It's been… what? Days? Weeks?
Hell if I know. Time doesn't mean much when you're stuck in this floating coffin. There's no window, no sun, no way to tell morning from night—just the dim, sputtering oil lamp hanging outside my cell. That thing has already died out more times than I can count, only to be lazily refilled by a guard who clearly couldn't care less if we sat in the dark forever.
The ship has stopped a few times—probably to resupply. Each time, the routine's the same: footsteps, shouting, and then… new faces. Sometimes it's just one poor soul. Sometimes five. They come in all ages, from grizzled old men to fresh-faced teens.
Thankfully, none of them are young enough to get tossed into my cell. Small mercy, I guess.
My relationship with Boa Hancock?
Surprisingly… great, actually.
And speaking of Boa Hancock…
That thought alone brings the damn stats back into my vision.
Yeah, turns out I can toggle them—on and off—just by willing it. No idea how, but at least they don't clutter my view unless I want them. One small win in a sea of garbage.
But no matter what I try—whispering "status," shouting "menu," even striking a full-on Kamen Rider henshin pose—I've got no system.
No skill trees.
No inventory.
No ability to check my own stats.
Just this weird floating stat sheet thing that pops up above people's heads… but only after I learn their real name.
Seriously, I've stared at guards and slaves for hours. Nothing.
But the moment I overheard one boy's name—Maru—boom. His stats appeared like I'd just unlocked a hidden file.
[Maru – Age: 14 | Male]
Strength: 60
Speed: 55
Stamina: 70
Devil Fruit: N/A
Armament Haki: 55
Observation Haki: 50
Conqueror's Haki: N/A
Intelligence: 65
Charisma: 40
Leadership: 34
Combat Skill: 50
And what do those numbers mean?
Hell if I know.
There's no manual. No benchmark. For all I know, a 60 could be average—or it could mean the kid's built like wet bread. But here's the part that really messes with me:
The Haki stats.
How the hell does a kid like Maru have Haki?
And not just him—Boa's sisters too. When I asked them if they'd awakened their Haki, they just gave me a shrug and a blank look. Said they knew what it was, but had no idea how to use it.
So… basically: no. No training, no experience. But their stat sheets still show numbers—real ones. Decent ones, even. Which means one thing:
These stats aren't measuring what they can do. They're measuring what they could do.
Potential.
And if that's true… then Boa Hancock?
Her sheet was packed with 90s, and her Charisma hit a clean 100.
Which makes a goddamn sense.
As the most beautiful woman in the entire goddamn world, she deserves that clean 100 in Charisma.
Even if right now, she's just a cute little girl clinging to pride and pretending not to be scared.
There's a world of difference between the Hancock I see in front of me and the mighty Snake Princess she'll become.
But turns out, the mighty Snake Princess—future Empress of Amazon Lily, the woman who'll one day make Marines sweat just by existing—is still just a kid. Shocking, I know.
Before, every time I talked to her, she'd only respond to what was necessary—short, measured answers that gave off this air of majesty. It made me picture the Hancock I knew from the story: strong, charismatic, beautiful… untouchable.
But the truth? Right now, she's just a girl wearing a mask. A façade to keep her sisters from falling apart. She has to be strong so they can be strong. And honestly? That makes her more impressive than the future version of herself.
Still, cracks started to show when I began telling the Boa sisters a series of Disney princess stories. Yeah… Disney. Out of all the survival tactics I could've used, I went with fairy tales. But it worked—the mood lightened, even if just a little.
And now, apparently, they've all decided they're princesses. Which means, as the only male in this little group, I've been cast as the prince. Every waking moment lately, I've been roped into telling them stories they've never heard before.
Like right now.
"Can you tell the story of Princess Belle?" Hancock asked, voice softer than I'd ever heard it.
I leaned back, already preparing the tale of a girl, a beast, and a lot of Stockholm syndrome disguised as romance.
--
Later that day, the ship came to a halt.
Another supply stop, I thought… but something felt different this time.
From below deck, the air grew heavier. Then came the sounds—boots clanging on wooden stairs, the groan of old hinges, the clatter of keys, and somewhere in the mix, a man's scream—raw and desperate—cut short by a sharp, commanding voice barking orders to move.
The footsteps drew nearer, each one hammering the tension tighter, until a guard loomed in front of our cell. His shadow stretched across the floor before he even spoke.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he unlocked the gate. The hinges shrieked in protest—a rusted, grating sound that scraped along my spine like nails on bone.
Most of the kids had already gone pale before he arrived, but the moment the door opened, their faces drained completely, like the last flicker of life had been dragged down to the underworld.
"Get up. Move."
The guard's voice was low but laced with venom. He didn't wait for a reaction—his hand shot out, grabbing one of the smaller kids by the arm and yanking him to his feet.
The boy's legs buckled immediately, and he crumpled back to the floor.
The guard's expression twisted into something ugly. Without a word, he reached behind his back and pulled out a battered iron baton. The sound it made when it struck the boy's ribs was sharp and sickening.
"Get up, you little bastard."
The blows came again, each one harder than the last, until the boy was gasping through clenched teeth. Fear—more than strength—finally forced him upright, swaying but not daring to fall again.
The guard's eyes swept the cell like a predator scanning for the next prey.
"What the fuck are you all looking at?" he barked, his voice cracking like a whip. "On your feet. Now. Anyone who stays down gets my baton to the face."
Which, of course, meant our little group got moving too. Boa Hancock kept her sisters tucked behind her like a human shield, her small frame still somehow radiating defiance. I stuck close beside her, matching her pace.
None of us looked at the guard. Eye contact felt like asking for trouble, and the last thing I wanted was to find out how creative he could get with that baton.
As we walked, I finally got a sense of just how massive this ship really was. Row after row of cells, crammed with people—men, women, children. Easily hundreds of them. Maybe close to five hundred. And every single one bore the same look in their eyes: the dull, hollow glaze of someone who knew escape wasn't an option.
When we stepped outside, the light hit me like a slap. It wasn't even bright—thick clouds smothered the sky—but after so long in the dark, it was almost blinding.
Then I saw it.
A wall of red stretching across the horizon in both directions, so massive it made the ship feel like a toy. The stone rose higher and higher until it vanished into the clouds, its peak completely hidden from sight.
The Red Line.
And it was even more terrifying up close.
We are at the dock now—so vast it could swallow dozens of ships like ours without a hiccup. And yet, instead of unloading us to a bustling port, they herd us toward something looming at the far end, something that's less "gateway to the Holy Land" and more "industrial nightmare." It isn't a lift meant for people. No, it's a cargo lift, big enough to carry a small ship whole. Its walls are streaked with black mold and rust that flakes at a touch, as if no one cares whether the thing gives out while dangling thousands of meters above the sea.
We're shoved inside like livestock—crammed in shoulder to shoulder, like the morning trains in Japan, only worse. The kind of packed where breathing feels like a luxury and sitting is an impossible dream. Then—a loud, mechanical thud. The doors slam shut behind us, and just like that, I'm in another box. A different kind of cage. Not wood or chains this time, but cold, rusted metal and the suffocating press of bodies.
I glance up. The ceiling stretches unnaturally high, so tall I almost can't see it. And I start wondering—was this thing made to carry ships? It would explain the scale.
If I'm not mistaken, there are only two known ways to cross the Red Line:
One is down—through Fishman Island. With a ship and a bubble coating, it's dangerous but affordable.The other is up—to Mary Geoise. And that route? It's not for the poor.
Now I know why. This lift wasn't made to carry people like me. It was made to move cargo—and right now, we're the cargo.
I glance to my side, where Boa Hancock and her sisters stand. Hancock wears a look that tries to pass for brave—chin up, shoulders stiff, eyes forward. To anyone else, she might seem composed, but from this close, I can see the cracks. Her lips tremble ever so slightly, and her jaw's locked tight like she's holding back a scream. It's the kind of courage amateurs wear like borrowed armor—impressive, yes, but see-through if you know what to look for.
Her sisters fare far worse; both are pale and twitchy, their movements jerky, as if Michael Jackson himself had possessed them. Every time their arms so much as graze the person beside them, they flinch like they've touched fire.
Something in my chest knots. Maybe it's the closeness of the air, the rattling of the chains, or the thought of what's waiting at the top, but I can't just stand there. I extend my hand toward them—not to pull them away from Hancock, but to bridge the distance, to give them one more anchor in this suffocating box. One of their hands is already locked onto Hancock's, trembling and clammy, but after a brief glance between themselves, they take mine as well.
Their grip is hesitant at first, cold fingers curling loosely around mine. But as the lift groans and lurches upward, that grip tightens, as if holding me might keep the walls from closing in. The longer we stand like that, the less frantic their breathing becomes. The twitchiness dulls, their shoulders ease, and the ghastly pallor in their faces softens just enough that they don't look like they're about to collapse.
We say nothing for the rest of the ascent—no words could compete with the grinding of gears and the deep, hollow echoes inside the lift—but the silent connection between our hands speaks for itself. In a place built to strip people of all comfort, maybe that small link was enough to give them a moment's relief.
Finally—after what felt like hours—the lift groaned to a stop. The doors creaked open, and for the first time in what felt like forever, we were met with a bright, open sky. Only a few clouds drifted lazily overhead, the sunlight sharp and unfiltered.
And there it was in the distance—the so-called "Land of the Gods," Mary Geoise.
Majestic buildings sprawled across the horizon, grand and imposing, their pristine white facades practically screaming divinity and superiority. It wasn't subtle—they wanted the whole world to know who was on top. And at the very center of it all stood the Pangaea Castle.
Even from here, it dominated the skyline—taller than the Eiffel Tower back on Earth, but its sheer bulk was on another level entirely. The castle grounds stretched far and wide, swallowing whole neighborhoods in their shadow. The name stuck in my head immediately—not because I cared, but because "Pangaea" sounded exactly like something an edgy teenager or a chuunibyo would scribble on their notebook. Still… the thing was massive, I had to give them that.
But we weren't going anywhere near it.
Instead, the guards drove us in the opposite direction, prodding and barking orders like they were herding livestock.
Our destination?
A massive complex, yes—but nowhere near as glamorous. Filth clung to its stone walls, cracks spiderwebbed through its surface, and the stench hit us before we even got close. It sat far from the city's splendor, tucked away like an unwanted secret—its isolation almost as suffocating as its walls.
And something told me we wouldn't be leaving it anytime soon.
As the guards started shoving us into new cells—smaller this time, more cramped, with fewer people per room—I quickly realized I wouldn't be sharing one with Boa Hancock and her sisters.
No, her cell was just next to mine. Close enough that we might still talk through the bars if we kept our voices down, maybe even see each other if the guards ever let us out. But for now, that was the only comfort I got.
After locking us all in, the guards turned and left without another word. No threats, no grunts, no orders—just silence and the sound of heavy boots fading down the corridor.
I turned to take stock of my new prison.
And that's when I noticed—I wasn't alone.
Sitting in the corner was a man. Or more precisely… an old man.
Gray hair hung in uneven strands over a face carved deep with wrinkles. His back leaned against the cold wall like it had fused there. But it wasn't his age that struck me most.
It was the scar.
A single, vicious line that ran from his left cheek, cut clean across his neck, and disappeared beneath the tattered remains of his shirt—down, I assumed, through his chest and beyond. A scar like that didn't just tell a story.
It screamed one.
"What?" he said, catching my stare. "Never seen a handsome guy before?"
He smirked—an expression so out of place here it almost felt wrong, like laughing at a funeral.
"Sorry, kid, but I don't swing that way," he added, voice thick with mockery. "Try Mandle in the next cell. Not as good-looking as me, but he's a bit more… open-minded."
Ah…
His words left me blinking for a second.
Here I was, trying to process this nightmare of a place, and this old lunatic thought we were in some tavern flirting over cheap ale. I glanced around the cell—cracked stone walls, a floor barely big enough for two people to lie down without breathing each other's sweat, and the stench of mildew and rust thick in the air.
Yeah… what the actual hell is wrong with this guy?
"Um—" I started, still trying to find a sane entry point into the conversation.
But of course, he cut me off without missing a beat.
"What? Cat got your tongue, kid? I'm Darius Capta—oops, former captain of the Iron Gale Pirates. Ever heard of me?" He puffed his chest out like he expected a drumroll.
Then something flickered above his head.
[Darius – Age: 64 | Male]
Strength: 78
Speed: 92
Stamina: 75
Devil Fruit: N/A
Armament Haki: 85
Observation Haki: 77
Conqueror's Haki: N/A
Intelligence: 82
Charisma: 70
Leadership: 84
Combat Skill: 88 ]
That clinched it.
These numbers—they aren't power levels. They're potential.
Because if he has those stats, and Hancock—a literal twelve-year-old—is outscoring him in nearly every category…
Yeah. No way those numbers reflect where they are now.
She can barely throw a punch, but her Strength stat is in the 90s.
So either this world runs on RPG logic, or I've lost my mind. Honestly? Could be both.
Still—Darius?
Nope.
Not a single bell rung.
Still, I didn't show it. Because crazy or not, this guy had something I desperately needed—information. And in a place like this, knowing even a little might be the difference between surviving and becoming a permanent stain on these cell walls.
"Ah yeah, I think I've heard of you before," I lied smoothly.
Why? Because the way he carried himself screamed "retired pirate who tells anyone who'll listen about his 'glorious' past"—the kind of guy who'd sail halfway across the world just to deliver an exaggerated, rum-soaked version of his own life story.
"You heard? Ahahahahah!" he barked, breaking into a fit of manic laughter. He actually rolled around on the filthy cell floor like some lunatic seeing daylight for the first time in years. "You little shit—you're lying through your teeth! I don't even have a bounty on my head! Hahaha!"
Oh, shit. He was messing with me.
My face burned hot with embarrassment.
What the hell do you mean you're a pirate with no bounty? That's like saying you're a chef who's never touched a knife.
"Fuck you, old man. You're no pirate," I shot back. Not my best retort, but it was all I had to claw back some dignity. Not that it worked—especially against this crazy bastard—but at least it felt like something.
"Oh, it's true," he said, his smirk curling wider. "First time out to sea, me and my two crewmates crossed paths with Admiral Sengoku himself. Guess what? Didn't even get sent to Impel Down. Nope."
His expression darkened for the briefest moment. "We got sold in Sabaody instead."
I caught it—just a flicker of regret in his eyes—before it was buried under that same infuriating grin.
"My two crewmates? Dead. Twenty years ago. Died in the damn colosseum."
He threw his head back and laughed again, the sound bouncing off the cell walls.
"And me? I'm still here. Winner of the race, kid. Hahaha!"
…Is that what I'll turn into if I stay here long enough?
A scarred lunatic who laughs at being alive like it's some kind of sick trophy? Yeah, no thanks.
"—haha… ahhh, but enough with the jokes, kid. What's your name?"
Just like that, his voice dropped, his grin softened. The sudden switch was unsettling.
"I'm Vincent Vector," I said slowly. "And for the record, you're the one who was joking."
"Doesn't matter who's joking," Darius smirked. "You still made me laugh."
Shameless. Absolutely shameless.
He laughs at his own joke, then dumps the blame on me. Unbelievable.
Then the old bastard leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes narrowing like he was studying me for weaknesses.
"So, Vincent… you fight?"
I frowned. "Fight?"
"Yeah. Y'know—punch, kick, stab, rip someone's throat out if you have to."
He grinned, showing teeth that had seen better days. "Because if you don't, you will."
I gave him a look. "You sound awfully sure about that."
"That's because I've been here longer than you've been alive, kid." His voice hardened, the humor slipping for the first time. "I've fought in the Celestial Dragons' colosseum more times than I can count. Killed men. Been nearly killed more times than that. And you know why I'm still here?"
"…Luck?"
He chuckled darkly. "Because I'm good. And because I know the rules of survival in that pit."
Something about the way he said pit made my stomach tighten.
"Colosseum?" I asked.
"Oh yeah. You think they keep us around just to polish floors and look pretty? Nah. Sometimes they like to watch us tear each other apart for their amusement. Big, fancy arena—slaves fight for their lives while those bastards drink wine and bet money."
I felt my throat go dry. "And… you think I'm gonna be thrown in there?"
Darius' grin widened, and it wasn't comforting.
"Kid, they don't feed you for free. You'll be in the pit sooner or later. The only question is—do you wanna walk in blind and die fast, or do you wanna learn from someone who's survived it for two decades?"
"…And you'd just… teach me?"
He shrugged. "Why not? I could use a partner. Might even make the fights more interesting."
Then his tone shifted, lower, sharper. "Of course, training with me comes with a price. You listen. You follow orders. You don't run your mouth to the wrong people. And when we're in the pit, you watch my back."
I stared at him, unsure if this was an opportunity or the worst decision I'd ever make.
Darius didn't seem to care—he just leaned back, closing his eyes like the deal was already made.
"Welcome to the colosseum, kid."