Phantom Blade Zephyr: One Piece

Warning: The following chapter contains signs of abusive behavior that might be triggering for some readers. 

"What are you talking about? Stop talking nonsense." I managed to gasp.

"Ah, still so delusional." With just a single step, he was right before me, "Let me show you the truth."

He reached out and touched my head, and the scene changed again.

In this vision I was only 5 years old, stuck in a dark closet. I remember that day.

"Tell me why were you punished, Zephyr."

"I don't know."

The other me loomed closer, anger burning in his eyes.

"You know why. You know it in your bones. Tell me why!"

"Because I wasn't perfect!" I blurted out.

"That wasn't the real reason, was it? That was the reason we used to tell ourselves to justify our parents' behavior. Go deeper, tell me the real reason! The real reason why they locked us up in that tiny closet!"

"Because… because I wasn't my father's child!"

The truth tore through me. Now, I could see the family portrait as it really was: a family of three, dressed impeccably, with dark black hair and piercing brown eyes. And at the corner, barely noticeable, was a boy with blond hair and blue eyes—too different, too alone. His gaze was downcast, terrified of even meeting his parents' eyes, knowing the punishment that awaited him if he did.

"It wasn't my fault!" I muttered. "I didn't ask to be born like this. It wasn't my fault!" I repeated, over and over, as if trying to convince myself more than anyone else.

It has always been like this, hasn't it? I have always been truly and utterly alone.

"Alone? Ho, ho, ho. Weak? Yes. Tortured? Yes. But you have never been truly alone. Are you lying again, Zephyr?"

"What do you mean?"

He didn't answer as we went back to the familiar scene of a boy being stuck in a closet, alone.

This time, however, the memory glitched, revealing another figure beside the young blond boy: a slightly older boy with black hair, playing "Soulcalibur: Broken Destiny" on a shared PSP. No, it wasn't shared. It was Zayden's PSP. Zayden—my brother. Why had he come to play with me when he already had the perfect life?

"Because he was lonely too."

Lonely? Zayden? No, it can't be.

He was the perfect son, always the center of attention, always smiling for the camera. Always happy.

Happy? Was that really the word?

"No," the other me replied.

And then I saw the truth—the real truth.

Zayden, living a life dictated entirely by our parents' will. A life without choices, without freedom. A life as confined as mine. At least in that tiny attic room I was free to do what I wanted. But he could never be free. And he was the only one who had truly cared about me.

But why had I forgotten? Why did I paint him as the villain?

'Because I was envious.' The answer came to me; the illusion shattered.

I now knew who the real me was.

I was a victim, alright. But I was also cruel. Cruel to the only person who had actually cared about me.

"Why are you showing me this?" I demanded.

He shrugged, "I'm not showing you anything. Hell, I'm not even a real person. I'm just a mixture of your subconscious, multiple concussions, and heavy blood loss. I'm just telling you the truth—the truth that the sword is not your ambition; it's just a way for you to escape reality."

His words dug deep inside me. It burned me from inside out. It was the truth. The sword was just a way for me—

No, that wasn't it.

New memories flickered to life. A black-haired boy excitedly showing me a video.

"Z, look, look! This guy just cut through moving arrows with a single draw! It's so cool, right? He must have worked so hard to reach that level. Isn't it amazing?"

"Yeah… yeah, it is."

In that moment, two boys were admiring two very different things. One admired the countless hours poured into reaching mastery. But the other boy wasn't as smart. He just admired the weapon. The simple, elegant yet deadly weapon. In his eyes, those countless hours spent towards mastery were nothing of value. To him, it was just the minimum requirement to even be worthy enough to hold the sword.

The scene shifted, and now the boy had a different hair color and green eyes. He was practicing the same 'Vertical Katana Draw' he had seen all those years ago. He might not remember the event itself, but he remembered the act. He remembered the admiration and love he felt for the weapon itself.

Now the boy was older. He was talking about his dream in front of a mink and a young man with a weird hat. The boy himself was pretending. He himself didn't know what his dream truly was; he didn't know why he would go so far for the sword. And yet his eyes showed the sign of something else. Something intangible. Something beautiful. 

Why was his eyes like that?

"It's because he loved it." I whispered under my breath, "It's because I love it."

I continued without giving the other me a chance to respond, "You're right—the sword was once a means to escape. But now, it's so much more than that."

All around me, memories crumbled, taking with them all my doubt and hesitation. What was left was an ambition so strong it shook me to my core. The blond sickly boy was now nowhere to be seen.

I started talking to no one in particular.

"I'm sorry. I cannot die yet. My ambition doesn't allow me to do that."

And then I opened my eyes.

------

Just as Vergo's hand was inches from piercing Zephyr's heart, his eyes snapped open. And suddenly, an immense pressure descended upon the whole ship.

Vergo was not weak enough to succumb to this pressure. But he was shaken nonetheless.

"The Color of the Supreme King!" Vergo thought. "How could a loser like him possess this power?"

But he dismissed it, pressing forward. He might've been shocked for just a second. But it didn't matter. The boy was just simply too weak to stop his attack.

His hand pierced through the flesh, reaching for the heart. But just as he grazed it, a sword flashing with dark red lightning cascaded through the air, targeting his left hand.

The dark red sword hit the blackened arm. It should feel like nothing over the thick layer of Armament Haki. And yet, that simple hit sent shockwaves throughout Vergo's hand.

It wasn't much, but just enough for him to loosen up the grip over Zephyr's throat. Without the support of his hand, the body slipped free, hit the railing, and fell overboard, plunging into the sea below.

Vergo looked down at his hand, where a thin cut now marred the blackened skin. It was a flesh wound—nothing serious, but a cut nonetheless. Impressive.

The injured commander, Yamachi, approached him. Though his bleeding had stopped, his wound hadn't begun to heal. He glanced at Vergo, then spoke.

"That was the 'Color of the Supreme King', wasn't it?"

"Yes." Vergo clenched his bloodied hand. "The boy wasn't that much of a loser after all."

"Should we report this to Joker?"

"There's no need." Vergo smirked, showing his blood-stained hand.

"I already pierced his heart. A dead King is no king after all."