Drum Island, Grand Line
"Huff... huff...!"
A young man strained against the biting cold, his breath emerging in ragged clouds as he stood amid the towering shadows of monstrous creatures—rabbits, but not the kind that nibbled on carrots. These were Lapahns—massive, carnivorous beasts native to the frostbitten peaks of the Drum Kingdom.
With razor claws, fangs like daggers, and eyes that gleamed with predatory cunning, these were not creatures of innocence but apex predators bred by the cruel hand of nature in a land where survival was never guaranteed.
Prince Bellet stumbled forward, boots crunching into the ice, every muscle in his body aching from the treacherous climb and earlier skirmishes. Blood dripped steadily from a wound on his shoulder, soaking into the snow beneath. His finely tailored vest, a remnant of his royal life, now hung in tatters.
Once, he had walked into kingdoms with fanfare and trumpets, bathed in reverence. Now, he was little more than prey, hunted and alone.
The king of Drum Island had rejected him. Bellet was royalty—he had expected diplomacy, respect. But his family name no longer carried weight. His father, once a revered monarch, had returned from the Kamabakka Kingdom changed—not merely in body but in spirit. Declaring himself an Okama, he had upended centuries of tradition. And with that transformation came chaos. Scandal. Abandonment.
The aristocracy whispered behind closed doors. Advisors defected. Vassals fled. Claimants to the throne emerged like vultures, each one hoping to seize what was rightfully his. But Bellet had not given up.
Somewhere atop this cursed mountain, they said, lived a miracle—an ancient doctor who could cure any ailment, a being who defied time itself. In desperation, Bellet had come in search of this myth. Not for riches. Not for power. But to restore his father's mind… and, if possible, his body.
He had begged Emporio Ivankov, the one responsible for his father's transformation. He had tried bribes. Threats. Desperate pleas. But Ivankov had refused.
"Your father made a choice," the flamboyant ruler of the Okama kingdom had declared, "and I will not undo a gift freely accepted."
That left only the legends. And legends brought him here—through frost and pain and death.
A low growl snapped him from his thoughts.
Too late.
A Lapahn, twice his size, lunged at his exposed back. Bellet barely turned before the creature's claws tore through his vest, raking down his spine.
"AAARRGH!" he roared, pain lancing through him. He spun around, twin pistols drawn, firing wildly.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
But the Lapahn was fast. Smarter now, learning with each engagement. It weaved through the hail of bullets, recognizing the danger of the fiery metal that had slain its kin. Bellet stumbled, eyes widening in horror.
They weren't alone.
Three more Lapahns crept from the snowdrifts, each one more massive than the last. Their fur shimmered like iron, and their eyes burned with a cruel, almost mocking intelligence. He was surrounded.
They didn't pounce—not yet. Instead, they circled him like wolves, three distracting him while one darted in with a flash of claws or a snap of jaws. They were toying with him.
"YOU BASTARDS!" he screamed in rage and desperation.
His fingers fumbled inside his pack until they closed around a stick of dynamite. He struck a match with trembling hands, lit the fuse, and hurled it forward before diving behind a jagged rock for cover.
The Lapahns flinched at the fire—but curiosity overpowered caution. One of them sniffed at the sizzling fuse. Another tilted its head, mesmerized. Just as the lead creature opened its maw to bite—
KABOOM!
The explosion shattered the silence. Fire roared. Snow vaporized. Rocks cracked. The very mountain trembled under the force of the blast. One Lapahn was vaporized, its body reduced to scorched sinew and bone. Two others were hurled backward—mortally wounded by the shockwave and shrapnel. The last, further away, escaped with its life but not its limbs—its leg twisted grotesquely, bones shattered.
Smoke and ash lingered in the air like ghosts. And somewhere, far above, hidden by snowdrifts and biting wind, a wooden cabin rattled in the aftershock.
Perched precariously near the summit of the mountain, nestled among gnarled trees and ancient stone, stood a large, weather-beaten wooden cabin. Snow blanketed the roof like icing on a forgotten cake. Lanterns flickered dimly behind frosted windows. Inside, the warmth of a hearth kept the cold at bay.
The walls were lined with ancient scrolls, strange herbs, and alchemical instruments—glass vials bubbling with unknown concoctions. At a broad wooden desk, hunched over a mortar and pestle, sat Doctor Kureha—the legendary witch of the Drum Kingdom.
Despite her age—well over 140 years—she moved with the energy and sharpness of someone half a century younger. Her long silver hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she wore a thick red coat with a skull emblem stitched onto the back.
She sipped from a wine bottle, her eyes flicking toward the rattling shelves as the explosion's tremors reached her home.
"Hmph," she muttered. "Another idiot trying to climb my mountain."
In a nearby bed, heavily bandaged yet unmistakably alive, lay Doctor Hiruluk. Though bruised and broken from a recent escapade, he grinned through the pain, ever the madman optimist.
"Sounds like someone's having a hell of a time out there," he chuckled, coughing but unfazed.
Kureha snorted. "Probably dead already. These days, royalty thinks they can march up here and demand miracles." She turned back to her instruments, muttering to herself.
"But maybe... just maybe... this one's different." Outside, the snow began to fall again—softly, quietly, as if the mountain itself was deciding whether Prince Bellet was worthy of its secrets.
The tremor passed. Bottles rattled on shelves. Dust fell from the ceiling like fine ash. But Doctor Kureha didn't even flinch. She had seen this before. Too many times. Foolish adventurers, dying kings, desperate nobles—climbing her mountain in search of hope wrapped in myth. The rumors of the Witch of Drum Kingdom never failed to lure them in.
But Kureha had long ago made peace with the cruelty of her rules. She would only heal those she chose to heal. No amount of gold, titles, or tears could bend her will otherwise. Her back was turned, hands working deftly over a cluttered wooden table, mixing herbs and strange compounds into a bubbling vial. Her movements were precise, practiced—each motion shaped by over a century of mastery.
Behind her, nestled in a bed piled with thick furs, lay Doctor Hiruluk, wrapped in layers of bandages like a mummy. His face, normally lit by his trademark foolish grin, now held a rare seriousness.
"So..." Kureha muttered without turning. "Care to explain why you were about to become a frozen popsicle out in the snow, you reckless brat?"
The question hung in the warm air like a knife, sharpened by annoyance but laced with genuine concern. Hiruluk scratched the back of his wrapped head, sheepish.
"I heard rumors that the new king is planning to monopolize all medicine in the kingdom," he said, voice low. "He wants total control. Any doctor not under his command will be labeled a criminal…"
Kureha's hands didn't pause, but she could feel the weight of his words seep into the room like a slow poison.
"I tried to reason with him; at least that was what the initial plan was," Hiruluk continued. "Didn't even get past the gates. But one of the guards... someone I treated once... he recognized me. Showed mercy. Barely."
Kureha snorted, corking the vial in her hand with a sharp twist. Hiruluk chuckled weakly and scratched the bandaged side of his head, the sound brittle.
Kureha's eyes narrowed. She didn't need to ask what happened next. Even she knew Hiruluk was a quack—kindhearted, yes, but reckless to the point of danger. His so-called cures were nothing more than elaborate concoctions of herbs and dreams. She had spent years trying to hammer some sense into his thick skull, trying to break the delusion that he could discover a miracle cure for every ailment.
"It's already a miracle they didn't kill you and toss you in some unmarked grave," she snorted, pouring the powdered herbs into a steaming flask and stoppering it with practiced ease. "One day, your idiocy is going to hurt someone. And if that someone happens to be one of my paying patients, I swear I'll wring your neck myself. Understood, brat?"
Hiruluk smiled faintly. He wasn't a fool. He knew what she was really saying. She finally turned, her fierce eyes locking with his. Hiruluk, despite the threat, only smiled. He had known her long enough to hear the concern buried beneath her scolding. But he wasn't done.
"Kureha-san… you're probably the greatest doctor the world's ever seen. Why won't you do something about this?" His voice trembled—not with fear, but with frustration, desperation. "You know what'll happen if King Wapol succeeds. If he starts branding doctors as criminals, most will flee the kingdom. The poor will be abandoned. The sick left to rot…"
He trailed off, knowing how futile it was to argue with her. Still, the hope lingered in his eyes. But Kureha didn't flinch. She kept her back to him, eyes cold, face impassive.
"Why should I care?" Kureha interrupted coldly, taking a long swig from a half-empty wine bottle.
"I'm not a revolutionary. Not a savior. This isn't a charity, and I'm certainly not some chosen child of destiny. And I sure as hell don't carry the burdens of this world. As long as Wapol keeps his stupidity out of my way and doesn't touch my patients, his kingdom can rot for all I care."
"As long as they don't interfere with my business, the politics of Drum Kingdom are none of my concern. And don't try to appeal to my 'duty' as a doctor." She took a long swig from a wine bottle. She frowned suddenly, peering into the bottle. "...Tch. Delivery's late this month."
She tilted the bottle. Empty.
"Tch. The delivery's late this month," she growled, annoyed.
Hiruluk tilted his bandaged head, curiosity glinting behind bruised eyes as he blinked.
"I still don't understand… why would someone from the New World, from an Emperor's crew no less, be sending you gifts like clockwork? Come on, Kureha-san. Did you save someone from the Donquixote family? What favor did you do for them?"
His voice was laced with curiosity, the same curiosity that once led him to steal across the Grand Line as a great thief renowned throughout the Grand Line before settling in Drum Kingdom. For years, even before the Donquixote family took their place among the Emperors, Kureha had been receiving monthly shipments—exquisite wines, the finest vintages from every corner of the seas. Bottles so rare, so valuable, even the so-called nobles would kill to taste them.
And Kureha? She received cases—like clockwork.
Kureha leaned back in her chair, her expression unreadable. Her eyes drifted to the far wall, where a tall shelf held a line of books and scrolls. Tucked behind one of the binders was a folder—a collection of bounty posters from across the seas. A select few, ones that caught her interest.
"Beats me," she replied nonchalantly, walking to the bookshelf near the hearth. She paused, pulling out a binder from between the rows of dusty books.
Among them was one—faded, creased, and carefully preserved. A young man with cold eyes and a devil-may-care smile. His name—Donquixote Rosinante. The world now knew him as someone who stood at the same level as Whitebeard. Kureha chuckled softly, the memory tugging at her.
"Five years ago," she said, "that boy—that Donquixote kid—asked me to join his family. Said he needed a doctor who could outlive death itself."
"And you refused?" Hiruluk asked, incredulous.
"Of course," Kureha scoffed. "I have no interest in being dragged around the seas by some punk with daddy issues and delusions of grandeur. At least that's what I thought about the kid back then…"
"But…" She lifted the empty bottle and swirled the last drops. "He's still been sending me these fine vintages. Every month. Without fail. Never asked again. Never pushed. Just... gifts."
She chuckled again.
"I thought he was trying to impress me at first to make me change my mind. Thought he'd get bored. But five years later... here we are."
She chuckled, flipping open the binder, revealing rows of bounty posters stored with care.
"I'll admit—whoever's picking those vintages has damn good taste."
"He's grown into a fine man," she murmured. "Too fine, maybe. Dangerous. The kind of man who could shake the world if he wanted to."
Hiruluk followed her gaze, eyebrows raising in recognition as he caught a glimpse of the poster. Rosinante. The name echoed across the New World like thunder. A rising storm. A pirate whose name was now spoken in the same breath as Whitebeard himself. A ruler in the shadows. A ghost reborn.
"Why him?" he asked softly. Kureha didn't look at him.
"I don't know," she said. "Maybe I saw a piece of myself in that kid. Or maybe... I'm just curious what kind of world he's going to build. He reminds me of someone I once knew… someone who thought they could conquer death."
Her eyes briefly flicked to Hiruluk. He smiled again. This time, not the foolish grin of a quack, but something quieter. Sadder. Wiser.
Hiruluk was quiet for a moment, absorbing everything. Despite all his years of knowing her, he still couldn't fully understand the woman before him. A healer who refused the cries of kings. A witch who could have changed the world—but chose to live alone on a mountaintop.
"So why turn him down too…?" Hiruluk blinked, disbelief flickering behind his bruised eyes. "I really don't understand you, Kureha-san. That young man—Rosinante—he's no ordinary pirate. He's become someone the world watches now… and even you seem to admit he's surpassed your expectations. So why… why refuse him?"
Kureha didn't answer right away. She only smirked, lips curling around the rim of her empty wine bottle, as if the question itself was too naïve to deserve a serious response. Hiruluk stared at her, and then—suddenly—his memory flared.
He remembered a story. A moment buried years ago, almost forgotten, but now returning with full clarity. It had been a winter night not unlike this one. Cold. Quiet. The air sharp as glass. He'd been returning from a supply run, and when he entered Kureha's cabin that evening, he noticed something strange: an untouched second cup of tea sitting on the table across from her.
No one else had been there. Not at first. But later that night, he'd overheard the whispers from the village elders. Rumors that made even him stop in his tracks.
Silvers Rayleigh, the Dark King. First mate of Gol D. Roger himself—one of the few living men who had conquered the Grand Line and returned alive. He had come to Drum Island in secret. Not to wage war. Not to seek treasure. But to ask for a favor—from her. And she had turned him away.
Didn't even entertain the man's request. There had been no clash. No drama. The legendary pirate had simply walked away, snow settling on his shoulders, his expression unreadable.
Hiruluk had been stunned when he found out. A man of Rayleigh's power, denied without so much as a conversation? He hadn't believed it at first. But the untouched tea… the silence in Kureha's eyes that night… It had been true. She was that kind of woman.
Hiruluk looked at her now—still standing near the flickering firelight, smirking as though emperors and kings were just names she had long since grown tired of hearing. And in that moment, Hiruluk finally understood. It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't pride. It was true freedom.
Kureha bowed to no one. Not the World Government, not the Pirate King, not even the emperors who ruled the New World. Her loyalty lay only to herself—and to a truth she alone answered to. Even after all these years, he couldn't decide whether to admire her… or be terrified of her.
****
The snow groaned beneath a heap of fractured ice, then shifted. A faint tremble rolled through the forest floor as one gloved hand burst out of the drift, clawing against the cold-packed surface.
From beneath the weight of snow and shattered bark, Bellet rose, sputtering curses as he clawed his way out of the miniature avalanche that had buried him. Blood trickled down his temple, mixing with frost and sweat. His coat was torn, the fur lining soaked crimson in places.
One eye was swollen shut, but the other—wild, red, unblinking—burned with a manic fury. He spat a clot of blood into the snow, watching it steam.
"Damn you... damn you all to hell..." he hissed, wiping snot and gore from his lip with a torn sleeve.
Around him, the woods were silent but soaked in carnage. Broken saplings. Deep claw marks gouged into tree trunks. Snow churned red where the skirmish had turned savage. And the Laphans—those cursed, towering, rabbit-like beasts with pale fur and razor like claws—had nearly torn him apart.
He stumbled forward, boots crunching over splintered snow, until he found one of them, dead—or nearly so. The creature twitched, trying to take its final breath, its hind leg broken at an angle so unnatural even the snow refused to settle around it.
And another, the creature's bleating cries were low, wet, panicked. Bellet sneered, watching it drag itself toward a clump of brush.
"You bastards," he muttered, almost to himself. "Even now… you look at me like I'm nothing…"
A memory flashed behind his eyes—noblemen's laughter in a marble hall, the clink of glasses, the smirks of disdain. He had offered them authority, gold, firepower in exchange for their allegiance. They had offered only mockery in return. And now even these animals dared to look at him the same way?
His breath came in ragged, fogging gasps as he reached for the hatchet he had dropped earlier. The handle was frozen, slick with ice, but his fingers curled around it like claws. Blood ran from his temple into the grooves of his cheek, and he didn't wipe it away.
"Did you really think…" he growled, stepping over the snowbank toward the Laphan, "...you can insult me like the rest? You mindless beasts… You too look down on me…?!"
His voice cracked, echoing across the clearing. The Laphan turned its battered head toward him, eyes wide and glassy with terror. It let out a strangled, hoarse cry. But Bellet didn't slow down.
The creature tried to lash out, one clawed forelimb slashing across his chest and tearing deep into his shoulder—but Bellet didn't even flinch. The pain was dull compared to the burning madness now thundering through his veins.
With a snarl, he slammed into the Laphan's body, toppling both of them into the snow. He landed on top, straddling the creature's chest, and raised the hatchet high.
"DIE—!" The blade came down with a sickening THUCK, cracking through bone.
"DIE!" Another blow. Blood geysered up, hot and slick across his face, staining the snow crimson.
"DIE—DIE—DIE!!" He hacked again, and again. The Laphan's antlers twitched once… then went still. But Bellet didn't stop.
He was a man possessed. The hatchet rose and fell like a piston, each swing more brutal than the last. Gore painted his coat and splattered his face, and with every impact, the snow around him turned darker—thicker with the heat of fresh death.
The body beneath him had long stopped moving. Bones were shattered. The ribcage caved in. Organs lay exposed to the frigid air, steaming as they spilled across the snow.
Yet still Bellet howled, spitting with every blow, eyes wide and bloodshot as the warm splash of arterial blood covered his arms. The sound of steel on flesh had become his anthem, the thud of mutilation his only rhythm.
"I'll kill you all…" he whispered hoarsely. "All of you… everyone who mocked me… everyone who stood in my way… I'll burn this cursed island to ash if I have to…!"
His breath hitched. And then— It echoed across the clearing—long, mournful, pained. A piercing shriek that raised the hairs on his neck. Bellet froze mid-swing, his arms trembling, chest heaving.
From the trees, shapes began to emerge. One. Two. Three. More.
They came like shadows drifting between the snow-laced trunks—twelve, no, fourteen Laphans. Their glowing amber eyes watched from the darkness. They stood tall and still, their massive claws scraping low-hanging branches, breath misting into the cold air like phantoms.
Bellet's chest rose and fell in quick bursts, blood dripping from the hatchet in his hand. He turned slowly toward them, the corpse still beneath him, mutilated beyond recognition.
"Fuck…!" was all Bellet could say before his body instinctively moved down the mountain, his hands reaching into the satchel trying to find the remaining dynamite.