darkness. The first sensation wasn't pain but its absence. My body, which had been either strained to its limits or burning from beatings, now felt foreign—relaxed and heavy. I lay on something soft, under a warm blanket. The air smelled of wood, a faint hint of alcohol, and something subtly clean, like medicine.

I opened my eyes. The ceiling was wooden, with exposed beams. The room was small but cozy. Turning my head, I saw a stand with a clear bag, a thin tube running from it to my arm, secured with a bandage. Strangely, the sight of the IV brought relief. Whoever had found me wasn't planning to let me die—at least not yet.

Gathering my strength, I sat up. My head spun, and a dull, aching pain throbbed in my muscles—a lingering consequence of my recent "jumps" and everything else. I yanked the needle from my vein. A sting of pain, a drop of blood on the back of my hand.

Carefully, holding the wall for support, I left the room. I found myself in a place resembling a bar: a long, polished wooden counter, rows of bottles, dim lamplight. At a round table sat a group. The navigator woman who had calmly smoked on the ship. The man with a scar and gray hair who had saved me from Borsalino. And three girls, one of whom was the Amazon chosen by Madame Elsa. They looked exhausted but were dressed in clean clothes, silently eating steaming soup.

The woman noticed me first and smiled warmly, exhaling a stream of smoke. "Well, look who's awake. Our hero's finally up. We thought you'd sleep through to the next era. You lost a lot of blood and were out for three days. I'm Shakuyaku, and this is Rayleigh," she nodded toward the gray-haired man. "And these young ladies are Hancock, Sandersonia, and Marigold. Sit, you need to eat."

She gestured to an empty chair, but I didn't move. My legs felt leaden, not just from weakness but from distrust. Rayleigh might have fought a vice-admiral, and Shakuyaku might have gotten us out from under the Marines' fire. But in the past six months, I'd learned one lesson: free cheese only comes in a mousetrap, and it's usually poisoned.

"What's the price?" My voice came out hoarse and quiet, but in the ensuing silence, each word cut through the air.

Shakuyaku blinked in surprise. Rayleigh looked up from his cup. "Price for what, kid? For a bowl of soup?"

"For all of this," I gestured around the room. "How do I know you're not just another kind of slaver, with a subtler approach? Instead of chains, you offer fake concern. Instead of a whip, kind words. Creating an illusion of safety to bind us emotionally rather than physically? What's your gain?"

The atmosphere at the table shifted instantly. It didn't turn dark—it turned awkward, embarrassed. The Amazon girls stared at me in confusion. Hancock leapt to her feet, her face twisted with anger. "How dare you!" she pointed at me, her voice trembling. "These people saved us! They risked their lives! And you dare insult them?!"

"Hancock, calm down," Rayleigh said gently.

Shakuyaku chuckled, stubbing out her cigarette in an ashtray. "Wow, kid, you've spun quite the conspiracy in that head of yours. You think too much."

But Rayleigh smiled, not with mockery but with a deep sadness. "You describe everything in such cynical terms," he said calmly. "But didn't you just describe the concept of a family? Or a crew? People care for each other, protect each other, help each other, and in return, they gain support and loyalty. The difference lies in whether it's built on coercion or free will. Either way," he shrugged, "you're free to do as you please. We're not keeping you. The door's right there."

He pointed to the exit. "But I'd suggest throwing something over your back. The Celestial Dragon's brand on Sabaody Archipelago is like an invitation for slave hunters. And there are plenty of those around here."

His words hit harder than any fist. Family... He was right. I'd described a family but twisted it into the most terrifying prison. What had I become?

My stomach churned with hunger at the sight of the steaming soup, but pride—or perhaps fear of this unfamiliar kindness—was stronger. I didn't sit. Instead, I turned and walked to the door. A few old coats hung on a rack. I took the simplest, darkest one. The fabric was rough, but it reliably hid the brand on my back.

I stepped outside, the bell above the door chiming softly behind me. The sign above read: Shakuyaku's Rip-off Bar. Fitting name, I had to admit.

I wandered away from the bar, aimlessly following a path. Towering trees surrounded me, their trunks thicker than any building I'd ever seen, their canopies lost in the sky. Between them, bubbles floated slowly, majestically, shimmering in the sunlight with every color of the rainbow, reflecting the world. Some people rode them like fantastical carriages.

It felt like a fairy tale. The kind of life I'd read about in children's books in my white cage. But inside me, there was no fairy tale—only a burned-out emptiness and Rayleigh's words ringing in my head: "Didn't you just describe the concept of a family?"

I found a sunlit clearing and collapsed onto the grass, exhausted. It was real, slightly damp, and cool. I lay on my back, hands behind my head, staring at the sky. The coat I'd taken weighed on my shoulders but also gave a strange sense of protection, hiding the brand.

Was I free? Physically, yes. But my soul... my soul was still in chains. I replayed the past six months in my mind: the fear, Jamie's disgusted face, the pain of the searing brand, the dead eyes of the slaves. My own escape plan.

I'd done everything to survive. I didn't regret killing the guards or using the other slaves' panic as cover. It was a war, and I used every weapon available. But... there wasn't a single spark in my thoughts about saving anyone else. Jinbe wanted to free everyone. Rayleigh and Shakuyaku took in three frightened girls. And me? I only thought of myself.

The words I'd said in the bar... that wasn't me speaking. That was a broken, bitter slave who saw a trap in every kindness. My hatred for Jamie, for Aris, for the Celestial Dragons had made me like them—cynical, unable to trust. And I desperately didn't want to be that way.

I didn't want to just exist, skulking from one shadow to another, always looking over my shoulder. I needed a purpose. A purpose bigger than survival, bigger than revenge.

I thought of them all. John, taken for "testing." The teenager who turned to ash. Hundreds of faces, united by a single brand and a single hopelessness.

The Sun Pirates—they were heroes. They freed slaves, gave them hope. But they fought the symptoms. Tomorrow, new slaves would replace the freed ones. The system would remain. The root of all this pain wasn't slavery itself. It was the World Government and the Celestial Dragons, who created a world where owning another person was normal, a privilege.

And in that moment, staring into the endless blue sky, it all became clear. I wouldn't just free slaves. I would destroy the very idea of slavery. I wouldn't fight the symptoms—I would rip out the root of evil. I wouldn't challenge mere slavers. I would challenge the entire World Government.

I slowly raised my hand to the sun, its light filtering through my fingers, and clenched my fist, as if trying to seize the sun itself. "I'll destroy you," I whispered through cracked lips.

In that moment, as the vow took root in my soul, something invisible surged from me in all directions. It wasn't like my Fruit's power—it was a wave of pure pressure, a silent scream of my will. The grass around me bent, and a few birds perched on a branch dropped to the ground, unconscious. The world froze for a second, then a sharp weakness hit me, as if both my physical and spiritual strength had been drained.

At Shakuyaku's Rip-off Bar, several glasses rattled on the shelf. "What was that?" Sandersonia whispered, looking around. "Such a... terrifying feeling..."

Shakuyaku, about to light a new cigarette, froze with the lighter in her hand. She and Rayleigh turned toward the door, where the boy had gone. "An attack?" she asked, her relaxed demeanor briefly vanishing.

Rayleigh stayed silent for a moment, listening to something beyond the others' perception. Then a cryptic smile spread across his face. "No, Shaki. Something far more interesting," he said, taking a sip of tea. "It seems our little cynic just found a purpose in life."

He kept looking in the direction Francis had gone, a glint of respect in his eyes. "He's awakened Conqueror's Haki. A voice possessed by only one in a million. This boy is going to make a lot of noise in this world."

For hours, I wandered through that fairy-tale forest of giant trees, letting my thoughts and new purpose settle in my mind. My feet carried me back to Shakuyaku's Rip-off Bar.

Inside, it was quiet. Mustering my courage, I pushed the door open. The bell chimed again, announcing my return.

Everyone had finished eating. Hancock and her sisters moved almost silently, clearing empty plates from the table. Shakuyaku wiped down the counter, and Rayleigh sat in the same spot, a newspaper in hand, though I was certain he wasn't reading it. All eyes turned to me, and an awkward silence fell.

I stepped into the center of the room, uncomfortable under their gazes. I wasn't used to apologizing, but I bowed my head, staring at the floor. "I... was wrong. I'm sorry for my behavior."

The words were hard to say, but I said them. Shakuyaku paused her wiping, then gave a warm, understanding smile, as if she saw not an angry boy but a stubborn, frightened child. "No big deal," she said simply. "Want some soup? There's plenty left."

I nodded silently. That simple offer meant more than any words of forgiveness. As Shakuyaku ladled a steaming bowl of fragrant soup, I sat across from Rayleigh. He set the newspaper aside.

"That man in the yellow suit... Borsalino, you called him," I said. "How did he do it? He didn't react to my 'jumps.' He was always where I appeared, like he knew in advance. It didn't feel like simple foresight."

Rayleigh studied me, a spark of interest in his eyes, like a teacher hearing a question from a student. "What do you know about Haki, kid?" he asked in return.

The Amazon girls, overhearing, perked up, pausing their work to listen. "I've seen it used," I said, recalling the agent in the cell and the guards. "And Jinbe explained a bit. There's Armament Haki, which creates invisible armor and lets you hit Devil Fruit users. And Observation Haki, which lets you sense others. But what Borsalino did... it doesn't fit either of those."

Rayleigh sipped his tea. "That was Observation Haki, but refined to a level where it becomes something more. Picture a calm lake. An ordinary Observation Haki user feels ripples when a stone hits the water—they know something happened. An experienced user feels the splash the moment the stone hits. But a master..." he paused, "a master senses the intent in the hand about to throw the stone. They see not just what's happened, but a glimpse of the future."

I froze, my spoon halfway to my mouth. He saw the future. That's why my power was useless—he knew where I'd jump before the thought fully formed in my head.

"Scholars from Ohara proposed a theory about the 'Laplace Demon,'" Rayleigh continued, "a hypothetical mind that, knowing the position and speed of every particle in the universe, could predict the future. What you saw is something like that, embodied in willpower. He doesn't just guess—he sees a fragment of the coming reality."

It was a chilling revelation, showing me the vast gap between me and the enemies I'd chosen. I finished my soup in silence. It was delicious, but I barely tasted it. One thought consumed me. Setting the bowl down, I looked at Rayleigh again. "Will you teach me?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Teach you what?"

"Everything. Observation Haki, Armament Haki. How to see the future. Teach me to use this power."

Rayleigh chuckled, but this time without sadness. His eyes sparkled with amusement. "Ha, so impatient. You can't learn this in a day. Haki is honed over decades, sharpened in countless battles—especially the advanced forms, though some awaken it in childhood. I'm not against sharing knowledge, but I have a question. Why do you want this power? What are you going to do with it?"

The room fell silent, all eyes on me. I felt Hancock and her sisters watching. I straightened and met Rayleigh's gaze, pouring all the resolve born in that clearing into my voice. "I'll turn this world upside down. I'll destroy the Celestial Dragons and tear down the rotten foundations of the World Government. And if I have to, to create a just new order, I'll become the ruler of this world."

The bar was silent, stunned. The girls stared at me, wide-eyed with shock. Even Shakuyaku stopped smiling, studying me with a new, serious interest. Then a loud, booming laugh broke the silence. Rayleigh roared with laughter, leaning back in his chair, tears streaming down his face. "Hahaha! Oh, I can't... You're even crazier and more ambitious than my captain!"

I blinked, surprised. "Who was your captain?"

Rayleigh wiped his tears, still grinning. "The Pirate King. Gol D. Roger."

It was my turn to be shocked. The first mate of the Pirate King himself sat before me. "He loved saying impossible things too," Rayleigh continued, growing serious. "And the funny thing is, he made them happen. I see that same spark of madness in you. Alright, kid, I'll help you. We'll start training next week. You all need time to recover."

Before he could finish, Hancock stepped forward, resolute. "Me too!" she said firmly. "I want to be strong too! I'll never... let anyone..." Her voice faltered, but her gaze held steady.

"Us too!" her sisters chimed in unison, standing beside her.

Rayleigh looked at us all: me, with my impossible dream, and three girls desperate for strength to protect themselves. He sighed heavily, but his smile widened. "Fine, fine. Looks like I'm opening a whole academy here. I'll teach you all, but don't expect me to go easy on any of you."

 

[kowak]

A quiet, serene atmosphere settled over the bar, one I was utterly unaccustomed to. And I found myself facing a problem, terrifying in its simplicity: what do I do now?

My entire conscious life had been driven by a single goal—survive and escape. Training, sleep, food, constant analysis—everything served that purpose. Now that I'd achieved it, a ringing emptiness echoed inside me. Freedom was disorienting. I had no hobbies, no passions. The only thing that brought me something akin to joy was reading, devouring information.

Hesitantly, I rose from the table and approached Shakuyaku, who leaned against the counter, savoring a cigarette as she watched us.

"Do you… have any books?" I asked.

She gave me a thoughtful look, exhaling a ring of smoke that slowly dissolved in the dim lamplight.

"Books, huh? What's our little revolutionary interested in?"

"Anything you've got," I replied earnestly, ignoring her gentle teasing. "Politics, economics of different countries. History, especially stories about those who changed the world, the strongest."

Shakuyaku took another deep drag, her eyes briefly veiled by smoke.

"The first part's easy—I've got a whole library from bored pirates. But the second… Boy…"

"Francis," I interjected softly but firmly. "My name is Francis."

She smiled, faint crow's feet gathering at the corners of her eyes.

"Francis. Nice name. Alright, Francis, the real stories about the strongest? Those are the world's most guarded secrets. The World Government has spent decades purging archives, burning books, and executing scholars. Only old relics like that guy over there know the truth," she said, nodding toward Rayleigh.

Rayleigh, who'd been quietly sipping tea and reading a newspaper, looked up.

"Who're you calling an old relic, Shaky? I'm still in my prime, you know!" he grumbled good-naturedly, but his tone grew serious as he turned to me. "She's right, though, kid. Anything that could even slightly threaten their power gets erased from history. They pulled off the greatest scam of all—created an entire Void Century."

I frowned. "Void Century?"

"A hundred-year gap in history, roughly 800 to 900 years ago," Rayleigh explained, setting his paper aside. His gaze grew distant, as if peering into the past. "Studying that time is strictly forbidden. Anyone who tries to dig into the truth signs their own death warrant. But even back then, there were those who refused to let history vanish. They created the Poneglyphs."

"Indestructible stones," I whispered, recalling fragments from a book I'd read in my cell.

"Exactly. They hold the true history of that era. Scattered across the world, nearly impossible to find. And they're the key to the final island of the Grand Line," his voice dropped, "to Raftel."

My mind connected the dots instantly. "But you've been there. With the Pirate King," I said, locking eyes with him. "You found the Poneglyphs. You know the history of the Void Century."

His gaze hardened, the jovial old man replaced for a moment by the Dark King, right hand to the world's most dangerous man.

"Yes," he said curtly. "But I won't tell you. There are many reasons, the biggest being that you need to find the answers yourself."

The tension in the air dissipated as quickly as it had formed. Rayleigh smiled again.

"I can see your mind's restless, itching for something to do. Let me teach you something useful."

He chuckled at my puzzled expression and pulled a worn wooden box from under the counter. Opening it, he set out a carved board and began arranging pieces of dark and light wood.

"What's this?" I asked, studying the figures of knights, towers, and kings.

"Chess. A miniature intellectual war," he replied, moving a white pawn. "Each piece has its own rules, its own role. The goal is to corner the enemy king—checkmate."

He quickly explained the basics, and we started a game, but for Rayleigh, it wasn't just a game.

"Most people think chess is a model of the perfect battle," he said, watching my hesitant first moves.

"I don't think so," I countered, remembering the carnage. "Back in Mariejois, it was pure chaos. No order, no rules—just blood and screams."

Rayleigh smiled warmly. "That's because you were a pawn in the middle of that chaos, unable to see the full picture. For the one controlling the battle, there's always a pattern."

He moved his knight, threatening my king and attacking my rook at the same time—a classic fork.

"I often imagine real people as pieces," he continued, not giving me time to think. "Take Vice-Admiral Borsalino, for example—he's a Queen. Incredibly fast, deadly, able to strike anywhere on the board. Cipher Pol agents are pawns, numerous and expendable. It helps you stay grounded in the chaos of a fight and see the truth. Tell me, Francis, what piece were you in Mariejois?"

I looked up from the board, where my position was rapidly crumbling, and thought deeply. His question carried more weight than it seemed.

"The first thing that comes to mind is a Knight," I said slowly. "Unpredictable, able to leap over other pieces, showing up where no one expects and causing disruption. But looking at the bigger picture… I think I was a King."

Rayleigh raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"The Sun Pirates' goal was to free the slaves. I'm a slave. All of us, branded on our backs, were the prize—the reason the whole game was played. Our lives or deaths determined victory or defeat. We were weak, vulnerable Kings, protected by the other pieces."

Rayleigh studied me for a long moment, then broke into a wide grin. "Not bad. Not bad at all."

He moved his Queen. "Checkmate."

I stared at the board, at my cornered wooden monarch, but I didn't feel frustrated. I felt exhilarated. This was interesting—exactly what I'd been searching for.

"Again," I said firmly, resetting my pieces.

Rayleigh nodded, approval glinting in his eyes.

Evening crept over the archipelago unnoticed, painting the bubbles floating between the giant trees in warm oranges and purples. After a hearty dinner that fully restored my strength, Shakuyaku led me to a room for the night. It wasn't the infirmary-like closet where I'd woken up.

"You needed quiet while you were on an IV," she explained, opening the door. "Now you'll stay here."

The room was small but clean. Two bunk beds of light wood took up most of the space. A small table sat by the window, and a colorful rug lay on the floor. Hancock and her sisters were already there.

"That's yours," Shakuyaku said, pointing to the free top bunk. "Try not to fight."

I nodded silently. As soon as the door closed behind her, Hancock blocked my path, arms crossed, her face tense with reproach in her dark eyes.

"I don't like you," she hissed. "You dared insult the people who saved our lives. They risked everything, and you… you acted like an ungrateful brat!"

"First, I'm not exactly fond of you either," I replied calmly, stepping around her. "Second, I didn't insult anyone—I proposed a theory based on my experience. And third, I already apologized for it. If you've got memory issues, that's not my problem."

Before she could respond, I climbed onto my bunk, turned to the wall, and closed my eyes. I heard an indignant, almost hissing scoff behind me but ignored it. Arguing with her was pointless.

In the middle of the night, I was woken by a soft, muffled whimper. I cracked my eyes open and, in the dim light filtering through the window, saw Marigold trembling on the lower bunk. She was crying in her sleep, her body shaking, fingers clawing at the blanket. Physically free, but her mind was still caged, reliving the horrors over and over.

Without a word, Hancock and Sandersonia moved to her bunk. They enveloped their sister in a warm, living cocoon, hugging her from both sides. Hancock whispered something softly, stroking her hair, and within minutes, the sobs stopped. I watched the scene, feeling a clear understanding. Their pain was my pain; their nightmares echoed my own. Silently, I turned away and forced myself back to sleep.

The next morning, I woke before everyone else. Quietly, careful not to creak a single floorboard, I slipped out of the room. In the bar, Shakuyaku was preparing to head out, draping a light cloak over her shoulders and checking her bag.

"Oh, you're up already?" she smiled. "Want to keep me company? I'm heading to the market for supplies. I can show you the island so you don't get lost."

"Sounds good," I agreed. I needed to get my bearings.

Outside the bar, we stepped into a morning forest. The air was fresh, smelling of resin.

"Look," Shakuyaku pointed to the massive trunk of a nearby tree, marked with a white-painted "13." "The whole archipelago is numbered, so remember our grove. You live in Grove 13. There are several zones here. Groves 1 to 29 are the lawless zone—pirates, bounty hunters, and other riffraff hang out there. Then there's the amusement park, the tourist zone, the shipyards, and at the very end, the Marine base."

We walked along a bustling path, life teeming around us. People floated by, riding soap bubbles—the local transport. It was so bizarre and amusing that, for a moment, I forgot everything else. For the first time in ages, I felt like just a kid.

Passing another shop, my eyes caught a bulletin board. Among the posters for sales and missing pets, I saw a painfully familiar face—my face.

I grabbed Shakuyaku's sleeve, unable to speak, and pointed. Her smile vanished. She strode to the board, tore down the poster, crumpled it, and stuffed it into her pocket.

"Let's wrap this up."

We walked back calmly despite the incident. At the bar, Rayleigh greeted us, surprised.

"Back so soon? Got everything already?"

Without a word, Shakuyaku pulled the crumpled poster from her pocket and handed it to him. Rayleigh smoothed it out on the table.

It was my photo. Below it, in bold black letters:

"WANTED: FRANCIS. DEAD ONLY"

At the bottom was a number that would make any rookie pirate's head spin.

"฿100,000,000"

I stared at the poster—my death warrant, the price tag on my life—and instead of fear, I felt a dark, fiery thrill ignite in my chest. This was a declaration of war, and I accepted it.

I looked up at Rayleigh and gave a crooked smirk. "Not a bad bounty for a start."

He glanced up from the poster, saw the fire in my eyes, and matched it with a predatory grin of his own.

"Not bad at all, kid. Congratulations—you're officially a problem for the World Government."

Morning sunlight bathed the clearing in a soft glow as the four of us—me and the sisters—stood before Rayleigh. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and the resin of giant trees.

"Alright," Rayleigh began, clapping his hands to get our attention. "Time for your first training session. Forget Armament Haki for now. To master it, you need a body strong as steel, and you lot are still more like wet cardboard. We'll start with the basics—Observation Haki. It doesn't require strength so much as a sharpened, disciplined mind. So today, we're playing dodgeball."

"Dodgeball?" Hancock asked skeptically, arms crossed. "Some childish game? How's that supposed to make us stronger?"

Rayleigh grinned slyly. "You think Observation Haki is closing your eyes and seeing the future like some fortune-teller? No. It's instinct. It's your body reacting before your brain can give the order, feeling danger at the back of your neck. The best way to hone that instinct is to make you dodge."

He approached us with a heavy canvas sack and pulled out strange vests, arm guards, and leg weights made of dull gray metal.

"These are weighted gear," he explained, strapping a vest onto me. It was cold against my skin and surprisingly heavy, forcing my muscles to strain. "The weight's balanced so it won't throw you off, but every move will take three times the effort. Your goal is simple: dodge my balls. You can block, but I wouldn't recommend it."

As the girls grumbled, adjusting to the weight, I instinctively backed away from Rayleigh to the edge of the clearing, sensing trouble.

"Ready?" Rayleigh smirked, picking up a few rubber balls. "Let's go!"

The first throws were slow, almost lazy. The balls followed predictable paths, and even with the weights, dodging was easy. I sidestepped clumsily, the sisters managed too, and Hancock even flashed a smug grin. We thought we were handling it. That was our mistake.

Suddenly, the tempo shifted. Balls whistled through the air. Rayleigh stopped throwing them one at a time. Two, three balls came from different angles. One ricocheted off a tree and struck Sandersonia's leg painfully.

"Focus! Don't watch the ball—feel it coming!" Rayleigh shouted.

A ball hurtled straight at my forehead. It was too fast, my weighted legs too slow to react. Without thinking, I activated my power. Click. I swapped places with Hancock, who was standing a few meters away. But I realized my mistake instantly. Rayleigh had anticipated my move. A second ball, thrown a split-second later, was aimed exactly where Hancock had been. We both took a ball to the forehead almost simultaneously.

"Ow, damn it!" I yelped.

"Agh!" Hancock cried out.

She spun toward me, rubbing the red mark on her forehead, furious. "You little runt! Trying to use me as a shield?! You think I won't get you?!"

Before she could step toward me, another ball hit her in the back of the head.

"Hancock, you lost focus," Rayleigh said calmly. "And you, Francis—your abilities are a crutch. Rely on them, and you'll never learn to walk on your own. No teleporting in my training."

The session ended with the four of us collapsing onto the grass, utterly exhausted. Sweat-soaked, every muscle burning, yet through the pain, a strange, long-forgotten feeling emerged. I was having fun. It was grueling, exhausting, but fun.

Later, heading to the shower, I noticed Hancock in the kitchen, sneakily emptying a saltshaker and filling it with fiery red pepper from a packet Shakuyaku had bought at the market.

I smirked. A petty, childish prank. Swapping saltshakers with my power would've been too easy, too obvious. So I came up with a better plan.

Dinner time arrived. A large platter of fragrant roasted sea beast meat sat on the table. I grabbed the tampered saltshaker and generously sprinkled my portion.

"Mmm, smells great!" I said, cutting a juicy slice and popping it into my mouth.

I could feel Hancock watching me out of the corner of her eye, her face a mix of confusion. My mouth erupted into a inferno—it wasn't just spicy, it was pure pain—but I didn't flinch. Swallowing with effort, I forced a smile.

"Delicious."

Hancock was baffled. Her perfect revenge plan had failed. Unable to believe it, she grabbed the same saltshaker and boldly sprinkled her own meat.

She took a bite. For a second, her eyes stayed normal, then widened to the size of saucers as her face turned crimson.

"AHHH!" she screamed, knocking over her chair and lunging for a pitcher of water, gulping it straight from the spout.

Only then did I let myself laugh. I laughed so hard I coughed from the lingering spice and grabbed my own glass of water. Rayleigh, Shakuyaku, and the sisters, watching the whole scene, burst into laughter too. In that shared laughter, there was something warm, something right—something like a real family.

 

[kowak]

The next day, muscle soreness was a familiar companion. As the four of us gathered in the clearing, weighed down by the same uncomfortably heavy training weights, I noticed I was moving with less struggle than the day before. My body, though grudgingly, was starting to adapt.

Rayleigh scanned us with an appraising look.

"Alright, warm-up's over," he began, his voice deceptively relaxed. "The World Government has a set of secret techniques in its arsenal called Rokushiki, or the Six Styles. For the most part, they're useless if you've mastered Haki at a high level. They're more like a beginner's manual, a standard toolkit to turn an ordinary soldier into a superhuman. But there's one technique everyone needs to know—especially Devil Fruit users."

His gaze locked onto me, and I knew his next words were aimed my way.

"It's called Geppo, or 'Moon Walk.' Master it, and you can move at unimaginable speeds. But more importantly," he paused for effect, "it lets you run through the air. For someone who can't swim, that's the difference between life and death. So today, you'll be playing a game of tag—with my friend."

With a grin, he gestured toward the grove. From behind the trees, an enormous shark floated out, swaying gently, encased in a bubble of air like an inflatable ring, allowing it to hover.

Marigold and Sandersonia backed away in horror, hiding behind each other.

"It… it's going to eat us!" Marigold stammered, her voice trembling.

Rayleigh let out a hearty laugh.

"Then you'd better run faster. Best motivation there is, right?"

He clapped his hands, the sound cracking like a starting pistol.

We scattered. Running in the weights across uneven terrain was pure hell. Our feet sank into the grass, and we had to leap over the roots of giant trees while an ominous rustling followed—the shark effortlessly tore through bushes, snapping branches.

I don't know how much time passed—maybe an hour, maybe two. My lungs burned, each step pounding in my temples. Marigold was the first to give out. I heard a desperate cry behind me—she'd tripped over a root and sprawled on the ground.

"Run! Leave me!" she shouted, more out of despair than heroism.

We didn't look back. Fear was a better motivator than any command. Soon, I heard another stifled cry—Sandersonia, misjudging her strength, crashed into a tree trunk and slid down, exhausted.

That left just me and Hancock. To my immense frustration, I was on my last legs, each breath a ragged wheeze, while she, though breathing heavily, kept an astonishingly steady pace. Her eyes burned with stubborn, fiery determination.

Then came my turn. My foot twisted, and my body, drained of its last reserves, simply gave up. I collapsed, hitting my shoulder hard on the ground. I had no strength left to stand. Bracing for a blow or sharp teeth, I closed my eyes—only to feel something huge, warm, and rough as sandpaper licking my face.

The shark was enthusiastically slobbering over me, wagging its tail with glee. Caught between shock and relief, I burst out laughing.

"Good boy… good boy," I rasped, pushing its snout away. "Enough! Go get her, catch her!"

The shark let out a playful bark and spun around, darting after the last runner.

When the grueling training session finally ended, we gathered in the clearing. Hancock, the victor, stood with her hands on her hips, catching her breath. As she passed me, sprawled on the grass, she paused. Her proud gaze said it all. With a triumphant huff, she claimed her pure, unblemished victory.

Three months of relentless daily training turned our bodies into aching bundles of muscle. The initial agony gave way to familiar pain, then to a growing sense of strength. We became faster, tougher.

The bar was unusually quiet. Rayleigh sat silently at the counter, staring into space, while the girls whispered in the corner, trying not to disturb the stillness. My attention was drawn to a fresh newspaper carelessly tossed on a table. The front page bore a photograph: an entire island engulfed in flames, with warships in the background, their flags proudly waving through the smoke. The headline screamed: "JUSTICE SERVED: OHARA DESTROYED."

Below, in a framed box, was the face of a frightened dark-haired girl. Nico Robin, with a bounty of 79,000,000 beli. I devoured the article, its text dripping with venomous propaganda.

"For your safety, for the stability of the world and the order we've upheld for eight centuries, a difficult but necessary decision was made. The scholars of Ohara, hiding behind the guise of academic research, engaged in forbidden activities—they sought to decipher the Poneglyphs. These ancient stones, relics of a dangerous era known as the Void Century, hold knowledge capable of reviving Ancient Weapons of unimaginable destructive power.

The World Government could not allow a handful of fanatics obsessed with the past to endanger billions of lives. The decision to invoke the Buster Call was heavy but just. Ohara was sacrificed for the peace we all cherish. The sole survivor, eight-year-old Nico Robin, is already a dangerous criminal, holding the keys to the world's destruction. Do not let her deceive you!"

I finished reading, my fingers gripping the paper so tightly it tore. Lies—blatant, monstrous lies. They spoke of "stability" and "order," but I'd seen that order firsthand in the ship's hold and the research facility beneath Mariejois. What secret did the Void Century hold that the World Government would burn an entire island, kill thousands, and brand an eight-year-old child a global threat just to keep it hidden? If I was going to challenge them, I needed to know.

I stood and approached Rayleigh. He sat, head bowed, a half-empty bottle of rum before him. He didn't look at me, but it was clear he'd seen the news.

"I want to go to Ohara," I said, my voice surprisingly firm in the quiet bar.

He slowly raised his eyes. There was no surprise in them, only bitterness and fatigue.

"Why, kid?" he asked hoarsely. "There's nothing left there. Just ashes and ghosts. It's a giant graveyard now."

"I want to see it for myself," I insisted. "I want to understand what they uncovered. And… to pay my respects. They fought the same enemy I'm fighting. They were my allies, even if I never knew them."

He studied me for a long moment, as if peering into my soul. Then he sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping.

"You're stubborn as an old sea beast… Fine. You'd need to learn the basics of navigation eventually anyway."

The next morning, the deck of our small but sturdy ship became a training ground.

"Hancock, haul the mainsail! Not like a princess at a ball—put your strength into it!" Rayleigh shouted. The girl, gritting her teeth, pulled the heavy rope with all her might, raising the main sail.

"Francis, Sandersonia! Those knots are your lifeline! A proper sea knot tightens under strain, not unravels—it decides whether a storm sweeps you away or not! Tie them, and I'll check every single one!"

"Marigold, to the galley! Check the freshwater and provisions. A hungry crew at sea is a mutiny waiting to happen!"

We scurried across the deck like mad, following his orders. We scrubbed the deck, secured barrels, and learned to furl sails. When we finished, he called us to the helm. We were panting, but excitement burned in the sisters' eyes—and in mine.

"Not bad for a first go," Rayleigh nodded approvingly. "Now, the most important part. On the Grand Line, the weather's unpredictable, and normal compasses go haywire. But navigating here is easier than in regular seas if you know how. This is a Log Pose."

He showed us a device on his wrist, like a watch with a ball and needle inside.

"It records the magnetic field of one island and then points to the next in the chain. The needle needs time to lock on—hours or even days. You can't lose it, no matter what. And this," he pulled a larger device from his pocket, "is an Eternal Pose. Simpler—its needle always points to one specific island, and its field can't be disrupted. In this case…"

He handed it to me. Etched on the glass was the word: Ohara.

Catching the wind, our ship slowly pulled away from the grove and set course for the open sea, toward the burned island of scholars.

Days at sea passed in a pleasant routine of training and learning. Under Rayleigh's guidance, we studied charts, predicted weather by cloud shapes and wind direction. But one morning, the calm was shattered.

"Ship off the starboard bow!" Sandersonia shouted from the lookout post. "And it's gaining on us fast!"

We rushed to the deck. On the horizon loomed the silhouette of a sleek, black ship. As it drew closer, we made out its flag: a Jolly Roger with the skull replaced by a smirking pirate lounging on a sandy cloud.

Rayleigh emerged from the cabin, squinting at the pursuers.

"Well, looks like you're in for your first real fight," he said with disarming calm, setting his cup aside. "Theory's great, but it's nothing without practice. I won't interfere—handle it yourselves."

He returned to the cabin, leaving us alone to face the approaching threat. Hancock flashed a predatory grin, her fingers clenching into fists. Her sisters flanked her, adopting fierce, determined stances.

I was strategizing. Surely nothing fatal would happen—Rayleigh wouldn't let us die. But his condition was clear: no help from him. Looking at our crew, I knew my role wasn't in direct combat. I'd support—pulling allies out of danger, disorienting enemies, creating tactical advantages. But who was this pirate? And did we even need to fight?

When their ship pulled alongside ours, a young man with short-cropped hair and a smoldering cigar in his mouth stepped onto the deck. He wore an unbuttoned captain's coat, exposing a muscular chest. Instinctively, I tried to "sense" him with my power but felt only emptiness, just like with Borsalino. A Logia. This complicated everything.

He took a lazy drag on his cigar, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke.

"What a fine day for a little business meeting, don't you think?" His voice was low and mocking. "If you want to survive this, hand over your treasures, goods, or money. I'm an honest pirate, so I'll only take ninety percent of what you've got."

"How dare you, you filth!" Hancock hissed, stepping forward.

I grabbed her arm before she could say more.

"Calm down. Negotiations first."

I stepped forward, trying to look as composed as possible.

"I'm afraid we've got nothing to offer. No treasures, no goods—just this ship and some provisions. But why would you want another vessel on the Grand Line? It's just a burden."

The captain stared at me, his eyes narrowing.

"You're not lying, kid. Interesting." He took another puff, his gaze lingering on my face. Suddenly, his lips curled into a predatory, unpleasant grin. "You know what? I recognize you, Francis. Bounty of a hundred million beli. Twenty-five million more than mine."

He spat on his ship's deck.

"It pisses me off to no end that some snot-nosed brat is worth more than me. I'd love to crush you, but like I said, I'm an honest pirate. So let's make it fair—hand over ninety million beli, and you can sail on your way."

I met his gaze, feeling Hancock tense behind me. Ninety million. I could point to the cabin door and hint at who was inside. He'd probably flee on the spot. But the thought of relying on the old man again was repulsive. It was time to test my own strength.

"You know," I said in a calm, icy tone, "I look at you and see you're not exactly a genius. I'll give you one last chance to leave peacefully. You don't know our powers, but I know you're a Logia."

I recalled the words of that agent in the testing chamber.

"You might've been an untouchable god in your backwater village," I continued, injecting every ounce of confidence into my voice. "But welcome to the Grand Line. We've got ways to deal with your kind."

The tension was almost tangible. The captain bit his cigar in half, his face twisting with rage.

"You little… you think you can lecture me, Crocodile, on how to do business on the Grand Line?" he roared, his body dissolving into swirling clouds of sand. "Let's see where all that bravado comes from!"

 

[kowak]

The moment the grappling hooks sank into our ship's hull, the battle began. Pirates poured from the enemy vessel with wild screams—a ragtag, tattered crew, their eyes burning with greed. Flintlock pistols cracked, and several cutthroats, waving sabers, leapt onto our deck.

Hancock and her sisters met them fearlessly. The girls moved as one, their kicks swift and precise. I became the nerve center of our defense, my mind racing at full throttle, tracking bullet paths and sword strikes.

A bullet hurtled toward Marigold… Click. The pirate by the mast jerked, collapsing with a shocked wheeze, a hole in his chest, while Marigold appeared in his place, unharmed. A saber aimed at Sandersonia's back… Click. The attacker drove his blade into one of his own comrades.

It was a frantic, exhausting game of thimble-rigging, with my allies' lives as the stakes. But I thrived in the chaos—it felt like home.

Streams of dry sand slithered across the wooden deck like snakes. At the heart of the sandy wave, I sensed a cold, predatory presence moving straight for Hancock, who had just knocked out another foe.

The sand behind her surged upward, forming Crocodile's figure. His hand reached for her neck.

In the split second before his fingers touched her, I swapped her with the nearest pirate. Time froze. The pirate, face twisted in horror, found himself in his captain's iron grip.

"Captain, no!"

Crocodile didn't stop. His grip tightened, and I watched in horror as the pirate's body withered. Skin shriveled, muscles collapsed, life drained with a soft, ghastly hiss. In moments, only a desiccated husk remained, tossed aside like trash.

Crocodile turned his cold, merciless gaze on me.

"I see. You can swap people. A neat trick, but what happens when you can't see anyone?"

He inhaled deeply and exhaled toward me. A vortex of sand erupted from his mouth, swallowing the world around me. I was engulfed in a sandstorm, blind, unable to open my eyes without risking them. The wind roared, and thousands of grains cut my skin like tiny blades. My greatest strength was useless.

Panic gripped me briefly. Blind, deaf, defenseless—but then I remembered. Rayleigh was watching from a closed room… I needed to do the same. Instead of seeing, I forced myself to listen, to feel.

I focused, pushing past pain and fear. First, know yourself—the thud of my heart, the rush of blood in my ears, the air in my lungs. Then, the world around me—the sound of a sand grain hitting my cheek, another, a third. They weren't random; they were part of a flow. I felt its direction, its force.

Within that flow was something alien—a knot of intent. Something moved toward me, radiating bloodlust. Crocodile. In his hand, something dense, sharp… a sand blade?

Instinctively, I sidestepped. The blade passed a centimeter from my neck, harmless. Another swing—I dodged again, moving on intuition.

Then something clicked in my mind. The world exploded with sensation. I began to "see," not with my eyes. I felt the panicked, erratic auras of the sisters huddled by the railing. I sensed Crocodile's cold, reptilian aura, brimming with arrogant irritation. And far off, behind the cabin's wall, I felt Rayleigh's presence—calm, hidden, like a deep ocean. I wanted to study it, but I couldn't lose focus.

I smirked, feeling blood trickle from countless cuts on my face. If I could feel it, I could swap it.

Eyes closed, I locked onto the aura of a pirate still on Crocodile's ship.

Click.

The roaring storm vanished. I stood on Crocodile's deck, and in the heart of my sandstorm stood his stunned subordinate. I no longer needed my eyes.

I laughed maniacally, blood streaking my face and arms, giving me a feral look. The pirate before me raised his pistols. I struck his wrists twice, disarming him. The guns clattered beside a heavy cannonball.

Click.

I swapped with the cannonball, landing by the weapons, and scooped up the pistols.

"My turn to play," I rasped, tasting my own blood.

God, he pisses me off!

That was the only thought pounding in my head as I dodged another ragged pirate's saber. Since the fight began, I'd mentally said goodbye to my life three times, and each time, Francis saved me. First, a bullet aimed at my temple. Second, when Crocodile slipped behind me. The third… that was the most humiliating.

I saw Crocodile rise from the deck like walking sand. I lunged, pouring all my Amazon fury into the kick. But my leg passed through him—sand. His vile hand reached for me. And again, that boy! A teleport, and one of Crocodile's goons ended up in his grip instead.

I was grateful, sure, but it still infuriated me!

He's younger than me, and he's fighting better? Controlling the entire battlefield while I fend off insects? No way! Kuja warrior blood runs through me. I won't let some kid outshine me. I won't be the one who needs saving again!

Fueled by humiliation and rage, something inside me snapped. A barrier around my soul collapsed, and an invisible, crushing pressure surged outward.

The air froze. Weaker-willed pirates rolled their eyes back, foaming at the mouth, and collapsed. Even my sisters and Crocodile froze, staring at me in shock. The world seemed to bow before my will—an intoxicating feeling. Absolute confidence flooded me; I could topple mountains. Power surged into my legs, coated in a faint layer of Armament Haki. It wasn't enough to deal serious damage, but enough to touch the intangible.

"Come here, you walking sandpile!" I roared, charging at Crocodile.

My kick was faster, stronger than ever. But he dodged, dissolving into sand. Another pirate took the hit, bones crunching as he flew back. Tsk, Francis's tricks again, redirecting my strike so it wouldn't go to waste. I attacked again, aiming where I felt Crocodile would reappear. Another miss!

Damn it! I'd awakened incredible power and still couldn't hit him!

The next five minutes became a furious hunt. I attacked, and Francis, anticipating my moves and Crocodile's tricks, swapped enemies and objects, guiding my strikes to their mark and giving the sandy bastard no reprieve. Soon, his entire crew lay unconscious.

"Had enough fun yet?" Francis's voice rang out. He stood, bloodied and cut, but with a mocking grin. "Your crew's done. Don't worry, we'll spare your life—for ninety percent of your ship's loot."

Crocodile bared his teeth.

"You think you've won, scum?" he hissed. "That trash means nothing to me. I'm worth more alone, and I'll teach you a lesson."

He reached for our main mast, but the cabin door creaked open.

"I'd keep that hand to yourself," Rayleigh's calm voice cut through. "Touch my mast, and you're done. Leave while you can."

I felt it again—Conqueror's Haki, not mine this time. Not explosive or fiery, but deep, heavy, absolute, like the pressure of the ocean's depths. The deck beneath Crocodile's feet groaned. His face paled, fear flickering in his eyes for the first time. Without a word, he dissolved into sand and fled to his ship, which hastily retreated.

When the threat was gone, Rayleigh spoke.

"You all did well," he said, scanning us. "Francis, I expected you to awaken Observation Haki. Your mind's suited for it, and you've been using it intuitively. But you, Hancock…" He turned to her. "I never expected you to awaken Armament Haki."

He rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Though, there are rumors Amazons master it more easily. Maybe they're not baseless. And on top of that, you awakened Conqueror's Haki. Well done!"

He ruffled her hair paternally. I brushed his hand away, tossing my head proudly and fixing my hair.

"So we can awaken Armament Haki too!" my sisters exclaimed in unison, looking at Rayleigh hopefully.

"Of course, of course," he chuckled warmly. "Looks like I'm raising a crew of real monsters."

"Hey! I'm no monster!" I snapped, striking my most elegant pose. "I'm the embodiment of beauty!"

Francis, nearby, made a face like he'd bitten a lemon.

"Got something to say?" I asked icily, my legs tingling with that invisible force.

He raised his hands in surrender. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Rayleigh's laughter echoed in the silence.

I sat on a creaking chair in the cabin as Hancock, biting her lip in concentration, bandaged my cuts. The antiseptic's sting tickled my nose. She was comically clumsy—her bandages slipped, her knots either too loose or so tight they cut off circulation. But I stayed quiet, lost in thought.

The fight with Crocodile exposed a glaring issue: I lacked firepower. My ability was perfect for control, defense, surprise attacks, but it had no decisive, lethal strike. A sharp sword came to mind—teleport behind an enemy and deliver one fatal blow. But why finesse? I didn't need swordplay. A heavy warhammer would do—raw, crushing power over elegance.

Then, pistols. I glanced at the pair of looted flintlocks on the table. They were a letdown. Two shots, then a painfully slow reload. Useless in a fast fight. But if they could fire repeatedly? My mobility and lethality would match a bullet's speed. I vividly recalled sensing a bullet's path with Observation Haki during the fight. I could swap with it—or swap it with an enemy. My mind spun with dozens of brutal, tactical possibilities.

My thoughts were interrupted by a bandage creeping over my mouth.

"Hey!" I mumbled through the fabric. "What are you doing? Turning me into a mummy? Leave my mouth—I eat with that! Let Marigold bandage me; her hands aren't made of—"

"You look better with your mouth shut," Hancock cut me off coldly, yanking the bandage tight on my shoulder. "Besides, Rayleigh said I need practice. My sisters already know how."

"No kidding," I quipped. "They're way better at it."

I felt it before she moved—a flare of irritation, intent to strike. With Observation Haki, I saw her fist coming for my stomach. I didn't move, just leaned slightly. Her punch missed by a centimeter.

"Ha, missed!" I laughed, hopping off the chair and stepping out onto the deck.

Rayleigh stood at the helm, gazing at the horizon.

"Look there," he said softly.

I followed his gaze. An island's silhouette emerged from the morning mist, and above it loomed something incredible—a colossal, coal-black tree, its dead branches clawing at the gray sky. It was so massive it seemed part of the island itself, its spine.

What was it like when it was alive? A feeling stirred in me, indescribable—not just anger or sorrow, but a deep, existential resentment. How could someone destroy something so majestic? How could anyone dare?

As we neared the island, I didn't wait for the dinghy. Spotting a stone on the ashen shore, I swapped places with it. My feet sank into gray, lifeless dust. The air reeked of char. I wasn't alone.

At the base of the giant tree stood two figures. One wore a green cloak, his face stern. The other… his head was impossibly, monstrously huge, at least ten meters tall. Beside the cloaked man lay a simple bouquet of wildflowers, clearly placed to honor someone's memory. Then he spoke, not turning.

"Hey, kid. Why're you standing there? Come closer—we don't bite."

I approached slowly, keeping my distance.

"Why are you here?" the big-headed man asked.

I looked at the dead tree, the scorched earth, then at them.

"To pay respects? To find Ohara's lost legacy? To find a path forward?" I shrugged. "Maybe all of it."

The man in the cloak turned, his gaze piercing.

"I'm Monkey D. Dragon. This is Vegapunk. You said 'respects.' Do you respect those who defied the world, knowing the cost?"

I tensed, realizing I had no proof they weren't World Government agents, fishing for sympathizers to spark new purges. Dragon, as if reading my mind, smirked.

"No need to worry. I'm not with the World Government. Him, though—" he nodded at the scientist, "he's one of theirs."

I instinctively stepped away from Vegapunk.

"I'm just making the world better with my inventions," Vegapunk said.

I sensed no lie in Dragon's words, so I answered honestly.

"I'm not sure they deserve respect. No, that's not right… I'm not sure their fight was rational. Defying the World Government earns respect, sure. But they should've known they'd be crushed. They should've prepared—spread their knowledge, made copies, planned escapes! Instead, everything they fought for turned to ash. Only one little girl survived, her fate left to chance. Their legacy's nearly gone because of their naivety."

Dragon watched me with keen interest.

"You're not entirely right. Their legacy survived. When the Tree of Knowledge burned, the scholars threw books into the lake until the end, sacrificing their lives to save knowledge. The Marines didn't care about soggy books—most can't even read. Now, giants from Elbaf are collecting those books to take home. Their will lives on."

He stepped closer, his gaze intensifying.

"But what I want to know… why do you hate the World Government so much? You're just a kid."

Instead of answering, I turned, lifted my tattered shirt, and revealed the brand seared into my skin—the Hoof of the Celestial Dragon. A mark of ownership, of humiliation.

Vegapunk broke the silence, circling me with his massive head, making an odd sound.

"Aha, so that's it!" he said with sudden enthusiasm. "You're Subject F-4, Francis, the one who caused a ruckus in the underground complex! Well done—those fools don't deserve to call themselves scientists! Testing on humans right away? Scientific barbarism! You refine a prototype first, then—"

Dragon cut him off with a hand on his shoulder, looking at me with understanding.

"You're not as simple as I thought."

The air grew heavy, dense—not hostile, but chilling. An undeniable, absolute will underscored his next words.

"I'm building a Revolutionary Army," he said evenly, his voice echoing in my soul. "To gather those who'll stand against the World Government, who share my ideals. Want to join me? I'll teach you everything—tactics, espionage, how to hone your Will."

The offer was tempting, but something in me resisted.

"I already have a teacher," I said, "and I doubt you could top him. As for joining… I'm not sure that's what I want."

I paused, searching for words.

"How do I put it… I believe I can make this world move on my own. It sounds strange, but I think my path starts alone, not under an army's banner. But—" I met his eyes, "if my plan fails, I'll join you without hesitation."

Dragon studied me, then a faint smile crossed his stern face.

"Fair enough. Your path, your choice. Let's be allies, then—share information, ensure Ohara's mistake isn't repeated."

I nodded firmly.

"If we're allies, I want to know everything about spy Den Den Mushi. Relays, encryption, how to avoid being bugged."

"Smart," Dragon approved. "Give me an address, and I'll send what you need."

"Sabaody Archipelago, Grove 13. Shakuyaku's Rip-off Bar."

Voices came from the shore. Three familiar figures approached, led by Rayleigh. Dragon followed my gaze.

"Silvers Rayleigh…" he said quietly. "Yeah, I doubt I'd be a better teacher."

He turned, his cloak billowing.

"We'll meet again, Francis."

With that, he vanished into the charred forest. I remembered my weapon issue and turned to the remaining genius.

"Vegapunk, you're a scientist, right?" I seized the chance. "Can you make pistols that fire multiple times without reloading?"

He stopped muttering and looked at me.

"Weapons? Boy, you disappoint me," he said, his tone reproachful. "My genius is for advancing the world, not regressing it with killing. I create devices for energy, food, medicine! And you ask for toys of death."

I smirked, humorlessly.

"And how will you protect all that beauty you create? Without weapons, without strength? In this world, if you can't kill, no one takes you seriously. No one listens, no matter how right you are. I get your idealism, but strength rules this world. Without it, you're nothing. I didn't make the rules, but we all play by them. Your vision would work if people were rational, but give them a speck of power, and they forget their purpose, thinking they're above others."

Vegapunk stared at the blackened branches of the Tree of Knowledge, silent for a long time.

"I know, boy. I've lived longer and seen more than you can imagine," he said softly. "But my answer's still no. Let me ask you something. If someone threatens you, demands what's yours, and you can't fight back… what would you do?"

His question felt personal, not just about me.

"I'd do what I already did," I replied without hesitation. "I gave them what they wanted: an obedient slave. I let them think they broke me. Then, when the moment came, I stabbed them in the back. Though, honestly, on that path of betrayal, I found allies unexpectedly. So maybe there's another way—find a bigger 'roof' to cover you."

Vegapunk gave a bitter chuckle.

"I'm afraid no such 'roof' exists in this world."

He turned and walked away slowly, leaving me alone. Soon, Rayleigh and the girls approached.

"Didn't expect to feel Garp's kid's aura here," Rayleigh remarked casually, glancing after Vegapunk. "So, find what you were looking for?"

I gazed at the tree's majestic husk, the ash beneath my feet, and for the first time in ages, I didn't feel like a lone wolf.

"Yeah," I said. "Turns out, I'm not the only one."

My eyes fell on a giant, silently stacking salvaged books onto a massive cart. His shoulders slumped, his eyes hollow with universal grief. I felt his pain as if it were mine but didn't approach. I watched from afar, then turned and headed back to the ship.

"That's it?" Sandersonia asked, surprised.

"We just got here!" Marigold added.

"There's nothing more for us here," I said quietly.

Rayleigh said nothing, following me and herding the grumbling girls along.

Back on the ship, I approached him at the helm.

"Home? Sabaody?"

He smiled, eyes glinting slyly.

"After such a grim trip, we all need a break. You've all worked hard, physically and mentally. So, we're heading to a spa island."

"A resort island?!" the sisters squealed, their complaints forgotten, eyes sparkling.

"Hurry, Rayleigh! Raise the sails! Full speed ahead!" Hancock ordered, shoving him toward the helm.

Rayleigh laughed, barking orders. The sails caught the wind, carrying us away from the island of sorrow.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 10

After three days of sailing, the gray haze on the horizon gave way to the outline of something colossal. It wasn't an island, but a floating resort city—a massive ship called the Golden Oasis, glittering with lights even under the midday sun. The air buzzed with music, laughter, and the scent of expensive perfumes.

At the gangway, Rayleigh stopped us. "Listen up," he said, handing me a stack of banknotes. "Here's a hundred thousand beli for you, Francis. And for you ladies," he passed the Amazon girls a thicker stack, "a hundred and fifty thousand. Buy yourselves something nice. And Hancock, make sure your swimsuits cover your backs properly. This isn't just money—it's your first lesson in surviving this world without me holding your hand. Spend it on fun, or try to make it grow."

I latched onto that last part. "Make it grow?"

"Exactly," Rayleigh nodded, pointing toward the lower decks where the hum of excitement echoed. "This ship has one of the best casinos on the Grand Line. Poker, roulette, blackjack."

I raised an eyebrow. "But doesn't Observation Haki make those games pointless? You can just sense your opponent's intentions or predict the outcome."

Rayleigh gave a sly smile. "I, for one, never use it at the table—what's the fun in that? But honestly, only Advanced Observation Haki that peers into the future would help here. Play, and you'll figure it out."

The girls, chattering excitedly, dashed off toward the shopping decks. I followed the old man to the lower levels, into the heart of the Golden Oasis. At the entrance to a dazzling, light-flooded hall, an elegant sign read: "Dear Devil Fruit users, please wear gloves." Odd, but I sensed no threat and slipped on the thin leather gloves provided. While I did, Rayleigh vanished into the crowd. Fine, let him have a break from us.

I exchanged my hundred thousand beli for a hundred chips at the cashier. Wandering between tables, I realized why the gloves were necessary. The roulette wheel was pure wood, but the poker and blackjack cards shimmered with the familiar dull gleam of seastone. My powers didn't work on them. Too bad—I could've racked up cash by swapping cards around.

I sat at a poker table with the lowest buy-in and asked the dealer for the rules. "Who let a kid sit skilled with a playful glint. "You're a polite young man. That's commendable. Here."

He casually tossed me a chip across the table. I caught it mid-air. It was heavy, engraved with the number: 1,000,000.

Before I could respond, he stood and walked away. I stared after him, clutching the chip. What a strange old man.

After cashing it in, I headed to the upper deck. The luxury was blinding: azure pools, water slides spiraling into the sky, and tables groaning under piles of delicacies. My Devil Fruit kept me from enjoying the water, so I focused on the food, sampling each dish slowly, savoring flavors I'd never dreamed of.

Nearby, Hancock lounged on a pristine white chaise, sipping a pink cocktail. Her sisters splashed playfully in the pool. For a moment, everything felt almost surreal, harmonious. I grabbed a mojito, settled onto a chaise next to her, and let myself relax under the warm sun.

Hancock's POV

What a thrill. I stretched lazily on the chaise, feeling the tension of the past few months slowly melt away. Then a short man in a pristine white suit, slicked-back hair, and a professional camera around his neck approached me.

"Pardon me, young miss, for interrupting your rest. I'm Gino, owner of The Pearl, that bar by the pool. I couldn't help but notice you—you shine brighter than the sun over the Grand Line. Would you do me the honor of letting me take a few photos for my establishment's promotion?"

I set my glass down slowly, brushing my hair back to let him take a good look. His eyes gleamed with genuine admiration.

"You've got a good eye, Gino," I said, savoring his attention. "But your flattery alone isn't enough. What's in it for me?"

He lit up, as if he'd been waiting for that question. "Of course, of course! Your beauty is priceless, but I'll offer compensation for your time. One million beli. Your face will make my bar the most popular on this ship!"

My eyes sparkled. A million? For sitting pretty and posing? That wasn't work—it was a treat.

"Why are you still standing there?" I rose gracefully from the chaise. "Let's go. Don't keep me waiting."

The next two hours flew by. I sat at a polished bar counter while Gino and his assistant fussed around me. They brought me one non-alcoholic cocktail after another, each a work of art. The camera clicked nonstop. I didn't need to try—I was just myself. I knew how to tilt my head, lift my chin, smile in a way that made men weak. They'd forced me to learn that in slavery, but now it was my weapon. I was in my element, the queen of this moment.

When the shoot ended, Gino approached, beaming. "Magnificent!" He handed me a thick bundle of banknotes. "Tell me, miss, are you entering the beauty pageant tonight?"

I scoffed, counting the money. "Why would I? To prove the obvious? I already know I'm the most beautiful. Pageants are for the insecure."

"Perhaps," Gino said with a sly smile, "but the grand prize might interest you. One hundred million beli."

I froze. "Where do I sign up?" My voice came out sharp and quick.

He handed me a glossy brochure. "All the details are here. Good luck, though you won't need it."

I flipped it open. The schedule was packed:
Wednesday, today, 5:00 PM: "Queen of the Oasis" Beauty Pageant. Grand Prize: 100,000,000 beli.
Thursday, 4:00 PM: Beach Soccer Championship.
Friday, 8:00 PM: VIP Auction.

I scanned the auction lots: jewels, rare weapons, artwork… and the main attraction. The Mero Mero no Mi Devil Fruit.

Its description was brief: "Paramecia-type. Allows the user to turn anyone who feels love, lust, or desire for them into stone. Starting bid: 100,000,000 beli."

I gripped the brochure tightly. This was fate—a power tailor-made for me. To weaponize the very feelings men forced on me, the ones I despised in my captors.

The pageant wasn't just a whim anymore. It was a necessity.

I descended to the pageant registration floor and strode to the desk, where a bored girl sat. "I want to sign up for the beauty pageant."

"Name, concept?" she muttered, not looking up from her magazine.

"What's a 'concept'?"

"What you'll perform," she said, finally glancing at me. "Your talent. Song, dance, magic tricks. Or you can just walk out in a swimsuit."

In slavery, they'd forced me to learn every skill that could entertain nobles. I hated those lessons, but I sang well.

"Boa Hancock," I said firmly. "I'll sing."

"Fine." She handed me a plastic tag. "Number 51. Qualifying round's in that room, starts at 2:00 PM, two hours from now. If you pass, you'll perform on the main stage tonight."

In the spacious dressing room, I felt dozens of judgmental eyes on me. A woman in a gaudy, rhinestone-covered bikini sized me up and said loudly to her friend, "Oh, who let a little girl in here? Look at her, all skin and bones. You're too young for this, sweetie. Go play in the sandbox." She crossed her arms, flaunting her—undoubtedly—size-four assets.

I needed to show I wasn't someone to mess with. I stepped to the mirror beside her, meeting her reflection with a sweet voice. "We'll see about that. Unlike you, who's got nothing but a giant udder you're so desperate to show off, I'm beautiful, charming, and talented."

Her face twisted. "You little bitch!"

I turned, my smile ice-cold. "Shut it, old hag."

And so began my first war on the battlefield of beauty. I wasn't going to lose.

Francis's POV

I was still lounging on the chaise when Rayleigh approached, reeking of rum. He glanced at the pool, where Marigold and Sandersonia were splashing, trying to dunk each other.

"Where's the third fury?" he asked, sitting on the edge of my chaise. "Don't tell me she found someone to fight?"

"Worse," I said, eyes closed. "She's off at a beauty pageant. Seems the grand prize caught her eye."

Rayleigh scratched his beard, a familiar mischievous glint in his eyes. "A beauty pageant, huh? That's interesting. It'd be rude not to support our friend in such a big moment. Wrap it up, kids!" he shouted to the sisters. "Oh, and I got us a room so we don't have to cram on the ship."

He tossed a heavy copper key with an anchor charm onto my lap. "Get dressed in something decent and meet me in the lobby."

An hour later, we were in a massive, glittering hall. Velvet chairs, crystal chandeliers, a stage bathed in spotlight. The air hummed with excited chatter as we took seats in the fifth row. The lights dimmed, and a host in a shiny blazer bounded onto the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the main event of the season—the Queen of the Oasis Beauty Pageant!"

The hall erupted in applause.

"And here's our first contestant! Number one!"

A tall woman with blood-red hair tied in a ponytail stepped out. Her figure, clad in a revealing bunny costume with ears and a fluffy tail, was flawless. Instead of posing seductively, she drew two swords from behind her back and began a dance—a deadly whirlwind of steel. The blades whistled through the air, tracing intricate patterns millimeters from her body. It was mesmerizing and slightly terrifying.

"And now, number two!"

The second was a brunette with messy hair and a cocky grin. Unlike the first, she wore a simple but well-fitted swimsuit. Assistants rolled out a massive barrel of beer. Without hesitation, she chugged it down in front of the stunned crowd, finishing with a wobbly bow and a loud belch into the microphone. The hall roared with laughter.

Then came a parade of nearly identical performances: women in bikinis trying to seduce the judges and audience with their curves. One dressed as a demoness with horns and a whip, another as a nurse promising to "heal" every man in the room. It didn't impress me much.

The same couldn't be said for Rayleigh, the old pervert, whose eyes were practically glowing. I pointedly scooted away from him.

"And finally, our last contestant! Boa Hancock!"

She stepped onto the stage, and a surprised murmur rippled through the crowd. She wore a simple black dress, her hair loose over her shoulders. Amid the scantily clad women, she looked like a raven among peacocks. Honestly, I didn't think she'd win. Most contestants played to lust and base instincts. She couldn't do that.

A black piano was brought out. She sat, her slender fingers hovering over the keys, and the hall fell silent.

Then she sang.

It was a cry from the soul, wrapped in melody. Her strong, slightly raspy voice carried such pain and such unyielding resolve that chills ran down my spine.

(Performer: Lewis Capaldi, song: "Survive," listen to how she sang: www.youtube.com/watch?v=74sUIoJ2vjI)

How long 'til it feels
Like the wound's finally starting to heal?

...But when hope is lost and I come undone
I swear to God, I'll survive

If it kills me to
I'm gonna get up and try

I still got something to give
Though it hurts sometimes
I'm gonna get up and live
Until the day that I die
I swear to God, I'll survive

Every word hit like a arrow. This song wasn't just about her—it was about us. About slaves, about the brand, about those who refused to give up. About every day you wake up and force yourself to stand and fight, even when you feel you have nothing left.

When she finished, the final note faded into deafening silence. I didn't realize what I was doing—I just stood and clapped. Alone at first, in the stillness, then the entire hall joined me. This wasn't polite applause. People leapt from their seats, shouting "bravo," many with tears in their eyes. I glanced at Marigold and Sandersonia—they were sobbing openly, clinging to each other.

Hancock rose slowly from the piano and bowed. Did she just write that song?

The voting began. The host called out numbers, and the audience's applause determined the winner. When Hancock's number was announced, the hall exploded in a roar that felt like it could bring down the ceiling.

Hancock won. And it was the most honest victory I'd ever seen.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 11

The evening of our victory was filled with the aroma of roasted Sea King and exotic spices. We sat at the finest table in the most luxurious restaurant. We didn't even have to pay—when the owner learned that the newly crowned "Queen of the Oasis" was among us, he personally came out to greet us and declared that everything was on the house tonight.

"I'm proud of you, Hancock," Rayleigh said, raising his glass. "You didn't just show them a pretty face—you showed them the soul of a warrior. Your will in that song was stronger than any sword."

Hancock, who had been sitting with a regal air, gave a small huff, but I noticed a faint blush creep onto her cheeks, and the corners of her mouth betrayed a smile.

"I already knew that," she shot back, but her sisters, sitting beside her, immediately began showering her with compliments, and her icy mask melted away completely.

After dinner, we headed to our suites. At the door to our corridor, Hancock stopped me.

"Hey, you. Come here."

She unfolded the brochure the photographer had given her and pointed to the last page: the Mero Mero no Mi Devil Fruit.

"I want this fruit," she said quietly.

I glanced at the description: "Turns those who feel lust or love into stone…" Hmm, the perfect weapon against 99% of the men in this world. It was as if it was made for her.

"It's perfect for you," I agreed. "But there's a problem. The starting bid is a hundred million. The real price could soar to half a billion, maybe even a billion. Your winnings won't be enough."

She looked me straight in the eyes, her gaze carrying a silent plea.

"That's why I came to you. You're smart. You'll figure something out."

I sighed.

"Such charming arrogance. Fine, let me think about it."

I left her in the corridor and went to my room. As I lay on the bed, I could hear her lingering outside the door, wanting to say something but ultimately walking away.

I closed my eyes, but sleep wouldn't come. How could I make a fortune in just two days? The task seemed impossible. Only one answer came to mind: the casino. Poker was out of the question—I could read the emotions of regular players, but at tables with hundreds of millions at stake, you're not dealing with ordinary rich folk. You're facing monsters, old-timers who've survived decades on the Grand Line.

But what if I didn't play against people—what if I played against the casino itself? Hmm… not a bad idea.

The next morning, Hancock and I descended to the casino. The festive atmosphere from the previous day had faded. We approached the cashier, and I laid out her hundred million plus the one million I'd been gifted yesterday.

"One hundred and one chips of a million each, please."

My target was the roulette table. I knew the ball was made of Seastone, so cheating with my ability was impossible. But with this amount of money, I could pull off a certain trick.

We sat at the table with the highest stakes. Hancock sat beside me, her face tense.

"Place your bets," the croupier sang out.

I calmly placed one chip on "red." The ball spun and… landed on red. A win. I collected two chips but didn't celebrate.

Next bet—one chip on "red" again. A loss. The ball landed on "black."

"No more bets."

Now I placed two chips on "red." Another loss.

"Bets are closed."

I placed four chips on "red." Hancock swallowed hard beside me. A win. I recouped my losses plus one chip.

This went on for about an hour. I methodically bet on red, doubling my stake after each loss. My winnings grew slowly but steadily. It was boring, mechanical, but effective. I'd already amassed 56 chips, but that wasn't my goal. I was waiting, and then he appeared.

A tall man in an impeccable suit, with slicked-back hair and cold eyes, approached our table—the floor manager.

"Young man," he said, his voice polite but devoid of warmth. "I'm afraid what you're doing is unacceptable in our establishment."

I raised an eyebrow, feigning ignorance.

"I'm not following. I'm placing bets like everyone else. Sometimes I win, sometimes I lose. What's the problem?"

"Sir, we value our patrons," he continued, "but your betting strategy, known as geometric progression, which gives you a chance to always win, while not explicitly against the rules, sets an undesirable precedent and violates the spirit of fair play. I must ask you to leave our establishment."

I smirked. There it was.

"The spirit of fair play? Funny to hear that in a casino. And as for 'always winning,' you're exaggerating. This system only works if you have infinite money and no table limits. Sooner or later, I'd just get unlucky." I stood, gathering my chips. "But as you correctly pointed out, there's nothing in your rulebook posted at the entrance about this. Regardless, we're done for now. Don't worry, we'll be back tomorrow."

We turned and left under his heavy gaze.

As soon as we exited the hall, Hancock pounced on me.

"Only 56 million? That's not enough to win the auction! Your plan failed!"

"Not at all," I replied calmly, meeting her eyes. "Today's game was just the bait."

She fell silent, surprised.

I looked at our money—157 million.

"Today went pretty well. Tomorrow," I smirked, feeling excitement course through my veins, "tomorrow, if it works, we'll hit the jackpot. Or lose everything."

Hancock glared at me, her eyes flashing.

"You'd better not lose."

The next day, we approached the cashier, and I calmly placed yesterday's winnings on the counter.

"Please exchange these."

The cashier, without a word, handed us exactly 58 chips. One was worth a hundred million beli, and the other 57 were worth a million each.

We headed to the same table. A new croupier stood there—a middle-aged man with cold, expressionless eyes and precise movements. He wasn't just an employee; he was a specialist, sent here for one purpose: to beat us.

"Good luck at the table," he said in a flat tone, devoid of any warmth.

I sat down, feeling Hancock tense beside me. I tried to probe the croupier with Observation Haki, but I hit a wall. He concealed his intentions perfectly, like the old man at the poker table.

"Bets are closed."

I placed a million on "red" as usual. The ball, thrown with the croupier's confident hand, spun and landed on "black" with a dry click. A loss.

I silently doubled my bet on "red." This time, the ball stopped on a red slot. A win. But I didn't rush to celebrate. I kept my eyes on the croupier's hands. Unlike yesterday's dealer, who threw the ball almost instinctively, this one was precise, professional. Every throw was nearly identical in force and angle. He controlled the game.

I placed another chip on "red." In the moment of his throw, I saw it—a subtle muscle movement that would guide the ball straight to "black." I smiled. Even knowing this, I couldn't win—the rules prevented me from changing my bet after the throw.

"Change of tactic," I whispered to Hancock. "Forget the colors."

From then on, we bet on dozens: first (1-12), second (13-24), and third (25-36). The odds were better than 50/50, but to profit, you had to triple the stake after a loss. We placed one chip each on the second and third dozens.

"Two million bet," I announced.

The croupier threw the ball. It landed on 17. We won, earning three million. The next bet started with two chips again—a loss. We placed six chips. Then I noticed a change in his throw—shorter, sharper. The ball bounced across the wheel and stopped in the green zero slot.

"Damn it!" Hancock exhaled.

This was exactly what I'd been waiting for. He could hit "red," "black," or "zero" with high accuracy. But dozens required far more skill, and he likely hadn't trained for them—it made sense. Why would he, if he could control "red," "black," and "zero"?

"Don't worry," I said, trying to sound calm despite my racing heart. "We're betting 18 chips. Second and third dozens."

The croupier hesitated for a moment. Throwing for "zero" again would be too suspicious. He made a normal, random throw, clearly banking on our bad luck. And we were unlucky—the ball landed on 8. First dozen. Another loss.

"Francis!" Hancock hissed. "We've already lost 26 million!"

"Relax," I said, taking our last 32 chips and splitting them into 16 each. "All or nothing. Second and third dozens."

Our final 32 million beli lay on the table. Hancock's face was pale as chalk. Even the other players at the table held their breath.

"This time, we'll get lucky," I said with feigned confidence.

The croupier smirked. He saw our all-in bet and decided to end the game. His throw was short, precise. I didn't even look at the wheel—I already knew the outcome. Zero.

The ball clicked into the green slot.

"Damn! Damn! DAMN!" Hancock leapt from her chair, nearly knocking it over. "We lost!"

But I leaned back in my chair and laughed loudly.

"WHY ARE YOU LAUGHING?!" she screamed, ready to grab my hair. "YOU LOST MY MONEY!"

"Not at all," I said, calming down and wiping tears of laughter from my eyes. "We won."

The croupier, who had started collecting our chips, froze. His face showed utter confusion.

"What are you talking about, sir? Your bet lost."

I pointed to the green slot. There, unnoticed in the chaos, was a single chip, placed discreetly by Marigold, who had been sitting at the table. The croupier, so focused on our duel, either didn't notice the bet or deemed it insignificant.

"Check the bet on 'zero,'" I said.

The croupier swallowed hard and picked up the chip with a trembling hand. He held it to his eyes, and his face lost all professionalism, replaced by pure horror.

"One… one hundred million."

I looked at the stunned Hancock, who slowly sank back into her chair.

"The payout for 'zero' is 35 to 1. We won three and a half billion beli, plus our stake. That's three billion six hundred million in total."

Hancock stared at me with wide eyes for a few seconds before letting out a joyful squeal, throwing herself at me and hugging me so tightly I could barely breathe.

At that moment, a man approached our table, flanked by two hulking guards.

"Planning to fight?" I asked calmly, freeing myself from Hancock's embrace.

He gave me a heavy look, glanced at Hancock, then back at me.

"No. The payout will be made in full," he said through gritted teeth. "We acknowledge our defeat, but as of this moment, you and your friends are banned from this casino and the entire resort. You have one day to collect your winnings and leave the Golden Oasis."

He turned and walked away without another word.

Hancock started to protest, but I stopped her.

"It doesn't matter anymore. Our goal is to buy the fruit at tonight's auction. And now we have more than enough money for it."

Sunlight flooded the spacious suite, reflecting off the gilded furniture. We sat on a soft carpet around a low table, waiting for the auction to begin. To pass the time and continue training, we played a game Rayleigh called "Sense the Lie." The rules were simple: each player placed a card face-down and named a suit. You could tell the truth or lie. The others had to use intuition and the beginnings of Observation Haki to detect the deception.

"Hearts," Hancock said confidently, placing her card.

"Lie," I shot back. "I can feel your smugness."

She pursed her lips and flipped the card. Spades.

"I hate when you do that," she hissed, while Marigold and Sandersonia giggled quietly.

Just as I thought of Rayleigh, the door to the suite opened smoothly, and he walked in with a newspaper in hand.

"You lot don't seem to be bored," he remarked warmly, settling into a chair. "I brought some interesting gossip from the lobby. Word is, there was a small financial catastrophe at the casino today, and it's supposedly tied to a group of suspiciously lucky kids. Any idea who they're talking about?"

I shrugged with mock innocence.

"No clue. We were just relaxing—oh, and we happened to win a small sum from the casino. About 3.6 billion beli."

Rayleigh, who had just raised a bottle to his lips, choked and coughed.

"How much?!" he stared at me, eyes wide with shock. "Can I even leave you alone for a day? How in the name of all the sea devils did you pull that off? No, wait—don't tell me. Let me guess."

He leaned back in his chair, his gaze thoughtful.

"So, you had a starting capital of just over a hundred million. Poker's out—those high-stakes tables are filled with pros. Just got lucky at roulette? Unlikely; a jackpot like that is a 1-in-37 shot, and you wouldn't rely on blind luck. Blackjack?" He gave me a sly look. "You're smart enough to count cards, but I haven't taught you that yet. Did you figure it out yourself?"

I smiled.

"It was much simpler. Marigold," I nodded toward the younger sister, "bet a hundred million on 'zero' and won."

Marigold, hearing her name, sat up straight and raised her head proudly, basking in her contribution. Rayleigh looked from her to me, stunned.

"On… zero?" He sat up, shaking his head in disbelief. I laughed. "Tell me more."

I explained the plan in detail: how we drew the manager's attention, made the croupier focus solely on us, and how Marigold placed the one crucial bet at the perfect moment.

Rayleigh listened without interrupting, his astonishment turning to admiration as I spoke.

"Well," he said when I finished, "to say you got lucky is an understatement. You openly taunted the beast, playing against the system and flaunting it, forcing the casino to retaliate. They sent their best 'hunter,' and that's where they lost. The game stopped being about math and became a duel of wits. You weren't playing a faceless system anymore—you were up against crooks just like you. You bruised their ego, made them focus on you, your bets, your audacity. They were so busy watching the pile of chips you and Hancock threw on the table that they missed the one deadly pebble."

He chuckled.

"Of course, you got lucky that their 'hunter' couldn't reliably hit the dozens. You got lucky they didn't notice Marigold. But you created the conditions for that luck. I bet they'll change their rules starting tomorrow."

I gave a theatrical bow, accepting the compliment.

"But next time you want to beat a casino, play blackjack," he added. "It's less risky if you can count cards."

"But I don't know how," I pointed out.

"Pfft, it's not hard," Rayleigh waved it off. "High cards are plus one, low cards are minus one. It's all about tracking the balance. I'll teach you later. For now," he glanced at his watch, "it's time for the auction."

The VIP auction hall dripped with opulence. We took seats on a secluded balcony with a perfect view of the stage and the other participants—lavishly dressed aristocrats, grim underworld bosses, and pirate captains with fearsome reputations. We didn't bid on anything, though some lots were intriguing: a metal bar from Wano that could supposedly channel Haki and a sapling of Adam's Treasure Tree.

Then the moment arrived. A peculiar Devil Fruit shaped like two hearts was wheeled onto the stage under a velvet cover.

"Ladies and gentlemen! The jewel of our collection! The Mero Mero no Mi! Starting bid—one hundred million beli!"

The bidding began instantly. The price skyrocketed to a billion in minutes. Only when most of the smaller players dropped out did I join the fray.

"One billion one hundred million."

A pirate in a nearby box immediately outbid me. I didn't hesitate.

"One point five billion."

The hall fell silent for a moment. The auctioneer, sensing the excitement, began the countdown:

"Three… two…"

"Three and a half billion!" a cold voice rang out. Across the hall, on the opposite balcony, stood the casino owner, his gaze locked on us.

A deathly silence hung over the room. Hancock gripped the velvet railing, her face twisted with fury.

"That damned bastard! He's doing this to spite us!" she hissed.

He'd calculated everything. He saw our interest, knew our financial ceiling, and decided to reclaim his money in one blow. We could steal the fruit, of course—with Rayleigh as backup, it wouldn't be hard—but I didn't like that idea. Why steal what you can buy?

I laughed, drawing everyone's attention.

"A fine finale to our little feud," I said loudly, addressing the casino owner. "Three billion six hundred million."

I named the exact amount of our winnings—our entire fortune. It was my final move. The casino owner nodded and silently sat down.

"Three… two… one… Sold!" the auctioneer shouted. "For a record-breaking three billion six hundred million beli!"

 

[kowak]

The journey back to Sabaody turned into a personal hell. We didn't encounter a single pirate, but peace was a distant dream. Right now, I was dodging a barrage of pink hearts whistling past me.

"Stand still, you brat!" Hancock's furious shout rang out behind me.

Having mastered her Devil Fruit, she'd found the perfect target for practice: me. Her ability was terrifyingly effective. She'd tested it on her sisters first—they turned to stone instantly, as expected. Then, with a smug grin, she fired a beam at Rayleigh, who brushed it off with his Haki without spilling a drop of his tea. And now, I was her living dummy.

It was a cruel game of cat and mouse. She was faster, but my Observation Haki gave me an edge, letting me sense her attacks a split second before they hit. That is, until she roped her sisters into the hunt, making things exponentially harder. They cornered me while Hancock lined up her "shot."

"Got you!"

As a heart zoomed toward my chest, I activated my fruit's power. Click. The world lurched, and I swapped places to the other side of the deck. Her attack slammed into the mast, leaving a charming heart-shaped dent in the wood.

"Stop teleporting, coward! Fight me!" she yelled, undeterred.

Amid the chaos, the familiar outlines of Sabaody's giant mangrove trees came into view.

Stepping into Shakuyaku's bar, I froze at the threshold. This place had always been a quiet haven, a sanctuary. Now, it buzzed like a disturbed beehive. At least a dozen pirates filled the tables, laughing loudly, slamming tankards, and belting out songs.

"Back already?" Shakuyaku smiled from behind the counter, as calm as ever. "How was your little adventure?"

My eyes locked onto a man sitting near the bar. He wore a simple white shirt, a black cloak draped carelessly over a nearby chair, but what stood out was his straw hat and vibrant red hair.

I glanced at Shakuyaku, answering while keeping the stranger in my peripheral vision. "Nothing special. Fought a sand Logia pirate, made a few new friends, hit up a resort. Hancock won a beauty contest, then we swindled a casino for three and a half billion beli and bought a Devil Fruit from them for the same amount."

The red-haired man turned his head slowly, smirking. "Sounds like a completely 'ordinary' trip," he said, his tone brimming with genuine amusement, not mockery.

"Who are you?" I asked bluntly.

He laughed warmly. "Name's Shanks. Just a pirate." He extended a calloused, strong hand.

I shook it, recalling the name: Red-Haired Shanks, one of the Four Emperors. He didn't look like an Emperor, though.

"I'm Francis. Never seen guests in here before."

"We're old friends, not just guests," he replied with a grin. "Sit, kid. Tell me about your adventures—especially how you pulled off that casino heist."

"Want to make some quick cash yourself?" I quipped.

He roared with laughter. "Haha, maybe, maybe! You never know when…"

He was cut off as the bar door swung open. Hancock stormed in, furious. "Get back here, you runt! I'm not done—" She froze, noticing the room full of pirates staring at her. For a moment, she faltered, but quickly regained her composure, tossing her hair back with regal flair. "What are you staring at? Never seen a beauty before?"

The bar erupted in good-natured laughter. Rayleigh followed, arms laden with bags of food, and behind him, the sisters slipped in, clearly shy under the attention.

"Been a while, Shanks," Rayleigh said warmly, setting the bags down. "Heading back to the New World?"

"Yeah, we're done here," Shanks replied, his gaze shifting to us. "Looks like retirement's keeping you busy. Got yourself a whole kindergarten."

"You bet," Rayleigh chuckled. "And don't underestimate them. These kids are crazy talented. They'll catch up to you in no time."

I couldn't resist jumping in. "He's that strong? I don't sense anything special."

Rayleigh's expression turned serious. "He's stronger than me, Francis. You don't feel his aura because he controls it perfectly. If he lets it slip even for a second, you and Hancock might stay standing, but her sisters would pass out."

"Oh, come on, Rayleigh-san, you're still a force," Shanks said modestly, then turned to me, his gaze piercing. "Kid, mastering Observation Haki at your age is real talent. Hmm…" He frowned briefly. "There's another fire in you—Conqueror's Haki. Want to feel what it's really like?"

I glanced at Rayleigh. "Why haven't you offered to show me?"

"You're not ready to control it yet. It's dangerous," he replied. "But if you want, you can test your will against his. It'll be invaluable experience."

I nodded firmly. Rayleigh turned to Shanks. "Go easy. He's still a kid."

Shanks nodded, his face growing serious. Our eyes locked in a silent standoff.

I remembered the feeling when my will first erupted—a tidal wave born of desperation and resolve. I tried to summon it again, focusing on my vow to destroy the World Government, but nothing happened.

Meanwhile, Shanks' pressure grew. It was a sharp, focused needle, probing my soul, testing its strength. It didn't spill over to the others—it was aimed solely at me.

My vision darkened. Breathing grew heavy.

To hell with this! I thought. I didn't train this hard just to let some pirate break me with a stare!

That defiance sparked it. My Conqueror's Haki surged outward in all directions. The bar's windows trembled faintly, and a few pirates glanced our way curiously. But Shanks didn't flinch. My wave was like mist; his will, a lighthouse beam, pierced through and hit me with double the force.

He pressed harder. My chaotic strength couldn't match his focused precision. Focus it, like a fist, not a wave, I thought desperately. But I couldn't. The world narrowed to a single point, and just as I was about to collapse, the pressure vanished.

I slumped into a chair, gasping, cold sweat dripping down my face. The bar's noise and laughter returned as if nothing happened. Shanks, smiling warmly again, pulled out a chocolate bar, broke off a piece, and handed it to me.

"Here. It'll help."

I nodded gratefully, munching on the sweet chocolate as he began his lesson.

"What's Conqueror's Haki?" he asked me. "A desire to change the world? To be stronger? To save those you love? You can want many things, but most times, you don't get them. When you first awakened your will, you probably thought it was some grand goal, something you wanted with all your heart. But that's not quite it."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised.

"You might've wanted something," he continued, "but the true trigger is always Defiance. Fierce, fundamental defiance against the world's rules. Defiance against someone being stronger than you. That's Conqueror's Haki. Desire and defiance seem similar, but their essence is different. Desire is chasing what isn't there. Defiance is rejecting what is. When you faced me just now, what were you thinking?"

I recalled my last thought before my will surged. "I refused to let you beat me."

"Exactly," Shanks nodded. "You didn't 'want to win.' You refused to lose. Got it?"

"Got it," I exhaled. "That was a valuable lesson."

The bar's festive atmosphere returned in full swing. Some drank, some argued, some arm-wrestled. But I was curious about Shanks' crew, the team of a Yonko. Their sniper caught my attention. I approached a curly-haired man with a wide grin, mid-story.

"You're the sniper, right?"

He puffed out his chest proudly. "Not just a sniper, kid! I'm Yasopp, the best sniper in the world. I never miss."

"I don't buy it," I said skeptically. "No one hits every shot. Too many variables."

"Oh?" He squinted slyly. "Wanna test me?"

"Yeah. Hit me," I challenged.

Yasopp's jovial demeanor vanished, replaced by a predator's gaze sizing up prey. "Hmm, tricky," he smirked. "The moment I pull the trigger, you'd swap places with that cute chair by the bar. Bullet hits wood, not you. And I don't shoot furniture. So, by not firing, I keep my perfect record. HAHAHA!"

The bar roared with laughter, but I wasn't amused. I was ready to swap with that chair. Conclusion: he saw the future. Shanks' crew was unreal.

Seeing my stunned face, Yasopp clapped my shoulder. "Kid, a sniper's job is one shot. Doesn't matter when it happens. Miss the first? You're a lousy sniper. Tough target? Call for backup. That said," he grinned, "I'd take you out in two. First shot makes you teleport, second's waiting where you land."

I stood silent, digesting his deadly simple tactic.

"Is there a weapon that fires multiple shots without reloading?" I asked, circling back to an idea.

"Sure, revolvers," he replied casually. "But I don't need 'em. I'm the world's number-one sniper! HAHAHA!"

The bar grew even louder, the festive vibe almost tangible. I scanned for someone else to talk to. Shanks' crew was a treasure trove of knowledge, and I wasn't wasting this chance.

Hancock, scoffing at the drunken songs, found a more refined pastime, debating music with the ship's musician. Her sisters enthusiastically helped Shakuyaku serve drinks.

My gaze landed on a lone figure by the window: Benn Beckman, Shanks' first mate. He smoked quietly, staring at a chessboard—not a standard one. The pieces were smaller, more numerous, and colored differently. I edged closer, trying not to intrude.

The board's setup was odd, asymmetrical. A large dark piece stood at the center, surrounded by five red rooks in a tight ring. Beyond them, nineteen gray pawns formed a defensive circle, and nine golden queens made up an outer attacking layer. It was a strategic model, each group representing something, but I couldn't decipher what.

Beckman turned, his calm, piercing gaze meeting mine. "What's up, kid?" His voice was low, steady. "Wanna play?"

Asking about the strange pieces felt rude, like prying into dangerous secrets. So, I nodded and sat opposite him. He swept the odd setup away and placed standard chess pieces.

In the first game, I played aggressively, seizing the center for a quick king attack. I thought I was winning, pushing him into defense, but Beckman played with icy calm. He sacrificed pawns and light pieces, each move tightening an invisible noose around my army. My attack fizzled, leaving my king naked against his rook and bishop. Checkmate.

"Another?" he asked, emotionless.

In the second game, I played cautiously, fortifying my position. I saw his style: not aiming for a quick mate but methodically stripping my army, piece by piece. He left me with helpless pawns in a war of attrition he mastered. I lost, my key pieces gone.

The third game was the same. I tried adapting to his style, but he saw my plans ten moves ahead. I lost again.

The sun had long set, and exhaustion weighed on me. I stood silently.

"Not bad," Beckman said, packing away the pieces.

I grimaced, frustration sharp. "Not bad? I wasn't even close to winning."

He looked at me, a faint smile in his eyes. "Doesn't mean you played poorly. Defeat's the best teacher if you learn from it."

With that, he turned back to the window, lost in thought.

I retreated to my room. The girls were already asleep, softly snoring. I lay on my bunk, replaying the lost games and that strange, colorful chessboard in my mind, unable to sleep.

Morning came, and we headed to the training clearing as usual, but Rayleigh wasn't there. Shanks was, lounging on a boulder, sipping sake straight from the bottle.

"There's the brats!" he greeted cheerfully. "Didn't expect me, huh?"

"Where's Rayleigh-san?" Marigold asked, peeking from behind her sister.

Shanks waved toward the shipyard. "Old man's coating our ship for an underwater trip. So, I'm training you lot for the next week. Hope you're ready to sweat. Ball games are over—it's time for real fights. But first, arm yourselves."

He gestured to a large rack, likely brought by his crew, loaded with weapons: elegant rapiers, heavy axes, exotic flails, and brass knuckles.

"Pick what feels right," he said. "Or don't. Fists never go out of style." He smirked, clenching his own.

I approached the rack first. Swords were too finicky. Then I saw it: a heavy two-handed hammer with a long handle, pure destructive power. Nearby, a pair of revolvers promised precision and speed. I grabbed the hammer, revolvers, and a bandolier without hesitation.

Marigold, after some thought, chose a long, light spear. Hancock and Sandersonia crossed their arms.

"We don't need that," Hancock declared defiantly.

Shanks nodded approvingly. "Choices made. Now, your job is to at least scratch me, three against one."

"Arrogant!" Hancock snapped, forming a heart with her hands. A pink beam shot toward Shanks.

He didn't budge. With a lazy flick of his saber, he sliced the beam in half, letting it dissipate. He didn't counter, just watched with interest, waiting for our next move.

I decided to try a trick I'd been itching to test.

Gripping the hammer, I spun it, pouring all my strength into a crushing vertical strike aimed at Hancock's head.

"What are you doing?!" she shrieked, shock and rage in her voice.

She instinctively dodged, but as the hammer descended, I activated my power.

Click.

Hancock vanished, and Shanks appeared in her place, right under my strike. Due to their height difference, the blow aimed at her head now targeted his torso. He blocked it effortlessly with a single saber swing. The clash was deafening, the recoil nearly tearing the hammer from my hands.

"Not bad," he said, approval in his tone. "Clever, but you just brought me to your allies."

Still blocking my hammer, he delivered two lightning-fast kicks. Sandersonia and Marigold, trying to flank him, flew back like bowling pins. Everyone fell—except Hancock, now standing where Shanks had been, staring in shock.

He lectured us, his voice stern like a captain scolding his crew. "Zero teamwork! Sandersonia and Marigold hesitated, Hancock's too impatient. And you, Francis, bet everything on one hit. Not a bad tactic, but it worked only because I let it. If I wanted, you couldn't have teleported me."

He coated himself in Armament Haki, a glossy black armor enveloping him. To my Observation Haki, he became an unshakable mountain. I could still teleport him, but it'd be like moving an island—I'd break myself trying.

He smiled, and it wasn't friendly. "Round two?"

I dropped the hammer and drew a revolver. Shanks stood still, waiting. The girls, wiser from the last round, charged from different angles. I fired, aiming just above his head.

As he moved to parry Marigold's spear, I activated my power again.

Click.

Marigold vanished, reappearing above Shanks, while my bullet materialized where she'd been. Though its momentum reset, Marigold didn't hesitate. She pushed off the air, spinning, and swung her spear down in a slashing arc. Simultaneously, Hancock, her fist imbued with Haki, aimed for his side. Sandersonia did the same, sans Haki, from the other side. I fired a second shot, this time at his head.

Shanks was trapped—four attacks from four directions. What he did next floored me.

Nothing. He stood still, not blocking, not dodging.

The spear screeched against his scalp. The sisters' fists slammed into his sides. My bullet struck his forehead. He didn't flinch. Hancock's Haki-infused punch didn't even scratch his "armor."

He looked down at us, his eyes devoid of anger or mockery—just seriousness.

"Here's your lesson," he said quietly, but with weight. "One day, you'll face someone you can't beat. Someone leagues above you. What then?"

"Run," I answered without hesitation.

"Maybe," he nodded. "With your power, you might escape. But what about the girls?"

"That's why I'll handle the big stuff alone," I shot back, a chill running down my spine.

He gave a bitter smile. "You're missing the point. It's not about preventing it—it's about what you'll do when it happens." He addressed us all. "Are you ready to sacrifice yourself for an ally? To risk your life to give them a chance? You'll face that choice someday. There's no right or wrong answer, but here's advice: choose the path you can live with. Pick the wrong one, and the rest of your life will be a hell of self-reproach."

"Have you made that choice?" I asked softly.

He smiled, a story behind it. "Of course. That's why I'm here, with no regrets."

He clapped, shedding his seriousness. "Alright, food for thought. Now, let's break down what you did wrong—and, surprisingly, what you did right. That last attack was near perfect…"

 

[kowak]

Shanks' crew had sailed away, leaving an unfamiliar silence in their wake. Life on Sabaody settled into a routine of training, reading, and helping Rayleigh and Shakuyaku. Five years had passed, and my training continued relentlessly. I think I'd turned thirteen, though I wasn't certain of the exact date. I could now push off the air a couple of times using Geppo, but running through the sky still eluded me, and Armament Haki remained stubbornly out of reach.

"You don't have a knack for it, Francis," Rayleigh told me one day. "Your nature lies in cunning, speed, and evasion. Armament Haki is about direct confrontation, unyielding resolve. Your talent is elsewhere, so you'll have to work three times harder than others to master it."

This routine, however, didn't mean inaction. Four years ago, when I was nine, a single event sparked the beginning of my secret plan. One day, an unremarkable postman approached the bar and left a package for me. There was no return address, but the contents made it clear it was from Dragon. Inside, neatly packed, were several peculiar Den Den Mushi—one tiny, the size of a fingernail, another disguised as an ordinary rock. Accompanying them was a thick manual: instructions on encrypting calls, raising the snails, and a secret number to contact him in dire emergencies.

That's when I began the first phase of my plan to topple the World Government. Most people in the world had never seen the Celestial Dragons. To them, they were abstract rulers. I needed to expose their true nature. I knew that during major slave auctions on Sabaody, they sometimes came in person to add to their "toy" collections. Each visit ended in someone's death. I planned to document their crimes using the Den Den Mushi.

At the same time, I couldn't let the slave trade thrive, but I was too weak to dismantle it alone. So, I chose another path. After slaves were sold and loaded onto ships, I would intercept them at sea. Gliding past a slaver's vessel, I used Observation Haki to sense every terrified soul and cold collar on board. At the right moment, I'd focus and swap the slaves' shackles away, freeing them to revolt. It worked—except once. The World Government must have suspected the frequent uprisings weren't due to faulty collars. On that ship, I sensed the cold, disciplined aura of an agent in a white mask and coat. I retreated.

Years passed, and now the present unfolded. Beyond training and covert operations, I started helping Rayleigh with his work—coating ships in resin. It was monotonous, almost relaxing, but today was different.

Rayleigh arrived at the shipyard with a fresh newspaper in hand. He silently handed it to me. The headline hit like a punch to the chest.

"PIRATE-TERRORIST FISHER TIGER SLAIN!"

Below was a photo of his lifeless body and an article dripping with venom. "At last, civilians can breathe easy. The band of Fish-Men terrorizing the seas and encouraging lawlessness has been disbanded following their leader's death."

"Liars," I hissed, crumpling the paper.

Rayleigh, standing nearby, sighed heavily. The news was devastating. Though I'd never met Fisher Tiger, I admired him deeply; he was the one who dared to defy the system and freed hundreds, including me.

Before I could process the news, the shipyard grew noisy. A massive ship approached our dock, its figurehead carved as a giant white whale—Moby Dick.

On its deck, towering above all, stood its owner: Edward Newgate, Whitebeard. His presence radiated such colossal power that the air itself seemed to tremble.

I watched as Moby Dick, like a living leviathan, docked at the largest pier. Its size was staggering; our ship looked like a dinghy beside it. Dozens of pirates bustled on deck, like ants on a giant's back.

"Rayleigh, I'm going to take a look," I said, eyes fixed on the ship.

"Be careful, Francis," he replied, not pausing his work. "Newgate's a man of moods, but he respects courage."

I nodded and headed for the gangplank. As I stepped onto the deck, dozens of eyes turned to me. A tall, blond man with a relaxed, almost sleepy grin approached first.

"Yo, who're you?" His voice was calm. "Lost, kid?"

I glanced at the center of the deck, where Whitebeard sat on a massive throne-like chair.

"Not lost," I said. "I came to see the man they call the strongest in the world."

"GU-RA-RA-RA-RA!" Whitebeard laughed, clearly amused as he studied me. "What a bold brat! So, am I impressive?"

I allowed a slight smirk. "Well," I paused, "those mustaches are definitely one-of-a-kind."

He roared with laughter again, stroking his crescent-shaped white mustaches.

"GU-RA-RA-RA! You've got a sharp eye, kid! There's grit in you. Want to join our family? Be my son."

The offer, one no pirate would dare refuse, was made so casually.

"Thanks, but do I look like a stray?" I replied with a hint of irony. "I've already got someone looking out for me. I came to ask something else. You're heading underwater, to Fish-Man Island, right?"

Whitebeard's expression grew serious. "That's right," he said, his voice lower, firmer. "Since Fisher's death, it's been chaos down there. Old agreements are forgotten; pirates are kidnapping mermaids, looting, killing. Someone's got to restore order. Why do you care?"

"The Sun Pirates saved my life," I answered honestly. "I want to see their home and make sure it doesn't drown in blood."

Whitebeard studied me, then nodded approvingly. "A worthy goal. If you want, you can sail with us."

I nodded in agreement. At that moment, Rayleigh landed silently on Moby Dick's railing, having pushed off the air in a series of invisible leaps.

"Been a while, Whitebeard," he said calmly, brushing nonexistent dust from his cloak.

"Gu-ra-ra-ra, Rayleigh!" the Yonko boomed. "Finally crawled out into the light? I see you've been busy—picked up a son."

I didn't correct him. Rayleigh wasn't my real father, but after everything I'd been through, he was the closest thing to it. He taught me, protected me, cared for me, asking nothing in return. Standing on the deck of the world's strongest man, I felt, for the first time, a pride not for myself but for someone else.

Sailing beneath kilometers of ocean, I felt true fear for the first time in years. In my white cell, I'd been trapped but could fight. Here, I was helpless. One wrong move, one crack in the coating, and the pressure would crush us all. I couldn't escape or teleport. If the bubble burst, I'd die.

Marco, Whitebeard's first commander, approached, balancing effortlessly on the swaying deck with two cups of tea.

"Nervous, yoi?" He handed me a cup. "You should be. Fruit users don't belong underwater."

I took the hot cup silently, grateful for the distraction.

"There's a trick for folks like us to survive down here," he continued, noticing my tension. He pulled a porous, sponge-like coral from his pocket. "Bubble Coral. Squeeze it hard, and it releases a big air bubble. Jump in, and it'll carry you to the surface fast. It's tough enough to withstand deep-sea pressure. Keep it, just in case."

I took the coral gratefully. "Thanks. That actually helps."

"No problem, yoi. Father told me to keep an eye on you."

Hours later, we arrived. Fish-Man Island, nestled in a giant air bubble at the ocean's floor, was breathtaking. Light from the colossal Light Era Tree bathed everything in a soft, pearlescent glow. Coral houses in every color stretched upward, creating a fairy-tale underwater city. But no one greeted us. The air carried the smell of smoke. Absurdly, buildings were burning—flames roaring underwater, devouring fragile homes and sending black plumes into the air.

Stepping ashore, Whitebeard wasted no time on words. He took a deep breath, and the world seemed to freeze. He unleashed his ultimate weapon: Conqueror's Haki. Like a silent tsunami, it swept the island. It spared allies and civilians hiding in homes, showing astonishing control. Most of the rampaging pirates collapsed unconscious. Only the strongest remained standing, stunned by the display of absolute power.

I broke off from the main group. While Whitebeard's crew handled the remaining resistance, I explored. On a shattered street, I saw a pirate—one who'd withstood the Haki—cornering a sobbing mermaid.

"Hey, sweetheart, don't be scared. I won't hurt you!" he sneered, reaching for her.

I drew my revolver. He sensed my intent and dodged the shot at the last second. The bullet thudded into a coral wall.

"You little punk!" he roared, turning on me. "Playing hero? I'll make mincemeat out of you!"

Instead of arguing, I aimed at a large wall fragment beside him and fired. As the bullet neared, I swapped the fragment with the pirate. His body couldn't react in time. He appeared in the bullet's path, and it struck his skull. He died without even realizing what happened.

I approached the terrified mermaid. "Miss, are you okay? Want me to escort you somewhere safe?"

She looked at me with fear and gratitude, then nodded. "Yes, please… take me to Mermaid Café."

"Lead the way. I don't know where it is."

We were attacked four more times en route—desperate pirates grabbing for last-minute loot. None posed a challenge. Real heavyweights wouldn't bother with defenseless girls.

The café was packed with Fish-Men and mermaids seeking refuge. Upon seeing me, a human, several Fish-Men drew weapons.

"A human! What's he doing here?!"

The mermaid I'd saved stopped them. "Wait! He saved me from pirates. Don't touch him!"

The tension eased, but wary glares lingered.

"Alright," I said, "I'll go see if anyone else needs help."

A calm voice stopped me. "No need. The war's over."

It was a mermaid with long black hair and a jet-black tail, sitting behind the counter.

I raised an eyebrow. "Over? Even if the fighting's done, what about those trapped under rubble? And how do you know it's over?"

She paused. "You're right," she said finally, addressing the café. "The danger's passed! But many need our help. Let's clear the rubble and find the wounded!"

Oddly, no one questioned her certainty. They trusted her, and the café buzzed with activity.

Debris removal was in full swing. Fish-Men, united by shared hardship, worked efficiently, passing coral fragments in a chain. I helped my way—pointing at massive slabs blocking paths. Click. A multi-ton boulder swapped places with a pebble, clearing the way to the injured. Each "trick" earned grateful nods.

The mermaid, Shyarly, approached as I moved another pile. She watched silently.

"I still don't get it," I said, continuing my work. "How'd you know the fight was over? That was too precise."

She shrugged, her long hair swaying. "Maybe because I can see the future?" Her tone was almost questioning.

I gave her a skeptical look. "My teacher can glimpse a few seconds ahead with advanced Observation Haki. No offense, but you don't strike me as that strong."

"It's not Observation Haki," she said quietly. "It's an innate gift—a curse, if you will. I don't see the next moment. I see fragments of the distant future."

Weird, but this world was full of oddities. I stopped moving debris and faced her. "How's it work? If you see the future and talk about it, don't you change it? Or does acting on it make it happen? And how do you get these visions?"

She winced, as if I'd touched a sore spot. "The latter," she said sadly. "I can't change it. When I see the future, I'm just there, watching, helpless."

"That sucks," I said bluntly.

Here was my chance to ask about my future. But was it worth it? What if it was bad? Maybe ignorance was better. No—thinking like that was for losers. A warrior needs to know the battlefield, even if it's littered with their own bones.

I made up my mind. "Can you see my future?"

"I usually need my crystal ball to focus," she said hesitantly. "But I can try without it. May I?"

I nodded. She placed a cool hand on my head.

Her eyes rolled back, and she was gone, whisked away from the ruined Fish-Man Island.

She stood on Mariejois. An older Francis, tall with confident eyes, was at the center. Surrounding him were embodiments of absolute power: a man radiating molten lava, fists smoking with magma; a devilishly grinning blond in a garish pink feather boa; dozens of faceless figures in white suits and masks, their auras cold and empty as executioners.

The greatest threat came from nine warriors in ornate armor, standing as one. At their head, in flawless Celestial Dragon garb, was a man with red hair.

But Francis wasn't afraid. He laughed—calm, confident, with a hint of mockery.

"You think this is enough to save them?" he asked, his voice not a threat but an undeniable fact.

The vision cut off.

Shyarly yanked her hand back as if burned, stumbling away. Her eyes were wide with terror, seeing not a young boy but a harbinger of apocalypse.

"You…" she whispered, trembling. "Who are you?"

 

[kowak]

Chapter 14

I helped Sharly sit on a surviving bench. She was still pale, her hands trembling faintly. "What did you see?" I asked softly, keeping my voice steady to calm her. Stammering, she recounted fragments of a horrifying vision. As I listened, pieces of a puzzle began to form in my mind. The "man of lava" was clearly the current Admiral Akainu. The figures in white suits and masks I'd already seen on the slavers' ship. But the "Nine Holy Knights"... that was new. The situation itself didn't surprise me much—it was the very thing I'd been striving toward my entire life. What truly shocked me, though, was her description of their leader. A spitting image of Shanks. Did that mean Shanks would eventually side with them? Could he not be trusted? Questions swarmed my mind, refusing to settle. I glanced at the still-frightened Sharly and, to mask my own unease, flashed a crooked grin. "Well, looks like I'm gonna be pretty badass in the future, huh?"

At that moment, a royal guard approached, his armor clanking. He bowed low. "We thank you for your aid in restoring order," he said formally. "His Majesty King Neptune and Queen Otohime invite you to a feast of gratitude at Ryugu Palace."

My help wasn't needed among the ruins anymore, and Sharly was still in shock. I nodded to the guard. "Lead the way."

We swam—or flew?—to the palace on the back of a massive shark that served as transport. Upon arriving, we entered a vast, light-filled hall. Whitebeard's pirates were already there, rowdily feasting at long tables. The festive atmosphere starkly contrasted with the grief lingering outside.

King Neptune rose from his throne. He set aside his trident, a gesture of respect that hushed the noisy hall. "Whitebeard Pirates!" His voice boomed through the palace, not with threat but with boundless, heartfelt gratitude. "On behalf of my people and myself, I, Neptune, King of Fish-Man Island, am eternally grateful for your courage. You arrived in our darkest hour and saved our people from the shadow of enslavement that sought to bind our homes once more. For this, I am forever in your debt. Know that from this day forward, the doors of our kingdom are open to you. Any trouble that befalls you will be ours as well. This feast is but a small token of our gratitude—eat, drink, and celebrate, heroes! But first, my wife, Queen Otohime, wishes to speak."

Queen Otohime stepped forward. She appeared fragile and petite beside her husband, but when she spoke, her voice, brimming with passion and conviction, filled the hall. "I look at you, and I see not just strength but kindness in your hearts. You are humans. And those who brought fire and fear to our streets just hours ago—they, too, were humans. Many of my people will now say you're all the same, that cruelty lives in your hearts. But I look at you, and I know that's a lie. We are so much like you. We feel, we love, we rejoice, we grieve. And yes, we have suffered greatly at the hands of humans." Her voice was soft yet carried across the hall. "But the pirates who kidnap and sell our children into slavery are not all of humanity! You are living proof of that! So I ask you—something small. Would you walk among our island? Show my people, frightened and embittered, that humans aren't as terrifying as they seem. Your presence on our streets will speak louder than a thousand of my speeches. It will aid me in gathering signatures for our relocation to the surface! We wish to live with you under the same sun!"

Whitebeard's pirates cheered good-naturedly, agreeing, but I couldn't stay silent. "What?" My voice cut sharply through the noise. "You want to go to the surface, knowing what you know? After what happened to Fisher Tiger?"

Otohime met my gaze, her eyes unwavering with faith. "Yes."

I stared at her as if she were mad. "Do you want death for your people? You're right—there's much we share. All sentient beings are alike: there are good and bad pirates, good and bad humans. But that doesn't apply to the rulers of this world!" I gestured to Whitebeard's crew. "Everyone here, good as they may be, is a criminal on the surface! The World Government, to whom you plan to present your signatures, will never accept you as equals. At best, you'll be an exotic accessory to them. I genuinely don't understand why, after what Tiger did, they didn't launch a punitive expedition against you. That's their style. Instead, they just raised the price on Fish-Man slaves. Until the power on the surface changes, you have no place there."

"But if we don't open our hearts to one another, if we don't try to understand, nothing will ever change," she countered passionately.

I shook my head wearily. "A liar sees liars everywhere, and a killer sees killers. You're kind and naive, so you see kindness in everyone. Your ideology is beautiful, but in this cruel world, it won't work. With that approach, you're unfit to be a ruler."

A heavy silence fell over the table. I didn't touch the food. Instead, I stood and headed for the exit. "But if we don't try, everything will stay the same as it has for eight hundred years!" Otohime called after me.

I paused in the doorway and turned back. "Your mistake is thinking a piece of paper from the government will fix everything. You want real change? Listen. You don't need signatures. People care about money first and foremost. Start trading with the surface—flood the world with your goods, offer tours of the island, charge for descents and ascents. That's how you'll get closer to humans, becoming not just mythical creatures but trade partners."

I paused, letting my words sink in. "But that will also open the door to slavers. So, with the money from trade, buy weapons, hire warriors, train your people to protect themselves. That's what you need. Most people on the surface have never seen you. Even if you got approval to live on land, they'd still shun you—but for money, they'll take the risk. That's your chance to find common ground."

She pulled out a notebook and pen, frantically scribbling down my words. I left the hall, unwilling to disrupt the mood further with my presence.

The silence in the hall was heavy after the boy left. Whitebeard slowly set down his massive sake cup. "The kid's right," he said, his voice devoid of its usual cheer, filling the space. "As long as the World Government sits on its throne, you've got no business on the surface. It's like sticking your head in a Sea King's mouth and hoping it won't bite."

Queen Otohime clasped her hands tightly. "But there must be good people out there, ones who'll understand us!"

"Of course there are," Whitebeard nodded. "But they're not the ones in power. And the kid's later points make sense too, but he missed the biggest issue—your own people. Those who've been enslaved, who've felt the shackles. They'll never accept humans. They'll sabotage trade and thwart your plans. In my long life, I've never seen anyone truly let go of vengeance. Some bury it, some can't act on it, but let it go? Never."

A heavy silence followed, broken by Whitebeard's sudden, booming laugh. "GU-RA-RA-RA-RA! Enough gloom! I'm not here to lecture you! Let's drink!"

He raised his cup, and King Neptune, looking more solemn, mirrored the gesture. After drinking with the king, Whitebeard stood. His crew fell silent, but he waved them off, signaling them to continue. Without another word, he headed for the exit, sensing the bold kid was out THERE.

Francis sat on the edge of an observation deck, legs dangling over the abyss. Far below, protected by a giant bubble, Fish-Man Island glimmered with lights. Heavy footsteps approached, but Francis didn't turn. He knew who it was. Whitebeard sat beside him effortlessly, the stone ledge holding firm under his weight. "Kid, when royalty invites you, you act proper," Whitebeard rumbled, gazing out at the same view. "We're pirates, sure, but cultured ones. Scolding a queen like that? Bad form."

Francis smirked, not turning his head. "The last 'cultured' pirate I met tried to rob me for ninety million beli." He shrugged. "Even if my words were harsh, they were true. If that truth saves even one life, what's the point of fake politeness?"

Whitebeard snorted, his massive mustache twitching. "Maybe so, but here's what I'm curious about. What do you really want?"

Francis finally turned to him. A fire burned in his young eyes, far too intense for a child. "Isn't it obvious from what I said? To bring down the World Government, of course." He looked back at the city. "I've seen people chasing One Piece, aiming to be the strongest, or chasing some stupid title. Those goals do nothing for me. I've met others who share my views, and I respect them. But there's something odd about you. I can't understand or share your desire to build such a huge family, but somehow, I find it the second most worthy goal out there. After mine, obviously. You're a good man, Whitebeard."

The Yonko froze for a moment, then his chest shook with silent laughter that erupted into his signature "GU-RA-RA-RA-RA!" "Getting praised by a kid who hasn't even lived twenty years! I've seen it all now!" He wiped tears of laughter from his eyes.

Francis couldn't help but smile at the absurdity, but his expression quickly turned serious. "But you know what? I think one day, you'll die because of them. Your family's your greatest weakness. Someone's bound to use it against you."

Whitebeard's laughter stopped. He looked at the boy, his eyes no longer merry, only resolute. He shook his head. "Not because of them, kid—for them. My goal isn't just to gather these ragtags under my flag. It's to raise them, give them a home, a chance to be themselves. And if my sons need me to die so they can live, I'll do it without hesitation."

He rose slowly, his shadow falling over Francis. "Looks like you've got another visitor."

Francis turned. Queen Otohime was approaching along the bridge from the palace, her white dress fluttering in the breeze.

Queen Otohime reached me, her large eyes brimming with desperate resolve. Instead of scolding me for my boldness, she grabbed my hands, her grip surprisingly firm. Questions poured from her, tangled with excitement. "How do we start trading with humans? What exactly needs to be done? How do you know so much—you're just a child! How do we organize tourism if my own people might harm the guests? And Whitebeard mentioned the Sun Pirates might rebel. What do I do with all this?"

I was stunned by her intensity. I'd expected anger, reproach, or regal disdain—not this barrage of practical questions. I gently freed my hands. "Whoa, Your Majesty, one thing at a time," I said, trying to sound calm as I gathered my thoughts. "First, figure out what you can trade. What do you have that's unique, something no one else in the world has? Special corals, unique pearls, medicinal seaweed?"

She nodded quickly, her eyes lighting up with interest. "Next, you need a ledger," I continued, recalling economics books. "A big book with three main sections: what you harvest, what you sell, and what's left in stock. Every item needs a price in beli. Even if it's a barter deal, record its monetary equivalent. That's the foundation of any business."

"And then?" she asked eagerly.

"Then find a middleman. Someone on the surface, ideally at a key hub like Sabaody Archipelago. They'll take your goods, market them, sell them, and take a cut. That's your first profit, which you can use to expand production and buy what you lack here."

"And tourism?" She looked at me intently.

"Tourism's trickier," I sighed. "Beyond transport issues, safety's the biggest problem—for both Fish-Men and humans. Whitebeard was right about resistance. Those who've been enslaved won't welcome humans. You'll need strong security for guests. Or," I paused, "find an authority figure who can take the Sun Pirates under their wing, channeling their energy into protecting the island instead of seeking revenge. Lead people on safe routes, obviously, and offer tourist attractions: mermaid cafes, coral garden tours, souvenirs."

She absorbed every word like a sponge. "But how… how do you know all this?"

I looked at the ruins below, a shadow of my past flickering across my face. "Books are a great source of knowledge. And a short but very intense life."

She gazed at me sadly, pity flashing in her eyes before being replaced by determination. Her face transformed as an idea struck her. "Be that person," she said suddenly. "Who?" I asked, confused. "Our representative on the surface. The middleman you talked about."

I froze, her proposal catching me off guard. It was tempting—opening doors to wealth and influence—but impossible. "I can't. Not because I don't want to, but because the world sees me as a criminal. If I'm recognized, it could discredit all your efforts. If you're building ties with the surface, your 'official' link needs to be someone untainted by crime."

Otohime frowned, her fingers clenching nervously. "And how do I find someone like that?" Her voice mixed confusion and resolve.

I shrugged, a bitter smirk tugging at my lips. "No clue. Everyone dear to me, I found by chance. But you don't always need squeaky-clean souls to trade with."

 

[kowak]

I stayed on Fish-Man Island. For the first time in my life, I had a task to build something from scratch, and to my surprise, it turned out to be no less thrilling than a fight. Fortunately, I had read books on economics, and now that knowledge, which had seemed like mere abstract information, gained real weight.

My improvised office became a quiet room in Mermaid Café. They offered me quarters in the palace, but spending half an hour descending and ascending seemed like an irrational luxury. Shyarly, the café's owner, just snorted and said I could stay as long as needed, as long as I didn't bother the customers.

Samples lay on the table in front of me.

"So, Your Majesty," I addressed Queen Otohime, who sat opposite me, "to start, we'll begin with three staple goods. First—bubble corals that release air. On Sabaody, people fight over them; they're the foundation of the entire infrastructure. Second—your medicinal seaweed. And third," I said with a smile, pointing to a small bottle, "alcohol brewed by octopuses using a special recipe. All these goods don't need advertising because they're delicious in their own right."

"But how do we price such goods? We have no idea about surface prices."

"Not yet," I replied. "That's the main problem, so we'll leave it for later. The first batch will go via barter. We'll exchange it for what you need most: wood from special trees, metal, books... I'll compile an exact list. Then, on the surface, I'll set the market value and report back to you. The key is to launch the process."

Leaving my "office," I descended to the main hall of the café. My head buzzed with numbers and plans. I was immediately greeted by a mermaid named Isili—the very one I had saved on the day of our arrival. Her bright blue tail gracefully shimmered in the light of the coral lamps.

"Well, hermit, come out to breathe some sea air?" Her voice was melodic and full of playful mockery. She glided around me smoothly, and before I could respond, her cool but strong hands rested on my shoulders. "Tired from pushing our world forward? Everything as usual?"

"Yes, Isili. Everything as usual," I replied, involuntarily relaxing under her touch.

We stepped outside, where by a small pool... a pool underwater, what a surprise. Though I was starting to get used to it. I lay down on a comfortable lounge made of smooth coral, and Isili began giving me a massage.

How amazing it felt. After so many grueling training sessions, simply lying there and doing nothing seemed like the greatest luxury. Soon, another mermaid brought me a tall glass of cocktail. That's how my days passed while our ship was slowly loaded with goods under the watchful eye of the royal guard.

Before departure, I met with Otohime and handed her a small, specially tuned Den Den Mushi.

"Here, take this. It's a secure line that only I can call on. We can use it to negotiate the next shipment."

"Francis-san..." She took the snail gratefully. "I don't know how to thank you."

"No big deal—I'm just repaying a debt."

Boarding the ship, I waved goodbye to her. We were escorted by an entire squad of royal guards on the backs of giant sea beasts—an honorary escort all the way to the surface. A bubble began forming around our vessel, and soon we smoothly ascended, leaving behind the fairy-tale yet problem-ridden world of Fish-Man Island.

Surfacing, we quietly moored in our secluded grove. Entering the bar, I expected the usual scene, but inside there was only one figure: Hancock.

She sat at a table by the window, flipping through some glossy fashion magazine. In those few years, she had changed more than anyone. She had grown taller, much taller. The sharp angles of adolescence had given way to smooth grace and curves that would make any man twist his neck. Yeah, she had become a real beauty, but of course, I wouldn't tell her that—her ego was already sky-high.

She lazily set the magazine aside and gave me a once-over.

"Where have you been?" Her voice carried the usual mix of boredom and mild mockery. "Off on your mysterious errands again, the ones you never tell anyone about?"

"Mmm, nothing much," I shrugged nonchalantly as I walked to the bar. "Visited Fish-Man Island. Prevented an brewing war, signed an exclusive trade deal, and made friends with a Yonko. Just the usual routine."

She didn't even raise an eyebrow, as if I'd told her about a grocery run, and stared back at the magazine.

"Yeah, something like that, I figured."

At that moment, I felt it—that subtle intent. A tiny pink heart shot from her fingers and silently flew toward me. It had become our routine. She had been trying to catch me off guard like this for years. Once, she even tried it while I was asleep, but it didn't work then—my mind was pure in sleep, with no room for the lust or admiration her fruit required.

As always, I casually stepped aside. The heart flew past and dissolved with a soft "poof" as it hit the wall.

She looked up at me, her face taking on an expression of feigned innocence.

"You know, I've been thinking. Why do you even dodge? You don't find me attractive, right?" She tilted her head coyly. "So my power won't work on you. You could just stand there and take the hit. Or... do you?"

I grinned crookedly; this verbal sparring had also become a habit.

"Endless arrogance, as always. When you actually hit me, then we'll find out. Where's Shakuyaku?" I asked, changing the subject.

"She went to the market with the girls."

"And Rayleigh?"

"No idea," she snorted. "Probably losing his last coins in some underground dive again."

Going behind the bar, I poured myself a glass of juice, pondering my next moves. So, the first part of the plan was done. Now I needed to find a market for the Fish-Man Island goods. But how to pull it off without underselling or attracting unwanted Marine attention? And then it hit me—the answer was sitting right in front of me, reading her magazine.

"Hey, want to help me out?"

She looked up from the pages, mischievous sparks dancing in her eyes.

"What is it? Did someone bully the little boy, and he needs protection from a beautiful warrior?"

"As witty as ever," I shot back. "But oddly enough, I need your beauty and your arrogance."

She raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"So you're admitting I'm beautiful?"

"I'm admitting that in the eyes of the surrounding merchants and pirates, you perfectly fit their criteria for beauty," I clarified.

She smiled that smile that could make kings hand over their kingdoms.

"Someday you'll say it without all those qualifiers. So, what do I need to do?"

"We need to negotiate a trade deal," I approached her and placed one of the bubble corals on the table. "I'm a criminal with a hundred million bounty on my head. Any serious trader would slam the door in my face. But you? They'd open every door and offer the best terms just for five more minutes of your attention. You'll be the face of our trading company."

She thoughtfully turned the coral in her hands, which began releasing tiny air bubbles.

"Hm, sounds easy."

Leaving the bar, we headed to the business district of Sabaody. Our target was the so-called Trade Chamber—a grandiose name for what was essentially a den of local crooks. It was a gray area where official laws gave way to unwritten rules enforced by one man. He controlled everything: from market prices to smuggling routes. If you didn't pay him a cut, trading here was impossible. Either bandits would "accidentally" raid your warehouse, or Marines would show up for an inspection based on an "anonymous tip" that you were dealing weapons.

We approached an imposing building of dark stone. I stopped in the shadow of the neighboring grove.

"Remember, Hancock," I said, attaching a tiny, brooch-disguised listening Den Den Mushi to her dress. "You don't ask. You offer them an opportunity they can't refuse. Your job is to make them realize they need you more than you need them."

She just condescendingly snorted, adjusted her hair, and resolutely headed to the entrance.

Hancock entered the building. In the spacious lobby, long lines of nervous, sweaty merchants stood, each hoping for approval of their ventures. She should have joined the queue too, but she had no intention of bothering with what she saw as foolishness. Ignoring the outraged whispers, she headed straight for the stairs to the upper floor.

Approaching the massive oak door of the office, she was stopped by two guards in sharp suits.

"Miss, you can't go in there. Reception is in order of the general queue."

She didn't even dignify them with a response. A cold, disdainful glance and a slight wave of her hand, and the two men silently turned to stone statues in poses of extreme surprise. Pushing the door open, she entered the office.

Behind a huge desk of black wood sat a wrinkled old man whose small eyes gleamed like those of a predatory bird. Beside him, like a rock, stood a massive man with an impassive face; he clearly possessed Haki, and at a very respectable level.

"Arrogant girl who got some power and thinks she's above everything," the old man rasped without even looking up from his papers. "Do you even realize where you've barged in? You think after attacking my guards, you can just walk out?"

Hancock snorted, her voice ringing with authority.

"Of course I can leave. Whether anyone dares stop me is another question," she said challengingly, eyeing the brute who didn't even blink.

She tossed the bag I had given her onto the desk, but it was instantly snatched by the guard's lightning-fast hand.

"These are goods, and I want to trade them."

The old man slowly raised his gaze.

"So you just couldn't wait your turn like everyone else?"

"I don't have time for waiting," Hancock gracefully adjusted a strand of hair. "Unlike them, I've brought something that will make you even richer."

The guard, confirming no threats in the bag, dumped its contents onto the desk. The old man gingerly picked up a bunch of dark green seaweed.

"And what is this trash?"

"This 'trash' is goods from Fish-Man Island. I hope I don't need to explain how rare they are. These seaweed have unique healing properties. Wrap them around a wound, and it heals before your eyes. And that's just the basic use the fish-men thought of. What could surface scientists do with them?"

The air filled with the scent of colossal opportunities. She picked up the coral from the table.

"This coral can blow an air bubble. And unlike the ones from the trees here, it won't pop on other islands. It's freedom of underwater movement. The price for such a product will be astronomical. And finally," she pointed to the small bottle, "alcohol brewed by octopuses using a secret recipe. One sip, and any aristocrat will forget the taste of their most expensive wine. And I'm the sole supplier of all this on the archipelago."

Old man Dorn leaned back in his massive chair.

"This is all intriguing, child," he rasped. "But in our business, it's not the quality of your product that matters most—it's the quantity. You could bring me one flawless diamond, but I couldn't build a business on that."

Hancock seemed not to notice the condescending tone. With the air of someone discussing the weather, she casually added:

"About ten thousand bubble corals in the first batch. Fifty barrels of octopus ale. And two thousand neatly packaged kits of medicinal seaweed, ten sheets each."

Silence hung in the office. The old man stopped drumming his fingers. Even the massive guard behind him seemed to hold his breath for a moment. Dorn slowly leaned forward, his eyes narrowing to slits.

"Whoa..." he exhaled, undisguised greed creeping into his voice. He moved his lips as if calculating silently, then muttered, "Let's see. One bubble coral, we can sell for 50,000 beli. Ten thousand pieces—that's 500 million already. A barrel of ale, say 200 liters, bottled at 1.5 liters each—133 bottles per barrel. Each bottle about 100,000, times 133, and after 50 barrels, that's 665 million. And the seaweed, 150,000 per kit, two thousand kits is another 300 million. Total..." He muttered, snapping his fingers, "one billion sixty-six million. Subtract my services: transportation, pirate protection, Marine bribes, paperwork. Factoring in all costs and my modest cut for organization, I can offer five hundred million beli."

Hancock looked at him as if he were the most pathetic and foolish creature she'd ever seen. She let out a short, disdainful laugh.

"Your calculations assumed I was some naive fool you could cheat, you petty old geezer," she emphasized the last words. "Bubble corals alone go for at least 200,000 each on the black market, and you're lowballing at 50? Not to mention the exclusive alcohol. You've undervalued the real worth by at least five times, if not more."

Listening through the Den Den Mushi, I mentally applauded her.

"My offer is generous: just one and a half billion. And that's not a starting bid—it's a condition."

Dorn's face turned crimson—not from anger, but from something more sordid. His eyes gleamed as he eyed Hancock, her confident stance, her haughty gaze. It seemed her audacity and dominance only spurred him on.

"Fine! It's been ages since I met such nerve! I like it!" He slammed his palm on the desk. "I agree! Bring me a list of goods needed, totaling one billion one hundred million. The remaining four hundred million is my share for transportation, organization, and risks. If you don't agree, I can just hand you the full amount in cash right now."

Hancock gracefully snorted.

"Fine, I'll drop off the list soon."

She turned and, without sparing them another glance, exited the office.

When I met her outside, a smug smile played on her lips. I silently gave her a thumbs up.

"Well, satisfied?" she asked, gracefully adjusting a stray lock of hair. Her voice carried an unabashed craving for praise.

"More than," I nodded. "You did great."

She huffed, but I caught a shadow of a pleased smile at the corners of her mouth. We walked silently toward the bar when she, as if offhandedly, broached a new topic.

"I've been thinking..." she began, inspecting her manicure closely. "The deal turned out quite profitable. What's my share for such brilliantly rendered services?"

I stopped and looked at her with genuine surprise.

"What do you mean 'how much'?" I echoed. "Of course, nothing. I, for example, work for free too."

"What?!" Her eyebrows shot up.

"We're not businessmen, Hancock—we're repaying a debt," I explained patiently. "A debt that piled up since Mariejois, to the fish-men people and the Sun Pirates who saved our lives. I don't think it's right to charge them for help."

She froze for a moment, her face cycling through expressions—from bewilderment to anger, and finally to hurt realization.

"You sly fox!" she hissed, jabbing a finger at me. "You set it all up on purpose! How am I supposed to ask for money after those pretty words? You'd make me look like some heartless monster if I insist!"

I rolled my eyes theatrically.

"Well, I wouldn't say you're not a monster at all..."

Before I could finish, her leg whistled toward my ribs. I easily dodged the strike, which was more a show of irritation than a real attack.

"Alright, alright!" I raised my hands in a placating gesture. "You're definitely not a monster."

Entering my room, I pulled out a blank sheet of paper. I needed to make a list. Just buying anything willy-nilly for over a billion beli would be foolish. Every beli had to serve the overall goal: making Fish-Man Island self-sufficient and strong.

First: wood.

I recalled info from books and conversations. Treasure Tree Adam wood. The legendary material from which the Pirate King's ship was built. Incredibly durable and expensive. Their own fleet had been destroyed. New ships from the world's best material would ensure their safety. Four hundred million well spent.

Second: metal for weapons and tools. Another four hundred million—they needed not just to defend, but to build.

Third: medicines and medical equipment. Two hundred million—vital after the recent devastation.

Fourth: books. Not just fiction, but scientific works on engineering, medicine, human culture and history, basic textbooks. Ten million—a drop in the ocean, but a start for their own library.

The remaining ninety million—for assorted surface staples. Clothing, tools, spices, fabrics. Let them figure out what they need first, establish demand.

The next day, I handed the list to Hancock. Still sulking, she silently took it and headed to Dorn. Thus began the most hectic week of our lives. Negotiating was one thing; organizing a delivery of this scale was another. Hancock, as the face of "our company," had to hold several more meetings, signing papers and maintaining the image of a commanding, unyielding businesswoman.

Nearly a month later, when the last crate was loaded onto our ship, we sent it off with royal guards to Fish-Man Island. Contacting Otohime via Den Den Mushi and receiving her tearful thanks, we arranged for the next shipments.

 

[kowak]

As we four prepared for another training session and stood at the bar's exit, Rayleigh stopped us.

"Hold on a moment—no physical training today. Today, we have a lecture."

The girls groaned in unison.

"Oh no, not this!" Marigold moaned.

For me, on the other hand, these lessons were my favorites. Fighting was great, but understanding its mechanics was even better.

"Today, we'll discuss something you already have a basic idea of but don't fully grasp," Rayleigh began. "For example, if someone masters Haki to a sufficient level, does that mean Paramecia-type Devil Fruits like Hancock's are useless? Or what happens if two people who can equally well peer into the future clash in battle? What decides the outcome of such a duel? What do they see in the future? Today, we'll find answers to these questions.

"Before we move on to advanced Observation Haki, you must thoroughly understand how Armament Haki interacts with Devil Fruit powers. This is the foundation of any serious fight."

He extended his hand in front of him, and I felt his aura shift. The air around his fist thickened, becoming heavier.

"Imagine Armament Haki as an invisible shield. Its strength depends solely on the user's willpower. Hancock, if you please. Attack me with your fruit."

Hancock crossed her arms over her chest and gave him a skeptical look, but she complied. With a graceful gesture, she formed her fingers, and a shimmering pink arrow shot from her hand, slamming into the invisible barrier before Rayleigh's fist. It shattered into hundreds of sparks with a soft chime, causing no harm.

"See?" Rayleigh continued calmly. "Let's introduce a conditional unit of measurement to make it clearer. My 'shield' with 1 unit of Haki strength proved tougher than her 'arrow' with 1 unit of Fruit power. But what if we sharpen that arrow? Hancock, now infuse your attack with Armament Haki. Pour your intent into it."

She had mastered this technique long ago. It amplified her attacks, making them deadlier. She formed her hands again, and this time, the heart that flew from her fingers was denser, faster, and it practically vibrated with the infused Haki.

Impact. This time, the beam didn't shatter. It pierced into Rayleigh's arm, and slowly, laboriously—like a viscous disease—gray stone crept along it, trying to overcome the resistance. Hancock smiled triumphantly.

"Excellent," Rayleigh nodded, showing no concern. "Now, her 'sharpened arrow' was sharp enough to pierce my 'shield.' She added 1 unit of Haki to 1 unit of Fruit power, resulting in a total attacking strength of 2 units. My 1-unit defense couldn't withstand it. But what if I reinforce the shield?"

He tensed his arm slightly. I felt his aura flare, becoming incomparably denser. The stone crust, which had barely reached his wrist, crumbled into dust with a dry crack.

"In a battle of wills, the one with the stronger will prevails. It's simple," he summarized, and the petrification on his arm disintegrated. "If your defense fails, to dispel an enemy's effect, you need to exert twice the effort of what was put into the attacking power. In other words, I took damage from a 2-unit attack. I had a 1-unit defense, so to dispel the effect, I needed to raise it to 4 units, adding another 3. Remember: reclaiming a lost position is always harder than holding it."

He infused his hand with Haki again, lightly this time, and turned to me.

"Now it's your turn, Francis. Try swapping me. My defense is back to 1 unit of Haki."

I focused. Because of the Haki on his hand, he felt a bit heavier in my "perception," but it was still possible to swap him. It was like trying to lift a person who'd glued one shoe to the floor. Unpleasant, but doable.

Click.

The world jerked. Rayleigh was now a couple of meters from his original spot, and in his place stood Sandersonia, blinking in surprise.

"So, a trick question," Rayleigh said, sweeping his gaze over us. "Why was Francis able to swap me, even though he doesn't wield Armament Haki at all?"

"Because he's a cheater!" Hancock blurted out immediately.

Rayleigh chuckled good-naturedly, and I, ignoring her jab, replied:

"Because your 1-unit defense was concentrated only on your hand," I explained. "Your 'shield' covered just a small part of your body. But my power affects your entire self. I simply bypassed your defense."

"Exactly right," Rayleigh nodded approvingly. "Now watch. Can you swap me now? I've coated my hand with a full 50 units of Haki."

He coated his hand with Haki again, but this time much denser. I could feel his hand growing as heavy as an anchor.

"It would be harder," I admitted. "It would take much more effort, but yes, still possible. Your body remains vulnerable."

"Good. And now..." Rayleigh closed his eyes. His aura shifted—it didn't densify in one spot; instead, it spread out like a thin but sturdy film, covering his entire body from head to toe. "Now I'm back to the basic 1 unit of Haki, but I've divided it into thousands of tiny parts, enveloping my whole body. What do you say?"

I froze. In my Observation Haki-enhanced vision, he had become a monolith. An unbreakable mountain I couldn't budge, even if I strained myself to the limit. There wasn't a single vulnerable point left in him.

"I can't," I exhaled, feeling a chill run down my spine.

Rayleigh nodded, releasing the tension.

"To cover your entire body, you need masterful control over Haki. You haven't faced an opponent like this yet, but when you do, remember—you have a huge advantage. When you master Haki, they'll have to expend a lot of energy to cover their whole body. If I pour 50 units of Haki into one limb, I can easily defend against a very strong attack. But because of you, I have to spread my defense in a thin layer. Now, even a weak attack could pierce me, and maintaining this technique constantly is incredibly difficult. But most importantly..." He looked me straight in the eyes. "If I want to attack you with full power, I'd have to redirect most of my Haki to my fist or weapon, right?"

I nodded slowly, starting to understand.

"And that means," he concluded, "that in the moment of attack, the rest of my body becomes vulnerable again. For you, that invisible door opens. Of course, all these tricks are only necessary until you master Haki perfectly."

"Now, let's talk about the trickiest part: variants of the future," Rayleigh said, grabbing a small whiteboard and three markers from the shelf. "Suppose two people who can see the future equally well are in the same room. Let's call them User A and User B. And a vase starts falling from the shelf. User A sees it. Knowing it's falling, he steps forward and catches it. Question: What does User B see at that moment? Does he see User A already catching the vase, or does he, like the first, only see it falling? It's not so straightforward.

Rayleigh drew a long black line on the board and marked a tick on it.

"The black line is time. The tick is the event where the vase falls. Now watch."

He drew two parabolas above the timeline—one blue, one red. The blue one started just a bit earlier.

"The blue marker is User A, the red is User B," he explained. "In our example, User A peered into the future a fraction of a second earlier. He saw the fall and decided to save it. His intent became new information, part of reality. So User B, peering into the future a moment later, will see the altered version—User A saving the vase."

He erased the parabolas.

"But if we assume they peered into the future at exactly the same instant? Then both will see the vase shattering. And if both instinctively rush to save it, they'll probably just crash into each other, and the vase will shatter anyway. However, if one of them looks into the future even a millionth of a second later than the other, their vision updates. They get new data—the opponent's intent—and see a different picture."

"Wait... hold on," Marigold frowned, completely lost. "I don't get it at all."

The other girls nodded in agreement. Rayleigh smiled warmly at their childlike honesty.

"So, we're not really seeing the future in the true sense," I said thoughtfully, and all eyes turned to me. "We're more like simulating the most probable forecast of the future based on all available information. When we peer into it simultaneously, we lack data on the opponent's intent. But if we do it just a bit later, the information about their decision supplements our simulation, and we build a new, more accurate forecast on top of it."

The girls' heads seemed to be smoking from all this reasoning.

"Yes, exactly," Rayleigh nodded. "But what happens when two such users clash in battle? Let's set aside the fact that even if you see something, you might not always react in time—no speed, stamina, or just plain fatigue. Imagine: two masters facing each other. They don't move, but in their minds, a war is already raging. They peer into the future not once, but every microsecond, updating their variants."

He paused, letting us picture it.

"User A decides to punch to the head. User B sees it and mentally dodges. So A, seeing that outcome, changes his mind and kicks to the side. If User B doesn't peer again, he takes the hit. But he looks, sees the new attack, and mentally blocks it. User A changes his decision again. It's like a lightning-fast game of chess where every move is a yet-unmade action. Each intent spawns a counter-intent, eliminating losing variants. In the end, they might just stand there, modeling the perfect battle outcome. And who wins then?"

"The one who can see further into time and has more stamina to keep up this 'viewing' constantly," I replied without hesitation.

"The one who says screw all this nonsense and just punches with all their might!" Hancock almost shouted, clearly fed up with the theory.

Rayleigh burst out laughing.

"And the funniest part... you're both right! In a purely theoretical situation, an ideal duel, Francis is correct. Intelligence and stamina win. But in the real world, Hancock is usually right. Action always prevails. You can't dodge every blow, even if you know it's coming. Sooner or later, you'll slip up, get tired, or the opponent will be faster. Well, except for a couple of exceptions."

His gaze settled on me.

"Like Borsalino and users of teleporting Paramecia. The first has speed nearly equal to light, and it's terrifying to imagine what happens if he awakens his fruit. The latter have the speed of thought. If they can see the future, they become practically untouchable. But, unlike the vice admiral, you almost always lack the firepower to end the fight."

He stood up, signaling the lecture was over.

"Now go and think about it."

Three months passed. To my surprise, trade had smoothed out almost without hitches. The first shipments sold at incredible speed, and the return cargo of wood and metal safely reached the underwater kingdom. It seemed the system was running itself, requiring only minimal intervention. At least, until the door burst open with a bang and an enraged Hancock stormed in.

"Francis, THEY'RE ROBBING ME!" Her voice rang with fury. "Can you imagine?! Some filthy men decided they could attack MY ships! How dare they?! That old miser Dorn has already blown up my Den Den Mushi, screaming that I'm dragging his business down!"

I sighed wearily.

"Calm down. First off, they're not robbing you—they're robbing the Fish-Men. It's their goods, and we're just facilitating. But you're right; the fact itself is unheard-of audacity. What's strange is that Dorn assigns his best men to every ship. If his guards can't handle it, these aren't ordinary pirates."

I rose from the table, a plan already forming in my head.

"Then we'll do this: I'll escort one ship, and you with your sisters—another. We'll look our challengers in the eye."

Hancock grinned predatorily. The very thought of breaking some bones clearly appealed to her. She spun on her heel, hands on hips, and left, already anticipating the upcoming battle.

And I began to prepare. Two trusty revolvers, polished to a shine. A few speedloaders so I wouldn't waste precious seconds in combat. On my belt—a pouch of bullets and special "bomblets": sturdy, elastic spheres filled with seawater. Useless against a normal foe, but deadly to any Devil Fruit user. And finally, a simple white mask to conceal my face.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 17

For a week, we'd been at sea. Our merchant ship, Sea Bubble, plodded along its course, carrying precious cargo. I stayed in the shadows, playing the part of the captain's mysterious bodyguard. In a world where there's a bounty on your head, anonymity is your best friend. We were sailing from the Boin Archipelago to the Drum Kingdom. The medicinal seaweed from the Fish-Men could fetch a fortune there—their medical tech was second only to the World Government's.

The day was calm, the sea smooth as glass. But then my Observation Haki caught a disturbing ripple. A tiny dinghy appeared on the horizon, carrying a single person. The aura radiating from them was cold and sharp, like a blade. It held no greed, only raw, unfiltered bloodlust.

"Prepare for battle!" My shout shattered the silence.

The masked figure didn't bother with pleasantries. Kicking off their dinghy, they shot toward us at blinding speed, using Geppo to propel themselves through the air.

I drew my revolver and fired. The bullet whistled toward its mark, but they dodged effortlessly without slowing down. They landed on the deck, their intent clear: not the cargo, but murder. The nearest guard charged with a sword, but the masked figure didn't even glance at him. They pointed an index finger, ready to pierce the guard's chest.

In that split second, I sensed their intent. Click.

The agent twitched as their deadly Finger Pistol struck only air. Against their will, I swapped them to the base of the mast. But that wasn't all—the bullet I'd fired moments earlier was now hurtling straight for their head.

They reacted instantly. Their head hardened with Armament Haki, and the bullet crumpled against the invisible shield, reduced to a useless lump of lead.

"Well, well," came a calm, slightly mocking voice from behind the mask. "That ability… Swap-Swap no Mi, if I'm not mistaken. Subject F-4, I was briefed about you. You can drop the mask, Francis."

Another guard lunged from the side, swinging a cutlass. The agent was about to decapitate him with a kick, but—Click. Their strike missed again. I swapped them once more, and another bullet I'd fired now aimed for their knee. They blocked it with Haki, unfazed.

I stepped forward, reloading my revolver. My heart pounded, but I forced a carefree smirk. Their defense was too strong.

"A briefing?" I chuckled. "So, you're with the World Government? Pretty unprofessional to reveal that to just anyone. And why would big shots like you bother with a measly merchant ship? Let me guess… you don't like that 'inferior races' dared to rise up and build their own economy?"

Even through the mask, I felt their smile—a predator savoring their prey's fear.

"You're sharp, but what does it matter? You're all going to die today anyway."

With that, they stopped playing. Their speed surged, ignoring me as too slippery a target. They began systematically slaughtering the crew. Each teleport I used saved one person, but they instantly switched targets. Their movements were swift and lethal.

Then they leaped into the air, unleashing a barrage of Rankyaku—air blades slicing through the deck, targeting multiple crew members at once. I frantically swapped their position, trying to throw them off, but they adapted instantly, redirecting their attacks.

Blood spilled. A guard I'd just saved screamed and fell, cleaved by an air blade. The agent's speed was monstrous. Even when my swaps reset their momentum, they'd kick off the air with Geppo, regaining their pace in an instant.

I fired a shot toward the ocean, aiming to swap them overboard. Click. They appeared above the water, but it didn't stop them. Using Geppo, they returned to the deck with ease. The next time I tried the trick, they sensed my intent and caught the bullet mid-air, denying me a target to swap.

Under this storm of attacks and rapid movements, the crew dwindled fast. In desperation, I hurled one of my seawater-filled orbs at them. They swatted it away like a fly, but it burst, dousing them head to toe.

"Cough, cough!"

They choked briefly on the saltwater—not a Devil Fruit weakness, just momentary disorientation. It was enough. Five bullets tore from my revolvers, aimed at their limbs.

Even in that moment, they remained a cold-blooded killer. Unable to coat their entire body in Haki, they prioritized their head and legs for mobility, hardening them with unbreakable armor. They dodged one bullet, blocked three, but the fifth sank into their left arm.

They hissed in pain and tore off their water-soaked mask.

"Ha… not bad," they said, eyeing the bleeding wound with interest. "Is that all? Your crew's almost dead, and all you managed was a scratch? Pathetic slave. All you're good for is running and hiding behind others. So run, Francis! Run!"

I froze, not from their words or my failed attack, but from their face. It was absurdly young—no older than fifteen, maybe sixteen. A kid, barely older than me, molded into a perfect killing machine.

In my moment of shock, they finished their work. Two swift, blurred strikes, and the captain and his aide collapsed, throats slit. I couldn't save them. My mission was to protect the cargo and crew, and I'd failed on every front.

I ripped off my own mask and met their eyes.

"You bastard."

A surge of Conqueror's Haki erupted from me, uncontrolled. The agent staggered, their breathing growing heavier. They resisted with their own will, but their movements slowed noticeably. I opened fire. I couldn't maintain both Conqueror's Haki and my fruit's power, so I abandoned teleporting, channeling all my rage into a hail of bullets. Before my Haki faded, I managed to shoot through their other arm.

The agent panted heavily, but a predatory grin spread across their youthful face.

"Remember my name, slave. I'm Rob Lucci. One day, I'll kill you—but not today. Now… try saving your ship from this!"

They soared into the air. I teleported them back to the deck repeatedly, preventing them from gaining height, but I couldn't keep it up forever. My strength was fading. They broke free, kicking off the air one last time. Raising a leg, the air around it vibrated. A massive Rankyaku blade tore downward—not at me, but at the ship itself.

I couldn't teleport something as large as the ship. I couldn't block the attack without exposing myself. If Hancock were here, we might've won—but she wasn't.

The blade struck. With a deafening crack, the ship split in two. As the deck sank beneath me, I looked up. Rob Lucci hovered above, staring down at me.

"This isn't over," I rasped.

I raised my revolvers and fired three shots with precise timing. Two bullets veered away from Lucci, toward his dinghy floating in the water. The third sailed far behind him, to the edge of my perception.

Click.

Lucci vanished, swapped with the distant bullet. Instantly, I swapped myself and his dinghy with the other two bullets, creating massive distance in a single move. Repeating the trick twice more, I escaped any pursuit. Certain he wasn't following, I collapsed into the dinghy, gasping for air.

I stared at the endless sky and, with my last ounce of strength, roared:

"FUCK!"

Defeat. Total, crushing, humiliating defeat. I replayed the fight in my head, searching for the mistake, the moment it all went wrong.

What could I have done? The only worthwhile idea was to unleash Conqueror's Haki from the start, to try breaking their spirit early. But I still couldn't summon it at will—it was a wild beast born of rage and despair, not a tool I could control.

Damn it! I thought I'd gotten stronger. Sure, I'd been crushed before, but those were adult monsters who'd ruled the seas for decades—Rayleigh, Shanks, Borsalino. Losing to them wasn't shameful. But now… now I'd been obliterated by a kid barely older than me.

Then a chilling thought hit me. If they're systematically attacking Fish-Men cargo ships, what happened to the ship the girls were escorting?

My stomach churned. The mere possibility that something happened to them made me physically ill. Shanks' words from long ago echoed in my ears, striking me now: "You might escape… but what about the girls?"

Fuck.

I pushed away the darkest images and, with trembling hands, pulled out the hidden vivre cards—small, living scraps of paper tied to their owners' souls. I checked Marigold's. It was intact, as were the others'. That calmed me for a moment, but I knew it could change any second.

Setting the card on a plank, I saw it pointing southeast. Gritting my teeth, I grabbed the oars. It was going to be a long, grueling journey.

***

On the deck of the merchant ship Pearl Tear, an idyllic scene unfolded. Captain Valdes, a seasoned but perpetually anxious trader, kept the course steady while the crew worked the sails in harmony. Hancock lounged on a deckchair, lazily sipping a cocktail.

All was calm until a ship with pristine white sails appeared on the horizon. It flew no pirate flag, but its rapid approach spelled trouble.

"Identify yourselves!" Captain Valdes shouted through a megaphone. "What do you want?"

Silence answered. The ship drew within firing range, and three figures leapt from its deck, landing silently on Pearl Tear using Geppo. All wore crisp black suits and white masks: one with a wolf's snarling grin, another with an unnaturally long nose, and the third with short bull horns.

The horned figure stepped forward.

"You're unlucky. Today, you all die. Don't resist, and it'll be quick."

Captain Valdes stepped forward, hands raised. He clearly recognized them as Cipher Pol agents.

"Sir, wait! There's been a mistake! What did we do? We're just a merchant ship!"

The wolf-masked agent laughed, a vile, almost canine sound.

"What did you do? You dared cross those you shouldn't have. Now enough talk. I've got plans—heard there's a new mermaid at a brothel I'd like to visit…"

Before he could finish, Hancock stepped forward with a graceful sway. She set down her cocktail and sized him up.

"A mermaid?" she said, tilting her head coyly. "What a shame, there aren't any here. But maybe I'll do? Or am I not pretty enough for you?"

She formed a heart with her fingers and blew a kiss. A pink heart sailed toward him. The wolf-masked agent faltered, his professional cool evaporating.

"W-what are you saying… Of course, you're… you're even better! Come with us!"

He instinctively reached out and caught the heart. Instantly, his body began to gray, losing color. His skin hardened, muscles petrified. In a moment, he was a stone statue.

From behind Hancock, her sisters Sandersonia and Marigold stepped forward, ready for battle.

"So, cosplay enthusiasts," Hancock said icily, eyeing the two stunned agents. "You have two choices. Leave our ship nicely, or join your lecherous friend as ballast on the ocean floor. Choose."

The horned agent glanced at his petrified comrade.

"Idiot. Let lust cloud his judgment. That'll be in the report." He turned to the sisters, his body tensing like a coiled spring. "Why waste words? Attack."

With that, Blueno vanished. His Soru technique turned him into a blur, too fast for the naked eye. Hancock couldn't react—a sharp pain stabbed her side, sending her skidding back. She sprang to her feet, trying to track him, but he was too fast. Blow after blow came, each one a feint that shifted at the last second. She barely coated her body with Armament Haki in time, but her defense always lagged.

Her sisters fared no better. The long-nosed agent, Kaku, was a whirlwind of death, spinning across the deck and unleashing razor-sharp Rankyaku blades in all directions. Sandersonia and Marigold fought as a pair, covering each other's backs—one blocking, the other counterattacking. It was an exhausting dance, but they held their ground, refusing to let the enemy break through.

But the agents weren't just fighters; they were executioners. Between their lightning-fast attacks, they found fractions of a second to coldly kill crew members. Captain Valdes fell first, a hole in his chest. The deck soon ran red with blood.

Hancock knew they couldn't last like this. Rage, humiliation, and fear for her sisters boiled within her.

"STOP!" Her scream wasn't just sound—it was a wave of will.

Conqueror's Haki surged from her, enveloping the ship in an invisible dome of pressure. The crew, more burden than help, collapsed foaming at the mouth. Her sisters staggered, their knees buckling. Kaku and Blueno froze, their movements sluggish, as if wading through water. Hancock couldn't target her Haki precisely, so it hit everyone—except her.

Charging forward, she funneled all her hatred, her will, and her fruit's power into a single strike. Blueno, slowed by the Haki, saw only a fist glowing pink hurtling toward his chin. A devastating uppercut launched him into the air, his body beginning to petrify.

"Blueno, no!" Kaku shouted in horror.

The statue arced toward the ocean, but before it sank, a new figure caught it effortlessly.

A man in a pristine white cloak and a plague doctor mask with a long beak stood silently on the ship's railing, holding the petrified Blueno with one hand as if he weighed nothing.

He leapt to the deck, surveying the carnage. His gaze, visible through the mask's dark lenses, lingered on Jabra's statue.

"What a pathetic display. Looks like you'll fail the selection for CP9," he said calmly. "I'm deeply disappointed as your overseer. Take them back to our ship."

Kaku nodded, carefully retrieving both statues and vanishing with Geppo.

This new arrival was far more dangerous than the others combined. Hancock and her sisters instinctively huddled together, knowing they couldn't win. He turned to them.

"I have no orders to kill you. I'm merely an observer," he said, addressing Hancock directly. "If you come with me without resistance, I'll spare the rest."

Hancock tilted her head coyly, her fear giving way to defiant confidence.

"Oh, you old pervert… You want me to come with you? I'll do whatever you say…"

She blew another kiss, pouring all her power into it. The agent didn't flinch.

"Naive, relying on the same trick twice."

As the pink heart neared, he raised two fingers coated in dense black Haki and flicked it away, shattering it.

Hancock's seductive mask fell, her face twisting with rage.

"Then get off my ship!"

She charged, each strike capable of shattering stone. He blocked effortlessly with a finger, a palm, his Haki an unbreakable wall. Their clashing wills sent shockwaves across the deck, tilting the ship dangerously. Hancock attacked relentlessly, but every blow was stopped cold.

The agent commented almost gleefully, ignoring the tension.

"Such passion… such power. The blood of Amazons runs through you. Talent like this doesn't belong on a filthy merchant ship." He reached for her, as if claiming a prize. "You should belong to me."

His hand froze mid-reach. He turned sharply, his body tensing.

"Well, this is an unpleasant surprise."

A powerful yet calm wave of Observation Haki washed over the deck—not aggressive, but all-encompassing, like the gaze of a wise predator. The agent cursed, his confidence shaken.

"Damn. You got lucky today."

***

Without another word, he leapt back to his ship, which quickly retreated.

In the sterile cabin of the government ship, the agents removed their masks. Kaku, his face twisted with frustration, turned to his superior.

"I don't understand! We almost completed the mission. Why didn't you kill them? You could've handled them alone!"

"Because the moment we were hit by the Kuja Pirates' Observation Haki, this stopped being a simple elimination. It became a war. I could've killed them, yes, but then we'd face the wrath of an entire nation of warrior Amazons fiercely protective of their own."

He gave Kaku a cold stare.

"Kaku, you shouted an agent's code name in the heat of battle. That's an unforgivable mistake. We have only numbers and orders—remember that. As for those fools, I'll discipline them myself once the petrification wears off."

 

[kowak]

For ten days, I rowed, surrounded by an endless, indifferent expanse of blue. Thankfully, the lifeboat had enough food and water to keep me going.

Hope Rob Lucci dies out there in the middle of the ocean, I thought dully, but the fire in that thought had long faded, replaced by a heavy exhaustion.

Maybe this was my worst idea yet—sailing straight ahead like this. I should've headed to the nearest island, stolen or bought a proper ship. Panic for the girls had clearly overridden my common sense.

By evening, when my hands were raw with blisters, I spotted a ship on the horizon. It was large, adorned with intricate patterns, and pulled by two massive sea serpents.

I checked my Beli cards—they were all intact. As I rowed closer, I felt eyes on me. Dozens of gazes, sharpened by Observation Haki, studied me. Amazons lined the deck, bows drawn, their arrows infused with Haki.

"Who are you, man? State your name! Why have you come to the Kuja ship?" a stern female voice demanded.

I raised my hands, showing I was unarmed.

"I'm Francis. My friends should be on this ship." I sensed their auras—relatively calm.

"There are no friends of yours here. Get lost!" the warrior shouted, ready to give the order to fire. But a short, elderly woman stopped her.

"Easy, easy. Lower your bows," her voice was old but commanding. "You're Francis? So you're the one causing all this fuss. Alright, climb aboard."

"Lady Nyon, he's a man!" the archer protested.

"He's just a boy, why the panic?" the old woman grumbled. "Back to your posts, now!"

Climbing onto the deck, I looked around. The ship was filled with women of all ages and builds—strong, confident, eyeing me with a mix of curiosity and disdain. But I wasn't here for a tour.

"Where are they?" I asked the old woman.

"In the infirmary, resting," she replied. "Their wounds aren't serious, but they're exhausted. If we hadn't passed by, they'd likely be dead. That man was too much for them."

A lump formed in my throat at the thought of what could've happened, but relief washed over me. I bowed deeply.

"I'm truly grateful."

Elder Nyon snorted, sizing me up.

"Raise your head, boy. No need to bow to an old hag like me. Now come on, your little furies are probably awake by now."

A warrior led me to the infirmary, where I saw the battered crew of the Pearl Tear. Kuja medics worked swiftly, their movements precise as they tended to the wounded.

In the main cabin, I spotted the sisters. They seemed unscathed, bustling between beds to help the injured. On one bed, curled up and facing the wall, Hancock slept soundly.

Marigold noticed me first. Her face lit up, and she rushed over, chattering excitedly:

"Francis! You won't believe what we went through! So, these guys in weird masks—like they were at a carnival—showed up, all angry, saying they'd kill us all! But then Hancock stepped up and—bam!—turned one of them to stone! Then she socked another one so hard he went flying into the sky! Me and Sandersonia fought a third guy—he was so slippery! But then their leader showed up, wearing a crow mask, crowing about how Hancock was his now. But the Kuja from Amazon Lily arrived, and he got scared and ran! The ship got wrecked in the fight, though, and all the cargo sank."

I sighed wearily, sitting on the edge of an empty bed. The picture was clear. A "masquerade," just like with Rob Lucci. So the World Government had attacked them too. The agents fled when the Kuja pirates showed up.

"You guys did great," I said quietly. "You handled it. I need to rest too."

I collapsed onto the bed and passed out instantly.

---

I woke to loud voices. Consciousness returned slowly, pulling me from a deep sleep. In the middle of the cabin, Hancock and Elder Nyon were locked in a heated argument.

"Why the hell should I go to your island?! I don't owe you anything!" Hancock snapped.

"You do owe us!" Nyon shot back. "Your strength isn't just some toy for you to play with, Hancock! It's the pride of the Kuja! You're an Amazon, you wield Conqueror's Haki, and at your age, you're already stronger than half our best warriors! You must return and lead our people! We have no strong leader! I'm too old, and the last empress ran off with a pirate, abandoning her throne and duty! And don't forget, we saved you!"

"Yes, I'm strong! Yes, I'm beautiful and unparalleled!" Hancock declared, tossing her head proudly. "But I'm not kind! I'm not a leader! Train your own strong Amazons and leave me alone! I could've handled them myself—I didn't ask for your help!"

"You ungrateful little brat!" Nyon hissed, then jabbed me in the back with her snake staff.

"Ow!" I yelped, fully awake now and sitting up. "What was that for?!"

"What, eavesdropping, are we?" Nyon glared at me. "Since you're awake, help out! Convince her!"

I looked at Hancock's stubborn face, then at Nyon's furious one.

"What? How am I supposed to convince her? I have no control over her. She always does what she wants, and somehow it always works out for her."

"Hmph," Hancock smirked, crossing her arms smugly.

I changed the subject to avoid getting caught between a rock and a hard place.

"So… where are we headed?"

Nyon jabbed her staff into the floor irritably.

"To Sabaody! We're off to find that deserter who traded her throne and sacred duty for the dubious pleasure of wiping down glasses in some pirate dive bar! She dumped everything on me, and in my old age, I want nothing to do with it!"

Hancock and I exchanged a glance, the same realization hitting us both.

"Uh… what was her name? Your former empress?" I asked cautiously.

"Shakuyaku!" Nyon barked. "What, you know her?!"

At that moment, Hancock and I both sensed an impending disaster. If we admitted we knew Shakuyaku, this old hag would unleash years of pent-up resentment on us. We put on our most innocent faces.

"Never heard of her," I shrugged.

"Who?" Hancock blinked, feigning surprise.

Nyon narrowed her eyes suspiciously but seemed to decide it wasn't worth interrogating us. She clicked her tongue.

"Fine, rest up. We'll talk later."

When the creaky door closed behind Elder Nyon, silence settled over the cabin. Hancock turned to me slowly.

"Well, well. I open my eyes, and there you are," she said, her voice laced with her usual mix of arrogance and surprise. "You were supposed to be guarding the other ship. What brought you here?"

I sighed, rubbing my face.

"My ship had visitors too. Just one, though, and unlike you, I couldn't save anyone. He slaughtered the whole crew like cattle. All I could do was escape. Ten days rowing in that damn lifeboat to find you."

I skipped the part where I cursed at the sky.

"That's the gist of it. Marigold said you took down two of them."

"Weaklings, just fast," she replied. "Though the last one who showed up was on a whole different level. Who were they, anyway?"

"Probably Cipher Pol," I said. "Their mission was to stop trade with Fish-Man Island. And they succeeded—that was the last shipment."

Hancock shot up from the bed, her eyes blazing.

"What?! We're giving up?! After one loss?! You're saying we tuck tail and run?!"

"Yes, Hancock," I said quietly. "I don't care about the cargo or the money, but what about the people carrying it? My entire crew is dead. Half of yours is gone. If we keep going, we're knowingly sending more people to their deaths."

Hancock fell silent, with no retort. In the heavy quiet, each of us lost in our own thoughts, we sailed toward home, licking our wounds and grappling with the harsh lesson we'd just learned.

---

As soon as we stepped ashore in Grove 13, Elder Nyon spoke up.

"Why are you tagging along?" she snapped, glaring over her shoulder without slowing her pace. "Scram, you little spies!"

She didn't know we were headed the same way. I stepped forward, keeping my tone as innocent as possible.

"We just want to see the former empress," I said. "It's not every day you get the chance."

Nyon snorted.

"Who wouldn't be curious," she muttered, more to herself than to us. "Too bad she was a lousy empress."

When we reached the bar, the bell above the door jingled with an ominous note.

"Kids, you're back…" Shakuyaku's voice was as calm as ever, but it carried new undertones. "And you brought quite the grumpy guest. Well, well, Nyon-baa-sama. I didn't think you'd leave your snake-infested island for my humble little bar."

Elder Nyon stopped dead in her tracks and turned to us slowly, her small eyes narrowing. It was clear we'd been playing her for fools.

"Hold it, you brats! Explain yourselves!"

I shrugged.

"What's to explain? Shakuyaku took us in when we had nothing. You could say she raised us. Anyway, we'll leave you two to it," I said, nudging the girls toward our room. "I'm sure you have plenty to catch up on after all these years."

We slipped into our room before Nyon could unleash her fury. The door slammed shut, cutting us off from the brewing storm.

Even through the wooden door, we could hear echoes of an ancient argument.

"You must return! Your duty is to lead our people, not wipe glasses for drunken pirates!"

"I don't owe anyone anything."

"Then give me Hancock and her sisters! They're the future of the Kuja, with warrior blood in their veins!"

"They're free to choose their own paths. I won't force them."

And on it went. We sat in silence, listening. Finally, Hancock turned to me, her face unusually serious.

"What do you think?" she asked quietly. "Should I go?"

I thought for a moment, weighing the pros and cons.

"Yes," I said firmly. "Rayleigh taught us the basics. Real strength comes from real battles—this is your best shot. You'll have an experienced crew, and the world will come to know Boa Hancock as a fearsome force. You'll see the world and become someone feared and respected."

"What about our opinions?!" Sandersonia interjected, hands on her hips.

Hancock turned to her sisters, her usual arrogance replaced by a quiet question in her eyes.

"Will you sail with me?"

"Of course!" they answered in unison, their loyalty clearer than any vow.

I mentally rolled my eyes. As if there was ever any doubt.

"And you, Francis?" Hancock's gaze returned to me. "What will you do? I could take you along… as a cabin boy, maybe."

I chuckled.

"I'm afraid our paths diverge here," I said, standing and walking to the window. "But I'm glad I got to know such insufferable girls."

Marigold and Sandersonia's eyes welled up with tears. Hancock frowned, her lips pressing into a thin line.

"And why's that?!" she demanded, a hint of hurt in her voice. "You think we're not strong enough to sail with you?"

"No," I shook my head. "I think I'm not strong enough to sail with you. I'll keep training here."

"But you said yourself that Rayleigh taught us all he could!"

"For you, yeah. You've mastered the basics of Armament Haki. I haven't. Until I do, I've got no business out at sea."

She huffed, but the sound carried more frustration than anger.

"Pfft, weakling."

I sighed.

"Their argument's dying down," I said, listening to the quiet beyond the door. "If you've made your decision, now's the time to announce it."

She gave me a long, unreadable look, then nodded decisively and strode out of the room. All eyes in the bar turned to her.

Hancock raised her chin proudly, her voice ringing out clear and commanding.

"Listen up! I, Boa Hancock, whose beauty dazzles and strength shatters, declare that I'm joining the Kuja Pirates!"

Her sisters popped up behind her, adding in unison:

"And we're going with her!"

Rayleigh, who had been watching silently, nodded approvingly, a warm but bittersweet smile on his face—the look of a mentor sending his students into the world.

"Good choice," he said, his voice quieting the room. "I'd have kicked you out myself if you'd lingered too long. A fledgling that fears leaving the nest will never learn to fly. The world is vast, and the real lessons come from battles out there, not on this quiet grove."

Elder Nyon, who had been coiled like a spring, suddenly transformed. Her wrinkled face broke into a satisfied grin.

"Shakuyaku! What are you standing there for?!" she barked, slamming her staff on the floor. "Bring out your best sake! This calls for a celebration! Finally, our snake-infested swamp will have a true queen!"

The bar erupted into a lively celebration. The laughter of the Kuja pirates welcoming their new blood mingled with the quiet sadness in Rayleigh and Shakuyaku's eyes as they said goodbye to the kids who'd become almost family. We were bidding farewell to the girls, while the Amazons celebrated their return.

I couldn't handle the noise for long. Slipping out of the stuffy bar, I headed to our training clearing. Sabaody's night was magical—giant trees stretched into the sky, their canopies lost in the darkness, with glowing bubbles floating between them like strange lanterns. I sat on the cool grass, staring at the star-strewn sky.

Soon, I heard a soft rustle. Hancock sat beside me, also gazing at the stars. She spoke first, her voice quiet, stripped of its usual arrogance.

"You know… you still have one last chance to admit the obvious."

I didn't respond, just mimicked her signature gesture—a slight tilt of the head and that smug, disdainful hum she always used.

"Hah, not bad," she said, her smile warming. "I seem to recall you saying we'd only know the answer when my power worked on you."

She scooted closer. I saw no point in dodging anymore. This wasn't a spar or a competition. It was our last moment together, and who knew when we'd meet again.

Her lips brushed my cheek. A strange coldness spread from the point of contact, not freezing but paralyzing, locking my body in place. I could only watch her with my eyes.

She pulled back, saw the result, and let out a soft, triumphant laugh.

"Hah! I knew it!"

She snapped her fingers, and the petrification lifted as quickly as it had set in. I exhaled heavily, feeling life return to my muscles.

---

The next day, we saw the girls off. There were no lectures or grand speeches—none were needed. The five of us—me, Rayleigh, Shakuyaku, and the sisters—walked silently to the dock where the Kuja ship waited.

At the pier, the girls approached our mentors.

"Thank you, Rayleigh-san, Shakuyaku-san," Marigold's voice trembled. "Thank you for teaching us to fight… and for teaching us to trust again."

She and Sandersonia broke into tears, hugging Rayleigh and then Shakuyaku tightly. Hancock held herself together, standing tall with her chin raised, but her red-rimmed eyes and tightly pressed lips betrayed her emotions. She gave them a short nod in farewell.

"Good luck," I said with a smirk, turning to Hancock. "And you girls, keep an eye on her, or she'll trip over her own ego."

As the ship, guided by its giant serpents, pulled away from the dock, we didn't leave. We stood and watched until the vessel became a tiny speck on the horizon and vanished completely.

 

[kowak]

The only sound in the room was the soft crackle and hiss of static. From thousands of leagues beneath the sea, Queen Otohime's trembling, despair-laden voice broke through.

"...But how could this happen, Francis-san? We followed every law!"

"Laws are written by the victors, Your Majesty," I said wearily. "And they'll never write a law that lets the defeated rise from their knees. This was a coordinated attack—not pirates, but agents of the World Government. They've made it clear they won't allow Fish-Man Island to gain economic independence. The trade routes are cut off. I… I'm sorry."

"What do we do now?" Her voice cracked with tears. "Was it all for nothing?"

"No," I said firmly, though I barely believed it myself. "Tourism is still possible, but on a smaller scale. More importantly, you need to build your military strength. Use that wood, that metal. Build a fleet, train an army. There's no other way. I can't help you anymore. I'm sorry I wasn't as strong as you needed me to be."

"Don't say that!" Her voice suddenly rang with royal steel. "You've done more for us than anyone in the last hundred years! Francis-san, we're grateful to you…"

The connection cut off. Maybe it was static, or maybe she couldn't go on. I didn't call back.

That evening, the bar was quiet, lit only by the dim glow of lamps. It was just me and Rayleigh, a chessboard between us. The pieces were set, but the game wasn't going anywhere.

I made another careless move, leaving my queen open to his knight. Rayleigh didn't even glance at the board. He simply moved his piece, claiming my queen.

"You're playing terribly today," he said calmly, without reproach. "Missing the girls?"

"No. I mean, yes, I miss them, but that's not it." I sighed heavily, pushing the board aside. I didn't have the energy to keep playing. "I suffered a crushing defeat, Rayleigh. I'm used to losing, but before, I was beaten by legends—Shanks, Borsalino, you. But now? Now I got wiped across the deck by some guy not much older than me. A killing machine bred in a Government lab."

I looked into his eyes, and all the bitterness I'd been holding back came pouring out.

"And I'm thinking… what can I even do against this world? There are hundreds like me. Some are trained from childhood by the World Government, others by the Marines. They have a system, a conveyor belt that's been churning out perfect soldiers for 800 years. And what do I have? You can make me stronger, but my enemies aren't just a bunch of pirates. It's a system with more resources, strength, and experience than I'll ever have. If I keep going the way I am, what will I achieve? Just another strong guy in the world? That's not enough."

Rayleigh listened silently, his gaze serious and attentive.

"I understand your despair," he finally said. "But what do you suggest? I don't know any other way to get stronger except through grueling training and countless battles."

"I need to break the rules of the game. I don't just need a new technique—I need a quantum leap. I want to go to the New World."

Rayleigh raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"There," I continued, "they say there's an island where lightning strikes nonstop."

Rayleigh's face grew deadly serious, as if I'd just volunteered to jump into a Sea King's maw.

"Raijin, the island where lightning strikes twenty-four-seven. And what do you hope to achieve there? Learn to withstand a lightning bolt? Hone your Observation Haki to see the future? Either way, it's suicide. It's too dangerous for anyone, Francis."

I met his heavy gaze. There was no fear in me, only resolve.

"I insist."

Rayleigh studied my face for a long time, seeing I wouldn't back down. Finally, he sighed heavily, conceding to my madness.

"Fine. I'll go with you. But mark my words—if I see this plan killing you or driving you insane, I'll drag you out of there by force, even if you hate me for it."

---

The ship approached the island slowly, and the reality was far grimmer than the stories. The sky was perpetually dark, torn by crimson flashes. Lightning struck without pause—some thin as needles, others wide as tree trunks. They didn't just hit the ground; they burrowed into it. We had provisions for a year on board.

Rayleigh stood beside me, staring at the scene with an unreadable expression.

"Well, Francis," his voice was nearly drowned out by the thunder. "Still not changing your mind? We can still sail away. I won't call you a coward."

I shook my head, eyes fixed on the island. Fear clawed at my insides, but my resolve was stronger.

"No."

As soon as we stepped ashore, the world exploded into a blinding flash. I didn't even have time to process it. The air erupted with a deafening crack, and a pillar of searing light crashed toward me. But it never reached me. Rayleigh stepped forward, his Haki-coated hand swatting the lightning aside like an annoying fly. The bolt slammed into a rock, leaving a molten scar.

"That's one death down, Francis," he said, his voice dead serious. "To survive a place where nature itself wants you dead, you need to know its next move. You understand what that means. I'll shield you from the bolts that'd incinerate you, but the weaker ones are yours. They'll be your teachers. Now go do what you came for. And don't forget to ground yourself."

He was right. I'd already died once, barely setting foot on this cursed land. I stepped forward, kicking off my shoes to feel the hot, vibrating earth beneath my bare feet. Then I scooped water from a nearby puddle and soaked my clothes. Lightning always takes the path of least resistance. Wet clothes would conduct it better than my organs.

I closed my eyes. They were useless here—I'd never react to lightning's speed. The real problem was that lightning had no intent, no "voice" to hear with Observation Haki. The only way to predict chaos was to peer beyond it, into the future itself. I focused, trying to pierce the veil of the present.

Then it hit my shoulder.

Millions of white-hot needles stabbed into my body. My muscles seized, my teeth clenched until they creaked. I felt the current burn my skin beneath my soaked shirt, slither down my shorts, sear my thigh, course through my knees and feet, and hiss into the ground. The air reeked of scorched fabric and my own flesh. But I couldn't lose focus. I had to start again. I had to keep looking.

---

A month of relentless torture passed, self-inflicted by this stubborn kid. His body was a lattice of burns, but the fire in his eyes hadn't dimmed. If he'd shown no progress by now, I'd have dragged him out of here by force. Sometimes, banging your head against a wall doesn't break it—but he'd managed to scratch it.

The constant lightning strikes did what months of my training couldn't. They forced him to awaken Armament Haki. His body, pushed to its limits, screamed for protection, and his Haki answered. At first, it was just faint flickers, a thin layer of invisible armor softening the blows. But each day, the shield grew stronger. Honestly, I thought he'd have done it sooner.

Then, peering into the future, I saw it—a massive, branching bolt of lightning about to crash down right where Francis stood. He wouldn't survive this one.

I shot into the air. The world drowned in a roar as I deflected the colossal bolt with my fist. The thunder was so powerful it felt like the island itself shuddered. Even for me, that was tough.

"Time to call it!" I shouted over the storm's din.

He didn't argue. We silently headed to the ship, our temporary refuge. Once we sailed a safe distance from the island, we could finally rest. I started tending to his wounds. Though his wet clothes had conducted the lightning, the sheer heat had fused them to his skin, and I had to peel them off along with charred flesh.

Francis winced and hissed in pain as I tore another strip of fabric from his back.

"Deal with it," I grumbled, trying to sound as stern as possible. "You asked for this torture."

"I know…" he rasped through gritted teeth.

"All done. Now get to the bath."

In a wooden tub filled with warm water, medicinal seaweed from Fish-Man Island floated, easing the worst of the pain and helping the burns heal. I watched him stagger off. This kid was the most stubborn, reckless student I'd ever had. And maybe the most promising.

Five months we spent on that island. The ship stayed anchored a mile offshore, but supplies were already running low, and I was starting to wonder if I'd have enough booze to endure this madness.

I stood on the shore, watching a lightning bolt—strong enough to vaporize an ordinary Haki user—aim straight for him. I readied myself, prepared to throw all my strength into deflecting it, but then the future shifted. In the split second before the bolt struck, Francis vanished, reappearing silently thirty meters to the left.

Click.

Another bolt followed, less deadly this time. Click. He vanished again. On the third, his focus wavered. I sensed a spike of exhaustion, a moment of hesitation. The third bolt was coming, and he didn't have the strength to see the future again. I had to step in.

I landed beside him.

"Ha-ha-ha!" I couldn't hold back a laugh, pride and relief mixing together. "You actually did it. After six months of nonstop torture, you learned to see the future."

Blood trickled from his nose—a fair price for such brutal mental strain. He stood, swaying, barely upright, but a weary smile played on his lips.

"Piece of cake," he croaked.

Pure, empty bravado. He looked like he'd collapse any second.

"Sure, sure," I said, giving him a fatherly pat on the shoulder, careful not to touch his fresh burns. "Come on, let's go. This calls for a celebration."

On the ship, we held a modest feast—roasted sea beast meat and the best sake we had. Francis passed out almost immediately, falling asleep in the tub of medicinal seaweed. I sat on the deck, staring at the stormy sky over the island, lost in thought. What would he feel if he ever learned it wasn't his destiny to topple the World Government? That his path might just be paving the way for someone else?

---

Four more months passed. The kid had become a true dancer. He didn't just dodge—he wove between lightning bolts like a performer. Five bolts, six, seven… I rarely had to intervene anymore.

"We need to sail," I said one morning. "We're almost out of supplies."

Francis, clearly pleased with his progress, wiped sweat from his brow with a grin.

"Alright. Where to?"

"Dressrosa," I replied.

---

What can I say about my first stop in the New World? Dressrosa… was surprisingly calm. Nothing special: old, sun-faded houses, narrow streets, leisurely locals. The country clearly lacked wealth, but there was a serenity in the air that was disarming.

Still, one attraction drew all attention like a magnet—the Colosseum. A grand, ancient structure.

As I learned, there were no prizes to be won there. Only the chance to earn recognition and etch your name into history. As soon as we disembarked, Rayleigh predictably slipped off to the nearest bar. With nothing else to do, my feet carried me to the arena.

A large sign hung at the entrance: "DEVIL FRUIT USERS ARE FORBIDDEN FROM USING THEIR POWERS. HERE, ONLY YOUR OWN STRENGTH MATTERS!"

A questionable claim. As if a Devil Fruit couldn't become part of you. Still, I had no intention of fighting. I was just a spectator, here to see what the warriors of the New World were made of.

The Colosseum's sweltering air thrummed with the crowd's roars. The stands, packed with excited locals and bored pirates, echoed with deafening chants.

A Den Den Mushi loudspeaker blared, the announcer's voice dripping with exaggerated enthusiasm:

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, ON THE ARENA FLOOR, THE GREAT AND UNDEFEATED KYROS! THREE THOUSAND VICTORIES, ZERO DEFEATS! WHO DARES CHALLENGE THE LIVING LEGEND OF DRESSROSA?!"

Kyros stepped onto the sunlit sand. He looked every bit the legend—a giant over two meters tall, a mountain of chiseled muscle, each one seeming to pulse with life. His movements carried the confidence of a predator at the top of the food chain. His opponent, no less imposing, stepped forward.

The fight was brutal but brief. Both wielded basic Haki, but that's where their similarities ended. Kyros was faster, his strikes more precise, his Armament Haki coating his sword in a dense, dark sheen. He didn't just fight—he danced, turning the arena into his stage, each blow met with the crowd's ecstatic cheers. His opponent lasted three minutes.

It went on like this. Gladiators, pirates, martial artists—all fell before his unstoppable might.

"AND ONCE AGAIN, NO ONE CAN EVEN SCRATCH THE GUARDIAN OF THE COLOSSEUM! KYROS—THE CHAMPION!"

I stood silently. If I faced him now, I'd lose. I was certain of it. Without my Devil Fruit, he'd crush me with raw physical power. With it, we'd be at a stalemate. He couldn't catch me—his speed couldn't outmatch my foresight—but I couldn't break through him either. My cleverest attacks would shatter against him like waves on a cliff.

Tch, I'm still not strong enough.

Wandering the streets and buying some food at the market, I noticed a small stall plastered with sun-yellowed newspapers. The old vendor was idly reading a cheap novel.

"Good afternoon. Can I have all the newspapers from the past year?"

He looked up from his book, sizing me up oddly.

"A whole year? Kid, you crawl out of a cave or fall from a Sky Island? Where've you been to miss a year's worth of news?"

"Something like that," I said vaguely, placing money on the counter.

Sighing, the old man rummaged through dusty stacks. Soon, a hefty pile of papers sat before me. I paid, grabbed them, and settled at a quiet street café, ordering a cold juice.

Spreading the papers in chronological order, I dove in. Almost immediately, I found something that changed everything: the "Shichibukai" system, the Seven Warlords of the Sea. The World Government had officially allied with seven pirate crews, overlooking their past crimes in exchange for loyalty and fighting other pirates. Clever—legalize a few monsters to control thousands more.

I scanned the list. First was… Crocodile. That sandy bastard we fought five years ago. The paper said he single-handedly stopped and desiccated an entire Marine fleet.

Wow, how much money and resources did they waste trying to catch him before just hiring him?

Second was Dracule Mihawk, "Hawk-Eyes," the world's greatest swordsman—a title that spoke for itself. Third, Gecko Moria. Fourth, Donquixote Doflamingo.

My heart skipped a beat. Fifth was Jimbei, "Knight of the Sea." Otohime couldn't break through the bureaucracy, so she found a shield? By joining the Shichibukai, Jimbei's reputation and strength protected Fish-Man Island from slavers—or am I missing something?

At the bottom of the pile, I found what I was looking for. A fresh wanted poster, a painfully beautiful face, an imperious gaze, jet-black hair.

"WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE: BOA HANCOCK. REWARD: 60,000,000 BELI."

The article said her ship docked at Jaya, and after she left, every resident of the port city was found turned to stone. The first Marines to arrive thought it was an outbreak of some deadly disease, and now the island was under strict quarantine.

I leaned back and laughed.

"Ha-ha-ha… How absurd. Some drunk probably tried to compliment her, and she decided the whole island wasn't worthy of her presence."

---

The ship anchored again, a mile from the cursed island.

"Rayleigh," I began, trying to sound confident. "Can you leave me here? You don't need to watch over me anymore."

He raised an eyebrow.

"What, tired of me already?" he teased. "Think the fledgling's ready to leave the nest? You've gotten pretty good, but I'll decide when you're ready to be alone. Besides, you've only learned to dodge lightning, not hunt for food. What'll you do when the supplies run out?"

I shrugged.

"I saw some long eels near the shore. Are they edible?"

Rayleigh chuckled, clearly in a good mood.

"Francis, listen up. In this world, everything's edible—except two Devil Fruits at once. They say that'll make you explode."

And so, I stepped barefoot onto that land again. Things were different now. I could see the future, and thankfully, I didn't need to constantly "refresh" it. Nature, unlike a sentient opponent, didn't adapt its attacks to my thoughts.

I focused on training my legs. Geppo was tough. My first attempts were pathetic—I'd clumsily push off the air, rise a couple of meters, then crash painfully onto the rocks. But it was a start.

Dodging in the air was far more dangerous. On the ground, lightning passed through me and into the earth. In the sky, it had nowhere to go. One mistake, and I'd be a charred corpse.

Six months later, Rayleigh, satisfied I wouldn't starve and could decently maneuver in the air, finally left.

"I'll keep tabs on your vivre card," he said as he stood on the ship's deck. "I'll come back every three months with supplies, books, and fresh newspapers. Don't get lonely."

He left me the ship, my only shelter from the storm. Then, stripping to the waist, he dove into the churning waters of the New World and swam off. What a wild man.

Now, I was truly alone.

My days became a harsh, monotonous routine: training, hunting eels, sleeping on the ship, reading. I could now move confidently in the air, chaining dozens of kicks without losing altitude. In speed, I might even rival Rob Lucci. But it still wasn't enough.

The main problem was Armament Haki. Though I'd grasped the basics, progress was agonizingly slow. I only dared take on the weakest lightning bolts at the island's edges. I didn't even risk approaching the center, where the real storms raged. My flimsy defense wouldn't withstand their power.

 

[kowak]

How much time has passed? A year? Five? Ten? I stopped counting long ago. What difference does it make when every day blends into the one before? My foresight of the future has reached perfection. It's no longer a "technique" I need to activate—it's become my natural state. I live ten seconds ahead of reality, and I can peer even further if I choose. The world of ordinary people feels torturously slow and predictable. At first, it was exhausting; my brain burned from the overload. But over time, it became as natural as breathing.

My speed was impressive—very impressive. Using Geppo, I no longer just ran through the air—I flew, becoming one with the storm. The problem, as always, was that damned Armament Haki.

Rayleigh, during his last visit, brought me an arsenal: about a hundred flintlock pistols and a new two-handed hammer forged from a special alloy. Now, I stood atop a molten rock. Holding two pistols, I infused their bullets with my Haki.

Now.

I fired, seemingly into nothingness. But my vision had already seen what was to come. A bolt of lightning burst from the storm clouds, right in the path of my bullets. The two projectiles, cloaked in my will, collided with the lightning, slicing the bolt in half.

Click. Click. Click.

I moved in a blur, swapping pistols with lightning-fast speed. Eight more shots. In half a second, I "killed" ten bolts of lightning. It was impressive. Unfortunately, the pistols couldn't withstand such power. The metal, unable to contain my concentrated will, shattered after each shot, showering me with a hail of scalding fragments.

Then I sensed it—a presence. About ten kilometers away, a ship was approaching the island. New World rookies sometimes wandered here, blinded by rumors and their own foolishness, but they never dared set foot on the island, sensing its murderous aura. This ship was different. The power emanating from it was calm, confident, unshakable. But I knew who it was—and he would dare.

Grabbing a pair of intact pistols, I launched myself toward them, slicing through the storm's wind.

I concealed my presence until the last moment and landed silently on the ship's railing, catching the crew off guard. The team, previously relaxed and tending to their tasks, tensed instantly. Benn Beckman reached for his rifle, Yasopp for his pistols.

"Hey," I greeted casually.

Shanks, sitting on a barrel, turned slowly. Surprise on his face gave way to a wide, genuine smile.

"Well, well… Francis. You've grown. You're not the kid I met at Shakky's bar anymore. How long's it been? Fifteen years? Sixteen?"

I hopped onto the deck, sizing him up.

"Dunno, I stopped counting," I replied. "But you've changed too. Lost an arm, got a scar over your eye. You know… that's more reassuring than anything."

Shanks' smile grew more reserved, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

"Reassuring? Why's that?"

I didn't answer. Instead, I stepped forward, raised one of the pistols, and pressed it to my temple. I infused the weapon with Haki, and its barrel began to vibrate faintly. My gaze locked onto Shanks' eyes.

"So, Shanks," I said, my voice steady and cold. "I'm going to ask you one question. If you lie, or if I think you're lying, I'll shoot. You won't dodge in time because I'll swap myself with you the moment I pull the trigger. I'm sure you'd survive, shielding yourself with your Haki, but even so—a bullet infused with my Haki, at this range, will at least do some damage. If I see you preemptively coating yourself in Haki to protect yourself, I'll shoot immediately. And you know what happens next."

Shanks' smile vanished. His face turned serious, like an emperor's, not the carefree drunkard's. The air around him seemed to thicken.

"I see you've gone completely feral out here, kid," he said calmly, but the warmth was gone from his voice. "What's this question you're willing to go this far for?"

All these years, I had no one to talk to. I was trapped in the storm, alone with my thoughts, my fears, and one nagging splinter lodged in my mind. Now was my chance to let it out.

"I'll explain my perspective. All these years on this island, I wasn't just training. I was thinking, planning. And you, Shanks, were a big, unpredictable variable in that plan."

I paused briefly, gathering my thoughts.

"Back at Shakky's bar, you acted friendly, like a kind uncle. But that was toward kids. I have no idea who you are now, after all these years. The fact that you've lost an arm and gained a scar tells me you're not the same person I met. But at the same time, I'll be fighting someone who looks exactly like you."

I saw Benn Beckman's face twitch. He clearly knew what I was talking about.

"These thoughts haunted me. The prophecy might've been the ravings of a lunatic, but in my position, it's better to be paranoid than careless. So here's my question, Shanks. What's your connection to the World Government? And… do you have a twin brother?"

Shanks stared at me for a long time, his face unreadable. He exhaled slowly.

"You went through all this… for that question? Since you've gone this far, I'll answer. Yes. I do have a brother. And our father, as you probably guessed, is one of the Celestial Dragons."

A gasp of shock rippled across the deck.

"Second question," I pressed, not letting them recover. "Whose side are you on?"

Shanks gave a bitter chuckle.

"I'm always on one side, kid. The side of my friends and freedom. And definitely not the side of the World Government."

His answers were vague, but for now, they'd do. I slowly lowered the pistol.

"Who told you?" Shanks asked, his voice more relaxed now.

"Secret," I replied curtly, holstering the weapon.

"Fair enough," he nodded, accepting my response. "So, what's your plan? Take them down single-handedly?"

"You said you're not with the Government, but that doesn't mean you're on my side," I shrugged. "I don't know what you want, and until I do, I'm not telling you anything. By the way, why'd you sail here? Just to chat?"

Shanks gave me an odd look.

"You've gone completely nuts! One moment you're threatening me, the next you're acting like we're old pals!"

I allowed myself a slight smirk.

"Rayleigh called us here," Shanks answered. "Asked us to deliver a batch of supplies for you."

I glanced at his ship, his formidable crew, and him.

"Mmm, I don't think I'll need them anymore. I'm strong enough to leave this place now. But since you're here… Shanks. I challenge you to a fight."

Silence fell over the deck.

"Hmm…" he mused. "Given what you just pulled, I suppose I'll have to teach you a lesson. I accept your challenge."

---

We stood in the heart of the island. If I dodged attacks, Shanks simply stood still. When a bolt of lightning hurtled toward him, he didn't even move—just a faint, almost imperceptible pulse of his Conqueror's Haki, and the lightning, as if hitting an invisible wall, veered off, striking the rocks instead.

He charged at me. His speed was staggering, but my foresight had already shown me the trajectory of his attack. Pistols were useless against him; he'd slice through the bullets without noticing. So I grabbed the hammer.

I swung, pouring all my rage and strength into the blow, but I aimed not at him—rather, at an empty spot to his left. And in the instant the hammer began its crushing arc, I swapped a rock with Shanks.

He saw it coming. His foresight, honed by decades of battle, had anticipated my trick. He didn't dodge. Instead, he'd already adjusted his stance before the teleport, positioning himself perfectly to block. When he materialized under my strike, he was ready.

Our Haki clashed.

A deafening roar shook the island. A crater formed around us, the ground cracked, and rocks flew into the air. The lightning, which had been striking the ground indiscriminately, now seemed to fear approaching, bending and redirecting under the monstrous pressure radiating from us both.

And in this clash of wills, Shanks won.

His power wasn't just stronger—it was deeper, older, absolute. He deflected my hammer with a single swing of his saber and countered immediately. I wouldn't have had time to block. So I vanished, teleporting away.

Shanks paused, lowering his saber, a frustrated smirk playing on his lips.

"What a pain," he muttered. "Fighting you is like trying to catch the wind."

With that, he unleashed his Conqueror's Haki at full force. The pressure I'd felt at Shakky's bar was child's play compared to this. Now, an ocean crashed down on me.

I countered with my own Haki. I didn't try to overpower him—that would've been suicide. Instead, I maintained control, creating a small cocoon around myself, an island of calm in his raging sea. Where my Observation Haki once covered the entire island, it was now reduced to a mere hundred meters. But that would have to be enough.

Shanks attacked again, more ferociously this time. Unfortunately, while he was cloaked in his Conqueror's Haki, I couldn't teleport him. I couldn't sense him through my fruit's power under such a veil. So I met his strike with my hammer.

But this strike was different. For a moment, his Conqueror's Haki weakened, and I felt the full force of his power flow into his blade. It wasn't just enhanced by Armament Haki—he was pouring the very essence of his Conqueror's Haki into it.

He easily deflected my hammer and, without missing a beat, unleashed another wave of Conqueror's Haki, blanketing the area and blocking my teleport. In the next instant, his saber would've pierced my body.

That was the future awaiting me.

So I teleported backward. I couldn't move forward—Shanks' territory dominated the area. I could only retreat within the confines of my Observation Haki's "cocoon." Dropping the hammer, I drew my pistols, infused them with Haki, and opened fire, trying to keep him at a distance.

After a few attempts to reach me, Shanks stopped and withdrew his Conqueror's Haki. The pressure lifted instantly.

"Enough. It's clear this is a draw."

I was breathing heavily.

"Well… you're still stronger."

Shanks looked at me thoughtfully, sheathing his saber.

"You're about where I was at your age. Maybe even a bit stronger. But far more slippery." He gave a crooked grin. "I've always hated fighting teleporters. You can't have a proper brawl with you lot."

We returned to the Red Hair Pirates' ship.

"So…?" Yasopp blurted, his usual cheer replaced by nervous anticipation. "Who won?"

I leaned wearily on my hammer.

"A draw," I exhaled, and that simple word stunned the crew. "By the way, Yasopp, I think the title of world's best sniper should go to me. I can hit twenty lightning bolts in a second."

He scoffed, instantly regaining his trademark bravado.

"Pfft, lightning's a stationary target. Any fool could hit that," he waved dismissively. "Try hitting a fly from a kilometer away in a crosswind! That's art!"

I burst out laughing.

"Alright, enough chatter!" My voice came out surprisingly loud and cheerful. "Let's party! We'll eat all the supplies Rayleigh sent. I won't need them anymore."

The evening turned into a true pirate feast. Barrels of sake and mountains of roasted meat vanished into the bottomless stomachs of Shanks' crew. Noise, laughter, and drunken songs filled the deck. In the midst of the revelry, Lucky Roux, tearing off another chunk of a massive sea beast leg, stared at me.

"Listen, kid…" he mumbled through a mouthful. "Is it true? You spent all twelve years in this hellhole?"

I shrugged.

"Didn't count. The first couple of years were tough, yeah," I recalled the pain of burns and constant tension. "Then I got used to it."

Everyone at the table fell silent for a moment, staring at me like I'd just admitted to eating rocks for breakfast. Then Benn Beckman, calmly taking a drag on his cigarette, delivered the collective verdict.

"You're insane."

The crew roared in agreement, raising their mugs.

When the last of the food was devoured and the drunkest pirates began passing out at the table, I stood up. Dressed in new, clean clothes from Rayleigh's package—a simple black shirt and pants—I felt renewed.

"Alright, I'm off," I tossed to Shanks, who was watching me with interest.

Without waiting for a reply, I pushed off the deck and, using Geppo, soared into the night sky, becoming a black speck against the stars.

My path led to the beginning, to the blood-red wall that split the world in two. To the Red Line, to Mariejois. But I wasn't heading there to start a war—not yet. For now, I needed information.

Reaching the massive cliff, I hovered in the air, concealing my presence. With Observation Haki, I sensed them—dozens of guards patrolling hidden posts within the rock, their auras scanning for threats. I wondered how the Sun Pirates managed to infiltrate the summit.

For a moment, I released my Observation Haki and sensed a platform inside the rock, carrying cargo upward. Among the crates was a sack of potatoes.

Click.

I swapped places with it.

The guards inside the rock detected something—a brief, faint pulse so fleeting they could dismiss it as interference. They didn't notice.

The lift platform, where I hid, arrived from the lower levels of the Red Line. It seemed they had their own world down there—hydroponic farms, gardens, everything to supply the "Holy Land" with fresh provisions. Logical, complete autonomy from the outside world.

As the lift neared the top, I sensed their auras. Slaves, waiting to unload the crates and distribute food to the sectors. My heart clenched with rage, but I suppressed it. I couldn't help them now. Any action here would jeopardize the entire mission.

Before they could see me, I swapped places with a piece of debris in a dark corner. I melted into the shadows, becoming part of Mariejois' flawless architecture.

First, I needed a target. Ideally, a restaurant or open café where Celestial Dragons dined outdoors. It didn't take long to find one. Soon, I spotted him—Saint Charlos, petulantly poking at a bowl of soup while a trembling servant stood nearby.

I pulled a small vial from a hidden pocket. It contained the blood of a Thunder Eel from the island. When I first ate its meat, I was wracked with fever for hours until my body built immunity. For an ordinary person, even a drop of this blood mixed with food meant days of excruciating pain and paralysis.

I waited for the moment when Charlos, in disgust, flung his spoon aside and began shouting at the servant. His attention was consumed by his tantrum. I used my Haki to locate a pebble in my pocket and a large chunk of potato in his soup.

Click.

The potato was in my hand. I quickly dripped a few drops of dark blood from the vial onto it. The surface absorbed the poison instantly. I couldn't teleport pure liquids, but now that the blood was part of the potato, it was a single object.

Click.

The pebble returned to my hand, and the poisoned potato went back into the soup. It was done so quickly that even the sharpest observer would've noticed nothing. Charlos, done shouting, lazily scooped up the tainted piece and popped it into his mouth.

It was done. Now it was time to watch.

 

[kowak]

Chapter 21

It's been a month—a tense, grueling month—but I learned everything I set out to uncover.

When Saint Charlos collapsed in a fit, chaos erupted. He was rushed to the medical center, and I, an invisible shadow, trailed behind. The way they treated him was something out of science fiction. A doctor in a sterile suit arrived, first drawing blood for analysis. Without waiting for results, he injected Charlos in the neck with a syringe labeled "Stasis." Instantly, the saint's body was coated in a thin layer of frost, slipping into suspended animation, his vital signs frozen. While he was "on ice," a portable analyzer decoded the poison's composition and synthesized the perfect antidote in mere minutes. The entire process, from blood draw to cure, took less than five minutes. Impressive, terrifying efficiency.

I also uncovered the standard medical protocol for all Celestial Dragons. It mandated weekly blood draws for every healthy Tenryubito. Their blood was sent to the medical division, where it was rigorously tested and cross-referenced with prior results to catch any illness early.

The rest of the month, I skulked through the shadows of the Holy Land, poring over archives and documents. My main focus was the lists of slavers, but my priority was those involved in the God Valley incident. Reading the reports, I nearly broke my cover in a surge of rage. The truth of that "event" was monstrous: every three years, the Celestial Dragons released a number of slaves onto an island and hunted them for sport. But the records cut off abruptly. There was only a curt mention that the Rocks Pirates, followed by Gol D. Roger's crew, had arrived on the island. After that, the incident was classified, and the island's existence was erased from all maps.

In short, I got what I came for. It was time to head home to Sabaody.

---

I reached the bar, a wave of mixed feelings washing over me. On one hand, I'd changed beyond recognition. On the other, it felt like those years of solitary training had never happened. I opened the door slowly, almost reverently. Everything was the same—the familiar scent of wood and liquor, the dim light, and the same figure behind the counter.

Shakuyaku looked up and flashed a radiant smile.

"Hey, handsome," her voice was as warm and teasing as the day we first met. "Haven't seen a certain prickly little brat around, have you? He's been missing for twelve years."

I couldn't hold back a smirk.

"Got lost somewhere along the way."

I walked over and, throwing restraint to the wind, hugged her. She froze for a moment before her hand gently rested on my back.

"What's the news?" I asked, pulling back and settling onto a high stool.

She took a deep drag on her cigarette, exhaling a perfect smoke ring.

"Mmm, same old, same old. Hancock's become a Warlord and, naturally, the Empress of the Kuja. But you probably read that in the papers. Here, though, this is fresh off the press."

She handed me a glossy magazine. On the cover, Hancock struck a regal pose, her proud, haughty gaze as familiar as ever. The headline screamed: "The Most Beautiful and Dangerous Women of the Seas: Top Female Pirates and Marines." I smiled.

"Gotta check that out."

Just then, Rayleigh walked in.

"You finally dragged yourself off that cursed island?" he grumbled. "I was starting to think you'd settled there for good, grown a beard, and declared yourself the god of thunder."

"Oh, come on," I waved him off. "Just got a bit delayed, that's all."

"A bit?" Rayleigh sat beside me, pouring himself a drink. "I wouldn't call it a bit. So, I can tell from your face you didn't come back just to chat. What's your plan?"

I laid out my plan—every detail, every step, the core of it, the end goal, and the main leverage point. Rayleigh listened in silence, his expression growing more serious. He mulled over my words, tapping his fingers on the table.

"It's… not bad. But you'll need Garp. Without him, they'll weasel out of it. And he'll likely have to do what you want—he's got a rotten relationship with the World Government, which works in your favor."

He took a sip and fixed his gaze on me.

"Where are you headed next? Drum Kingdom?"

"Yeah," I nodded. "If there's anywhere I can find that piece of the puzzle, it's there."

"Good luck, Francis. You'll need it."

I didn't linger. After saying my goodbyes, I headed to the market. With a casual flick, I "borrowed" a flying fish while its owner was distracted, haggling over a sack of cabbage. Grabbing the Eternal Pose pointing to my destination, I soared into the sky on the fish, leaving Sabaody's lights behind. My path led to the snowy medical kingdom.

---

When I arrived at Drum Kingdom, I saw a snow-covered island for the first time. A biting, piercing wind immediately clawed at my light clothing. I was wildly underdressed—shorts, a t-shirt, and a white mask hiding my face. But the cold wasn't the most striking thing. Swirling in every direction, dancing slowly with prickly snowflakes, were delicate pink cherry blossom petals.

Flying closer, I spotted their source—a massive, ancient tree atop the highest mountain, blanketed in sakura blooms. Snow and cherry blossoms. An impossible, miraculous sight. My flying fish was struggling in the cold, its movements sluggish. I released it back to the sea, pocketing the whistle I could use to summon it later.

Landing at the tree's base, I saw a deer. It stood on four legs, head bowed, but it wasn't ordinary. Through my Observation Haki, I felt its emotions—a thick mix of grief, sorrow, and helpless rage.

"You're no ordinary deer, are you?" I asked quietly.

It jumped, startled, and whipped around to face me.

"What do you want?! Get out of here!" Its voice was high-pitched, childlike. It stomped the frozen ground twice, clearly trying to scare me off.

I didn't budge, my gaze drifting to the majestic tree.

"It means a lot to you, doesn't it? It's truly wondrous." My voice stayed calm. "I'm looking for the best doctor on this island. Know anyone?"

Only then did it hit me.

"You talk?!"

The deer bristled, its button nose wrinkling comically.

"Yeah, I talk! So what?! Deer can't talk?!"

I tilted my head, considering.

"Honestly, I've never met another deer, so… maybe it's normal for you. Wait, are you a Mink?"

"A Mink?" It blinked, its aggression fading quickly.

A woman stepped out from behind the tree, holding a bottle. I'd sensed her aura earlier—strong, but not enough to worry me.

"Minks are a race of sentient animals," she said. "Rabbits, beavers, monkeys. They live in the New World. Rare folk. Odd to find one here."

I pushed my Observation Haki to its limit, focusing on the deer. Over the years on that island, I'd awakened a hidden ability of my Devil Fruit—I could "see" the essence of things. And now, through fur and bone, I sensed a pulsing knot of alien energy at the core of its being. A Devil Fruit.

"I see," I said. "You're a Fruit user."

The old woman, who'd been watching from the sidelines, cut in.

"Who are you, and why're you hassling Chopper?!" she snapped, taking a swig from her bottle. "You're not local, and that mask—hiding something?"

"I don't want anything from… Chopper," I replied, ignoring her jab. "I need a doctor."

She sized me up.

"I'm a doctor. Doctor Kureha. I take patients Wednesdays and Fridays, and today's Saturday. So wait your turn or get lost."

"I need a doctor, but I'm not sick," I explained patiently, the cold starting to bite. "Is there a house around here? Even I'm getting chilly."

She snorted, her gaze sharpening. She knew I was stronger than her, and people like that were best not provoked.

"Hmph. Come on, mysterious boy. Better to keep folks like you in sight than at my back."

We trudged through the snowy forest. Kureha, without breaking stride, reached a massive tree and swung open a discreet door in its trunk.

"You live in a tree?" I couldn't hold back a smirk. "That's pretty quirky."

As we stepped inside, Chopper shimmered in a puff of steam, transforming into a hybrid, more humanoid form. He eyed me warily.

"You… you're not scared of me?"

I looked at his small, almost childlike figure.

"Why would I be?"

"Because I'm a monster!" he blurted. "I've got a blue nose! I ate a weird fruit! I'm not like anyone else!"

I paused, studying him.

"Sounds like we have very different ideas of what a monster is," I said finally. "From what you're saying, people shunned you for being different. But those were probably ignorant folks who've never left this snowy island. I've seen Fish-Men of all kinds—sharks, octopuses. Mermaids, people with arms ten meters long. None of them were like the others. To me, a monster is someone who does unforgivable things, not how they look. Monsters wear pristine white suits and breathe through glass helmets, thinking everyone else is trash. But you?" I let a faint smile slip under my mask. "Most folks would call you cute."

Chopper flushed red to the tips of his tiny antlers, furiously scraping a hoof across the floor.

"C-c-cute?! You're the cute one, idiot! I'm not happy at all! Dummy!"

It was obvious he was lying. Kureha, watching with a crooked grin, finally spoke up.

"So, what do you really want, mystery boy?"

I grew serious.

"I need a poison with no cure. I know it might not exist. But I also know that if a poison isn't caught early, it's often too late to save the patient."

Chopper, instantly realizing I wasn't just some traveler but someone dangerous, stepped back instinctively, hiding behind Kureha. No good person would ask for something like that.

Kureha's face hardened.

"That's called an incubation virus. The victim feels fine until it's too late to do anything. But why would I, a doctor, help you make a weapon for killing?"

"Well, you don't have to help," I shrugged. "But I can offer my services. I'm strong, and I can sense the people here are unhappy. I could kill or exile your king and give power to the people."

Chopper perked up. The thought of ousting the tyrant who drove his mentor to death outweighed his fear. He looked at Kureha hopefully. She fixed me with a cold stare.

"And if I refuse that too?"

"There's a lot of books here," I said, glancing at the shelves stuffed with medical tomes. "I'll figure it out eventually."

"And who's going to give them to you?"

"I won't ask. I'll just take them."

She clearly didn't like the idea of me taking her books by force.

"And who needs such a sophisticated poison? If you're so strong, why sneak around?"

I glanced at Chopper, who peeked curiously from behind Kureha.

"Kid, you should leave. This isn't for someone like you."

Instead, Chopper transformed again, becoming a massive, muscular reindeer.

"I'm strong! I can handle myself!" he boomed.

I smiled under my mask.

"Alright, then brace yourself."

I unleashed a short, focused burst of Conqueror's Haki—just enough not to harm his young mind but strong enough to knock him out. Chopper collapsed, foam at his mouth, clueless about what hit him.

---

We stood before Wapol's castle, its ugly towers clawing at the cloudy sky. I glanced at Chopper, trembling with anticipation.

"You really want me to just exile him, not kill him?" I asked, giving him one last chance to reconsider.

He nodded firmly.

"Yes."

What naive foolishness.

"That's unwise, Chopper. He could come back the moment I leave. Or worse, run crying to the World Government about losing his kingdom. They'll send an Admiral, and that'll be the end of this island. There's a dozen other reasons to kill him here and now. I heard he banished all the doctors, keeping only twenty as his personal slaves. He made an entire nation dependent on his whims. If anyone deserves death, it's him."

But Chopper was unwavering. There was no room for killing in his eyes. A deal's a deal, and who was I to break it? The client's always right.

"Alright, let's go," I said, slinging my heavy hammer over my shoulder.

I didn't bother knocking. The massive oak doors flew off their hinges with one kick. Guards poured out of the corridors.

"How dare you! Seize the rebel! Protect King Wapol!"

I moved through them like a knife through butter, knocking out anyone who got close with a single, non-lethal strike of my hammer's handle. It was too easy.

Another door led to the king's throne. I kicked that one down too. Wapol, fat with an iron jaw, sat on his throne, greedily devouring a chunk of meat. Seeing me, he squealed.

"How dare you attack the king?! Chess! Kuromarimo! Kill him!"

His two lackeys charged. I was curious about their skills. In my foresight, one shot arrows at me, and the other… threw afro hair? Ridiculous. Knowing this, I didn't give them a chance, knocking them out with a swing of my hammer.

I strode to Wapol, grabbed him by the throat, and lifted him off the ground. He wheezed, trying to speak, but I didn't let him.

"Listen up, trash king. You're leaving this kingdom now and never coming back. If I see your face here again or hear you've whined to your patrons, I won't be so generous. I'll take your pathetic life myself."

I let a sliver of Conqueror's Haki flow into him, a concentrated stream. He went limp, sweat pouring down his face, eyes wide with primal fear. He nodded frantically.

I tossed him aside. Dragging his unconscious guards, he fled in panic.

"And leave your doctors behind!" I shouted after him.

Chopper, watching from the doorway, stared at me with wide, awestruck eyes.

"You… you really did it! That was so cool!"

"You bet."

---

In the castle, now more like a mad scientist's lab, I listened to Kureha's musings. She paced between tables cluttered with bubbling vials.

"Your plan…" she said, half to herself, "it doesn't just need a poison. You need a biological weapon with delayed effects. An incubation virus, like you said, that multiplies in the body, but any immune system will respond. There'll always be signs—fever, sweat, dizziness."

She paused.

"Hmm, you'd need to mask the symptoms. A cocktail of potent stimulants and steroids to not just hide weakness but give the victim a temporary energy boost. But any blood test would reveal it instantly. The incubation period needs to be at least three weeks. And know this—it won't work on truly strong-willed people. Their bodies will burn the virus out."

That suited me fine. My target was weak in body, though strong in power.

"I'll need two weeks to create a stable sample," she concluded.

"I'll wait," I replied calmly.

---

By the end of the second week, as I flipped through another tome on cellular biology, I felt a presence. Powerful, greedy, chaotic. And it was heading straight for the island.

I stood abruptly, tossing the book aside. I grabbed my hammer and checked my revolvers. Chopper, engrossed in a herbal encyclopedia nearby, noticed my reaction.

"Where are you going?"

"Trouble," I said curtly. "Someone strong is coming to the island."

I stepped out of the castle and, avoiding my Fruit to stay hidden, used Geppo to fly toward the threat.

In the middle of the icy ocean, on a crude raft of massive logs, sat a man. Huge, with a wild black beard, tangled hair, and missing teeth visible in his wide, predatory grin.

I hovered above him, pushing off the air.

"What do you want?"

He threw back his head, his laugh—"Ze-ha-ha-ha!"—booming over the waves.

"Treasure, obviously! But you look strong! Wanna join my crew? I'm Marshall D. Teach, and I'll be the one to find One Piece!"

"Not interested."

"Ze-ha-ha! Then hand over this kingdom's treasures!"

"No."

His grin turned vile. His hand began to emit tangible darkness, devouring the light around it.

"Then I'll take them by force!"

He clenched his fist.

"Black Hole!"

I felt an irresistible force pulling me toward him. In my foresight, I saw myself flying into his fist. I swing my Haki-infused hammer, he counters. A stalemate. We're thrown back, but he angles his strike to hurl me into the churning waves his power also pulls in. Falling into the ocean would be my death.

So, in the moment, I adjusted. I struck from the side, at an angle to launch myself upward, not into the icy water. My Fruit didn't work on him, as with other Logia users, but I hadn't planned to use it anyway.

Our blows clashed. A heavy, dull sound rang out, the raft—likely made of Adam Wood—groaning but holding. As predicted, I was flung high into the air. Hovering, I looked down at him.

"Wanna keep going?"

He grinned wickedly, slipping three long claws onto his hand.

"Ze-ha-ha-ha! We're just getting started!"

 

[kowak]

Francis hovered in the air, his mind racing through combat scenarios. A frontal assault on Teach was pointless—his opponent was too durable, and his Devil Fruit was too dangerous in close quarters. But Teach had a weakness: his primitive raft, his only means of navigating this ocean. If Francis could destroy it and assume Teach hadn't mastered Geppo—which was highly unlikely—the fight would be over.

Francis cycled through possible futures, searching for the perfect attack plan. Yet, in every scenario, Teach countered his moves.

"Black Hole!" the pirate roared again.

Darkness coalesced around Teach's hand, forming a ravenous vortex that pulled everything toward it. Francis swung his Haki-infused hammer, aiming for the raft, but instead of shattering the logs, the weapon was drawn toward Teach. They exchanged blows once more.

Francis drew his revolvers. He couldn't fully imbue the bullets with Haki—his guns wouldn't withstand it—but even a faint infusion was enough to damage the raft. He fired at different spots.

But Teach pulled every bullet into his darkness. One by one, they vanished into the void, and each time, Teach winced, though his grin grew wider and more unhinged.

"Ze-ha-ha-ha!" Teach grunted, absorbing the attack. His body twitched, and a pained groan escaped his lips. "Not bad! But it's useless against my darkness!"

Francis was pleased to see Teach felt the pain of the absorbed attacks. His fruit didn't make him invulnerable; it merely turned his body into a bottomless abyss. This was a war of attrition. Francis fired ten more shots.

"Ow, damn it, that hurts!" Teach yelped, swallowing another bullet. "Enough! Stop buzzing around like an annoying fly!"

He unleashed the awakened power of his fruit.

"Black World Summon!" he bellowed.

The darkness, previously concentrated in his hand, erupted, engulfing everything. The sky, the ocean, the ice floes—everything vanished. Within a ten-kilometer radius, the world became a perfect sphere of absolute darkness.

Inside it, Francis felt his Observation Haki shut down. He was blind. This darkness wasn't just the absence of light—it was alive, oppressive, swallowing sound, scent, even his own aura.

What an irritating ability, Francis thought, but he didn't panic. He activated his Conqueror's Haki.

An invisible dome formed around him, a sphere of his own defiance that pushed back the all-consuming darkness. Now, within Teach's territory, Francis had carved out his own. Though he couldn't extend his Observation Haki beyond this zone, his foresight worked again within it.

And then he sensed it—not the attack itself, but its outcome. A phantom pain in his ribs, a vision of sharp claws tearing into his side. He dodged, and invisible blades sliced through the space where he'd just been.

Leg. Head. Shoulder.

None of Teach's attacks landed. Francis couldn't see the strikes, but he saw his future injuries and evaded them. It astonished him that even within his Conqueror's Haki territory, paired with Observation Haki, he couldn't locate Teach. What a terrifying ability. Without perfect foresight, he'd have lost long ago.

So, Francis turned to his Devil Fruit. He couldn't teleport Teach, but he could do something else—his own awakening, which he'd never used in battle before. He could swap Devil Fruits themselves.

He reached out with his power, not for Teach, but for his fruit, moving through the darkness. And he found it—a pulsing, alien, unnatural energy.

Francis infused his hammer with every ounce of Armament Haki he could muster and struck where he sensed the fruit's presence.

*BAM!*

A dull, devastating impact echoed, followed by a roar of pain and shock. The darkness trembled and collapsed, restoring the world's colors and sounds. Teach, flung back by the blow, adjusted mid-air and crashed onto his battered raft. Clutching his chest, gasping, he stared at Francis with utter disbelief.

"HOW?!" he screamed, his voice a mix of rage and fear. "Even Red-Hair couldn't stand against it!"

In that moment, it clicked for Francis. The scar on Shanks' eye. Three parallel lines. The claws Teach had donned before the fight.

But that didn't matter now. Francis lowered his hammer and gazed at his defeated foe with cold disdain.

"Run away in fear."

Teach, drained from his technique, had no choice. With a glare of fury and hatred, he turned his raft and fled.

---

Returning to the castle, I replayed the fight with Teach in my mind. Reflecting on my options, I realized I could've used my fruit differently—swapped his raft with one of my bullets, leaving him stranded in the ocean. But would it have worked? People like us, who stand at the pinnacle of strength, must know how to fight in the air. He'd likely have soared into the sky or pulled some other devilish trick. I couldn't reveal all my cards too soon.

Inside the castle, I found Kureha. She stood with her arms crossed, eyeing me with odd curiosity.

"I haven't seen a fight like that since Roger's days. What the hell happened in that black sphere of yours?"

I waved her off. "Does it matter? Is it ready?"

She snorted and tossed me a glass vial as if it were a pebble, not a biohazardous virus. I caught it mid-air, the cold glass settling comfortably in my palm.

"Alright, I'm off. See you, Chopper."

He looked up at me with big, teary eyes. "Bye…"

I paused at the door and turned back. "Listen, Chopper. When you get the chance to see the world—take it. The path will be fraught with deadly challenges, betrayal, and pain. But it's still better than sitting on this island, praying trouble passes you by."

With that, I vanished. At the edge of the icy ocean, I pulled out a whistle and let out a sharp trill. Moments later, my flying fish surfaced from the depths.

One final preparation remained.

---

Somewhere on the Grand Line, in the Revolutionary Army's secret headquarters on Baltigo, an encrypted Den Den Mushi rang. The operator, a young woman with a tired but focused expression, picked up routinely.

"Code name and password."

Silence hung on the line for a few seconds before a puzzled male voice replied, "Uh… I don't know. Can you tell Dragon I want to talk? Say it's the guy he met on Ohara sixteen years ago."

The operator rolled her eyes and hung up, cutting the connection.

That evening, Dragon entered the communications room. His face, as always, was stern and unreadable. He scanned the reports on the tables. "Anything happen?"

The operator straightened, setting aside her report. "Team 'Hawks' completed their sabotage mission. Team 'Wolves' has just begun infiltration." She paused, thinking. "There was also a strange call. Someone wanted to speak with you. Young man, said he met you sixteen years ago on Ohara."

Dragon's memory snapped to that day. Vegapunk? No, he'd use other channels. Then it hit him—the kid. The one with the slave brand. I thought he'd chosen a quiet life under Rayleigh's wing.

Taking the operator's seat, he found the call log and redialed. The other side answered almost instantly.

"Hello?"

"Francis?"

"Yeah!" The voice was genuinely thrilled. "Thought you'd forgotten me! Was about to track you down myself!"

Dragon couldn't trust him. Too much time had passed, and the boy had grown into an unknown man. But listening wouldn't hurt.

"What do you need?"

"I need help. Specifically, three weeks from now—not a day sooner or later—I need you to keep Admiral Kizaru occupied. Make sure he can't get to Mariejois under any circumstances. It'd also be great if, during those three weeks, you stir up something big enough to make the World Government buzz like a kicked hornet's nest. But it can't happen on the Holy Land."

Dragon frowned. These weren't ordinary requests—they were insane. "What are you planning?"

"I won't say," Francis replied, his tone turning serious. "I don't know what kind of man you've become after all these years, but I'll tell you this: if you help me, I can end slavery in this world."

"I highly doubt that," Dragon said dryly.

"I'm not trying to convince you. I'm asking for help," Francis said, his voice steady with confidence. "Can I count on you?"

Dragon considered it. He'd lose nothing. Only he could engage Kizaru in combat, and that was feasible. Stirring up trouble was already part of his daily work—just a matter of accelerating some plans.

"Fine. Three weeks from today, at 12:00 Grand Line Standard Time, I'll personally keep Borsalino occupied. I'll also create an incident within that period. Will that do?"

"More than enough," Francis replied.

The call ended. Dragon sat in silence, staring at the sleeping Den Den Mushi. What was this guy planning?

---

For two weeks, I was a ghost in the heart of the world. My plan, calculated to the smallest detail, proceeded flawlessly. Five Celestial Dragon families, whose names I'd burned into my memory from God Valley reports, already carried Kureha's genius virus in their blood. It devoured them slowly, while I swapped their medical reports weekly, replacing fatal readings with perfect ones.

Dragon, true to his word, unleashed a spectacle that left newspapers choking on sensational headlines. Annexations of kingdoms, an open challenge to the World Government.

Amid the global panic, the Gorosei gathered in the Empty Throne Room. I followed, cloaked in shadows. The beautiful legend of swords plunged into the floor to symbolize equality, ensuring no one could claim the throne, was exactly what I'd suspected—a blatant lie.

I couldn't fully unleash my Observation Haki without alerting them, but I sensed it: the boundary of a sixth aura. It was like a fog of power emanating from something on the throne, warning, "Touch it, and you'll be noticed." So, the Five Elders, whom the world saw as the pinnacle of power, served a sixth? It didn't shock me. Spinning a pretty lie to the world was their specialty. But now I knew my target wasn't five, but six.

The day of reckoning arrived. I stripped off my shirt, leaving my torso bare. The slave brand burned into my back blazed under the sun—not a mark of shame for me, but for this world. I stepped onto one of the central avenues.

My gamble paid off almost immediately. A procession approached: Saint Charlos rode atop a beaten, shackled slave. Seeing me, his pudgy lips puffed out in outrage.

"You! Trash!" His shrill voice grated my ears. "How dare you not bow to me?! On your knees, now! And why aren't you wearing a collar, slave?!"

I stopped and met his gaze, cold fire igniting within me. "Or what?"

His face contorted with rage. He yanked a gilded pistol from his belt and aimed it at me. "I said, on your knees, or I'll put a hole in your worthless head!"

I smirked. "Go ahead, shoot. Show everyone what your 'divine justice' looks like."

The guards in pristine suits froze, confusion in their eyes. Their protocols didn't cover someone openly provoking a Celestial Dragon to murder in the Holy Land. They wanted to stop him but feared touching their "deity."

And Charlos fired.

In the split second the powder ignited, propelling the bullet, I activated my power.

Click.

The world shifted. I stood where Charlos had been, and his pampered, flabby body materialized in the path of his own bullet. A dull thud sounded. The bullet struck him square between the eyes. His smug, furious expression didn't have time to fade as he crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

The first Tenryubito was dead.

The countdown began.

Wasting no time, I launched forward with Geppo. My target: the busiest intersection, where I'd seen a group of Celestial Dragons amusing themselves by pelting chained slaves with stones.

I appeared from nowhere, a specter of vengeance. My twin revolvers spoke. I opened fire.

The guards rushed to protect their masters, throwing themselves in the line of fire. But it wouldn't help.

Click.

An agent shielding Saint Shalria swapped places with her. The bullet meant for him found its mark.

Click.

Another shot. A guard shoved Saint Roswald aside, but at the last moment, I swapped them. The bullet buried itself in the Tenryubito's chest.

This was an execution, orchestrated by me. They couldn't defend themselves because I turned their protectors into pawns on my board. Not a single shot missed. My revolvers' volleys merged into a funeral dirge, and soon, twenty Celestial Dragons lay as lifeless dolls on Mariejois' pristine cobblestones.

Chaos engulfed the Holy Land.

 

[kowak]

In the throne room of Pangaea Castle, silence shattered as the doors burst open with a thunderous crash. A pale, gasping guard from the surveillance unit stumbled in, collapsing to his knees.

"Your Holinesses!" he cried, voice trembling with terror. "Saint Charlos's bibli-card… it… it burned!"

The five Elders, previously immersed in discussing Dragon's actions, snapped their heads up in unison. A chilling tension gripped the room.

"What did you say?" rumbled Saint Topman Warcury, stroking his massive mustache.

"A-and the others!" the guard stammered. "They're burning one after another! We've confirmed at least ten deaths! We're under attack!"

Saint Jaygarcia Saturn's face morphed into a mask of cold fury. He slammed his fist against the armrest of his throne.

"Impossible! Who dares?!" His voice was low, but it seemed to make the walls tremble. "Activate the 'Heaven's Fall' protocol immediately! Begin emergency evacuation of all families! Are the Holy Knights already en route?"

"Yes, sir! Saint Garling is personally leading the group!"

"Good. Summon the Marines! ALL ADMIRALS! Now! We'll grind whoever dared raise a hand against the gods into dust!"

Sirens wailed across Mariejois. Panic unlike anything before erupted. The evacuation Saturn spoke of was a meticulously rehearsed plan for the unthinkable. The surviving Celestial Dragons were herded into a massive elevator, its walls faintly gleaming with seastone. It descended kilometers beneath the Red Line into a secret bunker where everything—corridors, walls, floors—was crafted from seastone. No Devil Fruit user could penetrate it, and elite guard units were believed capable of handling any Conqueror's Haki users. As a last resort, an underwater train stood ready to whisk the "gods" to another equally fortified island.

---

At Marine Headquarters, Fleet Admiral Sengoku choked on his rice cracker as he listened to a report through the Den Den Mushi. His face paled, then flushed with rage.

"GARP!" he roared, rattling the windows. The vice-admiral lounged lazily on a couch.

"Why're you yelling, Sengoku? You'll burst my eardrum."

"You're to head to the Holy Land immediately! Someone dared kill a Celestial Dragon! This is a declaration of war!"

Garp yawned, picking at his ear.

"I'm a vice-admiral, remember? The World Government doesn't order me around. Those spoiled brats brought this on themselves. Let them clean up their own mess."

"DAMN IT, GARP!" Sengoku crushed the remnants of his cracker in his fist and, ignoring his old friend, grabbed the golden Den Den Mushi. He dialed Kizaru. The admiral took his time answering, explosions audible in the background.

"H-e-l-l-o-o-o?"

"BORSALINO! GET TO THE HOLY LAND NOW!"

"Oooh, how unfortunate…" Kizaru drawled. "I'm afraid I can't, Sengoku-san. I'm currently engaged with Dragon. Such terribly rude timing…"

A deafening roar interrupted, and the connection cut off. Sengoku glared at Garp, who pretended to be asleep.

"Damn that family!"

He dialed Aokiji.

"Hello?"

"Kuzan! You're needed at the Holy Land, now!"

"Ara-ra… Got it," came the sleepy reply. In truth, Aokiji was lying on the grass of a peaceful island next to his penguin, thinking he wouldn't make it in time anyway. Why bother? With that, he drifted back to sleep.

Last hope. Sengoku called Akainu.

"Hello?"

"Sakazuki! Mariejois is under attack! Get there now!"

A furious, grating growl answered.

"SOMEONE HAS VIOLATED JUSTICE?!"

The call dropped. It was clear Akainu was already on his way, leaving a trail of magma in his wake. Sengoku sank into his chair, massaging his temples.

"Where will this lead?"

---

Meanwhile, Francis sat atop a pile of Celestial Dragon corpses. Holding a delicate porcelain cup, he poured himself tea and took a sip as if nothing were amiss.

A deafening whistle tore through the air. A figure in white hurtled toward him at a speed that shattered nearby windows—the leader of the Holy Knights, Saint Figarland Garling, delivering his strike.

But before Garling's blade, imbued with Conqueror's Haki, could reach its target, Francis vanished.

Click.

He reappeared dozens of meters away, next to a fleeing Celestial Dragon. A short, indifferent shot rang out, and the body count rose by one. Francis turned to the enraged, frozen Garling.

"What's the matter?" His voice was calm, laced with mockery. "A knight who can't protect his kings? How pathetic. Looks like you need to try harder."

Garling's fury was palpable, distorting the air around him into waves of pure Conqueror's Haki. He charged, his blade carving an arc capable of splitting a continent. But Francis was already elsewhere.

Garling attacked; Francis, seeing the future, dodged via teleportation. But the knight wasn't alone.

"FATHER! I'LL HELP!" roared a voice filled with fury.

From behind Garling emerged his son, Shamrock, moving with the same inhuman speed. Their attacks became coordinated. As Francis teleported to evade Garling, Shamrock struck at his landing point. Garling, anticipating the next teleport, was already rushing to where Francis would appear. A perfect trap, a checkmate in two moves—or so they thought.

But as Francis dodged Shamrock's lunge, he saw Garling raising his sword for a strike at his next destination. A smile touched Francis's lips beneath his mask.

Click.

He swapped Shamrock into that spot. Garling, pouring all his might into the blow, saw his son materialize before his blade. With superhuman effort, he altered the strike's trajectory at the last millisecond, the sword slicing only the air beside Shamrock's shoulder.

What a pity, Francis thought coldly. His tactic shifted. He began teleporting Shamrock into his own path, using him as a living shield to disrupt Garling's attacks.

Fleeing another assault, Francis foresaw his body being ensnared and sliced apart by nearly invisible threads, devoid of intent detectable by Observation Haki. Only his future sight saved him, revealing the threat. Tracing the threads, he realized the entire plaza had become a giant web.

But Francis didn't falter. This worked in his favor. With a click, he teleported beyond the web and froze. Shamrock, enraged, lunged at him.

"Got you!"

But he couldn't reach Francis. His body slammed into the web. Without his Armament Haki coating, he'd have been sliced to pieces. Even so, deep gashes marred his armor.

"Damn you, Doflamingo, you incompetent fool!" Shamrock roared, struggling to free himself. "You're supposed to help, not hinder!"

From above, lazily balancing on a thread, came a distinctive laugh. A man in a flamboyant pink feather boa looked down at Shamrock.

"Fufufufu… My fault?" drawled Donquixote Doflamingo. "You're just a pathetic pup. Good thing I refused to join your pathetic little club. You can't even catch one man and fall into such basic traps."

Francis laughed.

Shamrock, humiliated, roared. His sword transformed, unleashing three fiery heads of a ghostly Cerberus. Hellish flames surged, incinerating Doflamingo's threads.

"You mangy mutt!" Doflamingo shouted, landing nimbly. "Why the hell did I bother setting that up?!"

"For a teleporter, you idiot?!" Shamrock shot back.

The fiery Cerberus charged Francis. Sensing real danger, he teleported again. The truth was, the Holy Knights were restrained by their own power. Unleashing it fully would reduce Mariejois to rubble, and Francis exploited this, forcing them to hold back.

On his next teleport, a surprise awaited. A figure with a grotesque burned face and a clawed glove—Freddy Krueger—appeared before him. Francis sensed nothing—no aura, no Haki, no presence. He fired a Haki-infused bullet, but it passed through.

An illusion? he thought, teleporting as far as possible. Yet the nightmare followed. Simultaneously, Garling struck at his landing point.

The truth was, "Freddy Krueger" was a nightmare born from a slave child, used to create increasingly potent mental constructs. This was the ability of the Dragon-Dragon Fruit, Model: Qilin, wielded by one of the Knights, who brought the nightmare to life to hunt Francis.

Francis dodged Krueger and Garling while the Cerberus charged and Doflamingo leapt across debris, weaving new threads.

Krueger, keeping pace with his teleports, was the main problem. Francis focused, using his awakened ability. He "saw" not auras but the cores of their Devil Fruits: one like a tangle of threads, another a fiery dog, and the third… a blotch of paint. That's him.

Click.

He swapped the "paint" core with the "thread" core.

As Doflamingo soared gracefully on his threads, they suddenly disobeyed him. With a shocked yelp, he crashed to the ground. Krueger flickered and dissolved.

Now, with enough time, the World Government's main forces stood before Francis. They didn't attack. They wanted to talk.

As Sharley's prophecy foretold, they were all here: a man radiating molten heat, fists smoking with magma—Admiral Akainu; a devilishly grinning blond in a pink feather boa—Donquixote Doflamingo; dozens of faceless figures in white suits and masks—CP0; and nine Holy Knights led by Saint Figarland Garling.

The prophecy was fulfilled.

"You think this is enough to save them?" Francis said, not asking but stating.

Garling stepped forward, his face twisted with restrained rage.

"Your circus is over, boy," he hissed. "All remaining Celestial Dragons have been evacuated. You can't kill any more. Now we can use our full power without fear of harming the holy ones. You're trapped. Surrender, and your death might be quick."

Laughter erupted.

"HA-HA-HA-HA-HA!" Francis threw back his head. "Surrender? You think my plan was to come to the top of the world and kill a few dozen of those useless vermin? Vermin even the Gorosei don't care about? What a pathetic, primitive thought."

He lowered his head, his gaze piercing each of them.

"No. My plan is far greater. I didn't come to kill their bodies. I came to kill your legend of divinity. To drive you all into primal terror. To make every Celestial Dragon wake in a cold sweat, fearing their life could end at any moment. To show them their bunker isn't a fortress but their tomb. And judging by the time, the show should start… right now."

---

Deep underground in the seastone bunker, panic mingled with relief among the Celestial Dragons who'd escaped the slaughter. They huddled, demanding drinks and servants.

Suddenly, Saint Nerona of the Figerett family clutched his throat and collapsed, convulsing.

"What's wrong with him?!"

A personal medic rushed over.

"Check his vitals! Oxygen! Draw blood for analysis!"

It was too late. Another Celestial Dragon fell, then two more. Panic turned to hysteria. Medics in sterile suits darted between bodies.

"Administer 'Stasis' to everyone!" the head doctor shouted. "It's poison! We need to halt its spread!"

The first medic injected Saint Nerona, but instead of freezing his vitals, the drug triggered a horrific reaction. Thick, pulsating green veins spread across his body, glowing sickly. His scream was inhuman, filled with agony that chilled everyone's blood.

"A-A-A-A-A-A!"

"What's happening?!" a medic cried, recoiling.

A portable analyzer beeped, displaying a detailed report on the first victim. The head doctor ran to the screen, his face whiter than his coat.

"Impossible…" he whispered, eyes wide with horror. "Multiple organ failure… tissue necrosis… the virus is replicating exponentially! But how?! All vitals were normal! And 'Stasis' is tainted! We don't have time to develop a cure!"

The remaining Celestial Dragons, forgetting their status, huddled in a trembling mass. They watched in animalistic fear as their kin, who'd lived centuries in impunity, choked, eyes rolling back, bodies bloating into grotesque husks. For the first time, true, visceral fear of death gripped their hearts. Of the nineteen Celestial Dragon families, only fourteen remained.

---

Back to the battle.

"ENOUGH!" Akainu's voice erupted like a volcano. He could no longer tolerate this mockery of justice.

In the future, Francis saw Akainu unleash Conqueror's Haki, joined by Garling and four other Holy Knights. Six indomitable wills merged into a monstrous wave of pressure that would crush Francis. He wouldn't survive.

So, before it happened, he vanished.

Click.

He teleported as far as his Observation Haki allowed, then bolted. His goal was achieved—he'd sown the seeds of terror. Facing such foes was suicide. He wasn't sure he could defeat even one Knight, let alone all of them.

"AFTER HIM!" Garling roared.

All but Doflamingo gave chase. The Warlord stayed behind, a devilish grin stretching ear to ear. He'd enjoyed this Mariejois spectacle more than anyone.

Francis raced across rooftops using Geppo. He knew only Kizaru could catch him, but Kizaru wasn't here. His pursuers were shielded by Conqueror's Haki, immune to his teleportation swaps, but that didn't matter. His trump card for escape awaited—dangerous but certain.

A flying fish hovered in the air, its pilot's seat coated in sturdy mangrove resin. Francis dove into the bubble, yanked the reins, and the fish plummeted toward the ocean.

"HE'S GOING UNDERWATER!" a Knight shouted.

Garling and three non-Devil Fruit users leapt after him, using Geppo to skim the water, trying to strike the bubble. But Francis was ready. He tossed out a sack of bait soaked in Sea King blood.

The water churned. Drawn by the scent, dozens of colossal sea monsters surged up, attacking the bait and blocking the pursuers.

"Pathetic creatures!" Garling snarled, his Conqueror's Haki crashing over the Sea Kings, knocking them unconscious.

But that second was enough. Francis vanished into the dark, unfathomable depths. Garling lost sight of him.

Alone in the ocean's silence, Francis exhaled. He had won.

---

A day passed, and my "adventure" hadn't yet shaken the world. The World Government would need time to craft their lies for the newspapers, to hide the catastrophe's scale. This gave me a window. Finding the Fleet Admiral's encrypted direct line was surprisingly easy.

The Den Den Mushi on the table opened its sleepy eyes. I dialed. The call was answered almost instantly.

"Sengoku?"

A brief silence hung on the line as he tried to identify me, running through countless possibilities.

"Who's this?"

"I'm the one who caused a bit of a stir yesterday. I'm calling to arrange negotiations. You and Vice-Admiral Garp will mediate between me and the World Government."

I paused, letting the weight of my words sink in.

"And so you don't think this is a request, here's my condition: if Garp isn't on the line tomorrow, I'll pick one of the remaining fourteen families and erase them. I'll call again at 1:00 p.m. sharp."

The response was swift.

"You bastard… Do you know who you're talking to?! You think you can just call and give orders to the Fleet Admiral?!"

"Yes," I replied calmly, hanging up on his furious tirade.

The Den Den Mushi closed its eyes sleepily. Had I shaken the World Government's power? Not at all. I hadn't killed a single truly strong opponent. Akainu, Garling, the Knights—all were alive. But that wasn't the point.

I spilled their "divine" blood and showed the world that gods could die. I proved I could invade their holy sanctum, wreak havoc, and leave unscathed. That was what mattered—breaking their aura of invincibility. Now they had to listen, or their eight-hundred-year power structure, built on fear and a false legend, would collapse like a house of cards.

---

The next day, at 1:00 p.m. sharp, I called again.

"Everyone's here," Sengoku said, his voice taut.

"Garp?" I clarified.

A new, bored, irritated voice came through.

"What the hell am I doing here? What do you want, kid?"

I ignored his jab. He was there, and that's what mattered.

"So, just to confirm, I'm speaking to the five old men, the Gorosei, who run everything?"

After a brief pause, a new voice answered.

"Yes. What do you want?"

"I want you to free all slaves and abolish the slavery system forever," I said, my tone commanding, not pleading. "And Vice-Admiral Garp, who you have no control over, will oversee its execution."

"And if we refuse?" the same voice asked.

"Not a bad option," I said with a slight smirk. "At the Holy Land, I held back, spared the remaining fourteen families. But if you refuse… finishing what I started will be easy."

A long silence followed. I could almost feel them weighing my words. Finally, they replied, and their answer would've made anyone else flinch.

"You see us as absolute evil hiding behind pretty words of justice. But if you kill all the Celestial Dragons, why should we keep pretending? Why not unleash chaos on the world you can't even imagine?"

I burst out laughing.

"HA-HA-HA-HA-HA! Oh, I'd pay everything to see Sengoku and Garp's faces right now! Sengoku, how's it feel to hear the true face of those you've served your whole life? Still hilarious!"

I wiped tears of laughter from my eyes.

"To answer your question, scum: only fools see 'justice' in you. If you drop that mask, everyone upholding your order will unite against you. The whole world will follow Dragon. And I wouldn't call that a bad outcome for me. Your true nature will be laid bare. So, your final answer?"

"We won't abolish slavery," they snapped.

I frowned. I hadn't expected them to refuse. Had I underestimated them? Did they have a trump card?

"Normally, I'd say, 'So be it,' and finish what I started. But I have one more card to play. If you don't abolish slavery… I'll tell the world that He sits on the Empty Throne, meant to symbolize equality."

Silence. Absolute, dead silence. I could almost hear the gears grinding in their heads.

"A-HA-HA-HA-HA! Garp! Sengoku! See their faces?! I bet their first thought was, 'How does he know?' And the second, 'Can we kill these two without consequences to keep them quiet?' HA-HA-HA-HA!"

A new voice cut through, neither male nor female, neither old nor young—just absolute. Everyone but me was stunned.

"We agree. But let me ask… does your name carry the initial 'D'?"

I smirked again.

"'D'? No clue. But your question cracks me up. You really think those with a 'D' in their name oppose your order because of some ancient will? Sorry to disappoint, kid who's lived over eight hundred years. People rise against you because you're despicable, not because of a letter in their name."

The show was over.

"Phew, alright. I expect to see headlines with Garp personally escorting ALL slaves from the Holy Land, and human trafficking declared the gravest crime worldwide."

I hung up. The Den Den Mushi fell back asleep with relief.

---

The next day, news seagulls screeched louder than ever, delivering papers from the tranquil waters of East Blue to the raging storms of the New World. The headlines stopped hearts.

On the front page, under the World Government's crest, was Francis's face—young, unknown to most, but now etched into history.

*WORLD HARMONY UNDER THREAT! HOLY LAND ATTACKED!*

Yesterday, an unprecedentedly brutal attack struck Mariejois. A terrorist we've dubbed "Trickster" infiltrated the heart of the world. His goal wasn't mere murder but to seize power. He ruthlessly eradicated five Celestial Dragon families, the pillars of the world order that has maintained harmony for eight hundred years. But he didn't stop there. His true intent was to enslave all slaves, creating an army to plunge the world into chaos.

Facing this monstrous threat, the World Government has taken drastic but necessary measures. To deprive the terrorist of his army and protect the innocent, the slavery system is hereby abolished! The World Government declares human trafficking the gravest crime and frees all slaves worldwide under the personal oversight of the Marine Hero, Vice-Admiral Garp.

*WANTED DEAD: FRANCIS "TRICKSTER" REWARD: ฿7,000,000,000*

Francis sat on a secluded beach, finishing the article. He set the paper aside, a wry smirk crossing his face.

"What cheap propaganda," he muttered, gazing at the waves. "'Wanted to enslave the slaves'… They could've come up with a better story. But they sure made abolishing slavery sound like their own kind gesture."

He glanced at his portrait and the staggering bounty beneath it.

"Seven billion… Not bad. Time to lie low until things cool off."

He patted the smooth back of his sleeping flying fish.

"Let's head to the weakest sea, little guy. East Blue. They won't look for us there."

The fish let out a cheerful gurgle, and they soared into the sky, leaving only a crumpled newspaper on the sand—a paper that changed the world.

---

At Shakuyaku's Rip-off Bar on Sabaody, a tense silence hung. Rayleigh slowly set down his glass, his gaze fixed on the newspaper. Shakuyaku, exhaling a puff of smoke, broke the silence, her voice unusually serious.

"Rayleigh… Did you tell him about God Valley?"

He stared thoughtfully at the bubbles floating past the window.

"No."

"But these five families…" She picked up the paper, her finger pointing to the obituary list. "They were the ones at God Valley. Coincidence?"

Rayleigh fell silent for a long moment.

"I don't think it's a coincidence," he finally said. "Looks like our boy dug deeper than we thought. But does it matter now? He single-handedly changed one of the world's core rules. Let's celebrate! Shakky, your best sake!"

---

Aboard the Moby Dick, hooked to countless IV drips, Whitebeard let out a booming laugh that seemed to shake the ship.

"GU-RA-RA-RA-RA! That damn kid! How in all the seas did he pull it off?!"

"Father, calm down! You can't get so worked up!" nurses fussed around him.

"Calm down?!" He laughed again. "Today's for celebrating! That brat did what no one else dared! Pour drinks for everyone!"

Whitebeard's pirates roared in agreement.

---

On the Red Force's deck, Shanks stared thoughtfully at the newspaper, the wind ruffling his red hair.

"He didn't just throw a stone in the water," he said quietly, almost to himself. "He's sped up waves that'll drown this world. The old order's cracking. Boys, we need to move our plans faster!"

---

On Baltigo, Dragon couldn't believe his eyes. He reread the article repeatedly. He hadn't believed Francis could do it, thinking it mere bravado. More importantly—would the Government actually follow through? Or was this a ruse? He had to find out.

He dialed an encrypted number.

"Hello?"

"How did you do it?!" Dragon asked without preamble.

A cheerful laugh came through.

"Nothing special. Just killed a bunch of Celestial Dragons, tangoed with the Holy Knights, and blackmailed the Gorosei a bit. You know, usual stuff. We should meet in person; my info's not for phones."

"Loguetown," Dragon suggested after a pause. "Will that work?"

"Surprisingly, yeah," Francis replied, sounding amused. "See you there in a couple of weeks. By the way, any must-see spots in East Blue?"

Dragon paused, thrown by the abrupt topic shift.

"The floating restaurant Baratie. It's decent."

The call ended.

---

On Kuja Island, in the empress's chambers, chaos reigned.

"Sister, look! It's Francis!" Sandersonia exclaimed, waving a newspaper.

Hancock, lounging on silk pillows, didn't even turn her head.

"He's already crawled into the spotlight? What'd he do, kill a Celestial Dragon?"

Marigold gave her a strange look.

"Sister, have you seen the paper? He didn't kill one—he killed about a hundred! Five whole families! His bounty's higher than our entire island's, with change to spare! SEVEN BILLION!"

Hancock sat up sharply, eyes wide with shock.

"What?! Give me that!"

She snatched the paper, her gaze devouring the article. Her expression shifted from disbelief to amazement.

"Ha-ha-ha!" She tossed the paper aside, laughing. "His first solo adventure, and he's already rewritten the world's rules! I can't imagine what his second will bring!"

She stood and walked to the window, gazing at the calm Calm Belt sea.

"I wonder where he is now."

END OF VOLUME 1

---

Afterword

This concludes the first volume. I'd love to keep writing, but I'm facing some challenges. I'm moving to another country and don't know if I'll have the time or opportunity to continue. So, I'm pausing here until my life settles. I'm glad you've read this far.