The wind screamed across the jagged cliffs of the deserted island, carrying the scent of salt and decaying flora. The waves below struck the stone with relentless violence, churning froth and foam into the air like ghostly mist. A twisted tree clung to the rock face, half-dead, branches clawing skyward in defiance of time and nature.
Amidst this desolation, a lone figure stood.
Pale skin gleamed under the brutal twin suns. Silver hair whipped around sharp, angular features as his obsidian eyes gazed over the endless sea. He had no name. No title. No past worth remembering. What remained was a predator reborn, his old life discarded like rotting flesh.
The wind carried no voices. No hope. Only the ceaseless cries of seabirds and the crash of the ocean's fury.
His new body pulsed with power.
Strength coiled beneath his skin, each step heavier, grounded, radiating force. Every muscle felt forged from tempered iron. The Kenpachi Zaraki Template wove its influence through his bones, granting him battle-hardened instincts. He could sense the presence of life across the island, though none dared approach. Even the beasts understood what had arrived among them.
He drew Enma from its crude sheath. The black blade shimmered, a living extension of his will. It thrummed with hunger, eager for violence, for release. The weight felt natural in his grip, not an object to wield but an arm reborn.
His first motion split a fallen tree trunk cleanly in two.
No resistance. No effort.
The air displaced violently, a visible shockwave kicking up debris in a wide arc.
He grinned in silence.
A step forward became a blur, the newly acquired Flash Step from Yoruichi of Bleach propelling him forward with a sudden burst of speed. The world slowed, perception narrowing, instincts sharpening. The air howled in protest at his movement, dust and sand torn free in a howling wake.
Another step. Another. He crossed half the island in mere seconds, leaping between broken cliffs and ancient, forgotten statues crumbling under centuries of neglect.
A shape appeared.
A beast — massive, reptilian, with bone-white scales and jagged fangs. Six crimson eyes fixed upon him, its maw dripping venom as it reared to strike. A monster formed by the chaos of this world's forgotten edges.
He did not hesitate.
His body moved without thought.
Battle Intuition guided every motion. The sword rose, descending in a fluid, merciless arc.
Flesh parted like mist.
A headless corpse slumped to the sand. Blood hissed as it touched the sun-baked earth, black smoke rising from the heat. The predator fell without sound, the light in its eyes extinguished.
Another trophy for the desolate ground.
He did not linger.
Another burst of movement. Another kill.
A serpent with three heads and iron scales slithered from a stone crevice. His blade met it mid-lunge, cleaving two heads in a single motion, the third silenced by a crushing kick that shattered bone and skull alike.
The week of isolation was his crucible.
Each sunrise marked by relentless training.
Sword strikes against stone walls, carving deep trenches into ancient cliffs. Fist strikes into solid rock until blood ran down knuckles, only to be healed moments later by the sheer resilience granted by his template. No technique manuals. No teachers. Only instinct and the cruel tutor of the battlefield.
Smoke Devil Fruit powers awakened naturally.
At first, wisps. Small trails of gray mist that curled from his skin. By the second day, full-bodied clouds swirled at his command. Tendrils of smoke lashed out, forming crude constructs — blades, walls, spears — each responding to his sharpened will.
By the fourth night, the entire island's northern cliffs were shrouded in choking mist.
The beasts that had once ruled the land fled to the oceans or burrowed into forgotten caves, unwilling to challenge the smothering presence that dominated the skies.
Ratio Technique from Nanami Kento required precision.
He trained by marking stone, wood, and the hide of dead beasts, striking at weak points invisible to the untrained. His strikes landed with devastating finality, splitting boulders thrice his size clean in half, the technique's mathematical violence reducing obstacles to dust.
It pleased him.
A cold, efficient method to dismantle the powerful.
The Akaza Combat Technique Memory took root in his movements.
Stances not learned but remembered, as though his soul had known them across lifetimes. His fists moved with brutal elegance, combining ferocity and calculated strikes. Every blow enhanced by his monstrous strength, every motion an echo of ancient martial perfection.
He challenged the wild sea on the fifth day.
Diving into its churning embrace, where titanic shapes lurked in the deep. A colossal crustacean with spiked claws the size of siege towers attacked from below, its armored shell impervious to cannon fire and age.
His blade met its strike.
The clash split the air, sending geysers of saltwater skyward.
Smoke tendrils lashed out, wrapping around limbs, blinding eyes, constricting like sentient serpents. The creature struggled, bellowed, dragged beneath the waves. The battle lasted an hour, the sea stained crimson.
When it ended, he emerged alone, Enma darkened by blood.
Another test passed.
He returned to the shore, body unmarred, strength undiminished.
The sixth day was for endurance.
He meditated atop a spire of stone as storms rolled in, lightning splitting the sky. Winds battered his form, rain fell in sheets, but he did not move. Hours passed. Thunder roared. His mind remained clear, battle lust controlled, instincts sharpened to a razor's edge.
He saw without seeing.
Felt without touching.
The island's heartbeat, the currents of the distant sea, the primal terror of lesser creatures that dared not approach.
Every element bent before his presence.
On the seventh day, he opened the Gacha System again.
The interface flickered before him, ethereal and ancient. A single ticket remained — a Mythic-grade prize. The wheel spun, colors merging, reality warping in its presence.
A card descended.
[Obtained: Bloodforged Mantle of the Forgotten Warlord (Artifact)]
A crimson cloak materialized upon his shoulders, stitched from a fabric that shimmered like liquid darkness, etched with runes no tongue could pronounce. It felt heavy with ancient malice, its presence a weight upon the air.
The mantle granted no warmth.
Only authority.
A relic of a warrior long dead, now claimed by a man without name.
With his tools assembled, he prepared for his exodus.
The island was a graveyard now. Trees toppled, cliffs shattered, the earth marked by blade and smoke. The beasts fled, their rulers slaughtered, their dominion ended. The air reeked of blood and ash.
A crude raft was constructed from the bones of slain leviathans and driftwood, bound by iron chains scavenged from ancient ruins. It creaked beneath his weight, the water hissing against its sides as though protesting his passage.
The sea awaited.
And beyond it, a world of monsters.
Rocks D. Xebec. Whitebeard. Kaido. Big Mom. Shiki. John. Ochoku. Silver Axe.
Legends in their infancy.
He would meet them, not as a follower, but as a rival. A predator among predators.
The seas would not be kind. The world was not built for mercy.
But neither was he.
He set sail beneath a blood-hued sky, smoke trailing from his form, the mantle billowing in the storm-forged wind. The horizon was a jagged wound of light and shadow, a promise of violence and legacy.
Each wave carried him toward history.
Toward infamy.
No alliances.
No redemption.
Only conquest.
The sea groaned, the air thickened, and far beyond the veil of mist and storm, the world of One Piece braced itself for a new force. Not a savior. Not a hero. A storm without purpose beyond power itself.
The raft drifted further, the sun dipping toward the horizon.
Somewhere, distant war drums sounded.
Somewhere, the Rocks Pirates gathered.
He grinned in silence.
The week had ended.
The world would bleed.
And the sea… would remember his name.
When he finally chose one.