One Piece: Torchbearer

"Suffering arises from trying to control what is uncontrollable, or from neglecting what is within our power."

— Epictetus

◦ — ◦ ——— ✵ ——— ◦ — ◦

The Ludus sleeps.

Its silence lies heavy, pressing against the walls like a held breath. The desert night wraps the stone corridors in a chill that seeps through cracks and settles into the bones. Beyond the barred window, the stars scatter across the dark, distant and uncaring.

I sit on the edge of my cot, feet planted on the cold floor, head bowed. I'm thirteen, but I feel ancient. The torch in the hall flickers weakly, its light stretching long fingers into the corners of the room. Each movement makes my chest tighten, but it's not the dark that keeps me awake.

It's the memory of the knife.

I can still hear his voice, shaking with regret: "Sorry, kid. But your death buys my freedom." The blade had bitten deep, but it wasn't the pain that left me gasping—it was the weight of those words. I saved him, and he thanked me with steel.

Above him, the noble watched, his smirk sharp as a blade of his own. A single gesture from his gloved hand had turned my comrade into my executioner, my ally into a threat.

The noble controlled it all—the fight, the crowd, the betrayal. He sat safe in his balcony, pulling strings as easily as lifting a goblet of wine. No sword could reach him, no shield could deflect his whims. But his power didn't just kill. It corroded. It poisoned.

Even now, I wonder: if he could twist a man I saved into a blade at my back, what will he make of me?

The thought tightens around me like a noose. I push it away, grasping for something—anything—that feels steady. My mind drifts back, grasping at the edges of memories, to a time when fear was simpler, when shadows seemed like the greatest threat.

When I was small, the darkness scared me. It wasn't the absence of light—it was the things I thought might be hiding there. Shadows crept across the walls, their movements slow and deliberate, waiting for the right moment to lunge. I'd lie frozen, clutching my blanket, heart hammering in my chest.

But then her voice would break the spell. My mother's voice, soft and steady, smoothing my hair as she sat beside me. "Monsters aren't real," she'd say. "It's just the wind. Just the dark playing tricks."

And I believed her, because she made it easy to believe.

Later, it was my turn to carry those words. My brother was smaller than me, his voice trembling as he asked, "Are monsters real?" I smoothed his hair, just as she had, and told him, "No. They're just shadows. Nothing to be afraid of."

He believed me, the fear melting from his face as he curled closer. For a moment, I believed it too.

But I was wrong.

The shadows weren't hiding monsters—they were just hiding the truth. Monsters don't crawl from under beds or slither from the dark. They howl in the stands, spittle spraying from ravenous mouths. Their faces twist with a feverish hunger, eyes glassy and wild as they scream for blood. They are a pack baying for violence, their frenzy rising in waves that drown thought and mercy alike.

And above them, untouched by the chaos, the nobles watch. They lounge in their silks, fingers tracing goblets and trinkets as though toying with lives. Their laughter is soft, too calm, cutting through the clamor like a blade hidden in velvet.

But their indifference isn't the worst of it. The true horror is what desperation makes of us.

The gladiators fight like cornered animals, their eyes wide with fear, their hands trembling as they strike. The blades they wield are coated in desperation, their humanity worn thin and fraying like old cloth.

And then there's me.

The sand beneath my feet in the arena was slick with blood, and I didn't stop. The spear in my hands didn't just kill—it fed something inside me. Something sharp and primal. I fought for survival, but there was a moment—a brief, fleeting moment—when I fought for the thrill of it.

What does that make me?

I glance down at my hands, steady and empty now. But I can still feel the weight of the spear, the warmth of blood slicking my grip.

The torchlight sputters, and I flinch, my pulse spiking. My muscles tense, ready for a blow that isn't coming. The shadows shift along the walls, their movements slow, deliberate, like the creeping crawl of memories I can't escape.

But even as the fear knots inside me, another voice rises—calmer, steadier. Epictetus's voice, cutting through the storm in my mind: "Suffering arises from trying to control what is uncontrollable, or from neglecting what is within our power."

I couldn't stop the noble from sending me into that fight. I couldn't stop the betrayal. I couldn't stop the crowd from howling for my blood, or the man I saved from turning on me. None of it was mine to command.

But my strength is mine. My breath is mine. My thoughts are mine to sharpen, my instincts mine to hone.

The Ludus is quiet, the night still and unmoving. But I feel the faintest pull of the desert air through the cracks in the walls. It smells of stone and sweat, tinged with the cold bite of the outside world.

I rise, my legs stiff from sitting too long, my body aching with the weight of exhaustion. The chill floor presses against my feet as I step forward, toward the hall where the torch burns weakly against the dark.

If I can't sleep, I'll train. If I can't trust, I'll prepare. If I can't stop the noble, I'll make myself strong enough to endure him.

My breath steadies as I reach for my spear, its familiar weight grounding me. The torchlight flickers again, but this time, I don't flinch.

The storm will come again. But next time, I'll be ready.

Steel clashed through the Ludus, slicing the morning air with sharp, staccato rhythms. Dust danced in golden shafts of light, stirred by the relentless pace of drills. Fighters hurled themselves against Daedalus's constructs—platforms that bucked like wild beasts, mechanical arms lashing with chains, shifting pillars forcing every step into a gamble.

These machines weren't just tools—they were trials, designed to grind men into weapons. Their gilded gears turned with flawless precision, a testament to the genius of their creator. Daedalus's name lingered on the lips of those who dared to speak it, not as a man, but as a myth—a craftsman whose machines once lifted Atlantis to greatness but now served darker purposes.

I lingered at the edge, gripping the grooves of my spear. The ridges steadied me as I watched the drills. Normally, the yard was where I thrived, but today the air felt heavier, the movements sharper. Around me, fighters battled with relentless precision, unyielding as Daedalus's machines. They'd survived the chains, the Purgomachus, every trial the nobles devised to break them. Yet, I couldn't forget the hollow apology in the voice of the man who betrayed me.

He'd been strong—strong enough to endure—but he'd let fear twist him into their puppet. What was the point of survival if it left you empty?

I thought of my father. His hands were worn and calloused, not by battle, but by nets and rope. He'd had no arena to prove himself, no laurels or scars. Yet when the soldiers came for us, he stood, unarmed, without hesitation. He didn't falter. He died protecting me.

His strength hadn't been in his body, but in his will—a quiet, unshakable resolve that refused to bow. Compared to him, these gladiators—these so-called strong men—seemed hollow. They had survived, yes, but at what cost? What was the point of strength if it meant betraying what made you human?

I tightened my grip on the spear, its familiar grooves grounding me. I wondered what someone like my father might have done with the strength I'm learning to wield. Could I become that kind of man? Could I carry strength without losing myself?

Around me, the yard seemed to echo with memories—the cadence of drills, the relentless crash of steel. I wasn't there yet, but I would be.

"Form up!" Doctore's voice cracked like a whip, jolting me.

The command struck harder than it should have. My heart stuttered before steadying, and I forced myself to move. The hesitation lingered, a reminder of how off-balance I felt. As I fell into line, the yard seemed to narrow, the world pressing in just a little too tightly.

I jerked at the sound, the movement too sharp, too sudden. For a moment, my heart hammered in my chest, and I hesitated, unsure if it was the command or something deeper that had startled me. The hesitation was brief, but it lingered in my mind as I moved to join the others.

Fighters lined up across the yard, a sea of muscle and scars. At their center, Doctore stood like a storm's eye, his presence impossible to ignore.

"The Clash of Ludii begins in six months," he said, his voice cutting through the morning like a blade. "A contest of strength, skill, and survival. Every Ludus worth its name will send a team to the Corrida Coliseum. For the victors: recognition, a year's reprieve from tribute fights, and an artifact forged by Vulcan himself."

A low murmur ran through the line at the mention of Vulcan. Even I felt a flicker of something in my chest—anticipation, perhaps, or hope. A weapon from Vulcan wasn't just a prize; it was a legend, a symbol of mastery that could tip the scales in any fight.

Doctore's voice hardened, dragging us back. "But for the losers?" He let the words hang, his gaze sweeping over us. "The worst-performing Ludii will face sudden-death matches against desperate challengers. Lose those, and this Ludus falls. We become nothing more than fodder for the nobles' games."

I felt the air shift around me—bodies stiffening, breaths quickening. The stakes were clear enough: survival and ruin, glory and annihilation. My grip on the spear tightened, its familiar weight grounding me as the tension coiled in my chest.

Doctore took a step forward, his boots grinding against the stone. "You six have been chosen. Spartacus. Chabo. Eugene. Atalanta. Thespis. Hector. For six months, you will train, fight, and forge yourselves into a team worthy of this Ludus. Spartacus will lead. The rest of you will carry your weight—or be crushed by it."

He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Dismissed."

Before anyone could move, Spartacus stepped forward, his arms crossed. "Hold it." His tone was calm but firm, cutting through the tension like the crack of a whip. "We've been thrown together whether we like it or not, so we'd better start acting like a team. Names, roles, and why you're here—let's hear it."

He gestured toward Chabo first.

The tiny gladiator buzzed forward, his iridescent wings fluttering as he grinned. "Chabo! The Little Giant!" he declared, puffing out his chest. "They threw Chabo into the Gigante League, thinking he'd get crushed—but Chabo smashed those big guys like it was nothing!"

He thumped his chest proudly. "It's all thanks to Chabo's mythical scarab fruit. Makes him fast, tough, and unstoppable!"

"Unstoppable," Atalanta echoed softly, her lips quirking upward.

"That's right!" Chabo nodded, clearly pleased with himself.

Eugene chuckled, his massive frame shaking. "Eugene. I've got the meanest splitter you'll ever see—nineteen strikeouts in one game. And yeah, I fight too." He tossed a scuffed baseball into the air, catching it with a wide grin. "Nobody's walking to first when I'm in the arena."

He leaned toward Atalanta, his single eye twinkling with amusement. "What about you, kid? You don't look like you'd miss either."

"Don't miss," Atalanta repeated softly, adjusting her quiver. "Atalanta. Archer. I don't miss."

Spartacus nodded, turning his attention to the towering figure at the edge of the group. "Thespis."

The minotaur stepped forward, his spectacles glinting in the light. At five meters tall, he towered over most of the group, his dark blue fur immaculate despite the dust of the yard. He adjusted the glasses with a massive hand, the gesture surprisingly delicate.

"Thespis," he said, his voice smooth and resonant. "Playwright. Architect of battles. Maestro of labyrinths." He held up a shimmering quill. "This is my instrument. The Script-Script Fruit allows me to weave stories into reality—characters, obstacles, entire landscapes—all bound by the logic of the narrative."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the group. "A poorly written role rebels. But a carefully crafted one? More loyal than any comrade."

Eugene grinned. "Just don't write me into a corner, big guy."

Spartacus turned to me. "Hector."

I stepped forward, gripping my spear tightly. "Hector. Primus Tirones. Won the Purgomachus six months ago."

"Good to see you back on your feet after that Laestrygonian mess," Eugene said.

Chabo buzzed in close, nodding. "Yeah! Chabo thought you were done for—but you bounce back fast!"

"At least he didn't freeze up," Atalanta muttered, her smirk returning.

Spartacus surveyed us one last time, his tone even. "Six months isn't long to turn this into a team. No weak links. No excuses. And try not to kill each other before we even start."

"Kill each other?" Atalanta murmured, tilting her head slightly.

Eugene laughed, clapping a massive hand against his thigh. "Don't worry, kid. We'll make sure you last long enough to enjoy the circus."

"Circus," she repeated, shaking her head as she adjusted her bow.

◦ — ◦ ——— ✵ ——— ◦ — ◦

The midday sun bore down on the Ludus, turning stone and sand into a furnace. Fighters moved like shadows across the yard, sweat glistening as muscles strained. Machines of Daedalus's design churned and clanked, their intricate gears glinting in the light. Originally meant to ease the burdens of Atlantis's workers, these marvels had been twisted into relentless tools of violence. Pillars shifted unpredictably beneath sparring fighters, chains swung from rotating arms, and narrow platforms teetered on invisible axes. The yard was alive with the rhythm of combat, every movement honed to strip weakness away.

I lingered at the edge, my spear balanced against my shoulder, and scanned the scene. Fighters barked commands, weapons clashed, and dust swirled in the air. Yet, despite the cacophony, my attention snagged on the smallest details. Eugene and Chabo stood near the far wall, their towering and diminutive forms locked in some kind of lesson.

"Alright, little guy, listen up," Eugene rumbled, his voice conspiratorial but still carrying across the yard. "The secret to the knuckleball is no spin. Just pure chaos."

Chabo buzzed upward, his wings fluttering as he peered at the ball with fascination. "Chaos? Chabo thrives on chaos!"

Eugene grinned, raising his arm slowly, his eye narrowing in exaggerated intensity. With deliberate precision, he released the ball. It tumbled through the air in a wobbling, erratic path that defied logic. Chabo darted toward it, only to stop short as it veered sharply left, then right, before plummeting to the ground like a stone.

"Chabo wasn't ready!" the tiny gladiator protested, shaking a fist.

Eugene crossed his arms, looking smug. "Nobody's ready for the knuckleball."

A chuckle escaped me before I could stop it. I leaned back against the column, letting the yard's chaos settle into background noise. Nearby, Thespis hunched over a parchment, his quill darting across it like a swordsman in combat. Shadows leapt from the ink...

The minotaur hunched over a scrap of parchment near the center of the yard, his quill darting across its surface. Shadows leapt from the ink, forming tiny figures—soldiers lining up in formation, a maiden fleeing a dragon, a knight clashing swords with a monster. Each one flickered to life before vanishing again.

He paused, tilting his head as if struck by inspiration. With a snap of his fingers, a miniature stage materialized before him. Two ink characters appeared—a noblewoman with an exaggeratedly large wig and a scheming vizier with a crooked nose.

"Lady Fortuna!" the vizier proclaimed, bowing deeply. "If I may present—"

The noblewoman slapped him with a fan, her voice shrill. "You may not! You knave!"

Thespis chuckled quietly, jotting something in his notebook as the characters bickered.

At the edge of the yard, Atalanta stood apart, her bow steady in her hands. She moved with precision, releasing arrows in a rhythm as smooth and deliberate as a heartbeat. The string thrummed with each release, the sharp thunk of wood meeting wood confirming another perfect hit. Her eyes didn't track the targets—they didn't need to.

I leaned against a column, watching her work. There was something about the way she moved—not just skill, but certainty. As if the world spoke to her in a language I couldn't yet understand.

The next arrow struck dead center again, and her hand moved to her quiver for another. But she froze, tilting her head slightly, as though sensing something beyond the noise of the yard.

"You're staring," she said, her voice steady and precise.

I flinched, caught off guard. She hadn't even turned to look at me.

"I wasn't—" I began, then stopped. Lying felt pointless. "Okay, I was."

She lowered the bow and turned toward me, her expression calm but questioning. "Why?"

I hesitated, fumbling for an answer. "You don't look... normal when you shoot."

Her brow arched, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. "Normal?"

"I mean," I said quickly, "you don't aim. You don't look like you're thinking about it at all. You just... know."

Her smirk grew slightly, and she nodded toward the column I leaned against. "Observation Haki," she said. "It's not about aiming—it's about sensing. Like when the hairs on the back of your neck rise because someone's behind you, or when you feel a shift in the air before a storm. Everyone has instincts like that; most just ignore them. With training, you learn to notice everything—the weight of a step, the change in someone's breath before they strike. It's all there, waiting for you to pay attention."

Her explanation landed with quiet clarity, her words simple yet resonant. They settled in me like the first drops of a storm—small, but charged with the promise of something greater.

"And you learned this... back home?"

She straightened slightly, her gaze distant for a moment. "Amazon Lily. We don't get to ignore danger there. Observation Haki isn't just a skill—it's survival. You miss the shift in the wind or the rustle of leaves, you don't see the predator until it's too late. It's not about being special. It's about necessity."

Her voice carried the weight of hard truths, shaped by experience rather than pride. Something familiar stirred in me, the edges of a memory sharpening. "Amazon Lily," I said slowly. "My mother was from there."

Atalanta's focus sharpened, her brow lifting slightly. "Was?"

"She left when I was young," I said, my voice tightening. "Five, maybe six. She stayed long enough for my brother to be born, then... she was gone."

Atalanta tilted her head, studying me for a moment. "She must've had her reasons."

"Maybe," I said, though the word rang hollow. "I barely remember her. Just fragments. She told stories about an island of warriors. She hummed lullabies when it stormed. And she'd say... there's no refuge for the weak."

Atalanta's smirk softened, a faint warmth tempering the usual sharpness. "She wasn't wrong. But strength isn't just survival. Your mother probably knew that."

Her words settled over me, unforced but heavy with meaning. I hadn't thought of it that way before, hadn't considered what she might have seen in me when I was too young to see it myself.

"You think she saw something?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.

Atalanta shrugged slightly, her tone matter-of-fact but not unkind. "Mothers usually do."

The silence that followed stretched between us, not heavy, but alive with a quiet understanding. I studied her—the way she stood, the way her certainty seemed less about defiance and more about trust in herself.

"We're not so different, are we?" I said finally, my voice low but sure.

"Not as different as we thought," she said, her voice quieter now, the edges of her smirk softening.

For a moment, the yard seemed distant, blurred by the warmth of her words. The memory of that lullaby returned—my mother's voice, low and steady, humming against the roar of a storm.

The memory of that lullaby came rushing back—my mother's voice, low and steady, humming against the roar of a storm. I was small then, curled beneath a thin blanket as lightning tore through the night. My father held a dim lamp, his shadow dancing across the walls, his quiet strength anchoring us as the wind howled.

She'd stroked my hair, her touch gentle despite her calloused hands. "You'll be strong one day, Hector," she'd said, her voice calm as the sea after a storm. "You'll need to be."

The words warmed and saddened me now, their weight pressing against the ache in my chest. She had seen something in me, even then. Something I hadn't fully understood until now.

Atalanta's voice broke through the memory. "You'll get there," she said softly, her certainty like a thread tying me back to the present. "Not because of where you came from, but because you'll work for it."

I pressed my palm against my spear, feeling the familiar grooves beneath my fingers. I'd start small. Step by step, breath by breath, I'd learn to listen.

Because I must.

◦ — ◦ ——— ✵ ——— ◦ — ◦

The chamber was aglow with the flicker of firelight, shadows dancing across the stone like restless spirits. Epictetus sat cross-legged on a simple mat, his hands resting lightly on his knees. His head tilted slightly, a faint smile playing on his lips as though savoring a joke only he understood. His sharp, sparkling eyes caught mine the moment I entered, brimming with mischief and unspoken wisdom.

"Hector," he greeted, his voice light, almost sing-song. "You approach like a thief in the night—though far too noisy to escape unnoticed. Come, come! The brazier burns, and my tea grows cold. A perfect time for life's little epiphanies, don't you think?"

I stepped into the room, lowering myself onto the mat opposite him. The fire's warmth licked at my skin, a welcome reprieve from the evening chill.

"I wanted to check on you," I said, glancing over him. "After... what you did."

"Ah, yes." He drew the words out with a theatrical flourish, tapping his chin in mock deliberation. "The gallant, glorious, and entirely gratuitous gesture of shared suffering? I assure you, my dear Hector, I'm as hale as a hero and hearty as a harvest feast."

His grin widened, daring me to object.

"You're sure?" I pressed, scanning him for any sign of lingering pain.

Epictetus sighed with exaggerated exasperation, holding out his arms like a merchant presenting wares. "Examine me, poke me, prod me! I am intact, unscarred, and still more charming than most men half my age. I'm fine, Hector."

Despite myself, a chuckle escaped. "I just wanted to be sure."

"And now you are." His voice softened, though the glint in his eyes remained. "But the real question, my boy, is this: how are you?"

I hesitated, my gaze drifting to the flames. Their light played across the walls in restless patterns, mirroring the unease in my chest. "I'm... better," I said slowly. "Atalanta showed me something today—Observation Haki. She said it's about noticing what's already there. It feels solid, like something I can actually control."

Epictetus's brow lifted, his curiosity as sharp as a blade. "Observation Haki, you say? The art of sensing whispers in the wind, feeling the ripples before the wave? Fascinating! Did she also teach you to pluck moonbeams or hear the thoughts of stones? No? A pity."

I rolled my eyes, though a small smile tugged at my lips. "It's not magic."

"Ah, but magic is merely mystery misunderstood!" He gestured grandly to the brazier, the flames flaring slightly as though in agreement. "Tell me, then—what did our dear Atalanta impart?"

"She said it's like noticing the air change before a storm or sensing someone behind you. It's practical, not mystical."

Epictetus hummed, tapping his fingers in a steady rhythm on his knee. "Practical, yes. But let us not discard the profound! Observation Haki, like all great truths, dwells beneath the surface of what we see and hear. It is not merely sensing—it is knowing. The will behind the motion. The essence beneath the form."

He reached toward the brazier, his hand hovering just above the flame. "Tell me, Hector—what do you see here?"

"A fire," I said cautiously.

"And yet," he murmured, "it is more. Heat. Light. Energy. Destruction and creation entwined. But beyond all that, it is the idea of fire—the essence of burning. Observation Haki allows you to see beyond the flicker, to grasp the spark before it ignites."

I frowned, trying to align his words with Atalanta's explanation. "So it's about understanding the truth of something? Its... essence?"

"Exactly!" He clapped his hands, the sound startling in the quiet chamber. "To sense the world's hidden truths, my boy, is to wield a light in the darkest of shadows. But tell me—why does this newfound skill matter so much to you?"

"Because I wasn't ready before. If I'd known... if I'd seen... I could've stopped them. The betrayal wouldn't have happened."

The memory of his voice—"Your death buys my freedom"—rose unbidden, a blade turned inward. I'd trusted him, and he'd weaponized that trust. A noble's hand had pulled the strings, but I'd never seen the knife coming.

Epictetus's smile softened, his playful energy dimming slightly. "Ah, the bitter brew of hindsight. Potent, isn't it? But tell me, Hector—does it quench your thirst for the future?"

I shook my head, the weight in my chest growing heavier. "No."

"Then do not linger over its dregs." His voice, though gentle, carried a steel edge. "Pain, betrayal—they are the winds that test your flame. They threaten to snuff it out, yes, but they also teach you how to shield it, how to carry it higher and brighter than before."

I stared at the brazier, the flames reflected in my eyes. "What if I'm not strong enough to carry it?"

Epictetus's grin returned, warm and steady. "Strength is not an unyielding boulder, my boy—it is a river, carving its path through stone. Doubt is its flow. Struggle is its current. Every step you take feeds its course."

His words stirred something deep within me, a faint ember of resolve glowing amid the ashes of doubt.

"And remember," he added, his tone lighter now, "a torch is not merely for the bearer. It is a beacon, a promise, a gift to those who stumble in the dark. Your flame, however small, may one day guide another to safety."

I rose slowly, the weight on my shoulders feeling lighter, if only slightly. "I'll keep going," I said quietly. "Because I have to."

Epictetus beamed, spreading his arms wide. "A splendid answer! Now go, my young friend, and tend your flame. But do try not to set the Ludus ablaze. Doctore would be most cross."

A faint laugh escaped me as I turned to leave, his final words lingering in the air:

"Carry it well, Hector. The storm may howl, but the torch endures."