The capital had fallen. Its banners, once stitched with the arrogance of kings, lay trampled in the mud. The air was thick with smoke, not from celebration, but from homes burned in the chaos of collapse. What had once been a city of marble and spires was now a husk, its avenues clogged not with parades but with the desperate, the broken, the displaced.
Thousands of refugees spilled through the streets and fields surrounding the city—families carrying bundles of everything they had left, mothers clutching infants too weak to cry, children dragging half-dead siblings by the hand. The moans of hunger and the raw cries of grief blended into a single chorus that rose over the conquered capital.
Zephyr stood above it all, cloak stirring faintly in the wind. His eyes closed, and his Observation Haki unfurled like a net across the land. What it touched was not victory—it was ruin.
Everywhere, he felt the trembling sparks of humanity burning low: men clawing at each other over a half-loaf of bread, women battered aside for a jug of stale water, old men beaten down for boots that barely held together. There was no malice in their actions, no hatred. Only the raw, primal violence of survival.
Christina's words from the night before struck him again with brutal clarity: When the throne falls, what then?
Yes, the Revolutionaries had succeeded. Another monarchy that had fattened itself on the blood of its people was gone. Another tyrant dragged down from his gilded perch. But at what cost? The "liberation" below him looked more like starvation. Freedom, it seemed, was a pyre, and the people burned on it.
His fists clenched behind his back. He had devoted the second chance at life to the Revolution—to tearing down the World Government, to dismantling every corrupt pillar it stood on. That was the grand design, the dream painted across seas and skies. But as he scanned the ruin below, he could not silence the question gnawing at his bones: Would today's victory mean anything at all?
The answer whispered itself, cruel and undeniable: No.
The World Government would not stir. They had not even bothered to send Marines to defend this kingdom—not a ship, not a squad, not a single banner flown in its name. To them, West Blue was nothing but a ledger of pawns and clients. If one pawn toppled, ten more would line up to take its place. So long as their coffers were full and their authority unchallenged, they would not care if this country starved, bled, or burned to ash.
Zephyr opened his eyes, the glow of firelight reflecting in their depths. He saw the faces of children, too thin to lift the swords they had once carried. He saw men who had fought beside him already bartering their rifles for bread. He saw the Revolutionaries themselves—some celebrating, others staring hollow-eyed at the wasteland their victory had carved.
His jaw tightened. This was the truth no speech could erase, the cost no slogan could bury. Liberation was not enough. Not here. Not like this.
And yet, this was the path. To free the world from the grip of the World Government, they would have to carve a hundred more battlefields just like this one. A thousand more capitals would burn. He had known that since the day he chose this road. But knowledge did not still the weight in his chest, nor the doubt that whispered whether the Revolution was truly saving the world—or simply breaking it, piece by piece.
The Admiral of the Revolutionaries stood silent on the battlements of a fallen kingdom, the cries of the people rising like a tide beneath him. For the first time in years, Zephyr felt the ache of a question he could not silence.
"Zephyr-Taishō…"
The voice pulled him from his reverie. The Admiral shifted slightly, his gaze meeting that of a young officer standing stiff-backed before him. Smoke curled in the night sky above the conquered capital, where broken spires jutted like the bones of a slain beast.
"The rebels have taken complete control of the city. Soon, order will spread to the rest of the country."
The young man spoke as though it were victory, as though the war was neatly finished. But Zephyr's eyes lingered on the ruins below — on the ragged crowds clawing for scraps, on the hungry faces pressed against shattered gates. He knew better. The fall of the monarchy was not the end. It was the beginning of something uglier: a power vacuum, a hundred petty lords rising from the rubble, blood spilled not for ideals but for survival. And if the World Government chose to meddle afterward… things would grow worse still.
He exhaled slowly, heavy with the weight of truths the younger ones did not yet see. Then his voice came, low but steady.
"What about the other matter I assigned? Has everything progressed smoothly? Has she… complained about our decision to provide asylum for the war orphans?"
The officer froze. His hesitation was enough to make Zephyr's eyes narrow, the air itself thickening with his unspoken demand for an answer.
"Well… Taishō, there is a complication," the young man admitted, voice faltering. "We received an update from headquarters. Commander Livia herself has sent you a message."
He extended a scroll, ink smudged in hurried strokes. Zephyr tore the seal open, scanning the words that had been copied from the transponder snail. Each line was clinical, precise — stripped of sentiment. Livia understood his intentions, understood why he had barred Christina and her Donquixote "recruitment." But the Revolution could not shoulder the burden he had placed upon them. Not all of it.
At best, they could resettle a few thousand children — a handful compared to the sea of orphans left in war's wake. Some could be given new lives among sympathetic islands, others might be raised within the Revolution itself. But all of them? Every starving, broken child left scattered across the ruins of a kingdom?
The answer was mercilessly clear: No.
The Revolution could not afford it. Not without breaking themselves in the process. Zephyr's fist closed around the parchment until the fibers tore, until the message was nothing but crushed fragments against his palm. He knew Livia was right. He had led enough campaigns to understand the limits of their strength. But knowing the truth did not make it easier to swallow.
His jaw tightened. For a long moment, the firelight caught only the grim lines of his face, carved deeper by the weight of choice. Then finally, with the heaviness of a man setting down a mountain he could not carry, Zephyr spoke.
"Fine." His voice was iron, though the defeat within it was not lost on those listening. "Let that woman from the Donquixote family do as she pleases. But hear me clearly—"
His gaze sharpened, burning through the officer like a blade.
"Assign men to accompany her. Watch every step. If she or her people so much as attempt to take those children against their will, you are to intervene. You have my authorization to act—no hesitation, no restraint."
The officer saluted sharply, though his eyes betrayed unease. "Yes, Taishō."
Zephyr turned away, the shredded remnants of Livia's letter drifting from his hand. He stared out once more at the city of orphans and ash, where the cries of the innocent blended with the embers of victory.
The war was over. The monarchy lay shattered, its banners torn down, its palace reduced to a husk of stone and silence. Yet what stretched across the capital was not victory, but a wasteland stitched together with grief.
The Revolutionaries had erected relief stations — rough wooden tables, cauldrons of thin gruel, and baskets of bread hauled in from what little stores could be spared. But the lines were not lines. They were mobs. Men and women pressed shoulder to shoulder, clawing at one another for scraps, their desperation spilling into violence.
It was not greed. It was fear.
They fought not to fill their own stomachs but to bring back one mouthful, one crust of bread, to the children waiting in the shadows of shattered buildings. A mother slammed her elbow into a stranger's ribs not because she hated him, but because her son had not eaten in three days. A father shoved another man to the dirt not out of cruelty, but because his daughter's lips were already cracked from thirst.
The Revolutionaries tried to hold the crowd back, but their hands faltered. Rifles and blades had felt light in their grasp during the siege, yet now even the thought of raising them against these gaunt faces, these hollow eyes, felt unbearable. These were not enemies. These were the very people they had come to save. And still, they looked less like citizens than animals fighting over carrion.
The air stank of sweat, smoke, and hunger. Children wailed, reaching for loaves they could not touch. The cries dug deeper into the rebels' hearts than any cannonfire ever had. And then, amid the chaos, a sight froze every man who saw it.
Near a collapsed wall where soot still blackened the stones, a woman approached the relief table. Her clothes were torn to rags, her feet bare and bleeding. She had no bowl, no pot, no cup — nothing to carry the gruel in. When her turn came, she did not hesitate. She held out her hands, palms open.
The ladle poured. The steaming liquid splashed against her skin. She flinched, the burn searing into her flesh, but her hands did not close, did not falter. The gruel ran down her arms, but she cradled as much of it as she could, clutching it like treasure. Her lips trembled in silence, not from pain, but from determination.
Staggering back, she knelt beside a child half-hidden in the rubble — her son, no older than six, his eyes glazed with hunger. With shaking hands, blistered and red, she brought the gruel to his lips. He drank greedily, unaware of the tears streaking down her cheeks as the scalding liquid dripped from her ruined palms.
She smiled at him through the agony, whispering words only he could hear. A lullaby in the ashes. Around them, the crowd still roared, bread still torn from desperate hands, fists still raised in fury. But for those who saw the woman kneeling in the dirt, burning herself to keep her child alive, the sound seemed to fall away. This was the truth of liberation.
The square was chaos. Screams, cries, and the rattle of pots clanging against empty tables filled the air as desperate hands clawed for the last ladles of gruel. The Revolutionaries tried to calm them, to keep order, but the crowd surged like waves breaking against a seawall, unstoppable and ravenous.
And yet, away from the firelight of the relief station, the world narrowed to a single alley that cut into the ruins like a scar. Most of the buildings that flanked it had collapsed into heaps of stone and wood, the skeletons of homes and shops now little more than jagged shadows. The stench of ash clung to everything, and the silence here was heavy — broken only by the scuffle of bare feet against stone.
A boy stumbled into the alley. He could not have been more than ten years old. His clothes, though torn and filthy, were not like those of the common rabble. Even through the grime, the faded silk and stitched crest on the edge of his sleeve betrayed what he had once been — a child of privilege, of nobility.
But nobility meant nothing now. His garments were rags. His hair was matted with dirt and blood. A gash still leaked sluggishly from his temple, the crimson trail creeping down his cheek. His left shoulder hung oddly, dislocated, but he bore it with clenched teeth and stubborn silence.
Clutched against his chest were two loaves of bread. He cradled them as if they were gold, as if they were jewels torn from the king's treasury. His arms tightened protectively around them, his small frame hunched like a shield. They were heavy to him — not for their weight, but for what they meant.
The boy's lips trembled, but not with fear. He was smiling. Despite the pain, despite the ache in his battered body, there was a quiet contentment in his eyes. He had fought for this. He had earned it. Somewhere deeper in the alley, hidden from the chaos of the square, his siblings waited. And he would not return to them empty-handed.
He was too young to understand the full cruelty of war, but he understood enough. His parents had sent him and his siblings away before the siege, slipping them out through a servant's passage with hurried whispers and promises to "stay quiet, stay safe." He had known even then what that meant: they had been abandoned. Left to survive, because even noble blood was not worth saving when the monarchy itself was crumbling.
He hated the rebels for it. Hated them for storming the palace, for tearing down the life he had known. But hatred did not feed empty bellies. Pride did not soothe his sister's cries at night. Anger did not keep his younger brother from wasting away.
So he had swallowed it all — the rage, the grief, the humiliation — and thrown himself into the mob at the relief station. He had clawed, shoved, and fought until his body screamed. He had taken blows from men twice his size, been trampled underfoot, and nearly crushed in the tide of bodies. And still, somehow, he had emerged with two loaves clutched in his arms.
That was all that mattered. He was turning deeper into the alley when shadows fell across his path. A half-dozen children stepped from the rubble, blocking his way. Their faces were hollow, their clothes little more than strips of cloth hanging from bone-thin bodies. Their eyes burned with hunger and suspicion.
One of them, a girl with tangled hair and a scar across her cheek, pointed to the loaves.
"He's hiding food."
Another boy squinted at him, then sneered.
"Not just food. Look at his clothes. He's one of them. A noble."
The word dripped like poison from his tongue. The boy's heart clenched. He took a step back, but the children fanned out, cutting off any escape. Their faces twisted with something darker than hunger — resentment, rage, the desperate need for someone to blame.
"It's their fault!" one of them shouted.
"Their families feasted while we starved. Their soldiers killed our fathers. Their taxes bled us dry!"
"You… you think you can take from the same people you crushed?" another spat, his voice shrill with fury. "How many nights did you dine while we begged for crumbs?"
The boy shook his head, his voice hoarse.
"I… I'm not like them anymore. I just want to—"
But they didn't want to hear it. Children or not, war had carved them into something brutal.
The first stone struck his shoulder, sending him staggering. A fist caught his jaw. He fell to his knees, but his arms locked tighter around the loaves. He would not let them go. Not for anything.
The blows came harder, heavier. Kicks to his ribs. Nails raking his face. Their screams blurred together into a chorus of rage and fear.
He curled around the bread, shielding it with his small, broken body. Every strike drove him deeper into the dirt, but he did not loosen his hold. His thoughts burned with a single image: his siblings waiting for him, their hollow eyes lighting up when he brought them food.
He would not fail them. The children's anger built like a storm. Tears streaked their faces even as they lashed out, their fists trembling with the force of every blow. They weren't just striking at him — they were striking at a world that had abandoned them, at hunger, at loss, at death itself.
Finally, the eldest among them — a boy nearly fifteen, his face gaunt but his eyes wild — seized a broken iron rod from the rubble. His chest heaved as he raised it high, voice cracking with rage.
"Enough! If we kill him, we can take it all! That's justice!"
The younger ones froze, breath ragged, their eyes wide as the rod glinted in the firelight spilling faintly from the square. The boy on the ground did not move. He simply tightened his arms around the loaves, whispering under his breath.
"Not yet… just a little longer. For them…"
The rod fell—
—and stopped inches from his chest.
A hand, pale and firm, had caught it in midair. Fingers tightened like iron around the shaft. The older boy's eyes bulged as the weapon was wrenched from his grasp and tossed aside, clattering uselessly against stone.
Christina stood there, framed in the half-light of the ruined alley. Her cloak billowed slightly as she looked down at the children, her expression unreadable.
The gang of orphans froze. Their breaths came fast, their bodies trembling. Many of them had seen death too many times, seen comrades and strangers alike gutted without mercy. To them, an adult meant power — and often cruelty. They braced for pain, for punishment, for the blade that would surely follow.
But Christina only sighed. Her hand slipped to the satchel at her side. She pulled it open, revealing several loaves of bread, still fresh, their crusts golden. The children's eyes locked on them at once, pupils dilating with primal hunger.
Christina knelt, her voice calm, almost tired.
"You don't need to spill blood for this."
She handed the first loaf to the girl with the scar. The child flinched, staring at it as if it were a trap. Another boy hissed. "Don't touch it. She… she might be one of them."
But hunger spoke louder than fear. The girl's trembling hand darted out, snatching the loaf. In an instant, she tore into it with her teeth, devouring it like an animal. That broke the dam.
The others surged forward, seizing the loaves Christina offered, some even falling to their knees as they stuffed their mouths, crumbs scattering across their chins. Their tears mixed with the bread in their throats, their sobs muffled by desperate chewing.
Within moments, they were gone — scattering into the night with their spoils, too afraid of her presence to linger, too desperate to waste another second. Silence returned to the alley, broken only by the ragged breathing of the boy still curled on the ground.
Slowly, he pushed himself up. His body shook, his face smeared with blood and dirt. But his arms still clutched the two loaves to his chest, unbroken, unyielding.
Christina watched him. He did not look at her, did not thank her. He simply staggered deeper into the alley, where two smaller figures waited — a boy and a girl, both younger, their eyes wide as they saw the bread. Their faces lit up with fragile joy.
He smiled for them, his pain forgotten. Christina's gaze softened, though only slightly. Her voice was low, more to herself than anyone else.
"Children fighting children… monsters born of hunger. This is the world your wars create."
The boy disappeared into the shadows with his siblings, and Christina slowly followed the boy, for she had seen a quality in the boy that most didn't possess, the weight of her satchel now lighter, the weight on her heart much heavier.
The boy's bare feet scraped across broken stone as he slipped into the shell of a building, its roof half-collapsed and its windows nothing but gaping holes. Inside, shadows gathered thick in the corners, the air heavy with dust and the faint, acrid scent of old fire.
Two small figures huddled together near the remnants of a hearth. A little girl, no more than six, with tangled hair and eyes too wide for her small face. Beside her, a boy perhaps eight, his cheeks hollow, his body shivering under the thin remnants of what had once been fine clothes.
The eldest boy staggered forward. His arms, bruised and battered, uncurled with infinite care. He set the loaves down on the cracked floor as though they were relics of the divine.
"Here," he whispered. His voice was raw, hoarse from hunger and exhaustion. "Eat."
The little girl clapped her hands once in excitement, grabbing a loaf with both hands, nearly toppling backward as she tore into it. Crumbs spilled down her chin, but her giggles filled the dark room with a fragile light.
The middle brother picked up his share more slowly, reverently, as if afraid the bread would vanish if he touched it too roughly. His eyes flickered to the eldest, lingering.
The eldest boy sat back against the wall, his chest heaving, a faint smile playing across his bloodied face. He made no move to take a portion for himself.
"Why aren't you eating?" his sister asked between hurried bites, her voice muffled by mouthfuls of bread.
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, forcing another smile.
"I already ate," he lied softly.
But then his stomach growled, loud and unmistakable in the silence. The little girl tilted her head, puzzled. "But your tummy's still talking…"
The boy froze, shame and sorrow flickering across his young face. He turned away, but his brother was watching him. The younger boy studied him for a long, wordless moment, then without hesitation tore a piece from his own loaf. He pressed it into his older brother's hand, saying nothing, and turned back to gnaw on what remained.
The eldest boy stared at the gift in his palm. His lips trembled. Tears welled, hot and stinging, as he forced down the lump in his throat.
"…Thank you," he whispered, before biting into the bread.
For the first time in days, the taste was almost too much to bear. A quiet sound stirred the air. A faint shift of fabric, the creak of old wood.
Christina leaned against the doorway, arms folded, her cloak brushing the dust. She had followed him silently, her boots making no sound on the broken stone. Her expression was calm, unreadable, her golden eyes catching what little light filtered into the ruin.
The boy tensed but did not rise. He knew now she meant no harm. She had saved him in the alley. She had fed the children who had nearly killed him. But still, her presence was weight — the presence of an adult, of someone who could shatter his fragile world with a gesture.
Christina watched in silence until the last crumb had vanished from the children's hands. Then she spoke.
"You fought hard for those loaves." Her voice was soft, but it carried, steady as iron. "Harder than most men I've seen."
The boy didn't answer. He sat with his siblings, his eyes fixed on the ground. Christina took a slow step forward, her boots crunching on stone.
"You're not like the others out there. You knew what you were doing. You shielded the bread with your body, took every blow, and never let go." She tilted her head, studying him. "That wasn't just desperation. That was resolve."
Finally, he looked up at her, his small face streaked with dirt and blood. His voice was hoarse, but steady.
"I had to. They're all I have left."
Christina's gaze lingered on the little girl curled against her brother's side, already drifting to sleep with a full belly, and the boy gnawing slowly at his share. Then she looked back at the eldest.
"And what will you do tomorrow?"
He blinked, caught off guard. "…Tomorrow?"
"Yes." Christina crouched, her cloak pooling around her. Her voice dropped lower, colder. "Today you brought them bread. But what about tomorrow? And the day after that? You think this relief will last? It won't."
The boy's throat worked, but no words came. Christina's tone hardened.
"When the Revolutionaries leave — and they will leave — what happens to this city? The bread lines will dry up. The gruel pots will empty. And then?" She gestured toward the ruins outside. "The mobs will come back. Stronger. Hungrier. Desperate. This place will turn into hell, worse than anything you've seen so far."
The boy lowered his gaze. His fists clenched in his lap. He knew. He didn't want to admit it, but he knew. Christina let the silence drag before she leaned closer. Her words cut like a blade.
"You can't keep them alive like this. You're too young. Too weak. And when the real hunger comes, it won't just be strangers clawing at you in the street. It'll be neighbors. It'll be children like the ones who tried to kill you today."
The boy bit his lip until it bled, his shoulders trembling. His sister stirred, mumbling in her sleep, and he immediately steadied himself, pulling her close. His voice was quiet but sharp.
"I'll find a way. I don't care how. I'll keep them safe."
Christina studied him for a long moment. There was no hesitation in his eyes, no childish fantasy — only a grim, heavy resolve that did not belong to someone so young.
A slow smile tugged at her lips, but it was not one of mockery. It was approval.
"You've already grown sharper than most men twice your age."
She reached into her cloak and pulled free a small emblem — a silver insignia engraved with a cross-shaped motif. It gleamed faintly in the moonlight.
She held it out in her palm, her voice calm, deliberate, carrying the weight of an offer that could not be undone.
"You said you'll find a way. I can give you one. Come with me… join the Donquixote Family."
The boy froze, staring at the insignia. His heart pounded in his chest, torn between fear and temptation.
Christina's eyes burned into his.
"With us, you won't have to scavenge for scraps or fight mobs for bread. You'll have power. Protection. A future. You'll be able to keep them safe. And more importantly, you will have a family who will stand by you…"
She let the words hang in the air, heavy and irresistible. The emblem glinted like a promise — or a curse. The boy's fingers twitched, his breath ragged. His siblings slept on, oblivious, their fragile dreams shielded by the choice their brother now faced. Christina waited, the silence of the ruin pressing in like the weight of the world.