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Warm Welcome | COTE x One Piece

Is loneliness the absence of others or the presence of yourself?

I have stood in crowded rooms and felt utterly alone. I have sat in empty ones and felt suffocated by company.

The distinction is what matters.

If loneliness is the absence of others, then it can be cured. Find people and fill the 'emptiness'. Problem solved.

But if loneliness is the presence of yourself... then no amount of company will ever be enough.

You will simply be alone in a crowd instead of alone in a room.

I had tested this theory extensively over the past two years.

Surrounded by classmates who called me a friend. Standing beside a girl who called me her boyfriend. Locked in battle with rivals who titled me an enemy.

And through it all, the walls remained.

I had no answer.

Perhaps the walls would remain forever.

...

...

...

I lay in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. My hands were folded over my chest.

Today marked the final day of spring break, and tomorrow marked the beginning of my third and final year.

With it would come a shock that awaited Class A... the class I no longer belonged to.

As of this afternoon, I had transferred.

The class that had fought so desperately to climb from the bottom now stood at the top, and I had chosen to abandon them at the summit.

I was now a student of Class B, the original Class A.

It should have been a drastic change that would stir excitement, or at the very least, a trace of anxiety, but lying here in the dark, I felt... nothing.

It was almost like any other day.

I didn't bother to further think about the matter.

And with that, I chose to close my eyes—

❦ —『 Wᴀʀᴍ Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ 』— ❦

The sun pressed down mercilessly, far too intense for a spring morning. Along with it came a breeze heavy with salt, brushing against my skin.

Confusion stirred immediately. 

"Wait... hold on..."

I opened my eyes.

I was standing in an open space, modest houses surrounding me in every direction. The air was thick and warm, saturated with humidity that could only come from living beside the ocean. Heat clung to my skin like damp fabric, but the sea-salted breeze offered intermittent relief, rolling in from the east.

Above me, seagulls traced lazy circles across the sky, their sharp, raucous cries cutting through the stillness.

And that stillness felt wrong.

It was far too quiet for a city.

"...Am I dreaming?" I muttered.

Lucid dream. That had to be it.

I focused, grounding myself in my senses, running through every method I knew to force myself awake.

Nothing worked.

I clenched my fist.

Then, without hesitation, I drove it into my own stomach.

Pain exploded through me, knocking the breath from my lungs.

But the world didn't shatter, and nothing changed.

"...What is going on?"

Just moments ago, I had been in my room. In my bed.

And now—

I slowly straightened as I looked around in more detail. The scents were real. The sounds were real. Even the ache in my stomach lingered.

Nothing was fading.

A thought surfaced, one that I didn't want to acknowledge.

"...Don't tell me," I murmured, my voice barely audible, "this is really happening."

The salty air filled my lungs as bitter realization crept in.

Is this... like one of those isekai stories?

...

...

...

I lowered my gaze to myself.

"..."

Please tell me it can't get any worse.

I wasn't wearing my school uniform. I wasn't insane enough to sleep in that. Instead, I wore a simple black shirt and long black pants I'd changed into after returning to the dorm.

But something was very wrong.

The hem of my pants brushed against the ground.

No, even worse than that. The fabric pooled, folding over itself in loose layers. 

How small did I get?

The shirt hid it better. Being short-sleeved, it didn't immediately give anything away, but even then, only my forearms were exposed. My elbows were completely swallowed by the fabric.

I raised my hands. They looked smaller and thinner.

Before I could process it further—

BANG!

My body moved before my mind did.

Bare feet scraped against the ground as I threw myself sideways, instinct taking over. A sharp whistle crack split the air where my head had been just a moment ago, followed by a violent hiss as something tore past.

A bullet.

It missed me by mere centimeters.

I barely had time to steady myself before another shot rang out. Then another, and another.

I somehow was avoiding every round by a hair's breadth. The shooter's aim was horrible.

I searched for cover. Nothing. The open square offered no refuge.

"Disgusting," a voice spat, dripping with such pure contempt that it surpassed anything I had heard previously. "How dare you exist in my presence, you filthy commoner!"

I turned toward the source.

And what I saw exceeded all of my previous feelings of shock or confusion.

The man, if he could even be called that, was draped in pristine white robes that shimmered unnaturally, almost like the surface of a spacesuit. His blond hair was styled upward, an exaggerated curl resting proudly at the top. Encasing his head was a transparent bubble, seamlessly connected to a metal tank strapped to his back.

An oxygen supply.

As if the very air breathed by commoners was too filthy for his lungs.

He sat upon an ornate chair, lavishly decorated with gold and intricate carvings.

But the chair wasn't what caused my surprise.

It was what supported it.

A man knelt on all fours beneath it, chains digging into his flesh as the massive seat was strapped to his back. His body was a roadmap of scars, old and new wounds overlapping. His clothes were little more than shredded rags, barely clinging to him. Around his neck rested a thick collar, one that denied his status as a human.

His eyes were empty and hollow. The gaze of someone whose soul had vacated long ago, leaving only a husk behind.

The man atop the chair raised a golden pistol, its barrel aimed at me.

And the expression on his face...

I had seen many faces in my life.

The cold indifference of White Room instructors who viewed me as data, as an experiment. The fear and awe of peers who couldn't comprehend what I was. Hatred. Disgust. Envy. Even something resembling love.

None of it compared to that pure, unfiltered revulsion.

The way one might look at an insect crawling across one's dinner plate.

No. Even less than that.

To this man, I wasn't even worthy of being an insect.

"I said die!" the man shrieked, his voice cracking as he unleashed another barrage of shots.

The accuracy worsened with each pull of the trigger. The weapon appeared to be a flintlock, antique in design. Yet it fired rapidly and continuously, defying every mechanical limitation such a gun should possess.

As bullets screamed past me, my mind detached. My body moved on its own while my eyes took in the surroundings.

The architecture surrounding me was Mediterranean in style—whitewashed walls, terracotta roofs, narrow alleyways branching off from the central square. But there were symbols I didn't recognize.

My smaller body.

The weapon that defied logic.

A man sitting on another human being like furniture while guards stood behind him, utterly indifferent to the attempted murder unfolding before them. 

This wasn't Earth.

That conclusion was no longer merely a hypothesis.

I stopped running.

The man's face split into a grin of sadistic delight. "Finally! You know your place, you—"

A sudden noise cut him off.

A door burst open.

Footsteps, rapid and desperate, crossed the square.

A woman planted herself between us, arms spread wide, shielding me with her body. She looked to be around thirty, her face pale with terror yet resolute.

"Please..." Her voice trembled, but she didn't move. "Saint, please spare the boy. He doesn't yet kn—"

BANG!

The bullet tore through her chest before she could finish.

Her voice stopped, and her body crumpled.

She hit the stone with a sound I would keep in memory.

Blood began to pool, spreading slowly across the sun-bleached cobblestones, creeping toward my bare feet.

"Hahaha!"

The man descended from his throne and strode toward the lifeless body of the woman before kicking it hard.

"How dare you address me?!"

Another kick.

"You damn bitch—"

Another.

"—who do you think you are?!"

He continued. Again and again. Cursing between each strike, his face reddened with exertion until he was gasping for breath.

Then he raised the pistol.

And fired.

Again.

And again.

And again.

There was no end to it. The magazine seemed limitless. 

By the time he stopped, what lay before me could no longer be recognized as human.

The world felt unbearably quiet.

"MAMA!"

A scream shattered it. The emotion in that voice was raw and broken.

A girl, no older than five or six, stood in the doorway the woman had emerged from. Her eyes were wide, locked onto the unrecognizable remains. Her tiny hands gripped the doorframe as if it were the only thing keeping her upright.

"Mama..."

The man's head swiveled toward the sound.

And that same expression, that absolute, transcendent disgust, returned to his face.

"Oh?" He tilted his head, a smile curling at his lips. "There's another one?"

He raised the pistol.

My body moved.

Not to protect the girl, but to flee.

As vile as the thought was, I wasn't a saint. I had never pretended to be one. I had no weapon and no understanding of this world or its rules. 

The girl would die.

I knew that.

But survival was my priority, and this moment was the only opening I would get.

So I ran to my right, away from the man and the guards behind him. 

My bare feet scraped against the cobblestones as I pushed my smaller body to its absolute limits. The edge of the plaza was only meters away.

Behind me, the Saint's shrill voice screeched in outrage.

"Where do you think you're going?!"

BANG!

A bullet struck the wall to my right. It was nowhere close enough. His aim had completely deteriorated. 

Only a few meters remaining.

I was going to make it—

"Soru."

The word barely registered.

One moment, the path was clear, and the next, a guard stood directly in front of me.

What—

The thought barely registered before his leg swung.

I saw it coming. My body reacted, twisting desperately to evade—

Too slow.

The kick connected.

His shin slammed into my torso with brutal force. I felt my ribs buckle inward before the pain even registered. A sickening crunch sounded, loud enough to be hearable throughout the plaza.

Blood burst from my mouth as the air was ripped from my lungs.

And then I was airborne.

The world blurred into streaks of color before I smashed through a wooden market stall.

Splinters exploded in every direction, tearing into my skin, before I finally skidded to a halt against a cold stone wall.

"Guh—"

I tried to breathe and failed.

I tried again. My chest seized, refusing to move. 

I tried yet again, but only a thin, useless gasp slipped through.

Every breath felt like my ribcage was collapsing inward. My heart hammered violently, frantic and uneven. Pressure built behind my sternum, crushing tighter and tighter.

Air went in, but it wouldn't come back out.

Oh.

My lungs had collapsed.

I was going to die.

From a single kick.

That speed... that power... No human should be able to move like that. No human could move like that.

My ears began to ring, but I could still hear footsteps approaching.

With what little strength I had left, I forced my head up. My vision swam, dark creeping in from the edges.

The guard was walking toward me. His expression was utterly blank. The expression of a man carrying out a task so routine that it required no emotion at all.

Behind him, the Saint's laughter rang out.

"Ahahahahaha! The little rat thought he could run!"

He approached, hands clapping together gleefully.

"Oh, this is wonderful. Truly wonderful!" His voice trembled with excitement. "I was going to kill you quickly, you know. But now..."

He leaned forward slightly.

"...now I think I'll take my time."

The guard who had kicked me stood at attention, awaiting further orders. His face betrayed nothing.

I was already dying.

Fifteen minutes. Maybe less. That was the window for a tension pneumothorax before complete respiratory failure. But my consciousness was already fading. In a few moments, I would slip under and never surface again.

It was a short life.

Moments ago, I had been on Earth. In my dorm room at Advanced Nurturing High School. Sleeping in my bed.

Now I was dying in an alien world...

Strange how the mind wandered at the end.

So it could get worse, huh?

Absurd.

The White Room had prepared me for many things. Combat against opponents twice my size. Psychological warfare. Knowledge so great that it far surpassed what many could achieve in their entire life.

But it had not prepared me for this.

That man would be disappointed.

The thought surfaced unbidden, and if I could, I would have laughed. The motion would have killed me faster.

His perfect experiment, his ultimate creation... killed by a single kick in another world.

How anticlimactic.

The Saint's face swam into view above me. 

"Look at you, gasping like a fish. And you thought you could escape me?" 

He laughed again.

"Do you know who I am? Do you have any idea what you tried to run from?"

"I am Saint Malachai. A celestial Dragon. I am a god!" He spread his arms wide, as if expecting applause. "And you... a nameless, filthy, worthless commoner, dared to turn your back on me?!"

He glanced at the guard.

"Break his legs."

The guard did not hesitate.

He looked down at me, expression unchanged, and slowly lifted his foot.

"YOU KILLED MAMA!"

The scream tore through the plaza.

The girl who had stood frozen in place was charging toward the Celestial Dragon. Tears streamed down her face, her scream raw and shattered, hatred and desperation twisting together into a broken expression.

"YOU KILLED HER!"

Before she could reach him—

"Guards," the Saint ordered.

One vanished.

And reappeared directly in front of her.

A massive hand closed around her throat and lifted her effortlessly off the ground. Her feet kicked uselessly in the air, tiny hands clawing desperately at the arm that held her.

"Hehehe... hahaha!" The Saint laughed, his voice carrying loudly as he turned, spreading his arms toward the surrounding houses. Faces peeked out from windows, frozen and terrified.

"This is what happens when someone opposes me!" He was basking in the silence as if it were reverence. "This is the price of defiance! Look carefully!"

Then he turned back toward me.

"And you," he said, his smile widening. "You're going to watch too."

He glanced at the guard still standing over me.

"Make sure he sees everything."

A hand closed around my throat.

I was lifted from the ground, my feet dangling uselessly as darkness pressed harder at the edges of my vision. Breathing became torture. My head was forced upward and into the direction of the girl.

She hung in the other guard's grasp, legs dangling, hands still weakly pulling at the fingers crushing her windpipe. Her face was turning red. 

Her eyes found mine.

And in them, I saw something I recognized.

Not hope. She knew she was going to die.

It wasn't hatred either. That had already burned itself out.

Just... a question.

Why?

Why did this happen? Why did her mother die? Why was no one helping? Why was the world like this?

I had no answer.

The Saint approached her with purposefully slow steps, savoring each one. He raised his golden pistol, pressing the barrel directly against her forehead. The metal dimpled her skin.

"Barrier," he ordered.

A servant scrambled forward, producing a small device from his robes. A click, and a translucent barrier shimmered into existence. It was identical in appearance to the bubble helmet he had worn. The servant positioned it carefully between the girl and the Celestial Dragon, a barrier to protect him from any splatter.

The Saint took one final look around the plaza. At the windows filled with terrified faces. At me, suspended in a guard's grip, forced to bear witness. And finally, the girl, whose tears had stopped.

"Let this be a lesson," he announced, voice carrying across the silent square. "To all of you."

He pressed the barrel harder against her skull.

"You mean nothing. You own nothing. You are nothing." His finger curled around the trigger. "And nothing is exactly what you will become."

He grinned.

And pulled the trigger.

BANG!

Her body jerked violently before it went limp, her head dropping. 

The guard holding her released his grip. 

She struck the stone with a dull, hollow sound.

Blood began to pool beneath her, mixing with the dust and grime of the ground. Fragments of bones and brain tissues followed, staining the cobblestones.

Her eyes remained open.

Still asking that question.

The Saint holstered his pistol with a satisfied exhale.

The barrier had done its job, as not a single drop had touched him.

He turned away, already losing interest.

I hung there, suspended by my throat, my body barely registering sensation anymore. My lungs had long since failed me. My ribs felt less like bones and more like shattered glass grinding with every futile attempt to breathe.

All I could see was a child's lifeless eyes growing dull.

The guard's grip tightened.

And finally, I felt my consciousness slip away.

This world...

...is rotten.

❦ —『 Wᴀʀᴍ Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ 』— ❦

"Ugh..."

...Huh?

Am I not dead?

I slowly opened my eyes.

The last thing I remembered was the girl's death and the iron grip of the guard's hand crushing my throat. By every medical metric I knew, I should have died within minutes of losing consciousness.

And yet... I was still alive.

I blinked, forcing my vision to focus. Above me stretched a low stone ceiling, rough and uneven, stained by moisture and dark patches that spoke of long neglect. The air was thick and foul, heavy with the stench of human waste, dried blood, and rot.

I was in a prison cell.

So I was free for all of five minutes before landing in another cage.

From one cage to a larger one—

And now the smallest of all.

What a life.

"..."

Carefully, I shifted my body.

To my surprise, the pain was nowhere near what it had been before.

My ribs were still fractured, but my breathing was smooth.

My lungs were working like normal again.

Even the splinters that had torn into my skin were nowhere to be found.

That shouldn't have been possible.

Someone had treated my wounds.

And not with anything resembling normal medicine.

That realization brought no comfort. No one saved a dying stranger out of kindness, especially not to only lock them inside a cell. I was saved because they wanted something from me. Because a living body had more utility than a dead one.

I stood slowly, letting my body adjust. The cell was small—perhaps two meters by two meters at most. The floor was bare stone, slick with grime and moisture. A bucket sat in one corner, its purpose obvious. No bed or furniture of any kind.

Just walls and a door.

I approached the heavy iron door. It was solid, with no gaps at the bottom and no window at eye level. The only opening was a small ventilation hole near the ceiling, far too high for me to reach in my current state.

The faint glow filtering through suggested a lamp somewhere in the corridor beyond.

I focused on my hearing and tried to listen.

Nothing. There were no sounds of any kind.

I stepped back.

This world operated on rules I didn't understand. The guard's speed. That instantaneous movement. And now, healing that could repair a collapsed lung in what couldn't have been a long time.

At most a day.

My hair hadn't grown one bit, and my nails hadn't changed either.

I needed information.

But first, I needed to conserve energy.

I sat against the wall, drew my knees to my chest, and waited.

...

...

...

Three days passed.

No food had been delivered. No water either. 

By the second day, my mouth was completely dry. A persistent headache had settled behind my eyes, throbbing in rhythm with my heartbeat.

By the third day, my heart was racing, compensating for the decreased blood volume, trying desperately to maintain circulation to vital organs. Tachycardia. A result of my severe dehydration.

I felt dizzy when I moved my head. My thoughts had begun to fragment. Focusing required effort.

My injuries burned with renewed intensity. The body couldn't repair itself without resources.

"I was going to kill you quickly, you know. But now... now I think I'll take my time."

Is that what this was?

Give me a sliver of hope with the treatment of my wounds before letting despair set in as dehydration and exhaustion slowly hollowed me out.

The thought was almost amusing.

Screeeeech.

The iron door groaned open.

Light poured into the cell.

By normal standards, it would have been dim, but after days spent in near-total darkness, it felt blinding. I squinted, raising an arm to shield my eyes.

Two figures stood in the doorway.

Both men looked down at me with identical expressions—bored, faintly disgusted. The faces of people performing an unpleasant but routine task, one they'd done countless times before.

Their eyes swept over me.

What they saw was a filthy, half-dead child slumped against a wall.

"Stand," one of them ordered.

I obeyed.

Slowly, carefully, I pushed myself upright. My legs screamed in protest as severe cramps seized both calves. My legs shook, threatening to buckle, but I forced them straight and suppressed the pain.

One of the guards tossed something toward me.

I barely managed to catch it.

It was a bottle.

"Drink."

I stared at it for half a second, then twisted the cap, raised it to my lips, and drank.

The water was lukewarm and tasted faintly of earth, but in that moment, it was the most precious substance I had ever consumed. I forced myself to drink slowly. Too fast, and I'd vomit.

I didn't bother checking for poison.

If this were the end, it wouldn't matter.

It wouldn't change the outcome either way.

The guards watched without comment.

When the bottle was empty, I lowered it and met their eyes.

One of them gestured toward the corridor.

"Walk. Someone wants to see you."

With each step, my footing improved slightly, though my pace was still painfully slow.

Too slow for them.

They didn't bother with chains. One of them pulled on a glove and grabbed my arm with a grip that promised broken bones if I resisted. Without ceremony, he dragged me from the cell.

The corridor outside stretched long and narrow, lined with identical iron doors spaced far apart.

As we passed them, sounds seeped through the doors.

Weeping. Muffled screams.

Some were begging.

We walked for what felt like hours, ascending stairs, passing through checkpoints manned by guards who barely glanced at us. The architecture changed as we climbed. It was still underground and still a prison. But cleaner and more comfortable.

Finally, we emerged into a vast hall that looked remarkably different from everything before. Polished stones with proper lighting. It resembled a reception area, something meant for visitors and not for inmates.

The guard released my arm but made no move to restrain me further.

I wasn't a threat.

He reached into his vest and pulled out something small.

A living snail, held by its shell, with its eyes closed as if sleeping.

As the guard gripped it, the snail's eyes rose and opened.

Purupuru~ Purupuru~ Purupuru~ Purupuru~

Gacha.

"Yes?"

The snail's expression shifted, its features hardening as a cold, emotionless voice echoed from it.

"I've brought the child Saint Aldric wanted to see."

"I see. I will inform him."

Gacha.

The snail's eyes drooped shut, its features returning to their original, vacant state.

The guard tucked it away.

I stared in silence.

What a method of communication.

And Saint Aldric?

The one who had wanted me dead was Saint Malachai.

So who was this Aldric—

And why would he want to see me?

Minutes passed.

Minutes stretched into hours.

My body ached. My head still throbbed with the dull persistence of dehydration. The single bottle of water had helped, but it wasn't nearly enough to undo three days of deprivation.

Still, I remained upright.

Finally, footsteps echoed from the far end of the hall.

Multiple sets. Moving in formation.

First came four guards, moving with the synchronized precision of trained soldiers. Their eyes swept the room in practiced arcs, scanning for threats, before settling on me with cold assessment. 

Behind them followed servants. Men and women dressed in plain uniforms, with their heads lowered.

And behind them walked the one we had been waiting for.

Another Celestial Dragon.

He wore the same transparent helmet. The same immaculate white robes. The same air of unquestioned supremacy.

But this one was different from Saint Malachai.

He was older. 

His face was soft and bloated. Small eyes peered out from folds of flesh, cold and analyzing.

And most notably, unlike Malachai, he walked on his own two feet. No slave bore his weight.

Not that they could.

Where Malachai radiated childish cruelty, this man emanated something far more unsettling.

Patience.

And as his gaze settled on me, I felt something.

The natural disgust that those Celestial Dragons seemed to wear like a second skin. But beneath it lurked something else.

Curiosity.

"So," he said at last, his voice sounding through the bubble, smooth and composed. "This is the one?"

"Yes, Saint Aldric." The guard who had escorted me bowed deeply, nearly folding himself in half.

"Hmm."

Saint Aldric began to circle me slowly, his steps unhurried.

"Small," he mused. "Weak-looking. Frail, even." His eyes narrowed slightly. "And yet..."

He stopped directly in front of me.

"Do you know where you are, boy?"

I considered my options.

Silence might be interpreted as defiance, but speaking without understanding this world's social rules could prove equally hazardous.

I opened my mouth to respond.

And through force of habit, I met his eyes directly.

Oops.

A mistake.

Immediately, several servants flinched. One guard's hand drifted toward his weapon.

But Saint Aldric only laughed.

It was a wet and unpleasant sound.

"How fascinating," he said. "You don't avert your eyes. Not even now." He leaned closer but stopped just short of my personal space. "You show no fear, no panic, and no emotion at all."

He studied me as if I were a specimen under glass.

"You resemble the broken slaves," he continued thoughtfully, "yet you are different. There's still something alive behind those eyes. You are still here." 

His lips curled into something that might have been a smile on a more human face.

He straightened and spread his arms wide, a theatrical gesture.

"You are in Mary Geoise. The Holy Land. The center of the world itself." His voice swelled with practiced reverence and pride. "This is the home of the Celestial Dragons. We are gods. The rightful rulers of this world."

His arms lowered.

"And you," he said calmly, "are now my property."

"Saint Malachai wished you dead," Aldric went on. "He was rather adamant." A soft chuckle followed. "But I persuaded him otherwise. Killing you would have been wasteful."

He looked pleased.

"You will be entertaining. For all of us."

I absorbed the information in silence. From the moment I woke in that cell, I had known my future held no light.

Saint Aldric watched my face, clearly waiting for something.

He found nothing.

"Hm. Still no reaction." He clapped his hands together once, delighted. "Wonderful. Simply wonderful."

He turned to one of his servants.

"Brand him. Then take him to processing and assign him to the labor pool."

"Yes, my Lord."

Two servants stepped forward, carrying a brazier filled with glowing coals. Resting within was an iron rod, its tip shaped into an unfamiliar symbol. It was a circle marked by three claw-like points in front and one behind.

"Hold him."

A guard forced me to my knees. Another guard tore away what remained of my shirt, exposing the bare skin of my back.

The servant lifted the brand.

Its tip glowed white-hot, radiating heat that I could feel from meters away.

A suffocating warmth radiated outward, growing more intense with each passing second. They moved deliberately slowly, prolonging the moment.

Mental torture before physical.

I could have struggled. Could have fought and made them work for it.

But to what end?

I was surrounded by enemies possessing abilities I couldn't match. 

Resistance would accomplish nothing but additional suffering.

So I stayed still.

And when the brand pressed against my flesh— 

When hot metal met skin—

When the stench of my own burning flesh filled my nostrils—

When agony, unlike anything I had ever experienced, exploded through my nervous system—

I did not scream.

My jaw clenched. My hands curled into fists, nails biting into my palms hard enough to draw blood.

But I didn't scream.

After what felt like an eternity, the rod was pulled away.

Cool water splashed across the wound. Steam rose with a faint hiss.

Saint Aldric watched it all, that same curious look never leaving his face.

"Interesting," he mused. "Very interesting indeed."

He turned to the guards.

"Take him to the processing center. Assign him to the labor pool for now." A pause, and that unsettling smile returned. "And schedule him for the games next month. I have a strong feeling he'll prove very entertaining."

The guard bowed low.

"As you command, my Lord."

Hands seized my arms and hauled me upright.

And as I was dragged away, I filed everything away.

The layout of the halls. The number of guards. The routes we traveled.

I couldn't do anything else for the moment but learn this new cage.

And learned cages could be escaped.

I didn't know when. I didn't know how.

But as I was led back deeper into this prison, I made myself a promise.

I will survive.

Whatever it takes.

Whatever I have to become.

❦ —『 Wᴀʀᴍ Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ 』— ❦

And just like that, Kiyotaka's life as a slave began.

In the beginning, it was simply labor. Sixteen hours a day spent scrubbing floors, hauling cargo, or working the mines beneath Mary Geoise. Within weeks, the overseers noticed something peculiar about him.

He never complained. He never slowed down. And he never showed any reaction at all. His face didn't twitch when he was struck, and his eyes never sharpened with anger or widened with fear. Whatever task they gave him, he performed it with the same flat calm, as if the pain and exhaustion belonged to someone else.

So they increased the hours.

Sixteen became twenty.

When twenty failed to crack him, they stopped pretending the goal was productivity and admitted the truth. They were seeking entertainment.

And with that, the games began.

Much like royal courts had their entertainers and theatrical performances, the Celestial Dragons had their own diversions. They found amusement in the suffering of others, or rather, in what they considered insects. The games took many forms. Anything imaginable that involved the degradation or pain of slaves qualified as entertainment.

Hunger turned into a contest. Humiliation into an art form. Slaves were made to compete for water, for scraps, for the right to sleep. They were forced to betray each other for rewards too small to matter and punished for refusing to play.

Among those games, the deathmatches were among the most popular.

Kiyotaka's first fight was against a boy close to his age.

It ended in under ten seconds.

It was also the first time in his life that he ended another's.

The opponents grew larger over time. Children became teenagers. Teenagers became adults. Adults became trained men with the bodies of soldiers. Then came warriors three times his size. They armed his enemies with weapons while he fought barehanded. They sent multiple combatants against him at once. They introduced hazards, obstacles, and elaborate death traps designed to maximize spectacle.

The Celestial Dragons noticed, of course. They were the ones sending stronger enemies each time, curious to see when he would finally fall. To them, slaves were disposable entertainment, and most broke within months. However, this boy didn't.

His blank expression became an obsession for them. It turned into a personal challenge, not just for Saint Aldric, but for others who heard the rumors and wanted to witness it themselves. They wanted to see him change. To see fear, desperation, pain—anything—to cross that empty face.

So they tried to break him.

The punishments escalated steadily. Beatings for infractions that never occurred. Whippings were administered on a fixed schedule, regardless of behavior. Starvation pushed to the very edge of death. Public humiliation crafted specifically to strip away any remaining dignity.

Through it all, Kiyotaka remained silent.

There were other things too. Things that occurred in private chambers, far from official records. Things that even most guards remained unaware of. He survived those as well. What that survival cost him was something he chose not to dwell on.

At times, the slaves weren't required to work at all. They were simply ordered to stand for hours, sometimes entire days, as living decorations at gatherings and banquets. Human ornaments for Celestial Dragons to parade past without acknowledgment.

Look at how many slaves I own.

Look at how obedient they are.

Weeks became months.

Months became years.

And somewhere along the way, something changed within him.

The progress he had made at ANHS... the small steps toward something resembling humanity, the connections that had begun to form, the emotions that were starting to appear within him... Gone. All of it was gone.

Erased, day by day, piece by piece. 

Every torture session stripped something away. Every punishment carved out another fragment of what had once existed deep within him. And in the empty space left behind, something else took root.

Walls.

Higher than before. Thicker than before. Colder than anything the White Room had ever managed to construct.

Until the boy who had once lain in a dorm room staring at a ceiling felt like a stranger. A distant memory belonging to someone else entirely.

His thought processes remained the same, but with each passing day, it grew colder. 

He felt himself getting colder.

He was becoming something different.

Something that could endure what others couldn't.

Something that could do what others wouldn't.

Something... less

...or perhaps more.

And just like that... five years had passed, and an event that shook the world took place.

[TL;DR: Literally the edgy White Room, aka the fanon version of it, before V0 was published.]

❦ —『 Wᴀʀᴍ Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ 』— ❦

Five years after Kiyotaka's arrival in this world, an event took place that would be remembered for generations.

Not officially, of course.

The World Government buried the truth beneath propaganda and classified documents. The public heard only carefully curated fragments of dangerous 'prisoners' who had committed unspeakable acts and escaped custody. The newspapers printed what they were told to print. The Marines issued statements that said nothing of substance.

But behind closed doors, in the halls of power where the real decisions were made, a different story circulated.

That night, Mary Geoise burned.

And seven Celestial Dragons died.

How it happened remained unclear even to those who survived and witnessed it firsthand.

Explosions tore through key infrastructure in perfect sequence. Power, communications, and transport systems failed almost simultaneously. Guard units were neutralized.

Slaves poured from holding facilities in organized waves, moving with a coordination that should have been impossible for people who had been systematically broken and isolated from one another.

Someone had planned this.

Someone had spent years learning every patrol route, every security protocol, and every blind spot in the defenses of the Holy Land itself.

Someone had turned Mary Geoise's own systems against it.

By morning, over seven thousand slaves had escaped—humans, fish-men, giants, minks, and members of races rarely seen outside the Grand Line. The chaos left nearly two thousand guards and government agents dead in its wake.

And among the casualties were seven World Nobles.

Including Saint Aldric.

Including Saint Malachai.

The circumstances surrounding their deaths were sealed at the highest level. Even the Marine Admirals were denied full access. What little leaked was fragmented, distorted, and deeply unsettling.

Enough to terrify those who understood what it implied.

...

[Excerpt from Classified CP0 Report #4,827-X]

...at approximately 2300 hours, a coordinated assault was initiated from within the slave quarters of the Holy Land. The scale and sophistication of the operation far exceeded anything in recent history, including the Fisher Tiger incident of thirteen years prior.

Multiple explosions disabled key infrastructure simultaneously, creating widespread disarray among servants, guards, and nobility. Response protocols were severely hampered by what appeared to be intimate knowledge of internal security measures, suggesting either long-term infiltration or intelligence leakage at the highest levels.

Within the first hour, an estimated 3,000 slaves had been freed from primary holding facilities. Organized into groups of varying sizes, they moved toward pre-designated extraction points with evident coordination.

[REDACTED]

[REDACTED]

[REDACTED]

At 0047 hours, the first Celestial Dragon [REDACTED] was reported. Saint Aldric was discovered [REDACTED] in [REDACTED]. Preliminary assessment indicated [REDACTED]. No witnesses. No evidence of [REDACTED].

By 0215 hours, six additional World Nobles had been confirmed [REDACTED]:

— Saint Malachai: [REDACTED] — Saint Veronika: [REDACTED] — Saint Octavian: [REDACTED] — Saint Portia: [REDACTED] — Saint Gregorian: [REDACTED] — Saint Amos: [REDACTED]

Methodologies observed suggest [REDACTED].

Total confirmed [REDACTED] among the World Nobility: [REDACTED]

Total confirmed casualties among guards and government agents: 1,869

Total confirmed escaped slaves: approximately 7,477

The remaining slaves either perished during the incident, chose not to flee, or [REDACTED].

Investigation Status: ONGOING

Perpetrator(s): [REDACTED]

Threat Assessment: UNPRECEDENTED

Recommendation: [REDACTED]

...

...

...

One day later, wanted posters began appearing across the world.

They arrived through official Marine channels, distributed to every base, every outpost, and every government-affiliated office from the Grand Line to the farthest reaches of the four Blues. Tavern owners found them nailed to their doors at dawn. News Coos carried special editions to every corner of the sea.

Dozens of faces stared out from the large stack of pages.

Some bore old, infamous names that stirred memories among pirates and Marines alike. Former pirates who had vanished years ago, presumed dead. 

Others had only titles, since slaves most often lost their names along with everything else.

Most carried bounties in the tens of millions. Substantial sums for unknowns, but nothing that would cause shock and unease.

However, there were quite a few that stood out.

"GORGON" — 140,000,000 Berry

Reported to have played a key role in coordinating the uprising. Responsible for significant casualties among government personnel during the escape. Considered armed and extremely dangerous. Has consumed the Hebi Hebi no Mi, Model: Gorgon - [Snake-Snake Fruit, Model: Model Gorgon]

"QUEEN NYSSA VALE" — 190,000,000 Berry

Believed to be one of the primary organizers behind the insurrection. Demonstrated exceptional tactical capabilities. Last seen departing Mary Geoise via [REDACTED]. Approach with extreme caution. Has consumed the Kibō Kibō no Mi - [Hope-Hope-Fruit]

There were others in similar ranges. A fish-man with a bounty of 116 million. A former Marine captain who turned against the World Government, worth 95 million. A giant listed simply as "BORGUN" at 125 million.

Impressive figures, all of them. These figures would make bounty hunters salivate, and Marines make a hunt for them.

But then there was one poster.

The moment it appeared, it silenced every tavern, every Marine base, and nearly every pirate ship that received it.

The image was poor. It was grainy, slightly blurred, clearly captured in haste during the chaos of that night. But even through the very poor quality, certain details were still recognizable.

It was a boy.

Fifteen years old, perhaps. Brown hair falling across sharp features. And eyes that seemed to stare through the paper itself.

Beneath the image was a single word.

"HOLLOW"

And beneath that, a number.

A number that made hardened Marines pause mid-conversation.

It caused veteran bounty hunters to set down their drinks and read again, certain they had miscounted the zeros.

A bounty so high it sent whispers racing through every criminal underground from Paradise to the New World.

350,000,000 Berry

Three hundred fifty million.

For a teenager.

An absurd sum. Higher than that of Supernova. Higher than some of the Seven Warlords' frozen bounties.

The official charges were listed on a separate document, distributed alongside the poster.

- Escape from lawful government custody
- Destruction of World Government property
- Theft of classified materials
- Assault on correctional officers and staff
- Unlawful possession and use of weapons
- Hostage-taking
- Kidnapping
- Evasion of law enforcement
- Criminal conspiracy
- Incitement of large-scale insurrection
- Murder of World Government personnel
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED]
- [REDACTED] 

The list went on longer than any sane person cared to read.

Thirty-eight charges in total.

Twenty-seven of them redacted.

In the Sabaody Archipelago, in one of the taverns, a weathered man with a mechanical arm stared at the highest bounty for a long moment. His jaw tightened.

"What the hell did a kid do to earn three hundred fifty million?"

"'Hollow'," someone behind him read aloud. "A fitting name, looking at those eyes."

"Forget the name." A woman at the bar had unfolded the accompanying charge sheet. Her face had gone pale. "Thirty-eight counts. Twenty-seven of them redacted."

"Redacted... redacted... redacted my ass!" A sailor slammed his mug on the counter, sloshing ale across the wood. "Why even bother releasing these files if everything's censored and kept secret?!"

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd. Arguments broke out, and theories were exchanged. The noise level rose steadily as everyone tried to make sense of the events.

Amidst the chaos, an elderly man moved unnoticed.

He had a muscular build that belied his age, round glasses perched on his nose, and gray hair that spoke of decades lived. Without drawing attention, he slipped behind the bar, grabbed an unopened bottle, and poured himself a generous amount.

Then he studied the wanted poster in his hand with a faint frown.

A first bounty that high wasn't normal procedure.

It was very rare.

The old man took a slow sip of his drink, watching the commotion around him with knowing eyes.

...

Not far from the tavern, at Grove 1's Human Auctioning House, Disco's hands trembled as he read through the newspaper.

"Seven thousand," he whispered, his voice hollow. "Seven thousand slaves escaped in a single night."

His associate looked grim. "If even a fraction of them decide to seek revenge..."

Disco didn't want to think about that.

"Aside from that," his associate continued, "the supply lines are going to be disrupted for months. Maybe years. Mary Geoise was the central processing hub for the entire trade. With their infrastructure damaged..."

"Damaged?" Disco laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Try destroyed. My contacts in the Holy Land have gone completely dark. Either they're dead, or they're too scared to respond."

His eyes drifted to one poster in particular, and his expression soured.

"This is his fault," he hissed. "This... this child."

"The bounty suggests he's more than just a child."

"The bounty suggests the World Government is having a collective panic attack." Disco crumpled the poster and hurled it across the room. "Three hundred fifty million. Do you have any idea what this does to our business model?"

He began to pace, gesturing wildly.

"Our entire operation is built on the premise that slaves are property. Things to be bought and sold without consequence." He whirled on his associate. "And now the government is telling the world that one of them is so dangerous that he is worth more than many pirates in the New World?"

The associate hesitated. "What do we do?"

Disco stared at the floor for a long time.

"Nothing," he finally admitted, the word bitter on his tongue. "There's nothing we can do. Whoever this kid is, wherever he's gone, he's beyond our reach. All we can do is wait for things to settle and hope the Navy catches him before he inspires any more... incidents."

He again looked at the wanted poster, and for reasons he couldn't articulate, Disco felt a chill crawl down his spine.

He had looked into the eyes of countless slaves over the years, but he had never seen eyes like these.

...

At Marineford, the atmosphere was heavy.

The main meeting room held five figures, and each of these figures could shake the world.

At one side of the long table sat the three Admirals—Aokiji, Kizaru, and Akainu. Each of them was reviewing their own copy of the classified report. Fleet Admiral Sengoku stood at the window, his back to the room, staring out at the harbor. Vice Admiral Garp occupied another seat at the long table, arms crossed, and expression unreadable.

The silence was suffocating.

"Seven," Sengoku finally said, without turning around. "Seven Celestial Dragons. Dead. In a single night."

No one responded. What could be said?

"In all our years," Sengoku continued, turning to face them, "we have never failed to protect them. And now... this."

The report stated that the security breach had originated from within. Someone had spent years quietly collecting intelligence, mapping vulnerabilities, and preparing the ground. It had been a coordinated operation. 

What the report did not mention, but what everyone in this room was aware of, was the 'coincidence' that, during this brief period, senior officers, including the Admirals, had been deployed elsewhere. For the first time in years, not a single Admiral had been stationed at Marineford, and with that, not close to Mary Geoise.

With that information, they could all draw out what that meant.

Akainu's fists clenched on the table, knuckles whitening. "It's a disgrace. We should mobilize everything we have and hunt them down. Every last one of them. Make an example that will never be forgotten."

"And how do you propose we do that, Sakazuki?" Aokiji's voice was lazy, almost bored, but there was an edge beneath the surface. "Seven thousand escaped. They will scatter across all four Blues and the Grand Line. We'd need to mobilize the entire Navy, and even then, it would take years."

"Then it takes years."

"While pirates run rampant? While the Revolutionary Army expands unchecked?" Kizaru tilted his head, expression unreadable behind his tinted glasses. "Ohhh, that sounds troublesome~"

"Enough." Sengoku's voice cut clean through them.

He picked up one poster from the table.

"'Hollow'. What do we know?"

Aokiji flipped through a portion of the report. "Very little. No confirmed identity. No known history before he arrived at Mary Geoise approximately five years ago. According to surviving records, he was acquired by Saint Aldric shortly after arrival and assigned to the labor pool, then later transferred to the entertainment division."

"Entertainment division," Garp repeated from his corner. His voice was heavy with disgust. "That's what they call it?"

No one chose to address his comment.

"The subject demonstrated unusual psychological resilience," Aokiji continued, unfazed. "Multiple reports indicate that standard conditioning methods were ineffective. He never displayed emotional responses to punishment, regardless of severity. The guards nicknamed him 'Hollow' because of his—"

"His eyes," Sengoku finished. "Yes. I read the report." He stared at the poster. "And somehow, this psychologically unusual teenager managed to orchestrate an escape that killed seven Celestial Dragons and freed seven thousand slaves."

"We don't know that he orchestrated it," Aokiji pointed out. "The evidence is circumstantial at best."

"The evidence is redacted," Akainu snapped. "Which means someone decided the truth was too dangerous to share."

Another silence descended.

Everyone in the room understood the implication. The orders to classify the details hadn't come from Sengoku. They had come from above... from the Five Elders themselves.

Whatever this "Hollow" had done, the World Government wanted it buried.

Garp snorted. "Seems to me they brought this on themselves. They stole a child's freedom for entertainment, tortured him for five years, and then acted surprised when he became a monster who chose to enact revenge."

"Garp!" Sengoku's voice cracked like a whip. "This is no laughing matter. And I won't be able to protect you if you continue saying things like that."

Garp simply shrugged, unconcerned by the rebuke.

The room fell silent once more, each person lost in their own thoughts.

They all understood the stakes. If this information escaped this room. If the public learned the full truth of what had happened... it would have devastating implications for the status of the Celestial Dragons.

After all, they were referred to as gods.

And how could gods die at the hands of a child?

...

Far out in the New World, the Moby Dick cut through the sea.

Edward Newgate, the man known to the world as Whitebeard, sat upon his massive chair and studied the wanted poster in his hand.

Around him, his commanders had gathered, all watching their captain with varying degrees of curiosity and concern. It wasn't often that a simple bounty poster commanded the attention of the strongest man in the world.

"A child," Whitebeard rumbled, his voice like distant thunder. "They made a child into this."

Marco leaned forward, his expression troubled. "The reports say he was a 'prisoner' in Mary Geoise for five years-yoi."

"What do you think happened, Pops?" Vista asked.

Whitebeard was quiet for a long moment, his gaze never leaving the poster. 

A grim smile crossed his weathered face.

"He made the 'gods' bleed."

The commanders' eyes widened.

"Are you sure, Pops?!" Jozu exclaimed.

Whitebeard laughed, a deep, booming sound that echoed across the deck and out over the waves.

"I am. The World Government can try to hide this as much as they want, but if someone truly wants to know something, they'll find a way. This matter is no exception."

He handed the poster to Marco.

"If this 'Hollow' crosses our path, I want to meet him. Anyone who can put that kind of fear into the World Government is someone worth knowing."

He raised his cup.

"To the Hollow. May he give those bastards in Mary Geoise plenty of sleepless nights."

Around him, cups lifted in uneasy agreement.

At that exact moment, a young man with freckles and an orange hat dropped onto the deck with a grin. 

"This time I've got you, old man!"

He was completely ignored as Whitebeard drained his cup.

Nobody reacted.

The young man, Portgas D. Ace, aborted his attack mid-leap and landed in a crouch, confusion replacing determination. He looked around at the gathered commanders, then noticed the wanted poster in Marco's hand.

He snatched it away and read the bounty.

"What?!"

...

Far across the New World, on an island shaped like a massive skull, Kaido of the Beasts received the news during one of his drinking sessions.

His subordinate trembled visibly as the massive Emperor snatched the poster, along with a report, from his hands.

For a long moment, Kaido simply stared at it.

His expression was unreadable.

Then he laughed.

"Worororo! WORORORO!"

The sound shook the walls of the fortress, rattling cups and sending lesser crew members fleeing in terror. 

The Emperor took another massive sip from his gourd.

"Someone killed Celestial Dragons!" He slammed his fist on the table, cracking it down the middle. "Finally! FINALLY! Someone had the guts to do what everyone else only dreams about!"

King, standing nearby, examined his own copy of the poster. "A teenager, no less."

"Even better!" Kaido's grin was savage. "A brat barely old enough to call himself a man, and he did what no one else has dared!"

"His bounty is considerable," King observed. "Three hundred fifty million. Higher than most of our Tobiroppo when they first joined."

"It's not high enough." Kaido tossed the poster aside and reached for more alcohol. "If he really killed seven of those bubble-wearing bastards, it should be a billion. The World Government is trying to downplay this."

"What do you want to do?" King asked.

The Emperor considered this, his bloodshot eyes growing thoughtful beneath the haze of alcohol.

"Nothing. For now." He drained another barrel. "But keep an eye on this one. Anyone who can do what he did... Either way, I want to know more."

He laughed again, quieter this time.

"The Hollow, huh?" His smile turned contemplative. "I wonder what he looks like when he fights. I wonder if he can put up a good show."

His eyes gleamed with something dark and hungry.

...

In a nation built entirely of sweets, Charlotte Linlin, known to the world as Big Mom, reviewed the intelligence report with unusual focus.

Like Kaido, she had access to information beyond what the public knew. Her network stretched across the world, and very little happened without her eventually learning of it.

Her most important children had gathered in the meeting room, wary of their mother's mood. When their mother went quiet, it usually meant disaster.

But instead of rage, the Emperor simply set the report aside and reached for a piece of cake.

"Troublesome," she muttered between bites. "This is very troublesome indeed."

"Mama?" Katakuri, her most capable son, stepped forward. "What do you make of it?"

"What do I make of it?" Big Mom's eyes narrowed. "I make of it that the World Government just became a lot more paranoid. They're going to crack down on everything—pirates, revolutionaries, independent nations. Anyone who might be hiding these escaped slaves."

"You think they'll target us?"

"They wouldn't dare. Not directly." She took another bite, crumbs scattering across the table. "But they'll be watching and that's bad for business."

Smoothie glanced at the bounty. "Should we pursue him? Three hundred fifty million is—"

"Worthless. Money means nothing to me. What I want is information. What exactly did this 'Hollow' do that the World Government is so desperate to hide? Aside from the obvious, of course."

She leaned back in her throne, eyes gleaming with interest.

"Find out. Use every resource we have. I want to know the truth before anyone else does."

"And the boy himself?"

Big Mom considered this for a moment.

"Recruit him if possible. Bind him to us." Her eyes slid toward Smoothie with a grin that made the room tense. "Marriage is always an option."

Smoothie's expression flickered with unease, but she nodded nonetheless. "Yes, Mama."

Big Mom's laughter filled the castle.

Her children exchanged glances.

When Mama took an interest in someone, it rarely ended well for that person.

...

On the other side of the Grand Line, on an island shrouded in secrecy, Dragon stood before a wall covered in intelligence reports.

The events at Mary Geoise had consumed his organization's attention for the past twenty-four hours and would continue to do so for the foreseeable future. Every operative, every spy, and every resource at his disposal was focused on gathering information about what had happened, and, more importantly, who was responsible.

The wanted poster of the Hollow was pinned at the center of the wall.

"Three hundred fifty million," Sabo said from nearby, arms crossed as he studied the image. "For a kid younger than me."

"Age is irrelevant," Dragon replied, his voice calm and measured. "Whoever this is has demonstrated capabilities that our organization has been trying to develop for years."

He's the same age as...

Dragon pushed the thought aside.

"You think he could be an asset?" Sabo asked.

"I think he's already proven himself more effective than most of our cells." Dragon turned to face his chief of staff. "Seven Celestial Dragons. In a single night. We've been fighting the World Government for decades, and we've never managed to strike them so directly."

Sabo frowned. "That's not entirely fair. We've been building infrastructure, recruiting, laying groundwork—"

"I'm not criticizing our approach." Dragon raised a hand. "I'm acknowledging that this individual accomplished something extraordinary. The question is how?"

"Do you think he's connected to us?" Sabo asked. "Someone working independently toward similar goals?"

"No." Dragon shook his head slowly. "Our intelligence would have picked up on any revolutionary activity in Mary Geoise. This wasn't ideological. This was..."

He trailed off, searching for the right word.

"Personal?" Sabo suggested.

"Perhaps."

Dragon moved toward the door.

"I want him found. Not captured, only observed. I want to know who he really is, what he's capable of, and what he intends to do now that he's free."

"And if he aligns with our goals?"

Dragon paused at the threshold.

"Then we offer him a place among us. Anyone who can do what he did... that's someone we want on our side."

He left without another word.

Sabo remained behind, staring at the poster.

What happened to you?  He wondered. What did they do to make you into this?

He didn't expect an answer.

But something told him he'd find out eventually.

...

In a smaller outpost far from headquarters, Koala had been reviewing supply manifests when the news arrived along with Dragon's orders.

As a former slave herself, she had a personal investment in anything related to Mary Geoise. She had been eight years old when Fisher Tiger's rampage had freed her and countless others. 

When she saw the wanted poster, her hands began to shake.

"Three hundred fifty million," she whispered. "He's just a child."

"Older than you were when you escaped," her companion noted. "By a few years, at least."

"It's not the same." Koala set the poster down, unable to look at those eyes any longer. "When Fisher Tiger freed me, I was rescued. I didn't fight. I just... ran. This boy..."

"This boy did what Tiger did. What none of us have managed since." The revolutionary's voice was quiet. 

"At what cost?" Koala picked up the charge sheet, scanning the redacted entries. "Look at this. Twenty-seven hidden charges. That's not normal. Even for high-value targets, we rarely see more than a handful of classifications."

"Which means whatever he did was significant enough to scare the World Government into hiding it."

They both fell silent, considering the possibilities.

"Do you think he's like us?" Koala finally asked. "Fighting for freedom?"

"I don't know." A shrug. "Either way, Dragon wants him found. So we find him."

Koala nodded slowly, but her thoughts were elsewhere.

She knew what it was like to be a slave. To be branded. To lose everything that made you human.

She had been lucky. She had found people who helped her heal, who gave her purpose, who reminded her that she was more than what had been done to her.

She hoped, for his sake, that it wasn't too late.

She hoped he could find such people too.

❦ —『 Wᴀʀᴍ Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ 』— ❦

While the world buzzed with the news of Mary Geoise, life continued as it always did.

On the Grand Line, cutting through waters that bordered the upper Calm Belt, a ship found itself in desperate straits.

It was being attacked.

The attacking ship was magnificent. At its prow, two massive serpents pulled the vessel forward with effortless power. They were called Yuda, venomous sea creatures native to the Calm Belt, tamed by only one crew in all the world.

The Kuja Pirates.

A crew consisting entirely of female warriors from Amazon Lily, the legendary island of women hidden deep within the Calm Belt. Their combat prowess and fame were known throughout the seas. Their history stretched back generations. And their captain...

Boa Hancock, the Pirate Empress, stood at the head of one of the Yuda with her arms crossed beneath her chest.

Her beauty was said to be unmatched anywhere in the world. A tall, slender figure with long black hair that cascaded past her waist. Her cold but exquisite eyes surveyed the ongoing attack with complete disinterest.

"How tedious," she murmured, watching her crew overwhelm what little resistance remained. "Hardly worth the effort of stopping."

Her sisters, Boa Sandersonia and Boa Marigold, looked on from the prow of the ship. Both watched the raid with casual attention, ready to step in if necessary.

"The cargo appears ordinary," Sandersonia reported, eyes scanning the sinking deck. "Nothing exceptional."

"Take what's useful. Sink the rest." Hancock's voice was dismissive.

The attacked ship was already in poor condition, water flooding through the holes the Kuja's arrows had punched in the hull. Within minutes, it would begin to sink.

The Kuja moved with practiced ease, transferring crates and barrels onto their own ship.

"This one's heavy!"

Two warriors had paused before a large barrel near the ship's stern. One of them, a muscular woman with short-cropped hair, tapped it experimentally with her knuckle.

"Really heavy," she confirmed. "Must be something good inside."

They quickly transferred it to their own ship, and others gathered around, curiosity piqued. Heavy barrels often meant precious metals or other valuables worth the extra effort.

"Open it," someone suggested.

The short-haired warrior grinned and reached for the lid.

Without warning, the barrel exploded outward.

Wood splinters flew in every direction. A blur of motion, barely visible, erupted from within the container.

A fist connected with the woman's face.

The impact was devastating. Her head snapped back, feet leaving the deck entirely, body flying backward before crashing into one of the cabins on deck with a crack that silenced the nearest voices.

She didn't get up.

For a moment, no one moved.

Then a figure emerged fully from the remnants of the barrel.

A teenager. Fifteen or sixteen at most.

Brown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat. Ragged clothes stained with both fresh and dried blood. And most notably, cold eyes that surveyed his surroundings.

Before anyone could react, he moved again.

His hand shot out, fingers closing around the throat of a young Kuja woman standing too close. He lifted her off her feet with surprising strength, using her body as a shield between himself and the others.

"What rotten luck I have," he muttered, his voice flat and toneless. "Of all ships..."

Panic and alarm erupted across the deck.

"Intruder!"

"He's got Mira!"

"Someone get a clear shot!"

The women brought out their weapons, prepared for immediate attack. But the young man had already moved, backing toward the ship's railing, positioning himself against the wall so he could only be approached from one direction.

The Kuja Pirates quickly stabilized, their training overcoming the initial shock. They spread out in a semicircle, cutting off any avenue of escape.

Not that there was anywhere to escape to. The nearby ship was sinking fast, already tilted at a sharp angle. Within minutes, it would be beneath the waters entirely.

"Let her go," one of the senior warriors commanded, arrow drawn and aimed at his head. "You're surrounded. There's nowhere to run."

The teenager didn't respond. His grip on the hostage's throat didn't loosen.

His eyes swept across the assembled warriors.

"Surrender," another woman shouted. "Release the hostage, and we'll—"

"You'll what?" His voice remained flat. "Spare my life? Take me prisoner?"

The standoff continued, tension mounting with each passing second.

"Enough."

The voice cut through the chaos like a blade.

The Kuja warriors parted immediately, creating a path. Through the gap strode three figures—Boa Hancock, flanked by her sisters.

The Pirate Empress approached without hesitation. Her heels clicked against the deck with each step, and her eyes fixed on the teenager who had dared to take one of her crew hostage.

"You dare attack my crew. To take one of my warriors hostage. On my ship."

The teenager met her gaze. He didn't flinch, nor look away.

Hancock felt something strange. It was an uncomfortable flicker of recognition.

She had seen those sorts of eyes before.

They reminded her of something she hated remembering.

"Release her," Hancock commanded. "Now."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then I will—"

She stopped suddenly.

Her eyes had drifted downward, catching something no one had noticed during the chaos.

Blood.

Dark and wet, soaking through the teenager's ragged shirt. A wound, no, multiple wounds, were bleeding freely.

"Sister," Sandersonia said quietly, having noticed the same thing. "He's injured."

"Severely," Marigold added. "It's a wonder he's still standing."

Hancock's eyes narrowed.

She looked at the teenager again and saw what she had missed before.

He wasn't standing firm. He was barely standing. His legs trembled so slightly that most would miss it. His grip on the hostage's throat, while still tight enough to threaten, lacked the crushing force it should have had. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

He was running on nothing but willpower.

And that willpower was reaching its limit.

"Who are you?" Hancock asked, her tone shifting slightly. Less commanding and more curious.

"No one," the boy replied. "No one important."

"Liar." Hancock took a step closer. "Someone who can knock out one of my warriors with a single punch while severely wounded is not 'no one.' So I'll ask again—"

She never finished the sentence.

The teenager's eyes flickered and rolled back.

His grip on the hostage slackened, and the young woman quickly removed herself from his grasp, choking and gasping, before stumbling away.

And the teenager began to fall forward.

The warriors who had kept their bows trained on him were stunned for a moment before shouting.

"Grab him!"

"Tie him down before he—"

They surged forward, ready to restrain the unconscious intruder. 

But before they could touch him—

A wave of force erupted from the unconscious teenager. It carried with it a weight that pressed down on everyone present, a pressure that seemed to crash the very air itself.

The women closest to him dropped first. They collapsed where they stood, foam bubbling from their mouths, as they lost their consciousness.

More started to fall.

The wave expanded outward, and everywhere it touched, bodies dropped.

One by one. Then in groups. Until the entire ship was engulfed.

Even the two Yuda at the ship's prow recoiled, their massive heads lowering in what could only be described as fear. They retained consciousness, but their serpentine bodies were trembling.

When the pressure finally faded, the deck was littered with unconscious Kuja.

Only a handful remained standing.

Boa Hancock.

Her sisters.

And a few of the strongest members, who staggered.

Everyone else was down.

Hancock stared at the unconscious teenager, her composure finally cracked. Her eyes were wide. Her breath came faster than it should.

Sandersonia's voice trembled. "That was..."

"Impossible," Marigold finished.

Hancock said nothing for a long moment.

"Supreme King Haki..." she whispered.

Sandersonia and Marigold exchanged horrified glances.

"Only one in several million people is born with it," Sandersonia muttered, her voice strained. "And we just happen to come across a kid hiding in a barrel having it..."

Marigold swallowed, eyes still wide. "What is going on...?"

Hancock stepped forward, carefully navigating around the bodies of her fallen crew. She knelt beside the unconscious boy, studying his face.

Up close, he looked even younger than she'd thought. Sharp features marred by exhaustion. And even unconscious, his expression didn't seem to soften, as if some part of him remained on guard.

Hancock's gaze drifted downward, to his back.

His ragged shirt had torn during the fall, exposing the skin beneath. She reached out with two fingers and pulled the fabric aside. What she saw made her pause.

Scars. Dozens of them, layered atop one another. Whip marks, burns, cuts, everything you could imagine.

But amidst the scars, there was one area that stood out.

A brand, burned deep into his flesh.

A circle with three claw-like marks extending forward and one trailing behind.

The Hoof of the Soaring Dragon.

The brand of a slave.

Hancock's hand moved involuntarily to her own back, where an identical mark lay hidden beneath her clothes.

"Sister..." Marigold's voice was barely a whisper. She had seen it too. "He's..."

"Yes," Hancock said quietly.

Something shifted in all three of them. The initial enmity, the anger of having their crew harmed, was replaced by something far more complicated.

Something like sympathy, or rather understanding.

They knew what that mark meant. They knew what he must have endured to earn those scars. They knew, in a way that no one else could, exactly what kind of hell this boy had survived.

"Hebihime-sama."

A voice snapped them out of it.

Four women approached. They were the strongest members of their crew, the ones who had remained conscious through the wave of Haki. They looked shaken but functional, awaiting orders.

Hancock quickly adjusted the boy's ragged clothes, hiding the brand from view, before she rose to face her crew.

"Treat Hetha's wounds," she commanded, gesturing toward the woman the boy had sent flying into the cabin. "Then tend to the others and try to wake them. We're returning to Amazon Lily."

The four women nodded, though their eyes kept drifting to the unconscious teenager on the deck.

"...What about him?" one of them asked hesitantly.

Before Hancock could answer—

A cry sounded from above.

They all looked up.

A News Coo circled overhead, its wings beating steadily against the sea breeze. Spotting the ship, it descended, releasing a single newspaper before banking away toward its next destination.

The paper fluttered down, landing directly in Hancock's outstretched hand.

She opened it, her eyes scanning the front page.

Her sisters leaned over her shoulder, reading along.

Their faces paled as they read.

Seven thousand slaves escaped in a single night...

Hancock's grip on the newspaper tightened. Her sisters' eyes went wide with shock.

Slowly, almost involuntarily, they looked from the article to the unconscious boy on the deck.

The brand on his back. The fresh wounds. The timing. It couldn't be a coincidence.

Then Hancock turned to the next page.

As she did, dozens of loose papers flew out from within the newspaper, far more than usual. Those papers were wanted posters. They scattered across the deck, blown by the sea breeze.

One poster drifted down and settled near the boy's face.

The four crew members who had remained standing saw it first.

A young face. Brown hair. Sharp features. And cold eyes.

"HOLLOW"

350,000,000 Berries

"Huh...?"

Slowly, almost mechanically, they turned to look at the unconscious teenager.

Then back to the wanted poster.

Then back to his face.

"...?!"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Hancock bent down and picked up the wanted poster. She studied it in silence.

Then she reached into the scattered mess of loose sheets and found what she was looking for. It was the official charge sheet that would reason the bounty.

Her gaze narrowed as she read.

Thirty-eight counts in total, of which twenty-seven were redacted.

"'Criminal Conspiracy,'" she murmured, reading aloud. "'Incitement of large-scale insurrection.' 'Murder of World Government personnel.'"

Line after line of black bars followed. Whatever lay beneath those redactions, the World Government had chosen not to reveal, but why even bother including those?

"Are you telling us..." Marigold's voice trembled slightly. "...that the kid lying in front of us is one of the main causes for what happened at Mary Geoise? That he did something like Fisher Tiger...?"

No one could blame her for the disbelief.

An event of that magnitude didn't happen often.

"After the Ohara Incident and the founding of the Revolutionary Army," Sandersonia said slowly, "this is probably the most significant event to happen in the last two decades."

"Hebihime-sama..." one of the crew members spoke up nervously. "Should we... should we restrain him? That bounty... if we turned him in to the Marines, your position as one of the Seven Warlords would be unshakeable. The World Government would owe you a tremendous debt, and—"

"No."

The word came out sharper than Hancock intended.

The crew members recoiled as if struck.

"But Hebihime-sama, three hundred fifty million—"

"I said no." Her eyes flashed with something dangerous, and the temperature of her voice dropped. "We will not be turning him over to the World Government. We will not be restraining him. And we will not be speaking of this to anyone outside this ship."

She swept her gaze across the four conscious crew members, her expression leaving no room for argument.

"Is that understood?"

The women exchanged uncertain glances, then nodded quickly. Questions remained in their eyes, confusion, concern, perhaps even suspicion about their captain's unusual reaction.

But when Hancock used that tone, argument was not an option.

"Yes, Hebihime-sama," they said in unison, bowing their heads.

"Return to your duties. Wake the others and prepare for immediate departure. We're returning to Amazon Lily."

The crew members hurried to comply.

Hancock waited until they were out of earshot before turning to her sisters.

"Marigold. Sandersonia." Her voice softened slightly, though the intensity remained. "Treat his injuries. Use whatever supplies we have."

"Yes, Ane-sama," they responded together.

Sandersonia knelt beside the unconscious boy. She slid her arms beneath his frame and softly lifted him from the ground.

He weighed almost nothing. For someone who had just knocked out nearly their entire crew, his body felt disturbingly fragile. She could feel his ribs through the torn fabric of his shirt.

She carried him toward one of the cabins below deck, Marigold following close behind with medical supplies gathered from their stores.

The door closed behind them.

❦ —『 Wᴀʀᴍ Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ 』— ❦

I woke to the scent of flowers and medicine.

There was no smell of blood, nor rot, nor human waste.

Everything about this felt wrong.

I was lying in a bed, an actual bed with sheets, pillows, and a blanket that had been drawn up to my chest. The cabin I was in,  was modest in size but surprisingly well-appointed. It unmistakably had a female touch to it.

Bandages wrapped my torso, arms, and left leg. Whoever had treated me knew what they were doing. The pain remained, but it had dulled to a persistent ache rather than the agony I remembered.

"You're awake."

I turned my head.

A woman sat in a chair near the door, watching me with sharp, assessing eyes. She was far larger than any normal human, with a serpentine quality to her features and a curvaceous figure that seemed almost exaggerated. Her head was disproportionately large, and green hair fell past her shoulders in loose waves.

Her posture suggested readiness, but not immediate hostility.

Recognition surfaced slowly through the fog clouding my thoughts.

The Kuja Pirates.

I had attacked them.

And yet here I was lying in a bed rather than chained in a hold, my wounds treated rather than left to fester.

"...How long?" My voice scraped out, dry and hoarse.

"Two days," she answered evenly. "You've been unconscious since you collapsed on deck."

"The woman I struck," I said. "Is she well?"

The green-haired woman's expression flickered with surprise, perhaps at the question itself or perhaps at the fact I had bothered to ask at all.

"Hetha will recover. You broke her jaw and three ribs, but she'll be fine."

"I see."

Silence settled between us.

"You don't seem particularly remorseful," she observed.

"Would remorse change anything?"

The woman studied me for a long moment, then rose from her chair. 

"Hebihime-sama wishes to speak with you. Can you walk?"

I pushed myself upright, ignoring the protest of my wounds. The room tilted briefly, colors bleeding at the edges of my vision, before stabilizing.

"I can walk."

...

She led me through the ship's corridors and up onto the main deck.

The sun hung low on the horizon, painting the sky in gradients of orange and crimson. The sea stretched endlessly in every direction.

There was no wind. The water lay completely still. Not a single wave disturbed its surface. 

The Calm Belt, huh?

We were already deep within it, yet no Sea Kings had surfaced to attack the ship. I turned my attention to the ship's prow, where two massive serpents cut through the water, dragging the ship along.

I see. Their aura forces the sea monsters to retreat.

Then, below the two serpents, commanding main attention without doing anything, a woman was leaning against the railing. She stared out at the endless sea, her back facing me. Long black hair cascaded down her back, catching the dying light. Even from behind, her posture radiated absolute confidence. The bearing of someone who had never once doubted their own supremacy.

She turned as I approached.

And for a moment, I understood why people spoke of her beauty as if it were a natural disaster.

Her features seemed almost artificial. High cheekbones, full lips, eyes that held cold elegance. She was tall, taller than most men, with a figure that artists would weep to capture. Everything about her seemed designed to overwhelm the senses, to render rational thought impossible.

Boa Hancock.

The Pirate Empress. One of the Seven Warlords of the Sea, known as the most beautiful woman in the world.

Neither of us said anything.

Then she glanced at the green-haired woman who had escorted me. "Leave us."

The woman nodded and withdrew without a word, her footsteps fading until only the two of us remained on the forward deck.

Hancock turned her attention back to me, her gaze sweeping over the bandages visible beneath my borrowed shirt.

"How are your injuries?"

"Better," I replied. "Whoever treated them knew what they were doing."

"My sisters. Sandersonia and Marigold." She paused. "They have experience with such things."

"I'll have to thank them."

"You can do so by not attacking any more of my crew."

"I'll consider it."

Her eyebrow arched slightly. Whether from amusement or irritation, I couldn't tell.

The silence stretched between us. After a moment, I moved to the railing beside her, letting my gaze drift toward the sea, at the horizon that seemed to stretch forever.

"You're not staring," Hancock said suddenly.

"At what?"

"At my body."

"Should I?"

"Most men can't help themselves." There was open disgust in her voice. "The moment they see me, they lose every shred of reason. They drool. They stammer. Some even pledge their undying devotion on the spot."

"That sounds rather inconvenient."

"It's revolting." She glanced at me from the corner of her eye. "Which makes it interesting that you're watching the ocean instead of me. Most would grovel just to earn a second of my attention."

"I've never been good at groveling," I said calmly. "Bad for the knees."

"...Was that meant to be humorous?"

"Was it not?"

"It was unexpected."

I turned to face her properly. Her expression had shifted again, curiosity faint but unmistakable in her eyes.

"You truly don't care, do you?" she asked. "About my appearance."

"You are very beautiful," I replied evenly, "but I currently have more pressing concerns than admiring it."

"Such as?"

"The fact that I'm standing on the ship of one of the Seven Warlords," I said, "surrounded by a crew with ample reason to want me dead, sailing through waters filled with sea monsters." I paused. "Among other things."

Hancock's lips curved slightly. "You're insufferable."

"So I've been told."

"I can imagine." She shook her head, though the faint amusement lingered. "This is... refreshing. I can't recall the last time I conversed with a man without wanting to turn him to stone."

"You can do that?"

"Would you like a demonstration?"

"I'll pass."

"A wise choice."

"But setting aside my current predicament," I continued, "the reason your beauty doesn't affect me like it does others is simple. My body and mind are still pure. I am fifteen, after all."

She snorted, clearly unconvinced. Then she reached into her robe and tossed a folded bundle of papers at me.

"Yes. Completely pure."

I caught it and unfolded the pages.

The article was written with careful wording. The World Government's propaganda machine was already working at full capacity. It spoke of dangerous criminals, threats to civilized society, and the noble sacrifices of valiant guards.

As I flipped through, I saw familiar faces. Some I had worked beside. Others I'd only seen in passing.

Then my own face stared back at me.

350,000,000 Berries.

Impressive. Perhaps I should consider turning myself in.

"When did this arrive?" I asked.

"Two days ago," Hancock replied. "Shortly after you collapsed."

"That was fast." I folded the paper and set it aside. "They seem eager to see me captured. Or killed."

"Can you fault them?" Dark amusement laced Hancock's voice. "You humiliated them and wounded them in ways they haven't been in over a decade. The last incident of this magnitude was Fisher Tiger's rampage thirteen years ago."

"So," I turned to face her, "what do you intend to do with me?"

"We're currently traversing the Calm Belt toward Amazon Lily. It's my hometown, a land of women, hidden from the rest of the world." She glanced at me. "Men are forbidden from setting foot there. It has been our law for centuries. However... given the circumstances, I'm willing to make an exception. You could remain with us until you've fully recovered."

I weighed her offer carefully.

The logical choice was evident. Amazon Lily lay hidden within the Calm Belt, shielded by natural barriers that rendered it virtually unreachable. The Kuja Pirates possessed enough strength to discourage all but the most determined pursuers. And Hancock herself, as a Warlord, enjoyed political protections extending to her territory.

Objectively, it was among the safest locations in the world for someone in my situation.

And yet.

"Why?" I asked.

"Why what?"

"Why offer sanctuary to someone who attacked your crew? Three hundred fifty million berries is no small sum. Turning me over would strengthen your position as a Warlord and earn the World Government's favor."

Hancock's expression hardened. The elegance evaporated, replaced by something far colder.

"I don't require their gratitude. And I don't require their money." Her voice carried an edge of barely restrained hatred. "The World Government. The Celestial Dragons. The Marines who serve them. I despise them all."

She turned to face me fully, her eyes burning with an intensity that belied her earlier composure.

"You did something I've dreamed of doing for years. You hurt them. You freed people who had no hope." Her voice dropped to a fierce whisper. "Why would I ever hand you over to the ones who deserve far worse than anything you did?"

I searched her face for deceit and found none.

That hatred was real and deep-rooted. 

I wanted to confirm something.

"If you despise them so thoroughly," I said slowly, "why align yourself with them? Why accept the title of Warlord?"

Her face tightened. For a moment, I thought she wouldn't respond.

"I joined solely to protect my people." The words emerged measured. "Amazon Lily is an unaffiliated nation. Without protection, the World Government would inevitably turn covetous eyes toward us. Our only options were becoming an Emperor's territory... or securing Warlord status ourselves."

She looked back out at the sea.

"As a Warlord, Amazon Lily maintains independence. The Marines won't interfere with, and the World Government won't claim us." Her grip tightened on the railing. "That is the only reason I bear the title. The only reason I attend their summons and tolerate their games."

The suppressed revulsion in her voice was unmistakable.

Her fingers drummed against the railing. Even though I only knew her for the duration of this conversation, it seemed out of character for someone like her.

Finally, without looking at me, she spoke.

"How long were you in Mary Geoise?"

"Five years."

There was little anyone could accomplish with that information, and no reason to conceal it.

I watched her grip on the railing tighten, her knuckles whitening.

"Five years," she repeated quietly. Then, hesitantly, "How... how were you captured?"

The question emerged hesitantly. Almost reluctant. As though she wasn't certain she wanted to ask but couldn't prevent herself.

"I went to a plaza in my hometown," I said. "The next moment, a Celestial Dragon was firing at me for the offense of existing in his presence."

Again, no reason to hide the truth. If it improved her impression of me, all the better.

Silence followed.

"You were young," she said eventually. "Ten? Eleven?"

"Ten."

She didn't reply. When she turned back to the sea, her composure had returned, but the emotional distance between us had narrowed just slightly.

"My offer stands," she said. "You may stay on Amazon Lily until you've recovered. Longer, if you wish. No one needs to know you're there."

I considered it again. It was the logical choice.

And still—

"I appreciate the offer," I said quietly. "Truly. But I have to refuse."

I looked out at the sea, at the horizon stretching endlessly before us.

"I need to reach the East Blue."

Hancock frowned. "The East Blue? Why? It's the weakest of the four seas. Nothing there would benefit someone with your capabilities."

"Precisely the reason. There, I might find a few years of peace."

Something like sympathy crossed her features.

"The Calm Belt separates all four Blues from the Grand Line," she said, her tone turning practical. "We're currently bound for Amazon Lily, positioned between the South Blue and the Grand Line. Reaching the East Blue would require a month or two of travel."

I sighed. "That's unfortu—"

"We'll make the detour." She cut me off before I could finish.

I looked at her. "You would do that? Why? It would cost you time."

"Don't misunderstand." Her chin lifted imperiously. "I simply refuse to keep a man on my ship any longer than necessary. If sending you to the East Blue means you'll be gone sooner, then it's in my best interest to accommodate you."

"Of course. My profound thanks, then."

Hancock narrowed her eyes, attempting to discern whether I was sarcastic. I maintained a neutral expression.

"There it is again," she said.

"There's what?"

"That tone. I can never determine if you're being sincere or insufferable."

The corner of her mouth curved slightly upward before she stepped away from the railing. "I'll inform the crew of the course change. Rest while you can."

"I appreciate it."

"You don't need to thank me."

"My apologies."

"That's somehow worse." She began walking toward the ship's cabin, her heels clicking against the deck.

I remained at the railing, watching stars emerge as twilight surrendered to darkness.

The conversation had been unexpectedly pleasant. Talking with Hancock had felt almost natural.

I glanced at the sky. The sun had been setting when we began speaking. Now it was fully dark.

Time seemed to fly.

...One month, huh?

❦ —『 Wᴀʀᴍ Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ 』— ❦

One month passed in the blink of an eye.

During that time, I regularly spoke with Hancock and her sisters, Marigold and Sandersonia. What surprised me was that they never broached the topic of Mary Geoise, nor asked questions about what had truly happened there. Our conversations were simply ordinary.

About the sea, about the customs of Amazon Lily. About our favorite food. Just normal conversations one would have with their friends.

Most of the crew still kept their distance, wary and uncertain. That was expected. But a handful grew bolder over time and approached me willingly. They had warmed up to my presence on board.

Nearly four weeks had passed since we departed the Calm Belt separating the South Blue from the Grand Line, entering Paradise, the first half of the Grand Line. From there, we had navigated carefully, avoiding major islands and other ships. We made only one stop to resupply.

For most people, crossing the Blues was a fantasy. The seas were vast and treacherous to cross. Most people would never leave the place they were born, not because they lacked the desire to explore the world, but because the world itself made leaving impractical.

There were only a few ways to cross the four Blues.

Over the Red Line, which required World Government permission or the ability to fly over the Red Line.

Under the Red Line, through routes, very few were able to survive.

Or across the Calm Belt, which was something nearly suicidal for ordinary ships.

The Kuja used the last method.

A week ago, we entered the Calm Belt separating Paradise from the East Blue. And yesterday, we emerged on the other side.

The East Blue.

Now, land appeared on the horizon.

The island that emerged from the morning mist was small and unremarkable. Green hills, a modest harbor, a scattering of buildings. It was a place that probably existed in thousands of similar versions across the world.

Too insignificant to draw attention.

Perfect for me.

The Kuja ship remained far offshore, distant enough that it could pass for a large merchant vessel, assuming anyone was even looking. I stood on deck, wearing clean clothes provided by the Kuja. Simple garments in muted colors. My old clothes had been discarded long ago.

A small rowboat was lowered into the water, rocking gently against the hull.

"Are you certain about this?" Hancock asked, approaching from behind. Marigold and Sandersonia flanked her, as always. "The East Blue may be weak compared to the Grand Line, but the Marines still patrol it. With your bounty..."

"I'll manage."

She clicked her tongue. "'I'll manage,' he says. Such confidence. Some might call it arrogance."

"Coming from you, that's quite the compliment."

Marigold snorted before coughing to hide it. Sandersonia didn't bother suppressing her smile.

Hancock's eye twitched, though there was no real anger behind it. "You're fortunate I find your insolence amusing rather than offensive."

"I'll consider myself lucky."

I moved toward the rope ladder leading down to the rowboat. Before I could descend, Hancock spoke again.

"Wait."

I paused and turned back.

She reached into her robes and tossed a small pouch toward me. I caught it easily and felt the weight of coins inside.

"For supplies," she said. "Don't misunderstand. It's not charity. Consider it payment for the entertainment you've provided during this trip."

"Entertainment?"

"You're the first person in years who hasn't tripped over themselves trying to please me or stared with that idiotic lovestruck expression." She tossed her hair. "It's been a new experience."

"I'm glad my emotional unavailability could be of service."

Sandersonia laughed openly. Even Marigold smiled.

Hancock regarded me blankly for a moment before a small smile surfaced.

"Go," she said, waving dismissively. "Before I change my mind and keep you as a pet."

"I doubt I'd make a good one."

"No," she agreed. "You'd be unbearable."

I tucked the pouch away and descended the ladder. Halfway down, I stopped.

"Hancock."

She looked down at me from the railing.

"Marigold. Sandersonia."

I met each of their eyes in turn.

"Thank you. Take care of yourselves."

I dropped into the rowboat and took up the oars.

Above me, the three Gorgon Sisters stood watching.

Sandersonia raised her hand. "Good luck!"

Marigold nodded. "Don't die."

"I'll do my best."

Hancock remained silent, her expression unreadable.

I began rowing toward the shore, the distance growing with each steady pull. 

Then I turned one last time.

"Oh. One last thing," I called. "My name is Kiyotaka. Ayanokoji Kiyotaka."

I faced forward and continued rowing toward the distant shore.

...

Hancock and her two sisters watched the small rowboat shrink in the direction of the distant shore.

"Kiyotaka," she murmured, testing the name. It sounded foreign, but it suited him somehow.

"Ane-sama," Sandersonia said softly, "we should go."

"I know."

She turned away from the railing.

"Set course for Amazon Lily."

The Kuja ship began to turn, the two Yuda pulling it back toward the direction of the Calm Belt.

❦ —『 Wᴀʀᴍ Wᴇʟᴄᴏᴍᴇ 』— ❦

Since the incident in Mary Geoise, over two years had passed.

In the East Blue, a pirate ship cut through the water toward the harbor of a small town. At its mast fluttered a black flag emblazoned with a skull wearing a straw hat.

The moment it came into view, panic rippled through the port.

By the time the ship docked, a crowd had gathered at a safe distance. The local security forces had assembled in a hasty formation, rifles raised and pointed at the crew.

Four figures descended onto the dock simultaneously.

One was a young woman with short orange hair, wearing an orange mini-skirt and a short-sleeved shirt. Her eyes darted nervously between the armed men and her companions.

Behind her was a slim, tan-skinned young man with medium-length black curly hair and a prominently long nose. He looked even more anxious than the woman, practically trembling as he tried to hide behind her.

The third figure commanded immediate attention. It was a tall, muscular man with close-cropped green hair and three swords hanging at his hip. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt, a green haramaki wrapped around his waist, black trousers, and black boots. His expression was one of casual disinterest, as though the dozen guns pointed at them were beneath his notice.

And leading them all was a young man who still looked like a teenager. He wore a red vest, blue shorts, and simple sandals. Perched on his head was a straw hat that matched the flag above.

He strolled down, hands behind his back, head swiveling left and right as he inspected his surroundings with open curiosity. The rifles aimed at him might as well have been invisible.

"H-Halt!" one of the officers stammered. "State your business, pirates!"

The straw-hatted boy didn't even glance in his direction. He was too busy inspecting the scenery. 

The green-haired swordsman stepped forward, and several officers flinched. His hand drifted toward one of his swords.

"Th-That's—" one of them choked out. "That's Pirate Hunter Roronoa Zoro!"

"What's he doing on a pirate ship?!"

Zoro's hand paused on his sword hilt. "Relax," he said calmly. "We're just here to resupply. We'll pay. No need for anyone to do something stupid."

The officers exchanged uncertain glances. The woman and the long-nosed man remained tense behind their companions, clearly ready to bolt at the first sign of serious trouble.

But the boy in the straw hat had already wandered off, heading into town with the casual gait of someone on a stroll.

Zoro sighed and followed.

The other two trailed behind, still casting nervous looks over their shoulders.

...

Not far from the docks, in a quieter stretch of the village, a shop sat open to the street.

The building was spacious and open-air, with no proper door to speak of. Instead, a wide entrance spanned nearly the entire front wall, allowing customers to wander in and out freely. Shelves lined the interior walls, stocked with tools, ropes, basic supplies, and a modest selection of weapons. Everything was organized with careful precision.

Behind the counter sat the owner. It was a young man appearing to be in his late teens. He had broad shoulders, thick arms, and a physique shaped by discipline and training.

This was Ayanokoji Kiyotaka, known to the wider world as 'Hollow,' though no one in this town had made that connection.

He rested an elbow on the counter, gaze drifting toward the empty street.

Strange.

This was usually his busiest hour. People always passed through around this time, yet the street outside was deserted.

His eyes flicked briefly toward the harbor, though he couldn't see it from here.

Minutes passed in silence.

Then footsteps approached. They were hurried and uneven.

A man stumbled into the shop, breath uneven, eyes darting wildly. His clothes were worn and mismatched, and sweat slicked his brow despite the mild weather.

In his trembling hand, he clutched a knife.

"D-don't move!" the man stammered, pointing the blade toward Kiyotaka with shaking hands. "Give me all the money in that register! And anything valuable! Now!"

Kiyotaka looked up.

"You picked a bad time," he said evenly.

"Shut up!" The man's voice cracked. "I said, don't move! Just—just give me what I want, and nobody gets hurt!"

Kiyotaka didn't respond. His gaze drifted past the robber, toward the entrance.

Four figures had appeared outside the shop.

The group from the harbor. The orange-haired woman. The long-nosed man. The green-haired swordsman. And the boy with the straw hat.

They had stopped just outside, witnessing the scene unfold in front of them.

The straw-hatted boy leaned in slightly, eyes widening. "Oh! A robbery!"

The long-nosed man stiffened. "H-Hey! That guy's got a knife! We should help, right?!"

"Someone should do something!" the woman agreed, already tugging at the swordsman's sleeve. "Zoro! Luffy!"

Zoro's hand shifted toward his sword.

Then—

"Wait."

The straw-hatted boy lifted a hand.

The boy tilted his head, watching with sudden interest. The swordsman's eyes had narrowed, focused not on the robber but on the young shopkeeper behind the counter.

Inside the shop, Kiyotaka sighed. He rose from his seat with unhurried calm.

"Hey! I said don't mo—"

The kick that followed was too fast to track.

One moment, Kiyotaka was standing behind the counter, and the next, his leg had already completed its arc, connecting with the robber's midsection with a muted thud.

He flew out of the shop, rocketing through the air, before slamming into the stone wall of the building across the street.

Despite Kiyotaka holding back, the crack of breaking bones echoed through the quiet district.

The four pirates stared.

The long-nosed man's jaw had dropped. The woman's eyes were wide. Even the swordsman looked mildly impressed.

The boy with the straw hat was grinning.

Kiyotaka stepped out of the shop and crouched beside the man. The robber was unconscious, breathing shallowly, his knife lying forgotten several feet away.

He rifled through the man's pockets and found a small pouch filled with coins that he slipped into his own pocket.

He straightened, turned, and walked back toward his shop.

Only then did he seem to fully acknowledge the four strangers standing at his entrance.

"Oh?" He regarded them with mild interest. "Customers?"

He gestured toward the interior.

"My apologies for the mess. Come in," he added. "I'll give you a great price."

[END]