The sea was quiet in that haunting way it only gets before death.
A tattered old boat drifted along the endless blue, its sails torn, its hull half-swallowed by the tides. On it knelt an elderly man—weathered, worn, and hunched over with a lifetime's weight on his shoulders. His hands, calloused and trembling, were pressed together in silent prayer. His lips moved without sound, his eyes gazing not toward the heavens but down into the depths—where death waited.
Beneath the surface, coils of shadow twisted languidly. The water rippled with malice, the tension in the air thick like oil. A massive sea king, monstrous and ancient, circled the sinking vessel like a serpent toying with a dying bird. Its slitted eyes gleamed with amusement. It had watched the man for hours, savoring his despair, like a predator that had no need to rush the kill.
And yet the old man… did not fear death. His expression was not of terror but regret. A soft sigh escaped him.
"If only I'd had the courage when I was younger... maybe I could have seen it... The New World..."
His voice trembled not from fear, but from longing—for the other side of the Red Line, for the great oceans spoken of in tales. He had dreamed of them once—wild and free—but life, doubt, and age had stolen that dream from his grip. The sea began to rise.
A column of water surged skyward as the Sea King finally grew tired of waiting. Towering above the boat, its neck alone stretched hundreds of meters into the sky, and only a fraction of its body was even visible. Its maw opened wide—a cavern of jagged fangs and ancient hunger. The boat, to it, was no more than a morsel—not even enough to wedge between its titanic teeth.
But just as the beast began to descend, jaws poised to snap—everything stopped.
The wind died. The sea stilled. Even time seemed to hold its breath. The Sea King's massive body froze mid-lunge. Its pupils dilated. Its breath hitched. Then came the pressure.
A crushing, absolute presence swept over the sea like a tidal wave of doom. It wasn't sound. It wasn't wind. It was Will. Raw, unrelenting, sovereign will—as if the sea itself had declared judgment. The very air screamed as something stepped into the world.
The Sea King, proud and ancient, felt it first. It tried to move—to finish its kill—but its body betrayed it. Muscles seized. Scales quivered. Every primal instinct it had told it to flee. And then came the voice that spoke directly to its very soul.
"SCRAM—!"
The single word was not spoken. It was commanded. The very waves recoiled from its echo. Clouds above shuddered. The sea cracked beneath the weight of the voice. The Sea King screamed — not in defiance, but in terror.
Its massive body, once coiled in confidence, thrashed in full retreat. The predator that had ruled these waters for decades dove beneath the waves, vanishing with the speed of lightning, as if Death itself had whispered in its ear. The ocean went silent once more.
The old man sat motionless on the shattered remains of his boat as it slowly succumbed to the sea. Water lapped at his knees. The timber groaned beneath him, splintering, sinking inch by inch.
One moment ago, he had shut his eyes and welcomed death — jaws wide, shadows vast, a Sea King ready to claim him. Then silence. No roar. No crash. No searing pain. Just silence so thick it pressed against his ears. When he finally dared to open his eyes, there was nothing.
The beast was gone. The sea lay calm — too calm. As if the ocean itself now feared to breathe. But the old man wasn't relieved. He looked around with narrowed eyes, his face lined with the weariness of years and the resignation of one whose time had come and gone.
"So what if it left?" he murmured bitterly, staring at the gray horizon.
"This wreck won't carry me anywhere. Death just decided to be late."
He sat, half-submerged, the cold creeping up his spine. The sea whispered around him. Time stretched—seconds blurred into minutes. Each one felt like an eternity.
And then—
"Would you like some help, old man?"
The voice snapped through the quiet like a blade cutting fog. Startled, the old man turned his head sharply. There, to his side, bobbing gently on the waves, was a small boat. On it stood a young man — lean, eyes sharp like tempered steel, his coat fluttering dramatically in the wind. Two swords hung at his hip, their hilts marked by use and history.
For a moment, the old man just stared. There was something familiar about him. A face he couldn't place — like a name on the tip of the tongue of memory.
"You're going to drown if you stay there," the young man said with a casual half-smile, extending his hand.
"Aren't you trying to reach the other side of the Red Line? Let me take you there. Maybe even help you find a place in the New World."
The old man's breath hitched.
How did he know…?
He hadn't told anyone — not even spoken it aloud. That dream, that quiet yearning to see the New World before he died, had been buried in his chest like an old letter locked in a drawer.
And yet, the young man had known.
Without thinking, his body moved. He reached out, clasped the outstretched hand with his weathered one, grabbed the heavy rucksack that held all he owned, and with a groan of old bones and rusted hope — he jumped aboard.
For the first time in hours, his feet touched something solid again. The boat rocked gently under him, sturdy and sure, a strange but welcome contrast to the disintegrating wreck he left behind.
The old man looked down at the young swordsman.
"I don't know how you found me… or why you'd bother helping a man like me… but thank you. Truly. It's not often you find kindness out on the open sea."
His voice cracked with sincerity. He had lived long enough to know the sea was merciless. It drowned mercy in its depths long ago. Men didn't stop for strangers anymore — not unless there was something in it for them. And yet, here he was. Rescued without expectation.
The young man chuckled softly.
"Maybe it's fate. I was heading back to the New World anyway. Lucky I spotted you — if not, the Sea Kings would've had a snack."
The old man's eyes widened slightly. He looked back to the spot where the Sea King had nearly ended him.
"Believe me or not… one was about to devour me," he said slowly. "It was massive. Bigger than anything I've seen in all my years. But… it just left. As if something scared it off."
He glanced at the sea nervously.
"It might still be nearby. Be careful, young man… I wouldn't want harm to come to you because of me."
The swordsman smiled again — the kind of smile that knew things others didn't.
"Then I suppose we shouldn't waste any more time here."
With a quiet flick of his wrist, he turned the rudder and set the boat on course — toward the looming silhouette of the Red Line in the far distance, where dreams once buried now stirred again.
The wind picked up. The sails filled. The boat began to glide. And behind them, the sea whispered in retreat.
Hours slipped by as the small boat glided over the steady waves, carried by a gentle breeze whispering promises of distant shores. The old man sat in quiet reflection, the ocean's endless stretch mirrored in his aged, tired eyes. And ahead—slowly but surely—the Red Line began to reveal itself, a faint crimson scar against the horizon, stretching endlessly across the world like the very spine of the earth.
It was distant still, little more than a speck from their vantage point, but it was real. Tangible. The gate to the New World.
Then, I felt it.
A familiar presence tugged at the edge of my awareness—a place once drowned in violence, now quietly reborn. My Observation Haki flared as I cast my senses out across the sea, and there it was.
Sabaody Archipelago.
A flicker of surprise crossed my face. A place I once believed I had reduced to rubble during the titanic clash with the Marine Hero—Garp the Fist. Back then, the skies had screamed, the earth had been torn open, and the once-lush island had shattered beneath our fury. I had thought it lost forever, swallowed by the sea.
But Mother Nature, it seemed, was far more resilient than even I had given her credit for.
Though the original layout of the Archipelago had been destroyed—the floating mangrove island torn asunder, split and scattered like driftwood—the remnants had stitched themselves back together. Slowly, piece by piece, the broken chunks of land and root had reunited, forming a new version of the old Sabaody. It wasn't the same—several mangroves that had been obliterated during the battle remained lost to the abyss—but a new archipelago had been born, a patchwork island of surviving and drifting mangroves pulled together by the altered currents.
Yet, the scar from that battle remained.
A massive pit, like a wound in the sea itself, yawned open where the heart of Sabaody once stood—reminiscent of the abyss beneath Enies Lobby, though smaller in width, it was just as deep, just as unnatural. The ocean around it now flowed into the abyss like a colossal, circular waterfall, an eternal reminder of the clash between titans that had once raged there.
"I thought Sabaody was destroyed over a year ago…" I murmured, more to myself than to the old man beside me.
The elder, who had been staring ahead in silence, turned in my direction. From where he sat, there was no way he could see Sabaody—not even a hint. They were still nearly a hundred miles out. Yet my words had startled him.
He wondered: How did this young man know it was there? Had he seen it? Heard the same rumors? Or was there something more? Something unnatural?
The old man had been sailing these waters nearly all his life. He'd survived Sabaody's destruction firsthand, one of the few to escape. That day, staring death in the eye, had rekindled the fire in his soul—the long-forgotten dream to cross the Red Line and see the other side before death claimed him.
"I remember it well," he said finally, voice rough like aged parchment. "It was destroyed. Word spread that the Marine Hero fought one of the Yonko from the New World right there on the Archipelago. They say the sea screamed… the sky split. When it was over, the entire island had collapsed into the ocean. That pit—"
He nodded solemnly toward the invisible scar in the sea.
"—it's still there. Like a doorway to hell carved into the ocean floor."
He paused before continuing, clearly wanting to repay the young man who had saved him with the only thing he had left: wisdom.
"But Sabaody's different from other islands. It's not just rock and soil—it's made of mangroves, massive ones, and even after their destruction, the surviving roots and floating chunks didn't sink. They drifted. Reassembled. And not just those from the old Sabaody… other mangrove islands from nearby seas got caught in the new current—drawn in by that massive pit."
The old man gave a slow nod, his tone tinged with awe.
"It's taken more than a year, but the island's coming back. The underworld's been pouring money into rebuilding it. After all, Sabaody was the only island this side of the Red Line with the facilities to coat ships for the journey to Fishman Island. You can't get to the New World without passing through it—at least, not easily."
He looked over at me, a quiet understanding behind his weathered gaze. "I don't know where you come from, or how much you know… but this sea doesn't favor the ignorant. And what you know—even the smallest detail—can save your life someday."
His words were spoken not with arrogance, but with sincerity. A gift of survival from an old sailor to a young warrior. His way of repaying the debt he now owed. I gave a small nod, eyes fixed on the distant line of red etched across the sky.
"Would you like me to steer the ship, young man...? You're sailing away from Sabaody… and Red Port."
The old man stood, his voice concerned but respectful. From the way I navigated, he assumed I was unfamiliar with these waters. After all, Sabaody had no magnetic field, and few ever chose to cross at Red Port—the toll alone was enough to cripple most dreamers.
I chuckled softly, my gaze still fixed on the horizon.
"No need… I want to try something different."
The old man's brow furrowed.
"A different way…?" he thought, puzzled. In all his decades at sea, he'd only ever heard of two paths to the New World—coating a ship and traveling beneath the sea to Fish-Man Island, or scaling the Red Line via Red Port. Both were perilous… but known.
But this young man—he spoke of a new route. A different way.
Was he going to jump over the wall...?
The old man shook his head at the absurdity. The Red Line rose ten thousand meters above sea level. It was no wall—it was a continental titan that split the world like a divine barrier. Unconquered. Unbroken. Unscarred.
Hours later, The sea turned still, almost reverent, as the Red Line loomed ahead, its godlike presence blotting out the horizon. There were no ports here, no man-made paths. This was untamed territory, a stretch of the Red Line untouched by even the most ambitious explorers.
The old man's eyes widened. There was nothing on either side but the sheer, vertical face of the Red Line, stretching infinitely in both directions—a solid, blood-red wall rising into the heavens, as if reaching for the stars.
Then he turned.
And saw me, coat shed, standing tall at the edge of the boat, blade at my side, a storm gathering around my frame.
I launched.
The world beneath me vanished in a blur as I soared toward the Red Line, rising higher and higher—my feet tapping the sky with Geppo, the air compressing beneath each step.
The moment my fingers brushed the cold stone of the Red Line, the world seemed to hush. My hand traced its surface. I could feel it—the truth beneath the myth.
"The Blood-Stained Snake," That's what the giants of Elbaf call you. I wonder why that is…?" This wasn't just a mountain. It wasn't just rock. It pulsed. There was a will within it.
Something... ancient. Watching. Waiting. And now, I wanted to challenge it.
I closed my eyes, and through the Voice of All Things, I heard the world breathe. The Red Line wasn't lifeless stone—it was a vessel. A seal. Something slumbered within, older than memory, deeper than the seas.
My aura changed. What was once calm now roared like a divine tempest. The sea churned violently below. The skies above split with lightning, as though reality itself trembled under the pressure of my presence. Far below, on the little boat, the old man gasped in horror and awe.
"H-He's going to attack the Red Line itself…?"
His breath hitched. Recognition struck like thunder. He had seen the bounty posters. The young man before him was no ordinary pirate—5 billion berries.
Kill-on-sight by the World Government.
A living myth. And now, that myth raised his blade—Shusui—wreathed in black and red, conqueror's haki swirling like a black sun around him.
"Ittōryū Iai: Kamigoroshi." (One Sword Style: God Killer.)
I vanished. Then reappeared in a flash—a single, pure horizontal draw. A slash faster than lightning itself, imbued with every ounce of my spirit and will.
The Red Line howled. The sky shattered as it descended into chaos. A pressure wave rippled across the sea, capsizing nearby currents and sending birds crashing from the air.
And for the first time in history… the Red Line bled.
A wound hundreds of meters long tore across its face—a deep gash, but a scar nonetheless. The indomitable wall… had been marked. But then the wound began to heal, stone and root knitting back together like living flesh.
"So… it's not indestructible," I whispered, breathing hard.
"If it can bleed… it can be killed."
Then I felt it. Akatsuki. Still sheathed. Still sealed. It screamed—a keening wail that shook my very bones. The blade trembled violently at my side, its presence pulsing like a heartbeat echoing through time.
"You want to try?" I muttered, eyes narrowing. The hilt thrummed in response—
A soul awakening. An ancient recognition. A memory reawakened. This blade had seen the Red Line before. Had tasted its blood. It remembered the enemy hidden within.
I gripped Akatsuki. The world held its breath. My conqueror's haki erupted again, this time twice as fierce, twice as deep, black lightning tearing through the heavens like dragons.
As I raised Akatsuki high above, the world around me seemed to pause—the winds stilled, clouds darkened, and time almost halted as if reality itself braced for impact.
The blade glowed with a dark, ethereal radiance—not light, not shadow, but a paradox, a void of possibility collapsing inward. Every pulse of the blade hummed with Conqueror's Haki, Armament Haki, and something more—an ancient force tied directly to the roots of this world.
"Unmei Kurai…!"
When the blade fell, it's not just the Red Line that trembled—reality tore itself apart.
The strike created a colossal rift, a vertical scar tens of meters wide that gouged through the Red Line's very core, the impact causing tremors felt across continents. It's as if the blade devoured causality, forcing a different outcome into existence.
A shockwave unlike any before it roared across the seas. The Red Line screamed—the very stone beneath my blade splintering, cracking from peak to base. Unlike Shusui's strike, Akatsuki didn't simply leave a gash—it tore through the Red Line's face from top to bottom, like a divine blade carving wood.
The sea below turned wild. The air thundered. Mountains in distant lands quivered. The entire world felt it—from Mariejois above to the abyss below, the tremor spread. And within the Red Line itself… something stirred.
The colossal landmass shifted uneasily, groaning like a titan disturbed from its eternal slumber. The scar remained. Permanent. Unhealed. The first ever mark left on the so-called "invincible" Red Line.
I landed gently, wind roaring around me as I sheathed Akatsuki.
"So... you remember this place too," I whispered, my voice barely audible over the storm.
Beneath my feet, the Red Line still rumbled. Deep within, a whisper echoed back. Not words. Not language. But intent. Recognition. Something had reached out to me.
The old man reeled, breath caught in his throat, as the young warrior landed lightly back onto the deck of their tiny boat, the waves still trembling beneath their feet from the cataclysmic strike moments ago.
The silence that followed was deafening.
"It seems," I said with a chuckle, flexing my torn palm as threads of flesh knit themselves back together, "we'll have to find another way across..."
The old man staggered, gripping the edge of the boat for balance—not from the sea's sway, but from the realization crashing down on him like a tidal wave. His eyes, wide and disbelieving, flicked from my face to the distant colossus before them—the Red Line, once thought eternal, now scarred... wounded.
"You..." he whispered, as if trying to convince himself he hadn't lost his mind. "You're him... Donquixote Rosinante. The man with the bounty they say breaks the scale... the Ghost of Dressrosa... the Fallen Star of the Celestial Dragons... one of the most wanted men in the world..."
His voice quivered with awe and disbelief, not from fear—but from the sheer gravity of standing next to a name that echoed across continents like a legend.
"Are you really him...?"
He wasn't sure what answer he expected—but as his gaze drifted back to the towering wall of stone that had divided the seas for a thousand years, he didn't need confirmation.
Where once stood the immaculate face of the Red Line, now lay two wounds—one, a broad horizontal scar hundreds of meters wide carved by Shusui... and the other, a vertical cleave stretching deep into the stone like a divine mark made by a god's blade.
The Red Line—the untouchable, the indomitable—had bled.
He stared in stunned silence. Every sailor in history had heard the tales: madmen, pirates, even ancient giants had tried to scar the Red Line, and all had failed. Every attempt washed away, every strike meaningless. The myth was clear—it was uncuttable.
And yet now...
"...Would anyone even believe me if I told them what I just witnessed?" he breathed, barely above a whisper, his knees trembling as if the very foundations of his understanding had cracked like the stone before them.
I turned toward him slowly, my gaze calm but piercing, the scar across my palm now fully healed, though a faint glow of Conqueror's Haki still danced across my knuckles. The very air around us shimmered with residual energy. It felt like we stood at the edge of history.
"Do you still want to cross the Red Line with me, old man?" I asked, voice quiet but resonant, as if daring him to step into a new world.
He looked at me again—really looked. Not just at the man, but at the force of nature standing before him. A man who defied empires, slashed through fate, and scarred the world.
For a heartbeat, he hesitated. Not out of fear... but from the weight of awe.
Then, slowly, he nodded, a small tear slipping down his weathered cheek. "Aye," he whispered hoarsely. "If I'm going to the other side... let it be alongside the man who dared to cut the world itself."