The seas bred countless anomalies among humanity, but this madman represented something particularly rare, an individual whose addiction to killing had reached pathological extremes. His hunger for violence transcended rational motivation, seeking only the primal satisfaction that came from ending lives with his own hands.
The phenomenon wasn't entirely unique. Rain Shiryu of Impel Down shared similar compulsions, though his bloodlust focused on specific circumstances and targets. The Devil Sheriff Lafitte of the Blackbeard Pirates had once served as a security officer in the West Blue, his tenure marked by systematic torture and excessive use of capital punishment until even his superiors could no longer tolerate his excesses.
Each represented variations on the same fundamental theme, individuals whose relationship with violence had evolved beyond mere profession into something approaching religious devotion. For most people, such psychological profiles would represent severe character defects. But in the pirate world, where strength determined survival and reputation was built through displays of overwhelming force, such traits could prove invaluable.
"I can feel your hunger," Oboro continued, his voice carrying the understanding of someone who had witnessed countless variations of human darkness. "Come to my ship. Become a pirate. I can make you stronger... provide you with prey that will satisfy you in ways these petty conflicts never could."
The invitation hung in the blood-soaked air between them, carrying implications that transcended simple recruitment. What Oboro offered was not just membership in a crew, but entry into a world where the madman's deepest compulsions would be not just tolerated but actively encouraged.
Yet the wild swordsman remained silent, his expression unreadable beneath the tangled curtain of his hair. The crushing pressure of Oboro's qi manipulation held him immobile, but his eyes burned with an intensity that suggested his mind was working through calculations that had nothing to do with physical survival.
"I am..." Oboro began, then leaned close enough that his words would carry to no one else. Three syllables emerged as barely a whisper, "God Slayer."
The effect was immediate and dramatic. The madman's entire body began trembling with barely contained excitement, his pupils dilating as the full implications of that revelation struck him like physical blows. Every muscle in his frame tensed with anticipation despite the supernatural forces that held him captive.
Across the known world, no one remained ignorant of what those two words represented. The God Slayer commanded a unique position in maritime legend, the only individual in recorded history who had successfully assassinated a Celestial Dragon and lived to escape the consequences. Such an achievement transcended mere criminal activity to become something approaching mythological significance.
The World Government and Marine devoted unprecedented resources to his capture, while the Four Emperors competed for the opportunity to recruit him into their organizations. Every major power structure on the planet monitored his movements, creating a web of attention that promised endless "challenges" for anyone associated with his crew. Joining such an organization meant accepting a life of constant warfare against opponents who represented the absolute pinnacle of maritime power.
For most people, such prospects would inspire terror rather than anticipation. But Yurivich was not most people.
The reason he had hesitated to respond to Oboro's initial invitation wasn't fear or uncertainty, it was disappointment. The North Blue contained countless pirate organizations, but most failed to capture his interest or provide the kind of stimulation his damaged psyche craved. His current arrangement with the Ice Island Kingdom satisfied his basic "needs" through constant warfare and systematic conquest, but such activities lacked the existential stakes that truly excited him.
But the God Slayer represented something entirely different. Here was someone who had dared to challenge the untouchable gods who ruled their world, an individual whose very existence proved that no authority was absolute, no power structure beyond the reach of those with sufficient will and capability.
Even the Four Emperors, despite their legendary status and overwhelming personal strength, had never crossed that particular line. Their conflicts with the World Government remained within established boundaries, their rebellion carefully contained within parameters that preserved the fundamental order of things.
Only one man had shattered those limitations completely.
Yurivich's gaze shifted briefly to Dom, recognition flickering in his eyes as he identified the Cunning Fox whose wanted poster had appeared alongside his captain's in recent bounty updates. As for Dolan, the wounded pirate barely registered as worthy of acknowledgment, clearly just another expendable crew member elevated beyond his natural capabilities through proximity to genuine power.
"Yurivich," the madman finally spoke, his voice carrying the rough edges of someone who rarely engaged in conversation.
"Excellent, Yuri," Oboro smiled with genuine warmth, dispelling the compressed air that had held his new recruit immobile. "Welcome to the Hell Pirates."
As circulation returned to his limbs, Yurivich tested his restored freedom by rolling his massive shoulders and adjusting his grip on his oversized blade. The weapon's weight, which should have been prohibitive for extended combat, felt comfortable and familiar in his scarred hands.
"First order of business," Oboro continued with predatory satisfaction, "we kill your king."
"No problem," Yurivich replied without hesitation, settling his massive sword across his shoulders with casual confidence.
The matter-of-fact acceptance of regicide spoke volumes about his fundamental nature. Loyalty, patriotism, and traditional concepts of honor meant nothing to someone whose only allegiance was to his own bloodlust. If joining the Hell Pirates required eliminating his former sovereign, such requirements presented obstacles to be eliminated rather than moral dilemmas to be resolved.
Their alliance had been forged in mutual understanding, two predators recognizing kindred spirits across the philosophical gulf that separated ordinary criminals from those who had transcended conventional limitations entirely.
The war between the Kingdom of Scan and Ice Island had officially ended, though not in any manner the participants could have anticipated. Originally, Oboro had planned to return to Scan's capital, reorganize their forces, and launch a systematic counter-invasion that would establish proper territorial control through conventional conquest.
But Yurivich's enthusiastic cooperation had opened new possibilities that promised far more immediate results.
Rather than waste precious time on elaborate strategic planning, they would strike directly at the heart of their enemy's power structure while their new recruit's battle-fury remained at its peak. Three individuals with their combined capabilities could accomplish in hours what armies might require weeks to achieve, assuming they could even accomplish such objectives at all.
Oboro dispatched word through the army commander for wounded Dolan to be transported back to Scan's capital for medical treatment. Then, without ceremony or additional preparation, he led Dom and Yurivich toward the coastline where their vessel waited to carry them toward their real target.
Three men against an entire kingdom. The odds might have seemed impossible to outside observers, but Oboro had already demonstrated the kind of individual power that rendered conventional military thinking obsolete. Numbers meant little when facing someone who could obliterate fleets through simple gestures.
When the army commander reported these developments to the King of Scan through emergency Den Den Mushi communication, the monarch chose not to interfere with their allies' departure. His decision was based on practical calculation rather than confidence, attempting to restrain individuals who had just effortlessly destroyed an entire enemy army would accomplish nothing except potentially earning their enmity.
Besides, the devastating display of power he'd witnessed suggested that single-handed conquest of a royal capital might actually lie within their capabilities. Better to maintain positive relations and hope their alliance would survive whatever chaos was about to unfold.
Yurivich's knowledge of his homeland's geography and defensive weaknesses proved invaluable during their approach to Ice Island. Combined with Dom's spatial manipulation abilities, the trio bypassed every fortification and security measure that should have protected the kingdom's heart, materializing directly within the royal palace to begin their systematic slaughter.
Dom's powers were perfectly suited for such infiltration missions, his dimensional portals could bypass physical barriers entirely while transporting multiple individuals across distances that would normally require hours of travel. The ability to ignore defensive systems and appear anywhere within his operational range made conventional security measures worse than useless.
Ice Island's environment reflected its position in the extreme northern reaches of the North Blue, where coordinates placed it alongside legendary locations like the Arctic Port. Year-round snowfall and sub-freezing temperatures had created a landscape of accumulated glaciers and ice formations that served as the foundation for their entire civilization.
The absence of conventional natural resources had shaped their national character over generations, forcing them to seek wealth and materials through constant expansion and conquest of neighboring territories. The harsh climate that would have destroyed weaker populations had instead forged them into something approaching a warrior culture, where physical endurance and combat capability determined social status.
Yurivich represented the ultimate expression of such environmental pressures, a product of conditions that eliminated everything except the most ferocious survivors.
The route between Ice Island and the Kingdom of Scan was littered with smaller territories that had fallen to their systematic expansion, testament to their effectiveness at projecting military force across the region's treacherous waters. Each conquest had provided resources and population that fueled further aggression, creating a sustainable cycle of growth through violence.
The capital city bore the distinctive characteristics of a population that lived under constant threat of warfare. Every resident, regardless of age or gender, carried weapons as naturally as they wore clothing. Fur-wrapped figures moved through snow-covered streets with the alert confidence of people who understood that survival depended on personal capability rather than governmental protection.
Initially, Oboro had assumed they would face only organized military resistance from professional soldiers and palace guards. But as their assault progressed, it became clear that the distinction between civilian and combatant held little meaning in Ice Island's culture. Men, women, children, and elderly citizens all rushed toward the sounds of battle with whatever weapons they could find, their faces showing determination rather than fear.
To truly destroy the Ice Island Kingdom, they would need to massacre the entire population. Every person capable of bearing arms, which meant virtually everyone, represented a potential threat that could reorganize resistance if left alive.
Yurivich had obviously anticipated this development, his intimate knowledge of his homeland's character preventing any surprise at the scope of opposition they faced. When ordinary citizens began streaming toward the palace with murder in their eyes, he cut them down with the same clinical efficiency he applied to professional soldiers.
His massive blade whistled through the freezing air, leaving trails of scarlet spray and dismembered flesh across the snow-covered courtyard. The weapon's weight, which should have made prolonged combat exhausting, seemed to energize him instead. Each life claimed only increased his enthusiasm for the slaughter that had transformed the royal district into an abattoir.
The massacre initiated by three individuals stretched through an entire day and night, their systematic elimination of resistance creating zones of devastation that spread outward from the palace like ripples in a crimson pond. They faced not just the kingdom's military forces, but every able-bodied resident who had been conditioned from birth to view armed conflict as their natural state.
The sheer number of combatants created logistical challenges that would have overwhelmed conventional attackers. Swaying figures emerged from every street and building, their primitive weapons and improvised armor creating the kind of target-rich environment that could exhaust even supernatural fighters through simple attrition.
Oboro maintained his observer role throughout most of the engagement, using the extended combat as an opportunity to evaluate both the kingdom's military capabilities and his subordinates' endurance under extreme conditions. But when the human wave tactics threatened to overwhelm even Yurivich and Dom's enhanced abilities, he deployed his large-scale killing techniques to eliminate entire crowds with single applications of compressed air.
The North Blue's reputation for producing exceptionally dangerous individuals was well-deserved, but maintaining national stability in such a chaotic environment required extraordinary qualities. Ice Island's population represented the kind of hardy, militaristic culture that could have posed serious challenges to far larger nations under different circumstances.
Though they remained fundamentally human, the people of Ice Island had earned classification as a genuine warrior society through generations of environmental pressure and cultural selection. Their systematic elimination would send shockwaves through the region's political landscape that would resonate for years to come.
Finally, as night settled over the devastated capital, the endless slaughter had achieved its intended psychological effect. The surviving residents who witnessed their neighbors, families, and leaders cut down like wheat before a scythe finally broke mentally, their ingrained warrior culture cracking under the weight of hopeless resistance against overwhelming force.
Those who remained capable of movement began fleeing in panic, abandoning the homeland that had shaped their ancestors for countless generations. The sight of their supposedly invincible population systematically destroyed by three individuals had shattered every assumption about strength, honor, and survival that defined their worldview.
Oboro stood alone before the palace gates as darkness claimed the ruined capital, his elegant black suit remaining pristine despite the hours of violence that had raged around him. Not a single stain or tear marked his clothing, his gentleman's appearance as immaculate as if he'd spent the day in peaceful leisure rather than orchestrating genocide.
The contrast between his refined presentation and the devastation surrounding him created an almost surreal image, a figure of sophisticated civilization standing amid the barbaric aftermath of total warfare.
Yurivich approached from the courtyard where corpses lay stacked like cordwood, his massive frame completely soaked in blood that had thickened into muddy coating. The gore was so extensive that his facial features were no longer visible beneath the crimson mask, transforming him into something that resembled a walking embodiment of death itself.
His sword dragged behind him through the accumulating slush of melted snow and spilled blood, the blade's passage leaving deep furrows in the mixture that marked his path through the killing field he had helped create.
Dom materialized beside them in a flash of black shadow, his normally precise movements showing signs of exhaustion that spoke to the physical demands of extended combat. Even his enhanced capabilities had been tested by the sheer duration and intensity of their systematic elimination campaign.
He collapsed onto the palace steps without ceremony, his bandage wrappings loosened and disheveled from hours of constant motion. The normally disciplined appearance that marked him as Oboro's trusted lieutenant had given way to the kind of bedraggled condition that followed genuine ordeal.
"Confirmed, no survivors remain in the entire palace complex," Dom reported between gasping breaths, his voice carrying the satisfaction of a job completed despite the obvious toll it had taken.
His enhanced physiology was already beginning to recover from the marathon of violence, but the psychological impact of participating in such comprehensive slaughter would require longer to process fully.
"Don't you feel guilty?" Oboro asked with casual curiosity, studying his subordinate's expression for signs of moral conflict or emotional breakdown.
Eliminating so many lives wasn't something that everyone could endure without psychological consequences. Even hardened criminals often struggled with the aftermath of large-scale killing, particularly when it involved non-combatants and civilians who posed no direct threat.
"This kind of small scene... not that serious," Dom replied with self-deprecating laughter, his tone suggesting he was more surprised by his own emotional stability than troubled by what they'd accomplished.
"Haha," Oboro chuckled with genuine amusement.
Dom had indeed grown considerably since their early days together, his transformation encompassing far more than just enhanced physical capabilities. The uncertain pirate who had once struggled with basic combat scenarios had evolved into someone capable of participating in genocide without losing his sanity or moral equilibrium.
If he hadn't encountered Oboro's offer of enhancement and purpose, Dom would probably still be serving as a minor officer on some insignificant crew, his potential forever constrained by the limitations of his original circumstances.
"The person is inside," Oboro informed Yurivich, raising his thumb toward the throne room where the final act of their conquest awaited completion.
He had deliberately preserved the Ice Island King throughout the general slaughter, recognizing that Yurivich would want to handle that particular execution personally. Such considerations mattered when building loyalty among crew members whose primary motivation involved personal satisfaction rather than material rewards.
Yurivich strode into the hall without hesitation, his blood-soaked form leaving crimson footprints across the ornate marble floors as he approached his former sovereign.
"Yurivich, you traitor!" the king's voice echoed from within the throne room, his words carrying all the impotent rage of someone who had finally recognized the true nature of his most dangerous subject. "You, "
The accusation ended abruptly with a wet sound that spoke to steel cleaving through flesh and bone with devastating finality.
Oboro glanced through the doorway to see the monarch's body and throne both split cleanly in half, the precision of the cut speaking to Yurivich's supernatural strength and the quality of his oversized blade. Blood pooled beneath the bisected corpse, while fragments of the golden seat scattered across the chamber like expensive confetti.
"Trash. I've wanted to kill you for a long time," Yurivich declared with vicious satisfaction, studying the results of his handiwork with obvious pleasure.
His relationship with royal authority had always been one of barely restrained hostility, the king's attempts to control and direct his bloodlust creating resentment that had festered for years. Only the constant warfare and opportunities for sanctioned violence had prevented him from acting on his homicidal impulses before now.
Even without the Hell Pirates' recruitment offer, Yurivich would have eventually eliminated his sovereign through simple inability to tolerate continued restraint. The invitation had simply provided convenient timing and political cover for actions he'd been contemplating regardless.
"It's over," Dom forced himself upright despite his exhaustion, glancing back at the bisected royal remains with clinical assessment rather than horror. "You work fast. I thought you might exchange words... Even if he wasn't a friend, you've shared the same country for years."
"I don't make friends with trash," Yurivich replied with cold dismissal, shouldering his gore-covered blade as he led them away from the scene of regicide.
His fundamental nature rejected concepts like patriotism, loyalty, or emotional attachment to authority figures. The king had been useful as long as he provided opportunities for violence, but such utility had always been temporary and conditional.
"He has character," Dom offered with grudging admiration, recognizing a kindred spirit in someone who prioritized personal satisfaction over conventional social bonds.
Then the three Hell Pirates departed the ruins of what had once been Ice Island Kingdom, leaving behind nothing but corpses and the kind of devastation that would ensure their actions echoed through North Blue history for generations to come.
Another nation had been erased from the map, its people scattered or dead, its territory now available for whoever possessed the strength to claim it. The Hell Pirates' reputation for decisive action had been reinforced through the most brutal demonstration possible, the complete elimination of organized resistance through overwhelming individual power.
The North Blue's political landscape had shifted yet again, and the ripple effects would soon reach every corner of the region's complex web of alliances and conflicts.