One Piece : Brotherhood

Bellaterra, New World

The tavern was alive with laughter and chatter, a stark contrast to the deathly silence that had once suffocated this land. The island of Bellaterra, once reduced to a desolate wasteland by years of unrelenting drought, now thrived as a verdant paradise.

Lush green pastures stretched endlessly, dotted with golden fields of wheat swaying in the breeze. Ancient forests, reborn in just a few short years, stood proudly as if they had never known decay.

Streams of crystal-clear water snaked through the land, feeding crops and filling reservoirs, their gentle murmur a soothing melody to a people who had once begged the heavens for rain.

Above this flourishing landscape, the flag of the Donquixote Pirates flew high, proudly fluttering atop watchtowers, factories, and homes alike. Its presence was a constant reminder of the family's dominion, but also of their salvation. For the people of Bellaterra, the skull-and-feather emblem was not a symbol of terror but of hope and survival.

An old shipwright sat at the corner of the bustling tavern, his weathered face creased with nostalgia as he downed a tankard of frothy ale. "Would anyone believe," he began, his voice rough but steady, "that this very same country was a barren graveyard just a couple of years ago? That we were nothing more than skeletons waiting for our turn to join the dirt?"

A younger man at the same table, perhaps a farmer by the look of his hands, nodded fervently.

"Aye, I remember… I remember when the drought took everything. No rain, no crops, no animals… Just hunger. The land was so dead, we didn't even have the strength to bury our own. People… people did things no one should have to do…" His voice faltered, the dark memories surfacing briefly before he shook them off. "But the Donquixote family—no matter what the world calls them—they were our saviors."

A murmur of agreement rippled through the tavern, voices blending into a hum of gratitude. "Pirates, sure," another man added, raising his cup. "But who else came for us? The World Government? The Marines? They didn't care if we starved, if we died." He slammed his cup onto the table. "It was them—the Donquixote—who brought food, water, and life back to this land!"

Out the tavern window, the revitalized Bellaterra gleamed in the midday sun. Children ran freely through the meadows, their laughter carrying on the breeze, while women worked in thriving gardens.

The once-starved soil was now rich and dark, yielding harvests so bountiful that surplus grain filled storehouses. Metal factories stood alongside the farmlands, their hum of activity a testament to the balance between industrial growth and the island's natural rebirth.

Few on Bellaterra knew the true secret behind this miraculous recovery. Beneath the surface, in tunnels and burrows hidden from sight, the Tontatta Tribe, the industrious and nature-loving dwarves, worked tirelessly. With their ancient knowledge and unique abilities, they had coaxed life back into the very bones of the island.

Using their unparalleled skill in nurturing the earth, they had regenerated the land's vitality at a pace that defied belief. The Donquixote family's leadership and resources had brought the Tontatta to Bellaterra, but it was the dwarves who had wielded their "magic" to make the impossible possible.

Not everyone, of course, was pleased. A small group of dissenters gathered in a shadowed corner of the tavern, whispering their grievances. "They're pirates," one hissed, his tone bitter. "They rule with fear. Don't let this prosperity blind you to the truth."

But their muttered complaints were drowned out by the resounding voice of the majority.

"Ungrateful fools!" a burly fisherman bellowed from across the room. "Where were you when our children were eating dirt to survive? When the old were dying in their sleep just to escape the hunger? If it weren't for the Donquixote, you'd be long dead like the rest of your kind."

The dissenters fell silent under the weight of the room's disapproval. In Bellaterra, gratitude for the Donquixote family ran deep. To the majority, they weren't just pirates—they were saviors, kings, and protectors. They had not only saved the people from starvation but given them a chance to thrive.

At the far end of the tavern, the shipwright stood, raising his tankard high. "Here's to the Donquixote family! Call them what you want—pirates, devils—but to us, they'll always be the ones who saved our lives!"

The room erupted in cheers, the clinking of mugs and shouts of approval filling the air. Outside, the flag of the Donquixote Pirates swayed gently in the wind, a symbol of power, loyalty, and the hope that had pulled Bellaterra back from the brink of oblivion.

The tension in the dimly lit tavern was almost suffocating. A group of pirates sat huddled at a corner table, their rough appearances and hushed voices barely drawing glances from the locals—most of whom were more concerned with their own meals and drinks. However, the air around the pirates reeked of unease.

"Captain, are we really sure about this?" asked the vice-captain, his sharp features partially hidden by the brim of his wide black hat. His black trench coat flared slightly as he leaned forward, his hand resting on the hilt of the silver rapier concealed beneath it.

"This is Donquixote territory. If they find out, they won't just hunt us down—they'll chase us to the ends of the world."

The captain, a hulking figure of a man standing close to six meters tall, grunted in annoyance. His muscles strained beneath his torn shirt, and his thick hands gripped a tankard that looked comically small in his grip. A chewed cigar hung from his lips as he sneered down at his nervous crew.

His name was Brackston Crag, a pirate with a bounty of 430 million berries. For years, his name had struck fear into the hearts of lesser crews, but here in Bellaterra, even he felt the weight of their audacity.

"Cowards," he growled, his voice a low rumble like an impending storm. "Do you think I don't know the risk? Do you think I'm stupid enough to stroll in here without a plan?" He crushed the empty tankard in his hand, the mangled wood dripping ale onto the floor as he bit into the smoldering remains of his cigar before swallowing it whole. The sight made several crewmembers gulp nervously.

"But Captain," another crewmember piped up, his voice shaking slightly, "what about what happened to the last crew that messed with Donquixote territory? You know the story—every last one of them was skinned alive, their bodies nailed to their own ship, left to drift in the sea as a warning."

The pirates exchanged uneasy glances, the memory of the gruesome tale sending chills down their spines. Even the locals seemed wary of speaking ill of their rulers, their loyalty bordering on fanaticism. The skull-and-feather flags fluttering over Bellaterra weren't just decorations; they were warnings that the Donquixote family ruled this land with an iron grip.

Brackston let out a derisive laugh, his massive shoulders shaking. "You're all fools. Why do you think we came onto this island quietly, eh? Why do you think we didn't charge in with our Jolly Roger flying high? I know the risks better than anyone." He lit another cigar, the orange glow illuminating his scarred face as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

"This island has the largest seastone processing factory in all Donquixote territory," he continued, his tone dark and calculated. "Do you have any idea how much refined seastone is worth on the black market? Every gram is more valuable than gold. And we're not just dealing with scraps here. The Cipher Pol has already paved the way for us."

The mention of Cipher Pol sent a ripple of discomfort through the group. The vice-captain leaned in, his voice a low hiss. "You made a deal with those government dogs? Captain, that's suicide. They'd stab us in the back the moment it's convenient."

Brackston smirked, his teeth gleaming through the haze of smoke. "You don't see the bigger picture. Cipher Pol is offering us something more than gold. They promised me a Devil Fruit." His voice dropped, carrying a predatory hunger. "You know what that means for me. I've hit my limit as I am. With a fruit, I'll break through this plateau and rise to a whole new level."

The vice-captain stiffened, his eyes narrowing in mistrust. "And you think they'll just hand it over? They're playing you, Captain. You know it. And when the Donquixote find out, we'll be caught between two monsters."

Brackston slammed his fist onto the table, silencing the crew. "The deal is set. All we have to do is cause enough chaos for Cipher Pol to do their job. Then we slip away with the seastone and the fruit. Simple."

But what the crew didn't know was Cipher Pol's true objective. For months, the secretive government agency had been probing the outskirts of Donquixote territory, unable to breach Dressrosa or its heavily fortified neighboring islands. Bellaterra, however, presented an opportunity.

Through weeks of careful surveillance, Cipher Pol had confirmed a tantalizing lead: one of the Donquixote family's inner circle—the infamous children trained by Doflamingo himself—had been spotted on the island, seemingly without their usual cadre of higher-ups.

It was a rare opportunity, and Cipher Pol's real goal was far more sinister than they had let on. They planned to capture the child and attempt to brainwash them, to turn them into a weapon against their own family.

The vice-captain's unease only grew as the captain's plan unfolded. The locals' loyalty to the Donquixote family bordered on worship. Even now, he could see them casting suspicious glances at their group, their hands lingering near tools that could double as weapons.

"This is a mistake," the vice-captain muttered under his breath. "The Donquixote don't forgive. And they don't forget."

Brackston merely chuckled, puffing a thick cloud of smoke as he stood, his massive shadow stretching across the tavern. "Let them come," he said, his voice dripping with arrogance. "By the time they realize what's happened, we'll be long gone, and I'll have everything I need to tear them apart piece by piece."

The tavern's raucous atmosphere froze in an instant as the soft clink of a stool being pulled out drew everyone's attention. I settled into the seat at Brackston's table with a casual ease that made the dozen pirates stiffen like cornered prey.

Slowly, I leaned forward and, with a faint thud, placed half a dozen severed heads on the table. Crimson blood dripped from the clean cuts, pooling on the battered wood. The air grew thick, the metallic tang of blood overpowering the stale scent of rum and sweat.

"Tear us apart piece by piece, was it?" I said, my voice calm, almost amused. "Now, that's a first. I'm curious, my friend—how exactly did you plan to achieve that?" My words carried a weight that made every syllable reverberate in their skulls.

Brackston's face turned ashen as his gaze fell on the grisly trophies before him. These weren't just anyone's heads—they were Cipher Pol agents, the supposed professionals he'd been so confident in partnering with. Even their team leader's head lay among the pile, his lifeless eyes staring accusingly into the pirate captain's soul.

Brackston wanted to move, to bark an order, to flee—but his body refused to obey him. Fear gripped him, as if his muscles had turned to stone.

The rest of the crew wasn't any better. Their eyes darted to the severed heads, to the bloody blade resting against my hip, and then to my face. The dim light didn't obscure who I was; they knew exactly whose presence they were in. The blood drained from their faces.

"May I...?" I gestured toward a half-empty bottle of rum sitting amid the mess of empty ones. Without waiting for an answer, I uncorked it with a practiced flick, pouring a generous amount over Shusui, letting the amber liquid cleanse the blade of the clinging crimson stains.

The sound of the liquid hissing off the blackened steel sent shivers down their spines. Then, I took a long, slow swig directly from the bottle.

"Tch." I clicked my tongue in distaste and tossed the bottle aside. It shattered against the wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the now-silent tavern. "Seems like I need to have a word with the barkeep. The bastard's selling cheap knockoffs," I muttered, my tone laced with disdain.

The barkeep, who had been watching from behind the counter, flinched and began to tremble. Reverence and fear often went hand in hand, and while the islanders worshipped us as saviors, they knew full well the cost of disloyalty—or even inconvenience.

"D-Donquixote..." the pirate vice-captain stammered, his voice cracking as he managed to speak through his terror.

"We... We didn't know! It was the captain's idea! We were just following orders!" His loyalty to Brackston evaporated like smoke in the face of survival, his hands shaking as he raised them in a pitiful display of surrender. The other crewmembers glanced at him, their faces pale, but none of them dared challenge his betrayal.

I didn't even look at him. My eyes were locked on Brackston, who had started to sweat, his massive form now hunched in a desperate attempt to avoid my gaze. My grip on Shusui tightened slightly, though I made no move to draw it.

"Lucci," I said, my voice low but commanding. "Finish this. I don't feel like staining my blade again."

Before the words had fully left my mouth, a shadow blurred into existence beside Brackston. The hulking pirate's eyes widened, but before he could even flinch, a soft, almost melodic voice cut through the air like a death knell.

"Rokushiki Ogi: Rokuogan."

The sound was otherworldly, like the deep tolling of a bell signaling the end. A thunderous shockwave erupted from Lucci's fists, hitting Brackston with devastating precision. The force was so immense it tore through the tavern, obliterating furniture and walls in its path.

Yet, it was surgical in its brutality. The shockwave blasted Brackston's head clean off his shoulders, sending blood, bone fragments, and brain matter splattering across the tavern. His massive body slumped forward, lifeless.

The pirates screamed, some trying to flee, but Lucci moved with the grace of a predator. He stepped forward, his calm demeanor belying the sheer carnage he'd unleashed. The remaining crew froze, paralyzed by fear.

I leaned back in my chair, resting my boots on the now-bloodstained table. "Tsk. You should have listened to your vice-captain. At least he was smart enough to see the futility of this." My gaze swept over the trembling pirates, finally settling on the vice captain, who sat unmoving.

"As for the rest of you... Consider this your last lesson. When you come to our territory, you bow—or you bleed."

The tavern had descended into utter chaos. The once-boisterous chatter and drunken laughter were replaced by screams of terror and pleas for mercy that filled the air like the cries of damned souls.

The remaining pirates, seeing their captain's headless corpse slumped on the blood-slick floor, scrambled to their knees, their hands clasped together in desperate supplication.

"Please, please! We didn't know it was your territory!" one of them wailed, tears streaming down his grimy face. "We swear! We'll leave right now—no trouble! Just let us go!"

Another man, trembling so hard his teeth chattered, raised his hands in pitiful surrender. "I'll serve you! I'll work in the mines, the factories—whatever you want! Spare me!" His voice cracked as he sobbed, clutching the floor like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

Lucci, standing amid the carnage, was unmoved. His golden eyes glowed faintly in the dim light, his face a mask of calm lethality. To him, they were not men—they were prey. He stepped forward, his form as fluid as a predator stalking its cornered quarry. The vice-captain, still seated, flinched as Lucci's shadow loomed over him, but his survival instinct pushed him to speak.

"We were just following orders! I swear! It was Brackston's deal with the Cipher Pol—we didn't want any part of it!" The vice-captain cried out, his voice high and panicked. "We didn't even know they were trying to—"

The pleas for mercy continued to echo through the blood-soaked tavern, desperate and discordant like a dying symphony. The vice-captain knelt among the trembling remnants of his crew, his eyes darting between the severed heads on the table, the lifeless body of his captain, and Lucci's imposing figure. Fear poured off him in waves, and his survival instinct was kicking into overdrive.

"Please, please—don't kill me!" he stammered, his voice cracking as Lucci took another step toward him. "I... I can pay you! Gold, treasures—we've got a stash on the ship. You can take it all! It's worth more than my life, I swear!"

Lucci's expression didn't shift, his golden eyes fixed on the man like a predator savoring the inevitability of its prey's demise. His steps were measured, deliberate, and the sound of his boots against the floorboards only heightened the suffocating tension.

When the promise of wealth elicited no response, the vice-captain scrambled for a new angle.

"W-We've got slaves too! Dozens of them—healthy, young! I'll show you where we keep them! You can take them—use them however you like!" His hands shook as he clasped them together in a pitiful plea.

Lucci said nothing, his form moving closer, each step punctuated by the subtle crack of his knuckles. The vice-captain's face drained of color as he realized his offers weren't making even the slightest dent in the assassin's icy resolve. The remaining pirates huddled behind him, their terrified whispers carrying a growing sense of doom.

"Please!" the vice-captain wailed. "Wait—wait! I know something—something valuable!" He gasped for breath as Lucci drew closer, raising a clawed hand to strike. "A secret! I know a secret about this island swallowing demon—something even you don't know!"

Lucci's hand shot forward, aimed to crush the man's skull, but my blade intervened. The metallic clang of Shusui's scabbard against his wrist rang through the tavern, halting the blow an instant before it landed.

The vice-captain froze, wide-eyed and trembling, the realization of how close he had come to death leaving him gasping for air. Blood drained from his face, pooling in his knees as he collapsed further onto the floor.

I let the silence stretch, my gaze steady as I studied him. "A secret, you said?" My tone was calm, almost conversational, but it carried the weight of a thousand unspoken threats.

"Yes! Yes!" the vice-captain sputtered, clinging to the faint hope he had found his way out.

I tilted my head, my fingers drumming lightly against Shusui's hilt. "Go on."

"There's a man," the vice-captain said quickly, his words tumbling over each other in his desperation. "A prisoner. He's the only one who's seen it—the island-swallowing demon! We rescued him from the sea; he has been repeatedly muttering about the demon since the day he was rescued. We intended to sell him as a slave!"

My grip on Shusui relaxed, though my eyes never left him. "The island-swallowing demon..." I murmured, letting the words hang in the air like a storm cloud ready to break.

"Where is this man?" I asked, my voice low but commanding.

The tavern was steeped in tension, the air thick with dread as the vice-captain stumbled over his own words, desperation etched into every syllable.

"The ship's brig!" he blurted out, his voice cracking. "Let me go—I'll bring him back to you! He's still alive, I swear! Please, I've told you everything I know!"

For a fleeting moment, he looked at me as if expecting salvation, hope flickering in his eyes like a dying candle. He must have thought he had found the leverage he needed, believing his usefulness might outweigh the inevitable. A faint sigh of relief escaped his lips when I stepped back, seemingly conceding to his plea.

But it was short-lived.

A sickening crack rang through the silent tavern as Lucci's gloved hand snapped the man's pinky with effortless precision. The vice-captain's scream tore through the room, raw and primal, echoing off the wooden walls.

"Keep talking," Lucci said, his voice cold and unfeeling as he grabbed the man's wrist, holding it with a grip like iron. "Or I'll move to the next one."

The vice-captain writhed on the floor, clutching his mangled finger as tears streamed down his face. The patrons, still frozen in their seats, dared not speak or even look away, the oppressive atmosphere choking out any thought of intervention.

"I told you everything!" he howled, his voice strained. "Please, I—!"

Snap.

This time, it was his ring finger. Another scream, louder and more guttural than the first, filled the room.

Lucci didn't flinch, his eyes like golden embers as he crouched before the man. "You're lying," he said matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather.

"You were about to tell him what we wanted to know, and then you thought you could bargain. You wasted your chance. Now, we're doing this my way."

The vice-captain sobbed, shaking uncontrollably as Lucci traced a clawed finger over his remaining hand, the sharp edge glinting in the dim light. The faint scrape of claw against bone was enough to send shivers through even the most hardened onlookers.

"Wait!" the man screamed, his voice breaking. "I'll tell you everything! Just stop—stop, please!"

Lucci raised a brow but didn't stop. He pressed the claw ever so slightly against the man's palm, the thin trickle of blood drawing a renewed surge of panic. "Keep talking," Lucci said coolly. "Every. Last. Word."

The vice-captain's voice was barely coherent, a frantic stream of words pouring out. "The... the island-swallowing demon! It's—it's Bonbori! That's what they call it in the old tales! It's not just a myth! There's a man... someone who's seen it—swears he has! He's in the brig! Brackston was going to use him to find something—Alchemy Island, or something like it!"

My interest sharpened, though I kept my expression impassive. Bonbori. The lore of the "island-swallowing demon" wasn't just the ramblings of drunken sailors or folklore to scare children. Bonbori had ties to the lost art of alchemy, and to Alchemy Island—a place whose secrets I needed for the Donquixote family's ambitions.

Lucci glanced at me, waiting for my signal. I gave a faint nod, acknowledging the value of what we'd learned.

The vice-captain's head snapped toward me, his face a mask of desperation. "Please! I told you what you wanted! Let me go—I'll leave! You'll never see me again, I swear!"

I stepped closer, the faint smile on my face devoid of warmth. "You had a chance to die with dignity," I said, my tone like ice. "You threw it away."

Lucci smirked, his claws glinting as he shifted his position. The vice-captain's screams began anew as Lucci delivered the coup de grâce—not quick, not merciful, but precise and methodical, ensuring the man's agony was both prolonged and absolute.

The tavern remained deathly silent as the gruesome symphony played out. The remaining pirates, paralyzed with fear, could only watch as Lucci's brutality unfolded, their minds too clouded with terror to even contemplate escape.

As the vice-captain's screams faded to nothing, Lucci rose, brushing the blood from his gloves with meticulous care. He cast a glance at me, his expression unreadable.

"Shall I pay a visit to their ship, Master?" he asked, his voice as composed as if he were discussing dinner plans.

I gave a curt nod, my gaze sweeping over the rest of the trembling crew. "Make sure the others understand the consequences of crossing the Donquixote family."

The tavern fell silent once more, save for the drip of blood and the sound of shattered wood creaking under the weight of the destruction. Lucci glanced at me, awaiting further instructions, his expression unreadable.

I turned around, brushing past the bodies as if they were nothing more than trash. "Bring that prisoner to me…!Burn what's left of their ship," I said, my voice calm, almost bored. "Leave their corpses on the docks. Let the sea carry the message."

And with that, I stepped out into the cool night, the faint scent of blood clinging to the air, knowing full well that by morning, every soul in Bellaterra—and beyond—would remember why the Donquixote flag flew above their land.