One Piece : Brotherhood

The steady rhythm of metal biting into metal filled the small workshop perched on the cliffside.

"Clang... clang..." The sound echoed across the open sea, blending with the distant crash of waves. Inside, the dimly lit space was hot and humid, the air thick with the scent of burning embers and molten steel.

In one corner of the workshop, nestled safely away from the heat and sparks, sat a wide-eyed infant. Kuina, barely two years old, watched intently, her small hands clutching a wooden toy sword her grandfather had carved for her.

The child was unusually quiet for her age, not crying or squirming despite the deafening noise and the harsh environment. Her gaze was fixed solely on the one-armed man at the anvil, his every movement commanding her undivided attention.

Shimotsuki Kozaburo, once a legendary swordsmith of Wano, swung his hammer with steady precision. The clang of metal rang out with a mix of determination and melancholy. His lone arm moved methodically, each strike deliberate, as though he was still shaping masterpieces despite the odds stacked against him.

Though his health had been waning and his glory days as a swordsmith were long behind him, Kozaburo refused to stop. The loss of his dominant arm years ago—a sacrifice made to complete his greatest blade—had left him physically diminished but not defeated.

He had resolved to practice forging with his remaining arm, not for glory but for the hope that he could one day teach his craft to another.

As sweat trickled down his weathered face, Kozaburo spoke, his voice raspy yet strong, carrying over the clang of metal.

"You hear that, Kuina? The breath of the metal?" he asked, not looking away from the glowing blade before him.

Kuina tilted her tiny head, her eyes glistening with curiosity. She didn't fully understand, of course, but she nodded as though she did, clutching her toy sword closer.

"A sword isn't just a weapon," Kozaburo continued, his words weighted with the wisdom of a lifetime. "It's a part of you. Your soul. A blade forged without sincerity is nothing but dead steel."

His hammer came down again, sparks flying as the metal yielded to his will.

"It takes love," he said, his voice softer now, almost reverent. "Dedication. If you want to nurture a sword, you must pour yourself into it. Only then will it truly live."

Kozaburo finally paused, setting the hammer aside and wiping his brow with a cloth. He turned to glance at his granddaughter. There she sat, her tiny figure illuminated by the soft glow of the forge, her expression full of wonder.

"I don't know how much you understand, little one," Kozaburo said with a faint chuckle, kneeling down beside her. "But one day, you'll wield a blade of your own. And when that day comes, you'll remember that a sword is more than just sharp steel. It's a companion. A protector."

Kuina reached out her hand toward the glowing blade on the anvil, her eyes sparkling. Kozaburo smiled warmly, gently pulling her hand back before it could get too close.

"Not yet, little samurai," he said. "First, you'll learn to walk properly. Then, you'll learn to fight. And if the gods are kind, you'll surpass even me."

Kuina giggled, as though sensing the love in her grandfather's words despite her young age.

As Kozaburo sat back on his heels, the faint ache in his joints and the phantom pain in his missing arm reminded him of his mortality. He knew he might not have as much time as he wished to pass on his knowledge. But seeing the spark in Kuina's eyes, he felt hope.

In her, Kozaburo saw the promise of a legacy renewed—a Shimotsuki bloodline destined to rise again. Kuina, with her wide eyes and curious spirit, was the beacon of hope who would carry forward the honor, skill, and indomitable resolve of their family.

One day, Kozaburo was certain, the name Shimotsuki would echo across the world once more, a name synonymous with unyielding strength and unparalleled craftsmanship.

He was certain of this future because he had ensured it. Meeting the young and enigmatic Rosinante had been the unexpected blessing of his later years.

Not only had the man's unique insight and skill helped Kozaburo achieve the dream of forging a Supreme Grade blade, but he had also agreed to take Kuina under his wing as her master. That assurance gave Kozaburo peace of mind—a rare gift in a life forged by conflict and tempered by sacrifice.

The forge burned on, its glow casting flickering shadows that danced across the stone walls of the workshop. It was a warm, constant presence—a reflection of the shared moment between the two.

Kozaburo, too old to wield the blades he forged with the vigor of his youth, sat in the heart of his craft. Beside him, Kuina was still too young to grasp the true weight of the blades she admired. Yet in the glow of the forge, their worlds converged—the master craftsman and the promising heir.

He was just about to pick up his hammer again when a tiny but unmistakable sound interrupted the steady rhythm of the forge—a soft, insistent growl. Kozaburo paused, and his gaze shifted to Kuina, whose cheeks flushed as she held her stomach, playfully surprised by its rebellion.

The old man's gruff chuckle filled the air. "Ah, little one, it seems your belly has declared it's time for lunch. I suppose we've been so caught up that we've forgotten about the time."

He glanced out the open workshop door and saw the sunlight had shifted; the morning had long since given way to noon. If they didn't return soon, Koushirou would undoubtedly come looking for them. And Kozaburo, while proud of his son, had no desire to endure one of his infamous scoldings about Kuina missing her meals.

"Let's get you home and fill that belly of yours before your father starts wagging his tongue at us," Kozaburo teased, setting aside his tools and wiping his hands on a cloth.

With practiced ease, he hoisted Kuina into his arm and then perched her on his broad shoulders, making sure she was steady. She giggled with delight, her small hands tangling in his silver-streaked hair as she leaned forward to peer over his head.

"Hold on tight, little one," he said with a grin, his voice carrying a warmth that softened his usual gruffness. "It wouldn't do for a future warrior to tumble off her steed."

Kuina giggled, her little voice ringing out like a bell. "Grampa! Strong…Kuina... strong!!"

The warm hum of the forge faded into the background as Kozaburo stepped outside, Kuina perched on his shoulders, her tiny hands clutching his graying hair as she giggled. The fresh sea breeze danced around them, carrying the distant cries of seagulls and the rhythmic crash of waves against the cliffs.

He was just about to start heading back to the dojo for lunch when his sharp observation haki flared, signaling two presences steadily approaching the forge.

Kozaburo's brow furrowed as he identified the first presence—Koushirou, his son. The other, however, was unfamiliar yet oddly… familiar. It was a sensation that nagged at him, a ghost of recognition just out of reach. Kozaburo shook his head, clearing his thoughts. No matter who the visitor was, he'd greet them as a Shimotsuki should—with honor and hospitality.

By the time Koushirou and the mysterious man came into view, Kozaburo's stride faltered, his breath catching in his throat. His keen eyes, still sharp despite his advancing years, locked onto the figure walking alongside his son.

The man had changed—his hair streaked with silver, his face lined with the weariness of time and hardship—but there was no mistaking him. Those eyes, once bright with ambition and pride, now carried the weight of lifetimes.

"Sukiyaki…?" Kozaburo's voice was barely above a whisper, as if afraid to break the fragile moment.

The man stopped, lifting his gaze, and his expression mirrored Kozaburo's—shock giving way to disbelief, and then to a joy so profound it seemed to shake him to his core.

"Kozaburo… old friend… it's really you," Sukiyaki said, his voice trembling.

Koushirou stepped aside, watching the reunion with quiet reverence. He had grown up on stories of his father's adventures and friendships, but to see one of them come to life was something else entirely.

Kozaburo set Kuina down gently, patting her head before striding forward. The years seemed to melt away with every step, until he stood before Sukiyaki, both men frozen in time for a moment.

"It's been decades," Kozaburo finally said, his voice steadying. "I thought… I thought we'd never see each other again. What are you doing here, you old dog?"

Sukiyaki chuckled, though his voice cracked with emotion. "I could say the same for you. You vanished from Wano, and I thought you'd gone to the heavens. Yet here you are, alive and stubborn as ever."

The two men embraced, a firm grip that spoke volumes of the bond they had shared. They pulled back, each studying the other's face as though committing it to memory all over again.

"You haven't aged well, Kozaburo," Sukiyaki teased, his tone light but his eyes shimmering with unspoken gratitude, but he also made sure not to comment on the missing arm of his friend.

"And you look like you've been dragged through the sea for decades, Sukiyaki," Kozaburo shot back, his gruffness unable to mask the joy in his voice.

Kuina, curious about the stranger, toddled forward, clutching Kozaburo's leg as she peered up at Sukiyaki.

"And who is this little one?" Sukiyaki asked, crouching slightly.

"My granddaughter," Kozaburo said, pride swelling in his chest. "Kuina. She's going to be a swordsman one day. Mark my words, she will be Ryuma reborn."

Sukiyaki chuckled, giving Kuina a warm smile. "With a grandfather like you, I have no doubt."

The light-hearted banter flowed easily, but as the initial excitement ebbed, Kozaburo's sharp eyes took note of Sukiyaki's worn features, the faint shadow of fatigue that lingered behind his smiles.

Sukiyaki crouched slightly, his warm gaze falling on Kuina, who was still clinging to Kozaburo's leg with the innocent curiosity only a child could muster. Her bright, inquisitive eyes sparkled, and for a fleeting moment, Sukiyaki saw the shadow of another little girl, one he had left behind in Wano.

"Little Hiyori and you would have been great friends," he said softly, his voice tinged with longing. The memory of his granddaughter, with her mischievous laugh and kind heart, brought a faint smile to his weathered face. He could almost hear her laugh as if she were standing before him.

At the mention of Hiyori, Kozaburo froze mid-step, the lighthearted warmth that had filled the air dissipating like smoke. Even Koushiro, who had been silently observing the exchange, stiffened.

Though he had finally pieced together the truth of his father's old friend's identity, he realized with dawning dread that Sukiyaki was unaware—blissfully so—of the tragedy that had engulfed Wano.

Sukiyaki noticed the sudden tension but mistook it for a moment of surprise or shared reminiscence. He straightened, his expression softening further. "Hiyori would be a little older than your granddaughter; I wonder what she is doing?" He continued, his voice wistful.

"She has her mother's grace, you know. And little Momonosuke, though young, is already showing signs of Oden's strength. I have no doubt they're flourishing under his guidance. Oden always was the best of us; I knew that kid would make me proud."

The words hit Kozaburo like a hammer, each syllable a cruel reminder of what had been lost. His grip on Kuina tightened instinctively as if grounding himself against the weight of the truth he was about to share.

The forge master's usual stoic demeanor cracked ever so slightly, the pain of the knowledge he carried evident in the furrow of his brow and the tightening of his jaw.

"Koushiro," Kozaburo said at last, his voice rough but steady. He gestured subtly for his son to take Kuina. "Take your daughter to the dojo. She must be getting hungry."

Koushiro hesitated, his eyes flicking between his father and Sukiyaki, but he knew better than to question Kozaburo in such a moment. With a small nod, he knelt and gently coaxed Kuina into his arms, her protest a half-hearted pout.

"But… Grampa, I… stay—"

"Kuina," Koushiro interrupted softly, his tone firm but kind. "Let's go check what Mother's made for lunch. I'm sure it'll be delicious."

Reluctantly, Kuina relented, her tiny arms wrapping around her father's neck as he carried her back toward the dojo. Kozaburo and Sukiyaki were left standing alone, the cliffside wind brushing past them, carrying with it the weight of unspoken truths.

Kozaburo turned back to Sukiyaki, who was still smiling faintly, lost in memories of a Wano that no longer existed. His old friend's worn features, marked by years of hardship, now bore the quiet contentment of a man who believed his homeland was safe and his family thriving.

Kozaburo clenched his fists, the forge-roughened skin pressing against his palms. How could he shatter that illusion?

"Sukiyaki," he began, his voice low and heavy. "There's something… you need to know."

Sukiyaki's brows furrowed slightly at the shift in Kozaburo's tone. "What is it, Kozaburo? Has something happened? Is everything all right?"

Kozaburo exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the cool air. He stepped closer, his weathered hand resting firmly on Sukiyaki's shoulder. For a moment, he couldn't meet his friend's eyes, his gaze dropping to the ground as if searching for the strength to continue.

"Wano… it's fallen," he said finally, the words like molten iron in his throat. "Kaido and Big Mom—they've taken everything. The country, the people… the Kozuki name."

At first, Sukiyaki thought Kozaburo was pulling one of his old pranks, the kind they used to share in their younger days when laughter came as easily as sword strokes. A small, hollow chuckle escaped his lips as he tried to dismiss the weight of his friend's words.

But then, his gaze settled on Kozaburo's face. There was no mischief there, no twinkle of humor in his eyes—only a raw, unfiltered anguish that tore through Sukiyaki like a blade.

His heart wrenched painfully in his chest, the world tilting beneath his feet. "You… you're not joking…" he murmured, his voice faltering as the realization struck him like a crashing wave. He staggered back a step, his legs barely holding him upright, his face draining of color as if the very air had been sucked from his lungs.

"No… no, that can't be…" he whispered, his hands trembling as they sought the support of a nearby tree, the rough bark grounding him in the face of the nightmare unfolding in his mind.

"Oden… my Oden… my grandchildren…" His voice cracked, the weight of each name falling from his lips as if uttering them might summon them back from the abyss.

Kozaburo remained silent, his features drawn with grief but resolute. He didn't try to soften the truth or offer hollow reassurances. Instead, he stood firm, allowing his friend the space to grapple with the devastating reality.

Sukiyaki's mind raced, fragments of memory and hope clashing against the growing tide of despair. He remembered Oden's unyielding spirit, the fire in his eyes, the way he had faced the world with an indomitable will. He couldn't be gone. He was too strong. Too alive. But the look in Kozaburo's eyes shattered that fragile hope.

His knees buckled, and Sukiyaki sank to the ground, his hands clutching at the dirt as though he could anchor himself to the earth and keep from being swept away by the flood of grief. The world around him blurred, the vibrant greens of the forest and the soothing crash of the waves fading into a haze of anguish.

"How…" he rasped, his voice breaking as tears spilled freely down his weathered cheeks. "How could this happen? Oden… he was supposed to protect them. He was supposed to… to lead Wano into a new age. How did it all fall apart?"

Kozaburo knelt beside him, placing a steadying hand on his shoulder. His grip was firm but not forceful, a lifeline of solidarity in the storm of Sukiyaki's despair.

"Kaido and Big Mom," Kozaburo said quietly, each word carrying the weight of his own sorrow.

"They came with overwhelming force, and Oden… he fought harder than anyone could have imagined. But even he couldn't stand against such power alone. Wano's walls crumbled under their might, and the country fell into darkness."

Sukiyaki's trembling hands clawed at the dirt, his knuckles whitening as he tried to process the enormity of it all. "And my grandchildren?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Hiyori? Momonosuke? Are they… are they gone too?"

Kozaburo hesitated, his own anguish mirrored in his eyes. "There are rumors," he said carefully, his voice softer now. "Rumors that they might have escaped. The enemy claims the Kozuki line has been extinguished, but… I don't believe that. The will of the Kozuki is not so easily snuffed out."

For a moment, there was only the sound of Sukiyaki's labored breathing and the distant crash of waves below. Slowly, Sukiyaki lifted his head, his tear-streaked face etched with a mix of despair and flickering resolve.

*****

Ravenchain Islands, New World

The Ravenchain Islands were a sprawling archipelago, shrouded in eternal twilight thanks to the volcanic ash that drifted through the skies. The main island, Ravenchain Proper, was a labyrinth of jagged cliffs, winding streets, and towering spires that seemed to claw at the heavens.

This place wasn't just a black market—it was the black market, the heartbeat of the underworld's economy, where no law dared tread. Every shadow concealed a deal, every alley whispered of betrayal, and every gilded hall dripped with the blood of unspoken sins.

This island didn't just operate outside the World Government's control—it thrived under their shadow. Rumors swirled that the higher-ups within the government quietly funded Ravenchain's operations, using its murky dealings to grease the wheels of their power.

The influence of the infamous Underworld Emperors stretched across every corner; from slavers and bounty hunters to weapon merchants and devil fruit traffickers, the Ravenchain Islands were a haven for all who lived by their wits and thrived in chaos.

At the heart of the island stood the Black Wyrm Exchange, a massive, sprawling establishment built into the side of a cliff overlooking the black waters.

The Exchange was a cavernous hall illuminated by the dim, flickering light of lanterns that hung from wrought iron chains. Each corner teemed with activity—auctions of forbidden goods, private dealings between cloaked figures, and the sound of coins clinking against contracts stained with desperation.

Among the bustling crowd of opportunists, thieves, and killers, a lone girl weaved through the chaos with practiced ease. She was barely fifteen, her slender frame draped in a modest, navy-blue uniform that contrasted starkly with the decadence around her.

Her golden-blonde hair shimmered like molten sunlight, even under the dim, ashen glow of the Exchange's lanterns. It was tied into two neat ponytails, leaving loose strands to frame her delicate features. Her round spectacles perched precisely on her nose gave her an air of refinement, but her sharp, amber eyes carried a wisdom beyond her years.

She had the kind of face that could disarm suspicion—a soft, unassuming beauty with full lips and a heart-shaped face. But anyone who looked closer would see the tension in her small hands as they clutched a sealed parchment, or the steady determination in her stride as she approached the upper tiers of the Exchange.

The girl—known only as Iris to those who bothered to ask—paused at the entrance to the Exchange's private chambers. Her boots, worn but polished, made no sound against the polished stone floors.

She took a moment to adjust her glasses, smoothing her uniform as she inhaled deeply. The parchment in her hand bore the royal seal of the Elsar Kingdom, an urgent request that had come through the network of intermediaries and informants that kept Ravenchain thriving.

The contents of the message were none of her concern, but she'd heard whispers—rumors of a conflict brewing between Elsar and one of the New World's most feared powers. She wasn't naive enough to ask questions. In Ravenchain, questions got you killed.

A voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "You're late."

Iris looked up to see a tall, broad-shouldered man with scars crisscrossing his face. One of the Exchange's enforcers, his black coat swayed as he eyed her with barely concealed lust.

"I'm not late," Iris replied coolly, lifting the sealed parchment. "I'm precise. This is for the Underboss."

The enforcer, a brutish man with a face carved from stone and eyes as sharp as daggers, grunted in reluctant approval. But as she stepped forward, his hand "accidentally" brushed against her as she passed.

The touch was fleeting but intentional, his fingers lingering longer than they should. Iris stiffened for half a second but kept walking, refusing to let the violation show on her face.

The enforcer's eyes followed her slender back as she entered the lavishly decorated chamber. Every step she took seemed to inflame his twisted fantasies. His smirk widened, but he kept his silence as he followed her into the room.

The chamber was a stark contrast to the soot-covered streets of the Exchange. Velvet drapes hung from gilded walls, and opulent furniture gleamed with gold trim. It was a throne room for the dark lords of commerce.

At its center sat Varian Cade, the Underboss. His hawk-like features and piercing green eyes exuded a calm menace, a predator's patience. Unlike the enforcer's crude hunger, Cade's gaze was colder, calculating, and far more dangerous.

"What have you brought me, little sparrow?" Cade asked, his voice a low purr that filled the room. He leaned forward slightly, his long, bony fingers steepled together. His smile didn't reach his eyes.

Iris stepped forward with poise, her grip steady as she placed the parchment on the polished ebony table before him. "A royal request from the Elsar Kingdom," she said, her tone neutral. "It seems they have a problem they can't solve on their own."

Cade's smile stretched further, the glint of his teeth sharp against the dim lighting. "Well, well," he murmured, reaching for the parchment. His long fingers caressed the seal before cracking it open with a delicate motion.

Iris didn't linger. She turned on her heel, her boots making soft clicks against the stone floor. As she exited, her heart pounded, but not from fear. There was no room for fear in Ravenchain.

Her thoughts were already elsewhere, calculating her next move, her next survival step in this pit of vipers. She carried a secret that would send shockwaves across the world if revealed—a secret that had kept her alive this long.

For she was the Demon of Ohara, the last survivor of a bloodstained past, a ghost of a history the world wanted erased.

As the heavy door creaked shut behind her, Cade turned his attention to the document, his predatory smile growing wider as he scanned its contents. The enforcer shifted beside him, unable to suppress a lustful chuckle as his mind lingered on the young courier.

"She's aging splendidly, like fine wine," the enforcer murmured, his voice low and rough with vile excitement. "I wonder when I'll get a taste—"

The sound of a gunshot ripped through the chamber. The enforcer's sentence ended in a choked scream as he collapsed to the floor, clutching his bleeding hand. Blood poured freely from the hole where his right hand had been, staining the pristine wooden floor.

Varian Cade lowered the smoking pistol in his hand with deliberate ease. The earlier calm had evaporated from his face, replaced by a dark, seething rage that burned like an inferno. His emerald eyes glinted with malice as he stood, towering over the writhing enforcer.

"You're a fool," Cade hissed, his voice like venom. He stepped closer, his polished boots squelching against the pooling blood.

"She is mine. Mine to savor. Mine to break. Mine to destroy. And the next time you so much as look at her the wrong way…" He leaned down, his face inches from the enforcer's trembling one. "I'll carve out your eyes and feed them to you."

The enforcer whimpered, nodding frantically despite the pain. He knew better than to defy Cade—a man who ruled the underworld with an iron fist, masking his savagery behind a veneer of sophistication.

Cade straightened, his composure returning like the tide. "Clean yourself up," he muttered with disdain, tossing a cloth toward the injured man. "And remember your place."

"Iris is mine... mine alone... my own... my precioussss," Varian hissed, his voice low and serpentine, each word dripping with a twisted obsession. His fingers twitched slightly, as if grasping an invisible treasure, his predatory eyes gleaming with a madness that seemed to grow darker with every breath. "No one else... no one can touch her... my preciousss..."

Varian was a monster who reveled in the destruction of beauty, a predator who took pleasure in breaking and ravaging the exquisite. Iris, with her rare, captivating allure, had willingly entered his domain—a treasure he intended to savor slowly.

In a place like the Ravenchain Islands, where brutality reigned supreme, a young woman of her elegance would have been violated and discarded a thousand times over, her lifeless body left to rot in the gutters. But under his dominion, Varian ensured no one dared touch what he had claimed as his own.

As the enforcer scrambled to his feet and limped out of the chamber, Cade turned back to the parchment on his desk. His cold smile returned as he read the contents. "A royal request," he mused. "The Elsar Kingdom must be truly desperate."

But unknown to Cade, he was not alone in the room. In the shadowed corner of the chamber, where the flickering lamplight didn't reach, a delicate ear and hand made of blooming petals and stems had emerged. Unnoticed even by Cade's haki, they listened and observed with detached precision.

Far beyond the chamber, as Iris descended the steps back into the chaotic depths of the Exchange, a small, satisfied smirk tugged at her lips. She had seen Cade's cruelty before, but the enforcer's fate was a reminder of how precarious power could be. Cade thought he held dominion over her, but he didn't know the truth.

He didn't know that the flowers of Ohara bloomed wherever she walked.