The wooden boat creaked rhythmically against the grey swell of the North Blue. The man at the helm kept a firm grip on the tiller, his other hand resting on the hilt of the Kubikiribocho. The massive blade, wrapped in tattered rags, was the only thing providing weight and stability to the small vessel. He stared at the horizon, his presence shrouded by a thick, unnatural mist that clung to the water's surface.
It had been a week since he left Shroud Island. The coup had failed, but he had walked through the palace's defenses unscathed. As a Logia user, the hail of bullets and the steel of the royal guard had passed through his mist-composed body without drawing a single drop of blood. He wasn't wounded, but he was a man without a country. Now, with a thirty-million berry bounty on his head, the former captain was a ghost haunting the northern seas.
The silhouette of a jagged, snow-covered island broke the monotony of the horizon. Yuki Island was a desolate rock, a place where exiles and terminal outcasts sought refuge. As the boat hit the black sand of the shore, he stepped out. His clothes were shredded and stained with dried salt, but his skin was flawless. He slung the heavy sword over his shoulder and headed toward the only settlement on the coast.
The village was silent. Signs of a recent military incursion were everywhere: splintered doors, looted granaries, and bodies cooling under the falling snow. He didn't stop to examine the dead; he needed basic supplies and a ship better than a rotting rowboat. In the center of the village square, he found a group of mercenaries wearing the crest of Shroud Island.
Six men, armed with flintlock rifles and standard sabers, were surrounding a small figure huddled on the ground. They were laughing as they kicked the child.
He stopped at the corner of the square, hidden behind the shroud of his own technique. He did not intervene immediately. He watched the mercenaries with the coldness of a man counting ammunition, analyzing the situation until the ground vibrated. Shards of jagged crystal erupted from the stone floor, slicing through one of the man's boots. The mercenary screamed, clutching his bleeding ankles as he fell back.
"Kill the brat now!" the leader ordered.
Before they could pull their triggers, the air grew heavy, almost solid. A dense, white mist swallowed the square in seconds, seeping into the mercenaries' lungs and chilling the metal of their rifles until they were useless. Sound was muffled; panic spread as the men realized this was no natural weather.
"Who's there?" the leader yelled, firing blindly into the white void.
There was no verbal answer. Only the whistle of a heavy blade. The first man died instantly, his head severed by a horizontal swing. The second man felt a cold pressure before the Kubikiribocho split him down the middle. He moved through the mist with absolute precision; the humidity in the air told him exactly where his targets were.
When the mist finally thinned, the snow was stained deep red. He stood in the center of the carnage, flicking the blood off his blade with a sharp motion. He sheathed the sword and looked at the boy.
"Those eyes," he said, his voice a low rasp. "You've already given up on living."
The boy didn't move. He looked at the crystals that had manifested from his hands.
"They call me a monster," the boy whispered.
"In this world, being a monster is the only way to avoid being a victim," he replied, stepping closer. "That power is the only reason you're not among those corpses. What is your name?"
"Haku."
"Listen, Haku. I am not a savior. I am a man at war with the world. Right now, I have nothing but this sword and a goal. To reach it, I need that power of yours to become a weapon."
The boy looked up. He didn't find pity or fear in the man's gaze, only a cold, functional honesty.
"Do you want me to kill for you?" Haku asked.
"I want you to be my tool. A mirror that reflects my will. If you come with me, you will no longer be a victim. You will be the one who inflicts the pain."
Haku stood up. His legs were shaking from hunger, but his gaze was steady. He walked over and took his place one step behind him.
"I understand, Master. I will be your weapon."
He nodded and began walking toward the outskirts of the village. They needed a place to take refuge from the patrols that Bastion would surely send after the missing mercenaries. As they entered the frozen forest, silence reigned over the island once more. There were no witnesses; only two shadows moving through the snow, preparing for a war the North Blue could not yet imagine.
They found a natural cave far from the main paths. He lit a small fire to cook some dried meat he had scavenged from the mercenaries. Haku sat on the other side of the flames, watching the imposing profile of his new master.
"Make no mistake, boy," he said without looking up. "The path we have taken has no return. From tomorrow on, you will learn that your life does not belong to you, but to the edge of my sword."
Haku nodded, holding his hands out toward the fire.