"Pathetic...!"
Francois's voice slithered out like poison through the slits of his mask. "Is this the so-called 'Emperor's crew' that passes for a pirate these days?"
He held the Whitebeard Pirates' Seventh Division Commander aloft by her face—his single hand clamped around her skull like a vice. The size difference between them was staggering: she was a towering Amazonian warrior, close to four meters tall, her burly frame built like a warship.
Among the sea of Whitebeard's famously powerful male commanders, she stood as one of the few women—proud, fearsome, unyielding. And yet, in the grip of the masked warlord, she looked no more threatening than a broken marionette.
Francois's contempt burned beneath his mask, not just for her, but for all the so-called men who followed Whitebeard—men he saw as weak, sentimental fools.
Her jaw clenched as blood trickled down her face where his fingers dug into her skin.
"Pops..." she growled through gritted teeth. "Pops will come for you. There will be no corner of this world you can crawl to—not even the World Government will be able to shield you from the old man's wrath."
Francois tilted his head ever so slightly, his voice low and dripping with malice.
"Heh... isn't that exactly what I'm hoping for?"
He pulled her closer, their faces inches apart. "Hoisting three of his so-called 'precious sons' hasn't been enough to bring him out of hiding. So now I wonder..." He leaned in, whispering, "Would stringing up the cold, naked corpse of his beloved daughter for the world to gawk at—would that finally drag Edward Newgate out of his cave?"
His laughter was a dry, metallic rasp that echoed through the blood-soaked battlefield.
Then, with a sickening crack, his fingers tightened. Bone split. Skin tore. Her scream tore through the air like a dying storm—but no mercy came.
Francois drove his fingers inward, crushing the skull like an eggshell in his hand. Blood, brain, and shattered bone splattered across his mask and armor as her body convulsed once, then went limp. He let the corpse fall unceremoniously at his feet.
"Where are you, Edward...? I've laid out such a grand banquet for you…"
Francois snickered, his voice low and laced with venomous amusement. He inhaled deeply through the slits of his mask, savoring the air as though it were the aroma of fine wine. But there were no longer any traces of the sea breeze or the sweet perfume of wildflowers this land had once been known for.
Now, the only scent that lingered was the acrid stench of scorched flesh, burning timber, and blood—so much blood it painted the winds with the coppery tang of genocide.
Behind him, the country no longer existed.
What once had been a vibrant coastal nation—rolling hills dotted with sunflower fields, peaceful fishing villages, a proud capital perched upon white cliffs—had been reduced to a smoldering, lifeless wasteland. Towns had been melted into slag. Rivers boiled until they evaporated. Forests were left as blackened skeletons, still crackling with ghostly embers.
Corpses littered the roads in grotesque parodies of life—some crushed into pulp, others burned beyond recognition, many dismembered where they had fled or stood. Entire families were found still clinging to one another, their final embrace preserved in ash.
He hadn't just attacked the country. He had erased it.
The World Government's orders had been simple: destabilize the region, stir unrest, and—if possible—reassert control over the country, bringing its leadership back under the Celestial Dragons' heel. A show of strength, not a massacre. But Francois had never been one to follow the rules of men he deemed beneath him.
Instead of sowing chaos, he had delivered annihilation.
And when four divisions of Whitebeard's crew had answered the desperate cries for help—veteran commanders and warriors who had defended these lands for decades—they were met not with battle, but with slaughter. Francois didn't even give them the chance to beg for mercy.
He broke them. Made them scream the name of the world's strongest man. Buried them alive beneath collapsing cities, drowned them in seas of molten steel, and tore through their ranks like a god of death in porcelain and iron.
Their remains now lay scattered across the broken landscape—limbs hanging from shattered buildings, faces frozen in terror, their Jolly Roger torn and trampled beneath Francois' boots.
While the corpses of the three commanders hung from the dead port, the whole world witnessed the fate of the Whitebeard pirates.
He stood now on what used to be the capital's grand plaza—once a place of festivals, music, and light. Now, it was a crater, its stonework scorched and crumbling, its central fountain bubbling not with water, but with dark, congealed blood.
Francois spread his arms, his silhouette illuminated by the inferno behind him.
"Come now, my friend. Your sons are dead. Your people are dust. Your territory is ash."
He looked to the heavens, as though daring the sea itself to answer.
"How many more pieces must I cut from your legacy before you finally crawl out from your throne of decay and face me?"
The wind howled through the ruins, carrying with it the screams of the damned still echoing from the inferno he had birthed.
Just as Francois was about to drag the mutilated corpse of his latest victim—soon to be hoisted alongside her butchered brothers—his steps halted. His Observation Haki flared, catching the faintest flicker of life far beyond the central plaza. It was subtle, expertly hidden, like a dying ember in the void.
But to Francois, whose senses had been honed to supernatural precision, it stood out like a bonfire in a moonless night. Beneath the cold porcelain of his mask, a smile slowly twisted across his face. He released the corpse with a wet thud and vanished in an instant, the wind swirling in his wake.
****
"Fuck… I need to get out of here alive..."
Beneath a collapsed building and half-buried in a pile of still-warm corpses, Edward Teach lay deathly still. Blood smeared across his skin, wounds oozing, his massive frame unnaturally contorted among the dead.
He had smeared ash into his wounds to dull the scent of blood. His body was limp, his breathing so shallow it barely stirred the dust. But the real deception lay deeper—he had suppressed his presence with such precision that even the most attuned Observation Haki users would have mistaken him for a lifeless body.
He was no fool. Teach had only joined Whitebeard's crew to bide his time, waiting for a chance to claim the Yami Yami no Mi, the most dangerous Devil Fruit in the world. He didn't sign up to die in a massacre.
He had been temporarily assigned to the Seventh Division, under that towering Amazonian lunatic who'd led their fleet in a suicidal charge. After hearing that three division commanders had fallen to a warlord, she had redirected every ship under her control to strike back in vengeance.
But what they found when they arrived was not a battlefield. It was a vision of hell.
Where once a thriving nation stood—home to millions—there was nothing but charred earth and haunted silence. Cities had been flattened. Forests turned to black glass. Rivers choked with ash and blood. And strung like grotesque banners above the burning port hung the rotting remains of the three commanders they had come to avenge, swinging gently in the wind like meat left for crows.
Even before landfall, Teach had felt it. That thing down there wasn't a man. It wasn't even a monster. It was something else.
Doom.
A pressure so thick it drowned reason, an instinctual terror that screamed in his bones: run. The others didn't listen. They were loyal. Proud. Stupid. Teach had no such delusions. He had plans, ambitions far beyond dying for someone else's pride.
When the fighting started, he had joined the fray just enough to keep appearances. He took a devastating blow—one that would have killed any ordinary man—but his monstrous physique allowed him to survive. Bloodied and broken, he had let himself fall among the dead, crushed beneath rubble and corpses, and lay still as the battle raged above.
And now... Just as he began calculating his next move, the sound reached him.
Crunch. Snap.
Boots grinding bone and flesh beneath their soles. Each step deliberate. Each one closer.
The air turned cold. Then came the voice—smooth, almost amused. A whisper riding the wind, yet heavy as a guillotine's fall.
"Well... well... what do we have here? A rat that managed to slip past my net..." Francois smirked, his tone teasing.
Teach's heart slammed against his ribs, but he forced himself to stillness, clamping down with every ounce of willpower. He diminished his heartbeat again, slowed his breath to a whisper, and relaxed his muscles like death had truly claimed him.
He couldn't risk even a flinch. But inside his mind, panic clawed like a caged animal. Don't move. Don't breathe. Don't even think too loudly… The melody of death itself was circling him, and one wrong note meant the end.
"Oye... get up." Francois's voice slithered through the ruins, laced with cold amusement.
"I know you're alive. There's no need to play dead anymore."
A heavy boot slammed into Teach's side with a brutal thud, the force driving into his ribs. The mountain of corpses shifted under the blow, but Teach remained motionless—silent, breath shallow, body limp.
Francois frowned beneath his mask, irritation bubbling. He leaned forward, hand reaching toward the "corpse" to haul him upright—when his Observation Haki spiked.
In a blur of motion, Teach sprang to life. His massive frame erupted from the corpses with startling agility, eyes wide with desperation and fury. In one fluid motion, he brought his right hand forward—a wicked clawed weapon, curved and jagged like the talon of a demon, now sheathed in pitch-black Armament Haki that pulsed like liquid shadow.
The claw arced toward Francois's masked face with killing intent. To anyone else, it would have been a fatal surprise. But Francois was not "anyone." However, even Francois's heart paused for a moment when his eyes met Teach's face, but he quickly composed himself.
With preternatural calm, his free hand snapped up and caught Teach's wrist mid-strike. The bones creaked instantly under the pressure—CRACK—as the clawed weapon slipped from numb fingers and clattered onto the mound of corpses below.
Francois didn't even flinch. Teach gritted his teeth, veins bulging at the temple. Most would be writhing in agony, but he pushed through, relying on that same bizarre, unnatural physique that had kept him alive this long. With a grunt of effort, he shifted weight, coating the entire left half of his body in gleaming Armament Haki—his skin turning obsidian-like, pulsing with a monstrous density.
He lunged, aiming to ram Francois with the full force of his Haki-infused body. But Francois moved like lightning. His free arm shot forward, gripping Teach by the throat with vice-like force, hoisting the larger man effortlessly into the air. The Seventh Division pirate thrashed, legs kicking as Francois ascended the mound of corpses beneath them, standing tall, framed by firelight and ash.
Francois tilted his head, studying his captive. Something about this man—this pirate—felt... familiar. So familiar, that those memories that should have been long forgotten surfaced again. And despite his inner will asking him to end it, another voice within him asked him to stop. For a moment even Francois struggled to come to a decision while Teach struggled with all his might to break free from the grip.
"Hmm... strange physique indeed," Francois murmured, tightening his grip just enough to make Teach's eyes bulge. His gaze traced the deep gash stretching from Teach's shoulder to hip—a wound that should have left him dead hours ago. And yet, disturbingly, the wound was closing.
Not healing instantly like a Logia or Zoan might—but methodically, unnaturally. The flesh was mending itself, vein by vein, tissue knitting together with a resilience that no normal man should possess.
"That cut should have spilled your guts across the battlefield…boy," Francois said, a note of fascination creeping into his voice. "But you... give it a week or two and you'll be whole again, won't you?"
Teach thrashed in his grip, face twisted with pain and rage, but Francois only grew more curious as the familiarity finally set in. There was something off about him—his Haki, his durability, even the way his life force felt. It wasn't monstrous in the traditional sense, but unstable. Like something buried beneath the surface, something... waiting.
Francois leaned in slightly, eye-level with his struggling prisoner.
"Fascinating... Who are you?"
His voice dropped to a whisper. "Why do I feel... connected to you? And what is someone like you doing serving under Whitebeard like a loyal dog?"
There was no mockery now. Only raw, simmering curiosity.
"Answer me, boy."
He paused, his haki sharpening like the scythes of a reaper.
"Maybe—just maybe—if your answer amuses me, I'll let you walk out of here alive."
Francois chuckled, his voice low and metallic—a sound that echoed like a dirge in the silent graveyard of a nation he had turned to ash.
And still, he stared into Teach's eyes, searching for the truth behind the anomaly. Because who Edward Teach truly was… Francois knew instinctively—this was no ordinary pirate, this was his own blood.
****
The Isshin Dojo training grounds—once a humble space echoing with the clash of wooden swords and the disciplined shouts of students—had been utterly transformed. On this day, it was no longer merely a training yard, but a sacred ceremonial platform—a place of oath and rebirth.
The stone courtyard had been swept spotless, its edges lined with white banners bearing the crest of the Kozuki Clan, fluttering softly in the breeze. Lanterns hung from long wooden poles, casting a warm amber glow that blended with the soft rays of the setting sun, painting everything in a golden hue. Incense burned at each corner, the smoke rising in gentle curls, filling the air with the earthy scent of sandalwood and cherry blossom.
Where once students sparred and trained, now thirty young warriors knelt in solemn seiza, dressed in ceremonial robes of deep indigo and crimson. Each robe bore the stylized crest of the Kozuki upon the back, still unclaimed—but soon to be earned.
At the center of the grounds, atop a raised wooden platform adorned with silken banners and sacred symbols, Sukiyaki Kozuki, the former shogun of Wano, sat in full regalia. His presence radiated authority—not of command, but of deep-rooted legacy.
Flanking him were Kozaburo Shimotsuki, the aging swordsmith whose blades had once sung in Wano's glorious days, and his son Koushirō, the quiet and revered master of the Isshin Dojo. Together, they bore witness as representatives of the Shimotsuki bloodline, honoring the ancestral bond between Wano and the Eastern Sea.
This ceremony had not come lightly.
With Koushirō's blessing, Sukiyaki had come to the students weeks earlier—not with promises, but with truth. He spoke not of glory, but of burden. He told them of the New World, where empires clashed and titans ruled the seas. He spoke of the poneglyphs, of the legacy of the Kozuki clan, and of the fire that must be kept burning in the heart of the samurai. He held nothing back. There would be death, despair, and monsters who cared nothing for honor or justice.
The students were given a choice—no shame for walking away. And many did.
But not all. Nearly thirty remained—mostly orphans, wanderers, boys and girls with no future but with hearts that still dared to dream. With no families to return to, they saw in this oath a chance to carve meaning into their lives. To walk in the footsteps of legend. To become samurai.
Even I had been surprised at their resolve. In a world where strength often overshadowed purpose, these young ones had chosen both.
And at the very front, kneeling with quiet dignity, was a familiar little figure—Roronoa Zoro.
Clad in a pristine white robe, he sat straight-backed, his spiky green hair tied in a ceremonial topknot, his eyes closed in stillness. Though Sukiyaki had long accepted him as his grandson in blood, no formal rites had ever been performed. Today, that would change.
Today, Zoro would not only carry the blood of Wano—he would be bound to its spirit.
Behind the ceremonial platform, on a higher dais reserved for honored guests, Mihawk and I sat side by side, overlooking the ceremony as witnesses.
Mihawk shifted uncomfortably, his arms crossed, eyes flicking between the students and the gathering crowd of villagers, retainers, and sword bearers. He leaned in and whispered under his breath.
"Are you sure we should be part of this? After all… we're not samurai. We're criminals, pirates."
He wasn't wrong—not entirely.
"We're not even from Wano," he continued, a trace of unease in his voice. "We don't carry their blood. Are we really worthy of sitting here, much less as guests of honor?"
For all his bravado, it was rare to see Mihawk unsettled. He was a man who walked into war with no hesitation, yet a moment like this—intimate, cultural, sacred—made him feel like an intruder.
Before I could reply, Sukiyaki himself turned slightly, having overheard Mihawk's doubts. A warm smile curved his aged face.
"If you two are not qualified to witness this ceremony," the old shogun said gently, "then I fear no one else in this world is. These children are blessed—beyond measure—to have swordsmen of your caliber as their witnesses."
He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing.
"And as Zoro's master, it is your obligation to be here. Today, he does not only inherit a name. He inherits a destiny. One that you, both of you, have shaped with your own blades."
I glanced at Mihawk. He said nothing, but his expression shifted—just a flicker, a moment of pride poorly concealed behind indifference.
Sukiyaki had seen what few had: after witnessing the duel between Mihawk and me, he recognized it. That spark. The quiet storm. These two swordsmen, once wanderers, now walked a path that would someday rival the legacy of Ryuma, the Sword God himself.
As drums began to beat—a slow, rhythmic cadence that echoed through the open courtyard—the students bowed their heads in unison.
The ceremony had begun.
And thirty souls, beneath the gaze of ancestors, gods, and the eyes of two of the greatest swordsmen of the age, prepared to cast away their old names and embrace the flame of Kozuki.
A new generation of samurai had risen. And with them, a legend reborn.
Sukiyaki rose slowly from his seat at the center of the platform, his aged hands steady as they raised a ceremonial scroll. The courtyard fell into total silence, the kind that felt carved into the very air. The banners ceased their fluttering. The firelight stilled.
"On this day," Sukiyaki began, his voice low but unwavering, "the sons and daughters of the sword rise to claim not only a name, but a burden. You kneel not as students, but as warriors. And by rising, you shall carry the legacy of Kozuki—not just in title, but in spirit. This is no mere oath of blood, but of conviction."
He turned his gaze to the crowd. To Mihawk. To me and then the rest of the witnesses. And then, to the children before him.
"The World awaits, cruel and unrelenting. Should you take this vow, you may never again know peace. You will face monsters not of flesh, but of ambition. You will bleed. You will suffer. And some among you may die before you even understand the reason why."
Some of the younger students swallowed hard, their shoulders stiff. But not Zoro.
The boy sat still, lips pressed in a tight line. His little hands rested on his lap, fists curled—not out of fear, but restraint. He didn't fully understand the gravity of the words. But he knew this meant something important. He could feel it in his bones.
"And yet," Sukiyaki continued, "you remain. You choose to bear this. So rise now, and speak your names anew."
One by one, the students stood, voices ringing out clear and solemn.
"I am Kozuki…"
The names followed—some shy, some proud, some quaking with emotion. A chain of spirits linking together, one vow at a time. And then finally at the forefront, little Zoro stood.
His tiny feet planted firmly into the polished wood. His hands clenched at his sides. Eyes like sharpened emeralds stared up at Sukiyaki.
"Kozuki... Zoro."
The words were small. But they echoed. For a moment, everything stilled again. Even the fire crackled quieter.
Sukiyaki stepped forward and placed a hand on the boy's head—no longer with the warmth of a grandfather, but with the reverence of a lord welcoming a true heir.
"From this day forward," he said, "you walk not alone. You carry a name, a purpose… and the fire of Wano itself. Welcome, heir to the Kozuki bloodline."
From the side, Koushiro smiled quietly. And in the crowd, little Kuina's eyes shimmered with emotion—for both her friend and rival and the legacy Zoro would now be tied to.
The ceremony continued for another hour—an hour filled with solemn vows, the ringing of ceremonial bells, and the quiet crackle of torchlight flickering against ancestral banners. When it finally concluded, most of the villagers and fellow students dispersed, leaving behind only the thirty newly inducted Kozuki retainers, a few elders, and those who stood closest to the bloodline.
The air hung heavy with the scent of incense and steel, but the mood had softened. What was once sacred now felt familial. That was when Kuina stepped forward.
Cradled in her hands was Wado Ichimonji—the pristine white scabbard gleaming like moonlight on snow, its simplicity masking the deep legacy it carried. One of the 21 Ō Wazamono, a sword that had carved history, now walked gently in the hands of a girl barely into her childhood.
"Here," she said, voice clear, proud. "From the Shimotsuki family—to the heir of the Kozuki bloodline."
All eyes turned to the small boy standing before her.
Zoro, barely four, stood stiffly in his ceremonial robe. The white sleeves fluttered slightly in the wind, his tiny fists balled at his sides. Until now, he'd simply followed what he was told—kneel here, bow there, recite your name—but this... this was different. His wide, moss-green eyes locked onto the blade, and the world around him faded.
His mouth opened slightly in wonder.
He had begged—pestered—his master for a real blade countless times, ever since he'd heard that Kuina had been gifted one by her own master. Every time, Mihawk gave the same infuriating reply:
"A swordsman's worth is not measured by the quality of the blade he wields..."
Zoro never said it aloud, but deep down he always thought, "Sure, that sounds cool... but I still want a badass sword!"
Now, standing in front of a legendary blade so close he could smell the polished lacquer, the child-warrior inside him trembled. His fingers itched. His little feet shuffled forward instinctively.
But... he stopped.
He turned—to Sukiyaki, who offered an encouraging nod and a gentle smile.
Then to Mihawk, who—being Mihawk—snorted dismissively and muttered, "Overdramatic, as always..."
I couldn't help but jab my elbow into Mihawk's side, grinning. "Oye, Hawkeyes. I gave my student a Supreme Grade blade. Shouldn't you at least match that? Or are you holding out on the poor kid?"
Mihawk gave me a withering glare.
Zoro's ears perked up. His eyes narrowed slightly, looking between his master and the sword in Kuina's hands. If he could talk freely, he might've screamed: "You stingy bastard! You're the strongest swordsman in the world—don't tell me Supreme Grade blades are too expensive for you!"
But instead, he stayed silent. Composed. Almost monk-like. Mihawk raised an eyebrow, then turned to his student.
"My student," he said dryly, "is unlike yours. He will, in his own time, find a blade worthy of his name. Even if I gave him one, his pride would not allow him to accept it. Isn't that right, Zoro?"
There was a beat of silence. Then—shhhlick.
Little Zoro, without waiting a second more, had already snatched Wado Ichimonji from Kuina's hands and clutched it tightly to his chest. His tiny arms barely fit around the scabbard.
He looked up at Mihawk, his face saying everything his words couldn't:
"WHY is my master such a damn miser? It's just a Supreme Grade sword! What's the point of being the world's strongest swordsman if you're cheaper than the dojo's canteen lunch"?
But instead of voicing his indignation, Zoro straightened up like a proud soldier and said with all the false composure a toddler could muster:
"Yes, sensei. I will find my own blade... in the future." His words were stoic.
His hands, however, betrayed him—clinging to Wado Ichimonji like a starving raccoon guarding its first ever meal. You'd need the Sword God Ryuma himself to pry it out of his grip.
Koushirō chuckled under his breath. Even he was surprised to see that his father—legendary swordsmith Shimotsuki Kozaburō—had permitted Kuina to offer the blade to Zoro. But it made sense. With Sode no Shirayuki soon to pass to Kuina, Wado Ichimonji needed a new home. A new purpose.
And perhaps, just perhaps, it had found a hand worthy of it.
As the last rays of sunlight dipped behind the mountains, and the fires of the Isshin Dojo courtyard flickered like dying stars, Sukiyaki stepped forward once more. He placed a hand gently atop Zoro's head.
"He may be small now," the old man murmured to Mihawk, "but someday… he will carry the weight of an entire nation on those shoulders. He is not just a Kozuki in name. He will be our blade… and our shield."
Mihawk's eyes narrowed slightly.
"If he survives his master's training…" I cackled. "Or if his master survives his student's tantrums."
From below, Zoro glared at both of us, Wado Ichimonji still locked tightly in his arms. He had no idea what kind of future awaited him. But in that moment, he had a name, a sword, and a place to call his own. And that was enough.