Shimotsuki Village, East Blue
"Master... when will you be back next...?"
Little Kuina's voice was soft, almost trembling. She stood by the edge of the dock, fidgeting with the training katana I had given her months ago—blunt, weighted, and far too heavy for a girl her age. But she held it anyway, like it was her lifeline. Her eyes, wide and glimmering, searched my face for an answer she likely already knew but still wished to hear.
I turned from the deck of the ship, the sails already fluttering in the sea breeze. Behind me, the East Blue stretched far and calm, but my path led away—from here, from her, from this island of peace—back to Dressrosa, and inevitably, the New World.
It had been too long. The World Government elders had grown bold in my absence; whispers of movement on the chessboard had reached my ears even in this corner of the world. I could not afford to remain hidden for much longer. My family, my kingdom, my people—they needed me. But leaving... leaving was always the hardest part.
"That depends, Kuina..." I finally said, my voice gentle but firm. "But just because I'm not here doesn't mean you get to slack off. You know what I told you—if Zoro surpasses you, then you can forget about Shirayuki."
I grinned, watching her expression twist into a pout. Her small hands clenched tighter around the training sword, and her eyes flicked—not so subtly—towards the long ebony wood case strapped to my back.
The case holding her. Shirayuki.
The blade of moonlight steel and the soul of Sandai Kitetsu, one of the 13 Supreme Grade swords, forged by Kozaburo himself. A blade so refined it whispered to those who dared draw near. I had no intention of leaving it behind. But Kuina, clever as always, had other ideas.
"Master..." she began sweetly, her voice rising an octave, her eyes wide with the kind of feigned innocence only a six-year-old could attempt. "Why don't you leave her here? I promise I'll take good care of her. You can even hand it to Grandpa if you don't trust me—he'll keep her safe. Right, Grandpa?"
She turned quickly to Kozaburo, who chuckled behind his beard, clearly amused.
I raised a brow, arms crossed. "Oh? And then what? You plan to borrow her from your grandfather the moment I leave port? Try your luck sneaking her out for 'training purposes'? Nice try, little one."
Kuina's pout deepened, her cheeks puffing in indignation.
"Not happening," I said flatly, kneeling before her. "Like I've told you before—unless you gain decent mastery over Busoshoku: Kōka, you can forget about wielding Shirayuki. That blade isn't meant for untempered hands."
She huffed, crossing her arms, but I saw the fire light up in her eyes. Even in defeat, she refused to cry. Good. I needed that resolve to burn in her.
From behind us, Koushirō finally spoke, ever the concerned father. "Rosinante-kun... isn't that a bit harsh? It could take decades for Kuina to reach that level..."
I didn't even need to reply. Kozaburo was already moving.
"You idiot!" the old swordsmith barked, smacking his son hard enough for the thwack to echo down the harbor. "Are you underestimating your own daughter again? Do you think her master doesn't know what she's capable of better than you?"
Koushirō winced, rubbing his head. "But Father, I was just saying—"
"You were being a coward again!" Kozaburo snapped. "Stop babying her. If she breaks, she breaks. But if she flies... she'll fly higher than any swordsman you've ever seen. She's my granddaughter, damn it!"
I couldn't help but chuckle at the exchange. It was always the same with these two. But deep down, I understood where Koushirō's fear came from. He wasn't doubting Kuina. He was terrified that the dream she chased might one day crush her beneath its weight. That she might realize she couldn't keep up with her dream... or worse, be broken by the world outside this island.
"Koushirō-san," I said, voice calm but clear. "You underestimate your own daughter. Mastering Kōka is just my minimum benchmark. I'd wager that within a decade, Kuina will have unlocked Emission. Want to bet on it?"
Koushirō opened his mouth to protest, but Kozaburo growled again, swinging his empty sleeve at him.
"Enough talk! Go double-check the ship's provisions!"
"But I already did—"
"Then do it again, you brat!"
Sukiyaki, who had been observing from the side, chuckled under his breath.
Yet, beneath the lightness, I could see the toll the years had taken on Kozaburo. The curse Akatsuki left behind was finally catching up. He didn't have long—not by my estimate. A few years at most.
But he was content, at least, knowing he had fulfilled his greatest wish: to forge the greatest of masterpieces, a Supreme Grade blade. His legacy would endure through Shirayuki—and through Kuina.
As the wind picked up, I stepped forward, placing a firm hand on the small shoulders of both Kuina and Zoro.
"Listen to me, both of you," I said, voice deep and unwavering. "Don't ever let anyone tell you how far you can go. Not even me. The only one who gets to decide that... is you."
Their eyes locked on mine, both nodding slowly.
"If you will it, you can climb the high heavens themselves. And if someone tells you otherwise—cut them down."
They nodded again, more firmly this time. Koushirō was out of earshot now, triple-checking barrels as Kozaburo barked at him from the pier. I knelt one last time beside Kuina and spoke low, only for her.
"And remember, Kuina... you're not just proving this to the world. You're proving it to your father. That even a woman can rise to the top — and stand where legends once stood."
Her eyes widened slightly, a flicker of something fierce and determined awakening within them. Good. That fire was what she would need to walk the path ahead.
"I've left detailed notes for your training — for both of you. I'll try to drop by when I can, but when you finally set sail into the Grand Line... I don't want you entering the seas as dreamers."
I smiled.
"I want you to enter it as monsters."
Zoro gave a rare, crooked smirk. Kuina's pout had long vanished, replaced by something far more dangerous — conviction.
As I turned to walk away, the mist was beginning to burn off fully. The sun now bathed the docks in golden light. The village behind me slowly faded into background noise as I stepped onto the ship.
But just before I boarded, a small voice called out one last time —
"Master!" Kuina shouted, running forward.
I stopped, turning my head.
"When I do master Koka... you'll give me Shirayuki, right?"
Her voice trembled just a bit — but not with fear. With passion. I didn't answer right away. I unlatched the ebony case on my back, letting her catch a glimpse of the blade within. Then I locked it again and slung it over my shoulder.
"...No."
"W-What?!"
"When that day comes... you'll take it from me yourself. As a warrior. That's the deal."
She stood straight, hands on her katana, eyes sharp and unyielding.
"I'll master Kōka. I'll even reach Emission. And then... I will claim Shirayuki. Just wait and see."
I grinned.
"I'm counting on it, Kuina."
And with that, the ship pushed away from the dock, sails billowing, East Blue shrinking behind me. But in my heart, I knew—I wasn't leaving a student behind. I was leaving behind a storm that would one day shake the world.
****
BOOM... BOOM... BOOOOM...
The sea boiled beneath the cannon fire. Winds whipped gunpowder smoke through the sky as two black-hulled warships bore down like predators on a wounded beast. Their crimson sails snapped like dragon wings in the gale, the decks bristling with pirates wielding muskets, sabers, and harpoons.
High atop the mast of both galleons flew the Burning Horse Jolly Roger—a raging skeletal stallion wreathed in flame, the symbol of the most feared pirate crew in the East Blue, the Burning Horse Pirates. Their captain, the infamous "Red Reign" Dargus Vane, stood at the prow of the lead ship, Crimson Graze, his crimson coat billowing as the sun gleamed off his twin flintlock pistols.
With an active Bounty of 23,000,000 berries he was feared throughout the east blue earning him the moniker, Tyrant of the East Blue.
Across from them, caught in the crossfire, was a single galleon—smaller, newer, and cracked along the main mast from two hours of relentless shelling. Her deck was charred, sails torn to ribbons. But she hadn't stopped fighting.
Her crew was fresh-faced, bloodied, and green.
At her helm stood Don Krieg—a tall, broad-shouldered man in battered armor, a purple cloak soaked in sweat and salt, and a mad, toothy grin on his face. His golden sideburns gleamed, and his wild violet hair snapped in the wind.
No bounty. No reputation. But fire in his blood.
"Cap'n Krieg!" his first mate Gilhound cried, ducking behind the shattered forecastle as another cannonball tore through the main rail. "We're taking on water! Our portside cannons are out!"
Krieg didn't blink. His boots were planted wide as the deck lurched. He cracked his neck and stomped to the railing.
"We ain't dying today, boys. We're making history."
On the Crimson Graze, Dargus Vane gave a predatory smile.
"Boarding hooks," he growled. "No quarter. Hang the brat on his own mast."
Chains whirred as claws launched across the sea, sinking deep into Krieg's hull. Taut ropes dragged the ships together like chained beasts. Planks slammed down. The Burning Horse pirates charged, hundreds strong, blades raised, eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
Krieg's ship shook. He looked at his crew—some fresh from merchant vessels, others mercenaries, barely trained. A few looked like they wanted to jump overboard.
"You want to be feared!?" he roared, spreading his arms. "You want to rule the seas!? THEN FIGHT LIKE HELL!"
He leapt onto the nearest plank—and charged forward alone. The clash was thunderous.
Krieg met the first attacker with a rising knee, shattering the man's nose before spinning and driving his armored gauntlet into another's gut. The pirate flew backward, slamming into two more.
He seized a boarding halberd mid-swing, twisted the wielder's arm until it cracked, and drove the blade through the man's shoulder before kicking him back into the sea.
One man, ten enemies, and Krieg didn't give an inch.
His crew, seeing their captain in motion, rallied. Gilhound drew both cutlasses, diving into the fray with wild, reckless swings. Moss, the sharpshooter, climbed to the crow's nest and began picking off the incoming boarders. Smoke and blood filled the air.
But the Burning Horse pirates kept coming. Their numbers were overwhelming. Their footwork was brutal. They'd razed entire island villages without blinking. Krieg ducked under a cleaver swing, only to take a boot to the ribs. He stumbled back—blood spilling from his mouth—as a giant pirate raised an axe the size of a ship's wheel.
"DIE, WHELP!"
WHAM!
The axe never landed. Krieg caught the handle mid-drop and growled through his teeth. His arms bulged. Metal creaked. Then with a savage roar, he ripped the axe from the man's hands—and snapped the haft in two over his knee.
He grinned. "Nice toy."
Then headbutted the brute with such force the man's skull split the deckboards. Above the carnage, Captain Vane finally stepped onto the plank bridge.
"LITTLE BASTARD!" he bellowed. "You've got spine, I'll give you that. But you're a rat in my waters."
Krieg turned, his armor cracked and smoking. "Good," he spat. "Then when I gut you, it'll be your sea they rename after me."
The two captains met in a flurry of blows. Vane's pistols flashed—Krieg deflected one with a bracer, took the other round in the shoulder. Still, he lunged. He grabbed Vane's coat, reeled him in like a harpooned shark—and delivered a full-body slam that shook the deck.
But Vane was fast. Too fast.
With a twist and a grin, he jammed a dagger into Krieg's side and whispered, "You should've stayed small, boy."
Krieg growled in his ear, "You should've aimed for the head." Then he headbutted him so hard Vane's hat flew into the sea.
CRACK.
Krieg's forehead slammed into Vane's face, snapping the veteran's nose sideways with a wet crunch. Vane staggered backward, blood spraying across the deck. His hat flew into the sea. For a heartbeat, the crew froze, stunned.
Then Vane looked up—grinning, nose crooked, eyes wild.
"Good…! Now we fight for real."
He spat blood and lunged. Krieg barely raised his gauntlets in time. Steel slammed into flesh as Vane drove his fist into Krieg's gut, folding him over. The armor dented inward with the force. Krieg coughed violently, blood flecking his lip.
But he didn't fall. He grabbed Vane by the collar and rammed a knee into his ribs—once, twice, thrice—until something cracked. Vane snarled and smashed an elbow across Krieg's jaw, spinning him sideways.
Both men exploded into motion.
Krieg threw a wild hook—Vane ducked it and countered with a pistol whip to the side of Krieg's skull, followed by a knife drawn mid-spin. The blade slashed across Krieg's shoulder, slicing through armor, skin, and muscle. Blood soaked purple fabric.
Krieg roared and tackled Vane, driving him back. The two men crashed into the main mast, the impact shaking the ship. Krieg rained down punches like hammers, fists thudding into ribs and collarbone.
But Vane was a monster in his own right.
With a scream, he headbutted Krieg back, rolled them over, and bit into Krieg's neck like an animal. Krieg howled, blood gushing as he punched blindly. One fist caught Vane's eye—a sickening squelch—and Vane reeled back, half-blind and laughing.
"You fight like a rabid dog."
"Good," Krieg snarled, "'Cause I'm here to tear out your f*ing throat."
They clashed again. Metal rang as Krieg's gauntlets locked with Vane's twin cutlasses. Sparks flew. Krieg twisted, breaking one blade in half, but the other slashed across his thigh, tendons screaming. He dropped to one knee—and uppercut Vane right in the gut, lifting him off the ground.
Vane hit the deck hard—but not down. Not yet. He kicked Krieg's injured leg. The younger pirate screamed as the knee buckled. Vane rose, grabbed Krieg by the face—slammed his head into the deck once, twice, three times.
The boards cracked beneath them. But Krieg's hands didn't stop moving. One grabbed a broken plank. He stabbed it into Vane's side.
The older pirate screamed. Blood poured freely. Krieg, face mangled and barely standing, lunged again—this time with a length of anchor chain, wrapping it around Vane's neck.
"YOU DON'T DESERVE THE EAST BLUE!" Krieg roared, tightening the chain.
Vane thrashed, punched, clawed at Krieg's face. But Krieg held on like a demon, dragging the tyrant backward, both of them drenched in blood.
Just when Krieg thought he had the upper hand—his bloodied hands tightening the anchor chain around Vane's throat—a thunderous, soul-shattering BOOM ripped through the salty air.
A cannon blast.
But it hadn't come from the Burning Horse ships flanking Krieg's galleon. The shell screamed from the southern rear flank—a perfectly timed, high-velocity strike—and slammed dead center into the aft of the Krieg Pirates' ship.
The impact was instant and catastrophic. The powder hold ignited. A hellish fireball erupted, engulfing the stern in a molten bloom of orange and black. A tidal shockwave rippled across the water, rocking the enemy ships and shattering the Krieg galleon from within.
Wood splintered. Iron bent. Men screamed.
In seconds, the once-proud galleon was ripped in half, its midsection torn asunder like tissue paper. Debris, fire, and bodies were hurled into the sea. The ship had been obliterated, not sunk—annihilated.
Krieg and Vane, still locked in their brutal grapple, were blasted apart by the explosion, hurled across the deck like rag dolls. The deck beneath them heaved and groaned as fire rolled through the air.
On the enemy ship, Moss, high in the crow's nest, screamed through the wind.
"CAPTAIN! INCOMING—BACKUP SHIP!"
All eyes turned to the southern horizon. There, cutting through the rising smoke, was a third ship—a massive galleon, bearing the same Burning Horse jolly roger, sails black with flame-red stitching. The largest ship yet. Bigger. Armored. Meant for war.
"Red Gale."
It was a monster of a vessel, the flagship of the Burning Horse fleet. Vane coughed blood, laughing hoarsely.
"It's over. You'll die here, bastard."
Krieg rose slowly, drenched in blood and soot, his chest heaving. His armor was cracked, his weapons broken—but his eyes still burned with refusal.
Even so, his remaining crew—those who had survived the blast and were now scattered aboard the enemy ships—froze at the sight of the new threat. The towering galleon seemed to block out the sun itself. Their will to fight slipped away like sand through cracked fingers.
And then—
The sea fell silent. As if the world itself held its breath. Even the fog, thick and rolling moments ago, began to retreat, curling away unnaturally as though something ancient and terrible approached.
All eyes turned to the Red Gale—
And then, without sound, without warning—
The mighty Burning Horse galleon was cleaved in two. Not sunk. Not shattered. Cleaved.
A single, perfect vertical cut—from masthead to keel—split the warship with surgical precision. The two halves slowly parted, a narrow corridor of death forming between them. Silence was swallowed by horror as the massive vessel began to crack, groan, and sink, the hulls folding into the sea like broken wings.
Screams rose.
Dozens of men bellowed for help, their voices carrying over the mile-long stretch of bloodied water. Flames danced across broken masts. The impossible had happened, and everyone—Krieg, Vane, every man with a weapon in hand—stood paralyzed.
No gun fired. No blade moved. Only the fire crackled... and the sea swallowed. And then, from the corridor between the sundered halves of the Red Gale— a small boat emerged.
No larger than a fisherman's dinghy. Simple. Wooden. Unpainted. Something a merchant or lone sailor might use. A speck of dust compared to the leviathan it had just destroyed.
But it sailed forward perfectly straight, unfazed by the wreckage and whirlpools forming around it. It glided silently between the sinking giants as though the sea itself bent to let it pass.
One man stood aboard it. There were no oars. No visible crew. No sail caught the wind. And yet it approached with dreadful, deliberate grace. Krieg's blood cooled. Vane's grin faded. They all watched. Not a enemy. Not a fleet. Something far worse had arrived.
The sea, once a battlefield of flame and fury, now lay eerily calm. The two remaining galleons—both belonging to the Burning Horse fleet—drifted silently in the water, their sails torn, hulls scorched, and decks stained red. Smoke curled into the air like mourning veils, and burning splinters floated like funeral lanterns on the surface of the sea.
Not a soul moved. Not a cannon creaked. Even the wounded dared not cry out. And then, as if summoned from the very edge of myth— a tune began to drift across the water.
High. Slow. Whistled.
Faint at first, barely audible over the licking flames and groaning hulls. But it carried, as if borne by a wind that refused to touch anything else.
A melody as old as the Grand Line, as strange and mournful as the sea itself. The seas were unnaturally still.
The two battered galleons—the shredded vessel and the scorched hulk of Vane's Burning Horse ship—rocked gently in place, as if afraid to move. Embers drifted in the air like dying fireflies. The smoke of gunpowder, blood, and splintered oak hung over the battlefield, thick enough to taste.
Krieg and Vane—bloodied, bruised, barely standing—stood frozen in the aftermath of their clash, the explosion that had torn Krieg's ship apart still echoing in their ears. Then the silence broke.
Not with a shout. Not with cannon fire. But with a sound no one expected.
A single, drawn-out note, whispering across the water like wind through bones.
A violin.
The pirates turned, slowly, heads rising like men waking from a nightmare only to find themselves in another. From beyond the twin corpses of the third Burning Horse galleon—the one that had been split clean in two like a loaf of bread—a tiny boat emerged. Small. Silent. Carved from dark wood. A vessel that could be used by a lone sailor.
And on that boat stood a man in black attire. Unmoving. Face hidden beneath the shadow of a wide-brimmed hat. In his hands, he held a violin the color of dried blood.
And he played.
The melody began softly—no one recognized the song. But the feeling… the feeling stabbed into their spines like cold steel.
Dread.
Ancient. Wordless. Final. Then the melody shaped itself into a dirge, a slow, ghostly waltz. And though no voice sang the lyrics, the violin itself seemed to breathe the words into the very air:
"The King and his men
Stole the Queen from her bed,
And bound her in her bones…"
The notes curled across the ocean like smoke from a funeral pyre. One by one, pirates lowered their weapons. Eyes widened. Fingers trembled.
"The seas be ours,
And by the powers,
Where we will, we'll roam."
Krieg felt something in his chest tighten. Vane's jaw clenched, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. Neither knew the song. But something deep, primal—older than fear itself—was screaming inside them.
"Yo ho, all hands,
Hoist the colours high.
Heave ho, thieves and beggars,
Never shall we die."
The violin's bow swept in a haunting glide, painting sorrow and doom across the surface of the sea. The melody rose and fell, like a tide pulled by the moon of death itself.
The ship—no, the presence—glided forward. Right down the middle. Past the split galleon, through the wreckage, directly between the reamining two Vane's ships. No wake. No sound but the music.
"Now some men have died,
And some are alive,
And others sail on the sea…"
Moss, up in the crow's nest, dropped his musket. His lips moved soundlessly. He was trying to pray—but no words came.
"With the keys to the cage…
And the Devil to pay,
We lay to Fiddler's Green."
The flames dimmed. Even the ocean seemed to bow. No birds. No waves. Just the lonely scream of strings over water.
"The bell has been raised,
From its watery grave…
Hear its sepulchral tone."
Krieg's fists, bruised and torn, tightened. Vane's sword hand trembled for the first time in his life. They both knew. This wasn't a rival. This wasn't a pirate. This was something else.
"A call to all,
Pay heed the squall,
And turn your sails toward home."
And then, the final refrain rose—
Clear. Sharp. A blade of sound that split the air like lightning.
"Yo ho, all hands,
Hoist the colours high.
Heave ho, thieves and beggars,
Never shall we die."
The last note hung in the air. Then silence. But not peace. Every man aboard the surviving galleons stood still—not frozen in awe, but in terror. The kind of terror that doesn't shake you... it buries you. The boat drifted closer. The man never spoke. He didn't have to. The sea had already whispered his name.
And it had screamed: "Death has arrived."