One Piece : Brotherhood

The sun was a golden orb in the sky, casting long shadows over the deserted island where I had been training for hours, perhaps days—it was hard to tell anymore. My bare upper body glistened with sweat, each drop catching the light like liquid fire, testament to the grueling effort I had poured into mastering my craft.

My breath was steady but deep, my chest rising and falling as I communed with the world around me. The Voice of All Things, a gift—or curse—that had been with me for years, was stirring within, urging me toward a deeper understanding. Yet, for all its mysterious power, I still hadn't unraveled its full potential.

Akatsuki thrummed in my hands, its presence alive even within its scabbard. I stood poised in the sword-drawing stance, my entire being focused on the blade and the world around me. The wind brushed past, carrying with it whispers of the island's life. The rustling of the trees, the murmurs of the waves against the shore, and the faint hum of the earth beneath my feet all seemed to resonate with my intent.

I could feel the flow of existence itself, as if the veil of mystery separating me from the truth of the world was thinning. Every sound, every sensation was magnified, each detail falling into place like pieces of an infinite puzzle. The more I synchronized with this power, the clearer everything became. Yet, for all my progress, the nagging doubts persisted.

My Devil Fruit, the Rumble-Rumble Fruit—or so I had believed—remained an enigma. Despite years of mastery, I had yet to awaken its full potential. My brother Doffy had awakened his logia fruit long ago, wielding it with precision and ease. But for me, the threshold of awakening seemed impossibly distant. Was it inherently harder to awaken the lightning Logia? Or was it the unique nature of my fruit because I had consumed it?

Sometimes, I even doubted whether the fruit I had consumed was the Rumble-Rumble Fruit at all. Black lightning coursed through my veins, crackling with a raw, untamed ferocity that didn't align with what I knew of Enel's fruit. His power was absolute, yet it lacked the strange, transformative qualities mine exhibited. My fruit seemed something beyond Enel's, something more primal, as if it were the embodiment of destruction.

Trebol had claimed the fruit was found on Skypiea, but where exactly? It was me who sent him on that wild goose chase relying on my knowledge from Canon, but was the fruit that he brought back truly what was intended?

With Trebol long dead, the truth was lost to time. Back then, consumed by grief and rage, I had devoured the fruit without a second thought, desperate for power. But now, years later, the unanswered questions gnawed at me. What was this black lightning? Why did it feel as though the fruit itself was... incomplete? Or worse, was it something beyond what even the World Government comprehended?

I exhaled sharply, banishing the doubts for now, and returned to clarity. The world around me responded, the air vibrating with a palpable energy. The wind swirled, whispering secrets as it danced around me. The water's surface rippled as though bowing to my presence. Even the earth trembled slightly beneath my feet, as if anticipating what was to come.

I gripped Akatsuki tightly, feeling its soul resonate with mine. The blade had always been a vessel for screams, wails of anguish from those it had cut down. But now, for the first time, it sang—a serene, joyous melody that echoed through my very core.

Without hesitation, I drew the blade. It was a motion of absolute clarity, honed by years of relentless training and unyielding discipline. No Haki infused the strike; no crackling arcs of lightning danced along its edge. This was pure swordsmanship, distilled into its most refined form—a testament to the bond between warrior and blade.

The draw was seamless, a single fluid movement that transcended thought and intent. My grip on Akatsuki was firm yet relaxed, allowing the blade to respond as if it were an extension of my very being. The air trembled at the sheer precision of the motion, a whisper of steel that seemed to sing through the fabric of reality itself.

The strike embodied everything I had cultivated—technique perfected over years of discipline, the weight of countless battles, and the silent determination that resided deep within my core. It was raw skill, untainted by external enhancements, a pure manifestation of mastery over the blade.

The moment Akatsuki left its sheath, the world seemed to pause. Time slowed as the air rippled around me, the force of the draw sending a subtle vibration through the ground. The blade's edge met no resistance as it passed through the space before me, a silent harbinger of the devastation it would unleash.

Then came the aftermath.

The ground beneath my feet roared in protest as an overwhelming force radiated from the point of the slash. The island, vast and solid, split as if it were paper before a razor. A deep chasm carved itself across the land, dividing the once-unbroken terrain into two massive halves.

The seas themselves seemed to recoil from the strike. Waves parted in awe of the power unleashed, creating a ravine that exposed the ocean floor. The divide stretched far beyond the island, a rift etched into the water that seemed to extend to the horizon.

It was only as Akatsuki returned to its sheath with a quiet click that the full scope of the devastation became clear. The island trembled violently, its structural integrity shattered. Slowly, the halves began to sink beneath the waves, consumed by the sea that had once surrounded them.

I stood motionless amidst the chaos, my breath steady, my mind calm. This was not the work of devil fruit power or spiritual force. This was the culmination of a swordsman's journey, the embodiment of discipline, skill, and unwavering resolve.

For a fleeting moment, I felt at one with the blade, at one with the world around me. In that strike, there was no barrier between me and the essence of existence itself.

Waves surged and crashed against the edges of the chasm, a testament to the raw, unrestrained power I had unleashed. The island, once vast enough to accommodate an entire kingdom, began to sink, its foundations shattered beyond repair.

For a moment, I stood motionless, the enormity of what I had just done settling over me. In that instant, I felt one with the blade, with the world, and with myself.

But the island's collapse was a reminder of the fragility of power. I turned into lightning, my body crackling with energy as I moved at blinding speed to a nearby island.

Lucci was waiting for me, his expression one of awe. His usually stoic demeanor cracked slightly as he gazed at the devastation I had wrought. The sinking island, the cleaved sea—it was a spectacle of raw, transformative power.

"This is what true strength looks like," I said, my voice even. "The kind of strength that reshapes the world."

Lucci's eyes gleamed with ambition. He yearned for that power; I could see it in his gaze. Perhaps, someday, he might achieve it.

But my thoughts were interrupted by the ramblings of the captive, the man who was rumored to have seen Bonbori. He sat muttering the same nonsense over and over, his mind muddled by fear.

The man sat slumped against the large boulder, a pitiful shadow of his former self. His hair, once likely groomed with the pride of a seasoned sailor, now hung in tangled, matted strands down to his shoulders.

It clung to his face in greasy clumps, framing a pair of hollow, sunken eyes that darted aimlessly around the landscape, clouded with fear and madness. His beard was no better—unkempt and wild, flecked with remnants of dried saliva and bits of food that must have been scavenged from the filth around him.

The stench that emanated from him was overwhelming, an unbearable cocktail of unwashed flesh, vomit, and excrement that had soaked into the rags he wore.

These tattered remnants of clothing barely clung to his skeletal frame, exposing patches of sickly, blotched skin marred by sores and bruises. He reeked of decay and neglect, a living testament to the brutality of life in a pirate's brig.

The man's frailty was deceptive, though. Beneath the layers of filth and degradation, I could see traces of the hardened seafarer he had once been. His hands, though trembling, bore the calluses of a life spent gripping ropes and oars.

The faded tattoos on his forearms, now barely visible through the grime, hinted at voyages and battles long past. He was a veteran of the sea, once strong and resolute, now reduced to this pathetic state by months of neglect and torment.

Yet despite the condition of his body, there was a fire in him—a desperate, obsessive flicker of something that refused to be extinguished. His cracked lips moved ceaselessly, muttering disjointed fragments of words that spilled from his mouth in a continuous, haunting stream.

"Bonbori… the demon… the maw of the abyss… devours islands whole… they don't understand… can't stop it…"

The words tumbled over each other, sometimes coherent, often nonsensical, as if his mind was caught in a loop of terror and revelation. His voice was hoarse, a rasping croak that seemed to tear at his throat with every word, but he didn't stop.

It was as though he clung to these mutterings with every ounce of willpower he had left, holding onto them as if they were the last tether to his sanity.

Even in his pitiful state, I could feel the weight of his obsession. Whatever he had seen—or believed he had seen—had consumed him utterly. It had hollowed him out, leaving behind this shell of a man who existed only to repeat the words, to make others hear them, as if doing so might lessen the burden he carried.

I stepped closer, the sickening stench rolling over me in waves. He didn't react, his gaze fixed on some invisible point in the distance. Yet, his muttering grew louder, more frantic, as though sensing the scrutiny, as if desperate for someone—anyone—to listen.

"Anything?" I asked as I turned to Lucci impatiently.

Lucci shook his head. "No, Master. The pirates must have broken him. It might take time to get anything coherent out of him."

"Fine," I said, my voice sharp. "Bring him with us. We can't delay any longer; it's time we set sail for Elsar".

The Donquixote family's expansion couldn't wait for one madman to gather his wits. We had a kingdom to subdue, after all.

The Kingdom of Elsar was no ordinary territory. It had stood for centuries, predating even the World Government, and had maintained its independence in the perilous waters of the New World. Taking it wouldn't be easy, but it was a challenge worth embracing.

I glanced at the horizon, where the sinking island had disappeared beneath the waves, and tightened my grip on Akatsuki. Whatever mysteries lay ahead—Bonbori, my fruit's awakening, the Voice of All Things—I would face them head-on.

Suddenly, my observation haki flared, picking up a presence that sent a ripple of familiarity through me. My senses sharpened, and my gaze instinctively turned toward Bellaterra Island.

Among our territories, Bellaterra held strategic significance, serving as the staging ground for our imminent conquest of the Elsar Kingdom. Unlike the other islands that had readily submitted to the might of the Donquixote Pirates, the Elsar Kingdom—or rather, its stubborn royalty—had chosen defiance. They had stood against us, their resolve rooted in centuries of independence and pride.

"Looks like we have some unexpected guests," I muttered, a smirk curling at the corner of my lips. The sharpness of my tone betrayed my curiosity and anticipation.

I turned to Lucci, who had been silently observing the maddened captive as he muttered incoherent words, lost in his obsession with the "island-swallowing demon." The man reeked of fear, despair, and unwashed filth, his mind too far gone to register anything beyond his delusions.

"Let's get back to Bellaterra," I said decisively, the smirk not leaving my face. My voice carried the faint thrill of the unknown, of a challenge waiting to unfold. Without wasting another moment, I grabbed Lucci by the shoulder, my other hand seizing the deranged captive as if he weighed nothing.

The man let out a weak, startled cry, but it barely registered. His protests, his condition, none of it mattered now. There was something far more pressing.

In an instant, my body dissolved into lightning, a crackling streak of power that lit the air as I launched toward Bellaterra at blinding speed.

****

The bustling marketplace of the seatown was alive with color and sound, a vibrant tapestry of traders hawking their wares, children darting between stalls, and the aroma of freshly grilled seafood wafting from nearby beachside vendors.

Among the throng, Issho walked calmly, a serene smile on his face as he accompanied the Donquixote children through the crowd. Despite all that had happened recently—particularly the chaos surrounding Flevance—it was a rare, peaceful moment for the family.

Seeing the children excitedly exploring the wares, chattering about trinkets and sweets, filled him with a quiet sense of contentment.

Even so, Issho's finely tuned senses never dulled. His observation haki, always attuned to his surroundings, kept him grounded. He felt the joy of the children, the genuine warmth radiating from Robin as she helped Buffalo pick out a toy, and the focused intensity of Reiju as she examined a blade on display. These small, human moments were precious, reminders of what he truly fought for.

But then, something shifted.

A ripple in the air—a disturbance.

Issho's serene expression hardened in an instant. His hand tightened around the hilt of his shikomizue as his observation haki screamed a warning. From the edges of the crowd, he detected multiple presences converging rapidly, their intent sharp and dark as daggers.

"Reiju!" he called out, his deep voice cutting through the bustling noise.

Before she could turn, a cloaked figure erupted from the crowd with alarming speed. Their movements were precise, almost mechanical, as they reached for her. Reiju reacted immediately, her battle instincts honed from relentless practice.

Her hand darted toward the blade, but the figure was faster—inhumanly so. A vice-like grip caught her arm, twisting it away as another hand seized her small waist. She struggled, her enhanced strength pushing back, but the figure's overwhelming power pinned her in place.

Nearby, Smoker, who was caught off guard by the sudden ambush, snarled as he transformed into smoke and lunged toward the attacker. "Let her go!" he barked, his jitte swinging in a swift arc aimed at the cloaked figure's midsection.

The response was brutal yet calculated. A second figure emerged from nowhere, intercepting Smoker with a spinning kick that sent him careening into a nearby vendor stall. The impact shattered wood and spilled wares everywhere, drawing screams from the fleeing crowd.

Issho was already moving. With a single step, he cleared the distance, his shikomizue unsheathing with a resonant ring. His blade descended like a falling star, an attack swift and imbued with haki, aiming to sever the assailant holding Reiju.

But his strike never landed.

A third figure appeared between them, their hood obscuring their features as they raised a blackened fist to meet Issho's attack. The clash was deafening, a shockwave tearing through the street and scattering debris.

Issho's brows furrowed as he felt the immense force behind the block, his haki clashing fiercely with his opponent's. With a single exchange, Issho could tell that the opponent was exceedingly strong.

"Who are you…?Why are you attacking children?" Issho growled, his tone calm but edged with tension. " You won't take her."

The figure didn't respond, merely pressing forward with their attack trying to create a distance between Reiju and Issho. Their movements were eerily efficient, calculated, and designed to buy time. Meanwhile, the first figure hoisted Reiju over their shoulder with ease, their grip unyielding despite her furious struggles.

"Let me go!" Reiju hissed, her legs kicking out. A sudden surge of poison mist emanated from her body, forcing the figure to dodge. Yet, even as they evaded, their grip on her never loosened.

The air around the chaotic marketplace buzzed with tension.

"Reiju, I'm here to save you…I am here to take you back to your mother and your brothers."

Those words, spoken by one of the cloaked figures, pierced through the din of battle and confusion. Reiju froze mid-motion, her eyes widening. She had been moments away from transforming into her Gorgon form, her devil fruit powers crackling just beneath her skin.

But the cloaked figure's statement halted her completely. Uncertainty clouded her face as she faltered, unsure whether to resist or trust. Did she even need saving…?

The chaos of the marketplace continued to intensify. Civilians fled in terror, leaving toppled stalls and scattered wares in their wake. The cloaked figures moved swiftly, retreating toward the beach with Reiju in their grasp. Their movements were precise, calculated, as if every step had been rehearsed. They weren't here to fight—they were here to take her.

Issho, undeterred, pressed the attack. His shikomizue flashed with precision, his strikes aimed to disable rather than kill. The cloaked figure, however, countered his every move with an unnerving synchronicity. It was clear they were highly trained; each step and parry was part of a seamless choreography.

What troubled Issho even more was Reiju's lack of resistance. He couldn't hear the words spoken to her, but whatever they said had shocked her into submission. She wasn't fighting back—she wasn't even trying to escape.

"Buffalo, Robin—stay back! Diamante, guard them!" Issho commanded, his voice sharp and authoritative. Buffalo and Robin froze at his words, their young faces pale with confusion as Diamante, quick as soot in the wind, materialized at their side.

This battle was far beyond their abilities, and even Smoker, despite his rapid growth, was sent flying with a single attack by the intruders.

Smoker groaned as he pulled himself from the wreckage, blood streaking down his face. His eyes burned with fury as he launched himself into the air, smoke spiraling around him like a coiled serpent ready to strike. His attack lashed out toward the retreating figures.

But the intruders had anticipated everything. One of them raised a gloved hand, releasing a sphere of shimmering, radiant light. It exploded outward, engulfing the marketplace in a blinding flash and heavy layer of smoke.

The world went white.

When the light faded and the smoke engulfed the entire area, the marketplace was eerily silent. The figures had vanished, leaving only the faint impressions of their boots in the sand.

Issho, however, stood motionless, his shikomizue still drawn. The blinding light might have fooled others, but not him. His observation haki pierced through the veil of confusion, his awareness sweeping the battlefield like a hawk scanning for prey.

Smoker staggered to his side, cursing under his breath as he manipulated the smoke to clear out the surroundings. "They're professionals," he muttered, his gaze scouring the horizon. "Who the hell were they?"

Issho didn't respond immediately. His focus was razor-sharp, his expression dark with fury. Suddenly, with a flick of his blade, he unleashed a devastating strike. The ground trembled as the attack ripped through the sand, obliterating a row of abandoned stalls.

The attack revealed the cloaked figures hiding behind the debris. Their cover blown, they stood in a tight formation, their backs toward the ocean. The marketplace was nearly deserted now, and the sound of approaching footsteps echoed from the direction of the town—Donquixote reinforcements rushing to the scene.

The figure who had spoken earlier stepped forward, their hood partially revealing a woman's determined face. Her voice was urgent, but her tone held no malice.

"Reiju, listen to us. We're here to take you back to your mother," she pleaded, desperation lacing her words.

Reiju's eyes widened further, her lips parting in shock. "Mother…?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the crashing waves.

Another figure, their voice sharp with tension, interrupted. "Livia, we need to leave. Now. This place will be swarming with Donquixote forces in moments. If the leader finds out we acted without his permission…" They didn't finish the sentence, but the gravity of their concern was clear.

The woman called Livia turned toward her comrade, her jaw tightening. This mission had been personal for her—a favor taken too far. Now, they were cornered, their plan unraveling by the second.

Issho tightened his grip on his blade, his haki roaring as he took a step forward. "Whatever you're planning, it ends here," he said, his voice as calm and unyielding as stone.