In a cramped, candlelit room buried deep beneath the pristine halls of Mary Geoise, a man flogged his own back.
Whip.
The sound cracked against flesh, echoing through stone and silence.
Whip.
Again.
And again.
He knelt shirtless on the cold floor, back arched, eyes locked on the small photograph hanging before him—a woman framed in gold. Her black hair cascaded across her shoulders, still, eternal, and soft. The only softness left in Rosward's world.
Each lash left another bloody welt down the ridges of his scarred back. His breath was ragged, but steady—like a man committed to punishment, not pain.
When the ritual ended, he stood slowly, muscles trembling, sweat and blood clinging to his skin. He reached for the worn brown sleeping robe that hung limply in the corner, pulling it over his frame—a frame no longer frail.
Gone was the bloated, soft, drunken Tenryuubito of decades years past.
This new Saint Rosward was a wall of iron and resolve.
His body, now large and carved by relentless effort, had been rebuilt after he awoke from the coma—a slumber that had lasted a month, but felt like an eternity in fire.
He remembered the first breath he took upon waking.
No one expected him to recover. No one cared.
But he did.
And the first thing he did was free every slave he owned.
Then—he divorced his unwilling wives. All of them.
He gave them money, more than they could carry—though he knew gold couldn't ease their pain.
But it was all he had.
All he understood.
After that, he trained.
Day and night.
Swordsmanship. Rokushiki. Haki.
He trained until his bones cracked and his muscles tore.
Until there was nothing left of the man he used to be.
Only this: a soldier of repentance, haunted by what he saw.
Now, seated before a roaring fire, its light dancing across the wooden floor, Saint Rosward stared into the flame—not for warmth, but for memory.
In that memory, Saint Rosward stood alone.
No robe of silk, no oxygen tank, no armed guards or golden scepter.
Just a man. Naked in essence. Shivering in the dark.
And in that suffocating silence—
It came.
From the abyss, a red glow surged like a pulse.
Sinister.
Wrong.
Alive.
The Beast.
Wrapped in hair like smoke and blood, deer skull for head, wreathed in fire and horns adorned with screaming, disembodied heads—it stepped forth.
Rosward, the once-proud dragon, curled into himself like a frightened worm.
But there was no hiding here.
One of The Beast's grotesque hands reached into the void and gripped him—Cold, crushing. Inevitable.
It lifted him, dangling like a ragdoll, and brought him before its monstrous face.
The burning eyes locked with his.
Then, only the skull's jaw moved. Not the dozens of mouths along its limbs.
Its voice was beautiful.
Cruelly beautiful.
"Lost soul... from where do you come?"
But then—A pause. The Beast sniffed the essence of Rosward's soul.
And it laughed.
"Ah... You wish to see your future dwelling, don't you?"
Then, the entire void trembled, cracked like glass—and shattered.
1st Inferno — Limbo of the Forgotten
He was falling. Or floating.
Below him stretched a vast, endless ocean. But not of water—Of souls.
Pale. Hollow. Countless.
They drifted slowly, neither weeping nor writhing—only watching.
Rosward recognized some of them.
A little girl who once tripped over herself while dragging his palanquin.
An old man, he had hunted for sport.
A teenage boy who had screamed his mother's name when the fire started.
They didn't scream now.
They didn't move.
They simply watched.
"Do you remember their names?"
The Beast's voice echoed across the ocean.
Rosward couldn't answer.
Then The Beast dove—plunging into the sea of souls like a falling star. Rosward was dragged like a prisoner.
Below, deeper still—The face of a massive, dead giant lay at the ocean's bed, mouth agape.
The Beast entered the mouth without pause.
2nd Inferno — Lust of Power
They emerged inside a vast, hollow mountain cavern, carved by agony.
Towering cliffs surrounded them, and all along their jagged ridges...
Crawled the mighty.
Kings, admirals, noblemen.
Faces Rosward once greeted with bows and toast.
Now?
They crawled like ants, dragging boulders up the vertical slopes with backs bent, spines breaking.
Each time one neared the top, a great ape-demon, fanged and crowned, kicked them off the ledge.
Their bones shattered below.
Their screams were brief.
And then... their bodies reformed.
And they began again.
Endless.
The Beast walked among the stones, stepping casually on writhing bodies. It did not care. For it, they are just a sinful soul.
Rosward, heart pounding, soul fraying.
At the end of the cavern, they reached another colossal mouth—A second face, buried in the stone.
And again, The Beast leapt inside.
3rd Inferno — Gluttony of Privilege
They landed in a golden temple, its floor a deep mire of liquid gold and rotting opulence.
Nobles—bloated, sweating, groaning—were half-submerged, their mouths stretched open, gasping.
Cursed crowns choked their throats.
Silken robes tangled their limbs like constricting serpents.
But worse—Tiny golden insects, shimmering like coins, scuttled over them.
In and out of mouths.
Into eyes.
Through open wounds.
They were being eaten, from the inside out, by their own wealth.
Rosward turned away, gagging.
The Beast didn't pause.
It reached down, scooped up a handful of the golden bugs, and crunched them with a sickening sound.
"Greed leaves nothing uneaten. Not even you."
It walked on, deeper into the temple.
Another stone face.
Another mouth.
The Beast stepped in again. walking toward the dark forest.
4th Inferno — Greed of Legacy
"All flames crave names to remember them by."
They emerged into a dark forest, where the trees had no leaves—only tongues of fire. The faces on the trees laughed in contempt.
Rosward looked up, horrified.
Laughing at the damned below—men and women peeling their own skin, layer by layer, muscles exposed, sinew trembling.
And once skinned, they hung their flayed flesh upon the branches, to admire it. Only to be burned by the fire leaves on the tree.
Leaving an empty legacy.
Only to grow new skin... and begin again.
"They seek to be remembered," The Beast whispered. "But the world forgets even blood if it dries long enough."
Rosward stumbled forward, the laughter echoing in his skull.
He tried to speak a prayer—any prayer—but his voice had no weight here.
They reached a massive burning tree at the heart of the forest. A giant face of bark and flame opened its wooden jaw wide, and The Beast entered again.
5th Inferno — Wrath of Arrogance
"Kings become meat when they fall."
They emerged at the shores of a lake of fire—its surface bubbling like molten gold.
Floating atop it, Rosward saw a man torn apart again and again.
The First King of Goa.
Once regal. Now reduced.
His body was devoured by the phantoms of his people—Faceless shadows tearing at his flesh, reaching into his chest to pull out his still-beating heart, gnawing at his intestines like starving dogs.
"He thought the world owed him loyalty," The Beast said. "But no man rules the flames of hatred."
Rosward could not look away. He heard the cries of kings, emperors, warlords—names once immortal, now screamed in agony by mouths without form.
They continued, climbing a hill of charred bones, until they found a temple of glimmering gold built into the rock.
But the doors did not shine—they bled.
Inside, at the far wall, the familiar giant face, half-mouth open in silent invitation.
The Beast did not pause.
6th Inferno — Heretics of the Holy Name
"Even gods rot when built by mortal hands."
They entered a cathedral of blasphemy, carved from black stone and bone, its spires sharpened like spears toward a dying sky.
Rosward gasped.
All around him, winged demons with feathers like crows flew above rows of men and women—his own soldiers, civilians, marines. All on their knees. All chanting.
"Praise the Dragons. Praise the Holy Blood. Praise the Heirs of Heaven."
Their tongues licked statues of Tenryuubito—grotesque, thorned, and bleeding.
Each statue dripped black ichor, and each worshiper drank it, tears of joy on their mutilated faces.
The demons descended, whipping their backs with burning iron, branding them with the mark of servitude.
And Rosward saw one of the statues—his own likeness.
Rosward down from The Beast's hand. He fell to his knees, trembling.
"I am not... divine."
His whisper was the first defiance he had ever uttered.
The Beast nodded, grabbed him again, saying nothing.
Together, they passed through the final sanctum, where the largest idol awaited. But rather than enter it, they stepped around—To the back of the cathedral, where yet another face of stone—this one ancient, moss-covered, broken—waited.
Its mouth agape like a forgotten god.
They stepped inside.
And now—The ground turned to mud.
The next descent... would not be walked.
It would be crawled.
7th Inferno— Violence Against Innocence
"Those who wage war on the helpless will find no peace."
They emerged into a landscape of black, writhing mud. The air was thick with the stench of rot, iron, and pus.
Souls crawled upon one another, biting, tearing, devouring.
They weren't beasts — they were people: marines, pirates, peasants, kings. Their identities had dissolved, and now they became part of the cycle.
They fed on one another, screaming.
And when they were devoured, their flesh returned — their screams renewed.
A curse without end.
Rosward tried to close his eyes — but his eyes refused to obey.
He was forced to watch.
To remember.
To bear witness.
"This is where the blood of children sinks," whispered the Beast.
"Every scream unheard. Every hand raised against those who could not fight back."
The Beast walked atop the squirming sludge, and with each step, Rosward heard screams gurgle beneath its feet.
Ahead, a massive face jutted from the swamp — its mouth open wide, vomiting more filth.
It became the next gate.
The Beast entered it without hesitation. Rosward, still held tightly in its grasp, followed — against his will.
8th Inferno — Fraud of the World
"Lies are venom, and the world is sick with it."
They emerged in a twisted valley — a canyon carved from bones.
Here, snakes slithered endlessly, but each had a human face.
Rosward recognized them.
Journalists. Agents. Religious leaders. Politicians. Royals.
All those who twisted the truth for their gain.
Each snake had a forked tongue, constantly dripping venom, burning the earth wherever it fell.
"These are the voices that shaped empires," said the Beast.
"Their lies outlived them."
Some snakes bit themselves and screamed.
Others tangled around each other in tight coils, fusing into grotesque knots of flesh and teeth.
Their pain was eternal.
The Beast knelt, grabbed two of them, and devoured them.
"My favorite," it chuckled. "They taste like shame."
At the far end of the valley, a cave writhed with serpents.
Above it, another enormous stone face emerged, its mouth open wide, lips cracked, leaking whispers of forgotten truths.
They passed through the final gate.
And then — the world turned red.
Final Inferno — The Wrath of God
"Hell is not where God is absent. It is where His eyes never close."
They entered the deepest circle of Hell.
No more faces in stone.
No more choices.
No way back.
Only fire.
Only judgment.
They stood before a vast plain of magma and boiling metal. Rivers of molten iron carved through the darkness.
The very air burned.
The Beast drops Rosward on the ground, letting him walk on his own.
Even the Beast seemed to move slower here.
"This," said the Beast, "is where God's hatred burns the brightest."
Demons roamed the inferno — lesser kin of the Beast.
They had no wings.
Only twisted horns, two arms, and brands of divine wrath etched into their flesh.
One whipped a soul with a chain of molten iron, forcing it to drink liquid steel from a spiked goblet.
Others stirred cauldrons of screaming souls, their flesh bubbling and peeling.
Rosward collapsed to his knees.
And then — the Beast pointed.
In the heart of this cursed place, Rosward saw her: His first wife.
Skewered from anus to throat by a jagged metal spike.
Her body bathed in molten steel.
She screamed. But no sound came.
Her eyes searched — not for salvation.
But for him.
"This is where you belong," the Beast said.
Rosward's spirit broke.
Shattered beneath the weight of what he had seen — what he'd soon become.
In that final inferno, surrounded by molten judgment, he begged the Beast.
He dropped to his knees, his voice torn by sobs, his hands clasped in supplication.
"Please... I'll do anything. Tell me what I must do... to be free of this fate!"
But the Beast only stared, unmoved. The flames danced across its antlers, casting shadows that resembled wings of ruin.
Its voice rang clear.
Beautiful.
Calm.
Eternal.
"There is nothing you can do."
"Your fate was etched into the bones of the earth the day your feet first touched it."
"Your choices were always yours. And now... the reward is yours too."
And then — the Beast grabbed Rosward and closed its hand.
Its six clawed fingers crushed Rosward's soul, and in that pressure of absolute damnation...
He woke.
Gasping. Screaming. Soaked in sweat.
Rosward awoke in his chamber, his body violently shaking.
He clawed at the silken bedsheets, vomited beside the mattress, and stared in terror at the flickering chandelier above him — as if it might transform into the Beast at any moment.
But the nightmare did not return.
Not because it was over.
Because it had left its mark.
Even now, the Beast's voice echoed in the back of his skull: "I wait for you. When your time comes."
Rosward wept. Not from relief — but from terror.
And nothing he had, no wealth, no power, no status, could save him.
But then... as he curled into himself, trying to keep warm, trying to keep together — he remembered them.
The two women.
The ones who stood on either side of the silhouette.
The only beings in that hellscape not made of hatred or madness.
One — with hair like golden wheat, eyes like rainclouds, tears falling endlessly.
The other — with long, flowing locks like black pearl silk, her eyes closed, as if shielding herself from the world's sorrow.
And something in him whispered:
"They might save me."
Rosward leapt from his bed, fevered and desperate. He screamed for his servants, his soldiers, his archivists.
"Find them!" he shouted, eyes bloodshot. "Those women! I need names! Records! Anything! Find them!"
His empire of information began to churn.
Years passed. He trained. He paid. He searched every scrap of prophecy, art, scripture, and forbidden record.
He no longer enslaved.
He no longer celebrated cruelty.
Not out of mercy — but terror. He was trying to claw his way free from the flames.
Then, one day, a servant returned.
With trembling hands, he offered a wanted poster — faded, crumpled. The bounty was small. The picture... that of a child. A girl no older than eight.
The Devil Child. Nico Robin.
The resemblance was imperfect. But the feeling... the aura...
"It's her," Rosward whispered, falling to his knees, he wept. "The woman with closed eyes...my salvation."
And just like that — his obsession took form.
Not with hunting.
Not with conquest.
But with redemption.
Or at least... a desperate imitation of it.