One Piece: Torchbearer

"A virtuous man ought not to calculate the chance of living or dying; he ought only to consider whether he is doing right or wrong."

— Socrates, Plato's Apology, 28b

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I stand here, atop this mound of dirt, like Zeus on Mount Olympus, preparing to rain down divine retribution. My left hand is enshrined in a thick shell of leather, my right cradling the implement of my wrath. The overcast sky hangs heavy, lending a dramatic weight to the moment.

The air is silent, save for the wind's whispered wisdom.

"Straight and true," it murmurs, steady and sharp.

I shake my head. Too predictable.

"Controlled, cunning," it presses, edged with urgency.

Again, I shake my head. Too reckless.

"The Ankule. Trust in the fates," it finally whispers, reverent.

I nod. Yes, the Ankule will surely deliver.

My leg rises, poised like the head of a guillotine, and crashes down with all the force I can squeeze from this mortal frame. My body twists, coiling and uncoiling in one seamless, fluid motion. Snapping like a bullwhip with an ear-ringing CRACK, I release a projectile that shrieks through the air like a hawk in flight.

Across the yard, Eugene crouches, an enormous shadow looming. In his hands, he wields a massive club, the size of an uprooted tree, its gnarled surface polished smooth over countless battles. His one eye narrows beneath the brim of his cap, locking onto the projectile.

With a raucous roar, he swings, unleashing his fury.

The club surges through the air with titanic force, stirring up a whirlwind of sand. But at the last moment, the projectile dips low, slipping beneath the arc and zipping past.

"STRIKE THREE, YOU'RE OUT!"

The jubilant cry rings through the yard, shattering the tension like a rock tossed into an icy pond. I glance toward the plate, grinning, as a tiny figure buzzes upward, arms flailing triumphantly.

Chabo.

The erstwhile projectile flutters proudly back to the ground, puffing out his chest as he lands. "What a pitch! The batter takes the bait! The crowd goes wild! Chichichichichi!"

Eugene lowers his club slowly, shoulders slumping. "I should've seen it coming," he mutters, voice rumbling like a rockslide. "The sinker was in my scouting report..."

"You've gotta keep your eye on the ball, big guy!" I call good-naturedly, smirking as I adjust my cap.

Eugene trudges toward the mound, appraising me with exaggerated solemnity. "Alright, kid. Let's see you handle my splitter." His grin splits his face, a gap highlighting his missing tooth.

We high-five, the sound echoing like thunder, and I stride toward the weapon rack. Grabbing the slugger, I give it a couple of warm-up swings. The weight is good—not too light, not too heavy. I can feel the soul of the bat, urging me to seek glory on this sacred diamond.

As I step into the batter's box, Spartacus strides into the yard, a long, cloth-wrapped bundle slung over his shoulder.

"Hector!" he calls, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "The custom order from Vulcan is in!"

I glance up, excitement flaring. "It's ready?!"

WHOOOMPH!

The sound cuts through my thoughts. I whip around, startled, just in time to hear Chabo cry out,

"STRIKE ONE!"

Eugene stands there, his grin wide and smug, his arm still extended from the throw.

Staring in disbelief, my eyebrow twitches. A tick mark forms on my forehead. "Seriously?!"

Eugene shrugs, his grin growing wider. "Keep your head in the game, rookie."

"Hector," Spartacus calls again, drawing my attention. "Vulcan truly outdid himself. Celestial Bronze is a rare material these days, and few smiths can even work with it. Vulcan poured his soul into this."

I try to keep one eye on Eugene, but Spartacus's words pull me in. "I appreciate you calling in that favor," I say, truly grateful for Spartacus's support. "The Purgomachus might've left me with nothing but a handsome paperweight."

"It's the least I could do, lad. You stood by me when freedom was dangled right in front of you. I'll always be grateful—for myself, and for my wife."

"For your wife? What do you—"

WHOOOMPH!

"STRIKE TWO!"

I spin around, glaring at Eugene. "Are you kidding me?!" My voice echoes across the yard as I jab the bat toward him. "What are you even doing?! You call this a fair game?!"

Eugene chuckles, leaning lazily on his massive club. "You're the one in the box. Don't get distracted."

My fist clenches. I bite back the urge to yell and decide to play it cool instead. I turn back toward Spartacus, feigning disinterest in Eugene's antics. "Anyway… let's see it," I say, trying to sound casual. I keep my peripheral vision locked on Eugene's every move.

Spartacus steps forward, gripping the bundle tightly. With a flourish, he pulls away the cloth, revealing the Spear of Mithras.

Its central blade is long and straight, tapering to a precise, wicked point. Flanking it are two shorter prongs that curve inward like talons, their edges broad but wickedly sharp near the tips—designed to trap blades or rip shields apart. The shaft gleams with a subtle gold hue, but the faint, otherworldly shimmer of Celestial Bronze beneath suggests something far more ancient and indomitable.

I step closer, captivated by its design. The central blade promises death with a single thrust, but the curved prongs whisper of cunning—of the ability to disarm and outwit any foe. It isn't just a weapon for brute force; it's a tactician's tool, a symbol of precision and control.

Though the edges of the blades are not razor-sharp, the surface ripples faintly, as though alive, waiting for a spark of will to awaken its true power. The whole weapon hums faintly in the heavy air, demanding to be wielded by someone worthy.

Spartacus holds it out, letting the light play across its surface. "Behold," he declares, "the weapon worthy of your next trial. A spontoon forged from Celestial Bronze—indestructible, but reliant on its wielder to bring out its true edge. Channel your will, and watch it come alive."

Even from where I stand, I can feel it—a presence, weighty and unyielding. My fingers twitch at my sides, longing to grasp it, to feel the potential thrumming within its metal. It is not just a weapon; it is a challenge, a partner, and a promise.

"What do you think, Hector?" Spartacus asks, his tone softer now, as though gauging my reaction.

I swallow hard, forcing my voice to remain steady. "I think... it's magnificent."

WHOOOMPH!

This time, the moment the sound reaches my ears, I react. The bat is already swinging before I even think, every ounce of frustration channeled into the strike.

A ripple of black Haki coats the slugger, and the force of my swing radiates outward like a shockwave. Time slows as I watch Chabo's face flatten against the bat, his wings going limp as his eyes practically eject from his sockets.

Then time snaps back, and Chabo rockets out of the Ludus with a sonic boom, leaving a contrail of dust in his wake.

Eugene's jaw drops. Silence.

In the distance, Chabo's voice grows faint but jubilant: "HOME RUUUUUN! The rookie does it again! What an absolute screamer!"

I savor the stunned silence for a moment, then trot the bases slowly, holding the slugger like a trophy.

Eugene's shoulders sag. "I was one strike away from the stat sheet…" he mutters, his tone dripping with existential defeat.

Chabo zips back into the yard moments later, unharmed and more excited than ever. "IT'S A REAL CINDERELLA STORY! HECTOR TURNED THE TABLES ON THE TITAN! CAN ANYONE STOP THIS ROOKIE?!"

Doctore storms into the yard, his voice like thunder. "Attention!"

We snap to attention, hastily hiding bats and gloves behind our backs. Doctore's gaze sweeps over us, sharp and unyielding, like a hawk sizing up its prey.

"What you do on your day off is your business," he growls, "but make sure the wall is still standing by the end of it."

His eyes lock onto me. "Hector, your next menura is tomorrow. You'll lead the Tirones against the Laestrygonians. Rest up—this won't be a child's game like the Purgomachus."

The words land like a weight. The Laestrygonians—giants, brutal and unrelenting. My grip tightens on the slugger as a faint buzz of anticipation mingles with doubt.

Doctore's gaze doesn't soften. "Well?"

I exhale, steadying myself. "Understood."

I round the bases one last time, savoring the slugger's triumph. Eugene is slouched near the mound, drawing circles in the dirt with his finger as he mutters, "One strike away... all gone... all gone..."

Chabo buzzes above him, darting in little loops. "Don't worry, big guy, you'll get him next time!

CHICHICHICHI!"

As I finish my victory lap, I pause in front of Spartacus. With mock reverence, I offer him the slugger, holding it out like a sacred relic.

"Your turn. Don't let destiny down."

Spartacus takes the bat, his brow furrowing slightly as he grips it. For a moment, nothing happens.

Then the slugger begins to hum, its deep, booming voice echoing across the yard: "Spartacus! You and I are destined for greatness! Together, we shall conquer all obstacles, shatter all limits, and claim victory eternal! Swing me, and—"

"No," Spartacus interrupts, his tone calm and deliberate.

The slugger sputters. "B-but destiny—!"

"No," Spartacus repeats, flipping the bat onto the rack with a loud clunk.

Chabo zips around his head, buzzing frantically. "What kind of answer is that?! CHICHICHICHI!"

Spartacus glances at him, his expression flat. "A complete one."

Without another word, he turns and walks away, leaving Chabo spinning in midair.

Behind me, Doctore calls out again. "Hector. Move."

I follow him out of the yard, the weight of tomorrow's trial settling over me like a stone. But the warmth of camaraderie lingers as I hear Chabo and Eugene in the distance.

"Spartacus, wait! You've got to take at least one swing!"

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The roar of the crowd surges like a tidal wave, a cacophony crashing against the colossal walls of the Corrida Coliseum. In the heart of Dressrosa's capital, this grand arena looms as a monument to violence and domination—a stone maw where lives are devoured, and survival demands a brutal price. Its walls, stained by countless battles, seem to breathe with the echoes of the fallen. The blood-soaked sands underfoot are a testament to the relentless cycle of violence that feeds the insatiable hunger of the crowd. 

Dark clouds churn overhead, the sky heavy with the promise of a storm. The air shifts, the pressure dropping suddenly, a quiet omen of the coming tempest. The air is thick, oppressive, charged with tension, a sensation that adds weight to the brewing storm. Above me, the nobles lounge in their gilded balconies, laughing and jeering, their voices sharp as knives. To them, this is all a game—a blood-soaked spectacle for their amusement. They revel in the suffering below, detached from the terror and agony they orchestrate, their laughter like acid on the ears of those condemned.

Chains rattle as the prisoners stumble into the arena. They huddle together, wide-eyed and trembling. Men, women, even children—ordinary people thrust into this nightmare. Their ragged breathing, the clinking of chains, and their wide-eyed glances at the hulking walls seem to echo their collective horror, amplifying their vulnerability. The announcer's voice booms across the arena, dripping with theatrical glee, every word laced with malice.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN! FEAST YOUR EYES ON OUR BRAVE GLADIATORS, PITTED AGAINST THE MYTHICAL LAESTRYGONIANS! AND FOR EXTRA DRAMA—WE PRESENT THE INNOCENT VILLAGERS!! WILL OUR WARRIORS PROTECT THESE POOR CIVILIANS, OR LET THEM DANGLE AS BAIT? PLACE YOUR BETS!"

The crowd howls with excitement, their bloodlust palpable. Their roar is a frenzied, relentless wave that seems to grow louder with each moment, like a storm gathering strength. Another gate creaks open, and a figure steps out—a gaunt man with hollow eyes and a sick grin, his long fingers twitching like spiders. A Devil Fruit user. His very presence sends a shiver through the assembled crowd, a chill of dread tinged with perverse anticipation.

He raises a hand. The prisoners cry out as the slaves near him convulse, their faces twisted in terror and disbelief. Bones crack, muscles bulge, and screams of agony fill the air. Some prisoners clasp their hands over their mouths. Others fall to their knees, eyes wide with horror as the transformation unfolds. Flesh twists and stretches, fingers becoming claws, faces elongating into monstrous maws. The transformation is grotesque, impossible to look away from. Every moment stretches endlessly, each unnatural crack of bone and agonized scream a new note in this grim symphony. When it's over, Laestrygonians stand where humans once were—towering, ravenous giants with eyes devoid of anything human.

"LET THE TRIAL COMMENCE!" the announcer bellows.

The Laestrygonians roar, the sound deep and guttural, shaking the arena floor. Then they charge, massive feet pounding the sand, each step a rumble of doom that reverberates through the bones.

I don't wait. My body moves on instinct, the Spear of Mithras steady in my grip. A boy stumbles, his chain catching in the sand. One of the giants lunges for him, its claws poised to tear him apart.

I pull a pilum from my back and throw, my body coiling and releasing in a seamless motion. The energy surges through me, every joint aligning to amplify the force. A deafening CRACK splits the air, the sound reverberating through the arena. The spear becomes a streak of bronze, slamming into the Laestrygonian's skull. The giant's head explodes in a spray of blood and bone, and its body crumples like a felled tree.

The boy stares at me, his wide eyes filled with something new: hope. "Run!" I shout, and he bolts toward the prisoners, his chains clinking as he goes. His small figure seems almost swallowed by the vastness of the arena, but his frantic movement is a spark—a small sign that all is not lost.

The chaos is relentless. Gladiators and Laestrygonians clash, the sand churning red beneath them. I dart into the fray, weaving through the melee, the noise of metal on flesh and guttural roars deafening. My spear pierces a giant's chest, the blade slicing through its flesh with ease, blood spraying hot across my face. Another swings a massive club at me, the air whistling with its force. I raise my shield and let the blow connect, absorbing the impact with Dynamis Antirroia. The energy flows through me, down into the sand, and I twist, redirecting it. The club smashes into the ground, sending up a spray of grit and dust, and I thrust my spear upward, driving it into the Laestrygonian's throat, a spurt of dark blood marking the fatal strike.

A gladiator stumbles nearby, pinned beneath a giant's clawed hand. His desperate eyes meet mine, and I see both fear and pleading. I hurl my net, the weighted cords tangling around the giant's legs. It topples, its heavy body hitting the sand with a bone-rattling crash, and I close the distance, slicing its throat in a single motion. The gladiator looks up at me, blood streaking his face, his breath ragged. "Thanks," he gasps, the gratitude clear in his eyes. I nod and turn back to the fight. There's no time for words, no time to dwell on each life saved or lost—only the unending movement of survival.

We regroup, forming a loose line to protect the prisoners. The winds pick up, the storm building overhead. A low whistle rises as the wind snakes through the cracks of the stone, carrying with it the metallic scent of rain. The arena feels darker, the shadows deeper, the storm echoing the escalating chaos around us. The Laestrygonians charge again, their hunger and fury a palpable force, but I'm ready. My spear finds its mark, piercing flesh and bone, over and over, each thrust a desperate attempt to stem the tide.

Then it happens. A sharp gesture from the noble's box. A signal.

I barely have time to register it before pain erupts in my side. A blade sinks deep, stealing my breath, the sensation sudden and numbing. Another gladiator's weapon strikes my back, driving me to my knees. I stagger forward, gasping, blood spilling onto the sand, warm and thick between my fingers.

"Sorry, kid," one of the gladiators mutters, his voice bitter. "But your death buys my freedom." His words cut deeper than the blades. The second gladiator says nothing, his guilt written across his face as he retreats, his eyes not daring to meet mine.

They pull back, abandoning me and the prisoners to the giants. I press a hand to my side, warmth spreading through my fingers. My shield feels heavier, my vision blurs, but I force myself upright. The prisoners cry out behind me, their terror piercing through the storm's howl, the sound raw and unfiltered.

I can't fall. Not yet.

A Laestrygonian looms over me, its claws reaching. I pivot, driving my spear into its chest, twisting the blade as blood sprays across the sand. My muscles scream, every movement agony, but I don't stop. Another giant charges, and I meet it head-on, deflecting its blow with my shield before driving my spear into its gut. The storm howls around me, the winds tearing at my hair, but I stand firm, the prisoners huddling behind me, their hope fragile but not yet shattered.

Then they all come at once. The Laestrygonians, massive and unrelenting, charge together, their hunger driving them like a single beast. Their blows rain down, battering my shield, my body.

Pain explodes through me, each strike a hammer blow, but I hold my ground, every ounce of my will focused on enduring.

The spark ignites.

The principles of Ankule and Dynamis Antirroia surge through me, fusing into something greater. My body moves instinctively, twisting with the force around me, coiling tighter with each moment. The storm isn't just in the sky anymore—it's inside me. The winds howl, tearing through the arena, and I unleash it all in one devastating motion.

I spin. The Spear of Mithras becomes an extension of my will, carving through the air with impossible speed. The energy around me surges outward, forming a howling vortex—a true cyclone.

Kyklones.

The Laestrygonians are caught in the storm. The twister lifts their massive bodies into the air, their roars of rage and fear drowned by the howling winds. My spear cleaves through flesh and bone as they're pulled into the vortex, their blood painting the cyclone in streaks of red. Their limbs flail uselessly, a cacophony of despair that fades under the overwhelming force of the storm.

The arena is chaos—a storm of sand, blood, and shattered bodies. The winds whip higher, and then, with a final surge, the cyclone explodes outward. The giants are hurled like broken dolls, crashing into the arena walls or collapsing into the sand like discarded playthings. A rain of blood falls from the dissipating twister, mixing with the first drops of the coming storm. The scent of iron fills the air as the heavens finally open, the rain washing over the blood-soaked battlefield, a cold and indifferent baptism of the arena.

I sway in the aftermath, my chest heaving, my legs trembling, barely able to hold myself upright. Around me, the arena is still. The Laestrygonians are gone—obliterated. The prisoners stare, their faces pale but filled with awe. Behind them, the gladiator I saved earlier stands frozen, guilt heavy in his gaze, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

I turn my head slowly, rain dripping from my hair as I look up at the noble in the VIP box. His smirk is gone now, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. I hold his gaze, my defiance burning brighter than the storm, my very presence a statement that I am not yet broken, not yet beaten.

The lighthouse still stands.

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After the grueling gauntlet of the Gigantomachy, I find myself in the shadowed sanctuary of the Ludus. My breathing is ragged, my steps heavy, each sound echoing off the walls like a lingering ghost of the battle. My gaze drifts downward, the dirt-dappled stone of the training yard a stark reminder of facing the Laestrygonians' assault, abandoned and alone—unwilling to fall back.

As I enter a quiet chamber, Epictetus waits for me, seated cross-legged on a simple mat. His robes are slightly frayed at the edges, and a bemused smile dances upon his lips as he observes my approach.

"Ah, Hector," Epictetus begins, his voice a gentle calm in the aftermath of the storm, "the hero returns. You seem somehow short a few flecks of flesh—a light price, I think, for standing resolute against the storm; a beacon to those cast adrift."

I collapse heavily onto the mat across from my mentor, wincing as pain lances through my side. I look at Epictetus, the older man's expression unreadable. There is no applause, no congratulatory cheer—just that amused, searching gaze.

"So," I mutter, forcing a hollow chuckle past the ache in my ribs, wincing slightly as the pain flares. "How'd I do? Saved the prisoners, stood firm, fought with purpose—took my ally's blade to the back…"

Epictetus tilts his head slightly, a flicker of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Ah, so you survived a coliseum of giants, betrayal, and near death—yet here you are, concerned with my score?"

I huff a weak laugh, though it dies quickly as I press a hand to my ribs. "I could've died out there. And for what? I don't even know if those prisoners will survive."

I hesitate, my gaze dropping. "And the others—the ones I fought beside—they turned their backs on me. Even the man I saved." My voice hardens. "How do I rely on anyone after that? How do I fight when the ones meant to stand with me are the ones who'll stab me in the back?"

Epictetus leans forward slightly, his hands steepling. "Tell me, Hector—does their betrayal diminish what you chose to do? Or is this bitterness a thorn you now press into your own side?"

I blink, caught off guard by the question. "What are you talking about?"

"Bitterness," he says evenly, "is a poison we concoct for ourselves and drink willingly. You carry their betrayal like a blade still lodged in your back, but you are the one twisting it now."

My jaw tightens, and I glance away. "So, what? I'm supposed to just ignore it? Act like their betrayal doesn't matter?"

"Not act. Understand," Epictetus replies, his tone firm but kind. "Their failure is not your burden to carry. You stood firm because it was right for you to do so. Bitterness will only corrode the very courage that gives you the strength to keep standing."

I shift, my fingers tightening against the mat as I absorb his words. "I thought that perhaps, by standing my ground, I could change something in them. That maybe they would remember what it means to stand for others. Instead, I stood alone."

"Ah, but you misunderstand," Epictetus replies, a note of warmth creeping into his voice. "True courage—true *Andreia*—is not about ensuring others follow, nor is it done with the expectation of changing them. Courage is about standing firm in your values, regardless of who stands with you or against you."

He leans back, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. "You stood because it was right, because it was an expression of who you are—not because you sought to control what others would do. That, Hector, is *Prohairesis*—the strength to act deliberately, in harmony with your principles, without needing to see the fruits of your labor." 

Silence falls between us, the weight of Epictetus's words pressing down. I feel the deep truth in them, the echo of the choices I had made ringing louder in the quiet chamber. My eyes close for a moment, recalling the prisoners—the fear in their eyes, the hope they had found, however fleeting.

"I think I understand," I murmur. "I stood—not to change them, but because it was the only thing I could do that felt right." I exhale deeply, the tension loosening, though the ache of exhaustion remains.

Epictetus nods, his eyes softening. "Exactly, my young friend. A lighthouse does not shine in hopes that the storm will disappear, but because it is what it must do. It shines because it was built to guide, regardless of the darkness or the tempest that rages around it."

Slowly, I begin to smile, the burden on my chest feeling just a little lighter. I had stood, and though I stood alone, I had done so for those who needed hope.

"But," Epictetus continues, his tone shifting slightly, "you are not an unyielding stone or a beacon untouched by the elements. You are human, Hector. You have bled for your courage, and you carry the scars of today. That, too, is part of the choice you make."

Without another word, Epictetus reaches out, his hand resting lightly on my arm. I flinch slightly at the unexpected touch, but then a soft, golden glow begins to emanate from his palm, spreading warmth through my battered body. My breath catches as I watch my wounds—bruises, cuts, and the deep gash from the betrayal—begin to fade. Pain ebbs away, and weariness lifts like mist under the morning sun.

But as I glance at Epictetus, I see it: the bruises blooming dark across his skin like creeping shadows, the deep crimson gashes splitting open as though struck anew. His breath hitches, his shoulders tensing briefly as the injuries carve themselves into his flesh. The rawness of it—my pain now mirrored on his body—feels almost sacrificial, a strange, holy act.

"Epictetus, what...?" My eyes widen, awe blending with concern as I notice the blood trickling down his arm, a reflection of my own wounds.

Epictetus gives a wry, almost playful smile, though his voice is steady despite the visible strain. "The Prometheus Fruit, Hector. It allows me to share in another's suffering, to carry their burdens. Your wounds are mine now, for a time. This—it is just another form of what I teach. This is an act of solidarity. Sharing in your suffering does not spare you its lessons; it only reminds you that courage need not be carried alone."

The philosopher's breathing grows heavier, his frame bowing slightly under the weight of the pain, but even as the bruises darken upon his skin, a golden flame flickers around him. Slowly, steadily, the marks begin to heal, the golden flame flickering and pulsing gently as though breathing with him, though his labored breaths remind me he feels every moment of what I endured.

I see it now—not just the transfer of my pain, but his willingness to share it with me... a willingness to stand steady, even in the storm, for those who cannot. The idea that sometimes courage means allowing others to shoulder what we cannot bear alone.