The duel was scheduled for a Sunday.
Mariejois tradition held that Sunday was for prayer. For ceremony. For pomp. But there's no greater ceremony in a nest of tyrants than blood spilled for entertainment.
I didn't announce it. I let the whispers do the work. "The Figarland heir is staging a match." "He's letting a slave fight?" "It's just a child!"
Good. Let them come curious. Let them come smug.
The courtyard was cleaned and waxed. White tiles gleamed under the noon sun. Nobles arrived in carriages shaped like beasts, like birds, like floating temples. They took seats on the high marble terrace overlooking the ring, lounging with parasols and jeweled opera glasses. Laughing, gossiping, already bored.
They didn't take her seriously.
Winter stood barefoot on the sanded tile, wearing a simple dark tunic. No ornaments. No armor. Just her eyes—gray as ash, cold as a grave.
Across from her, the opponent: a grown man, broad and scarred, a half-giant bloodline from the South Blue. Not a slave, but a trained gladiator, borrowed from the Roswald estate for a "friendly demonstration."
I paid him in gold for one thing: to go all out.
To make her bleed.
To make them watch.
A horn blew.
The duel began.
The man roared and charged, hammer raised.
Winter didn't move until the last possible second. Then: sidestep, blade drawn, a line of red across his thigh.
The crowd gasped.
He roared louder.
She danced backward, parried a swing that shattered stone. She didn't fight fair. She didn't fight honorably. She fought like she meant it.
She stabbed the tendon in his ankle.
Slashed his elbow.
Broke his nose with the hilt.
He fell.
She didn't hesitate.
One clean thrust. Right under the rib.
He twitched. Then stilled.
Winter wiped her blade on his sleeve and turned to face the nobles.
Silence.
One minute passed.
Two.
Then someone clapped.
Then more.
Polite. Hesitant. But real.
Not for her.
For me.
"Impressive," Saint Roswald said afterward, swirling his wine. "You trained her yourself?"
"Of course not," I lied. "I merely fed her. She did the rest."
He chuckled. "That one's got fire. Dangerous thing to give a slave."
"So is education. And weapons. Yet here we are."
He squinted at me.
Good. Let him wonder.
Winter knelt in front of me that night.
Her knees were scraped. Her hands still bruised. She hadn't spoken since the match.
I sat on the edge of my bed, one leg crossed, watching her with the quiet satisfaction of a man who just finished sharpening a very expensive blade.
"Did it feel good?" I asked.
She tilted her head. "Killing him?"
"No." I smiled faintly. "Making them watch."
She blinked slowly.
Then nodded.
Good girl.
The next day, five offers arrived by raven.
Three nobles wanted to purchase Winter. One wanted to "borrow" her for a demonstration. The last wanted to arrange a duel between her and his trained hound, apparently a Zoan user.
I burned all five letters.
Winter was not for sale.
Winter was a statement.
The message had been received.
The Figarland heir was not soft.
Not mad.
Not weak.
They wouldn't dare move openly.
But they were watching now.
Which meant it was time to build further.
Not upward.
Downward.
Beneath the Figarland estate was a network of disused tunnels—old seastone vaults, slave routes, wartime shelters. My father had ignored them. Most of the staff assumed they were sealed.
They weren't.
I spent nights with Winter mapping them, securing them. She memorized every corner, every turn. We installed locks, traps, escape caches. I began smuggling in supplies: maps of the Grand Line, coded ledgers, weapons, blueprints.
Why?
Because you never know when Mariejois will burn.
It might be tomorrow.
It might be ten years.
But one day, it will.
And when it does, I intend to walk out with clean shoes and a smile.
One evening, I brought Winter into the central vault.
Inside, under glass: the Rumble-Rumble Fruit.
We stood there for a long time.
She said nothing.
I said nothing.
Finally:
"Not yet," I murmured.
She nodded.
No protest. No greed.
She understood.
Power too soon is poison.
But the seed had been planted.
The promise was real.
One day, she would become lightning itself.
But only when I said so.
Meanwhile, the world spun on.
Pirates rose.
Warlords fell.
Dragon stirred.
And the sea began to whisper of names not yet written in the histories.
Luffy. Blackbeard. Law.
But here in the Holy Land, I was building something quieter.
A weapon. A legacy.
Not with fire.
With patience.
Because survival is not about being the strongest.
It's about being the last one left.
And I had just begun.