It was night now—I could tell from the faint slivers of darkness bleeding through the cracks in the ceiling. The air was colder, heavier, and the damp stone at my back sucked the warmth out of me.
Behind this wall, just a few feet away, were the Boa sisters.
"Hancock? Mari? Sandy? You there?" I called softly, my voice aimed at the cracks in the wall.
"Yes… we're here," came Hancock's quiet reply. Her voice was small, almost swallowed by the dark, but still steady.
"I think they're going to send me to the colosseum," I said, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. "What about you? You heard anything yet?"
There was a pause—long enough for me to hear the faint rustle of fabric before Hancock's voice came back, sharper, almost panicked.
"What? The colosseum? Are you going to be okay?"
She didn't shout—none of us dared to draw attention—but the edge in her tone carried her worry loud enough for me to hear it clear.
"There's a crazy old man in my cell," I muttered, glancing toward the corner where Darius was pretending to sleep, "He says he's going to teach me the basics. How about you? You're not… ending up in that place, right?"
"No," Hancock said after a moment, and I could hear her shift, probably pulling her sisters closer. "The women in the next cell told me young girls usually become house slaves—maids, but lower than the lowest caste."
Her voice dipped when she said it, like even the title left a bad taste.
Somehow, knowing they weren't headed to the colosseum was a relief… but not much of one. Sure, it lifted a heavy weight off my shoulders—but the truth was, a life in chains is still a life in chains.
"That's… good," I said, exhaling slowly. The tension in my chest loosened, if only slightly. "I'm glad you and your sisters won't be thrown into that place."
For a moment, the silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I didn't like it. Hancock didn't either—I could hear it in her quiet breathing.
"Hey," I said, forcing a lighter tone into my voice, "want to hear another princess story?"
There was a pause, then her voice came back, softer than before.
"Yes… please."
I smiled faintly, leaning my head back against the cold wall. "Alright then… let's start with Cinderella."
And just like that, the rest of the night slipped away in quiet whispers, the dark cell fading from my mind as I spun tales of glass slippers, magical godmothers, and midnight escapes—stories that, for a little while, made the chains feel just a bit lighter.
--
The next morning, Darius woke me up by kicking the bottom of my foot.
"On your feet, kid."
I groaned. "What for?"
"Training. Unless you wanna die your first match and save me the trouble of learning your name."
Before I could even process the insult, he tossed something at me. I caught it by reflex—an old, splintered stick about the length of my arm.
"…A stick?"
"Your first weapon. Get used to it."
"I thought the colosseum was all swords and spears and—"
"And fists, chains, broken glass, and whatever else you can get your hands on," Darius cut in. "Most fights aren't fair, kid. You'll fight unarmed half the time, or with something so busted it's more likely to kill you than your opponent. Rule number one: you learn to fight with anything."
Before I could argue, he swung his own stick—faster than I expected—aiming straight for my face. I yelped, barely managing to block. My arms shook from the impact.
"What the hell—"
"No one's gonna wait for you to be ready," he barked, swinging again. "Move your feet. Keep your guard up. And for god's sake, stop flinching!"
He came at me over and over, no mercy, no slowing down. The stick smacked my arms, my ribs, my shoulder. My knuckles split open after I swung too hard and missed.
"You think this hurts?" he snarled. "Wait until you're fighting a man twice your size with a spiked club, and he's trying to cave your skull in while the crowd's cheering for him to do it!"
By the time he stopped, I was panting, my arms numb, sweat dripping into my eyes.
"You're soft," Darius said flatly. "But that's fine. We'll fix that."
I wanted to snap back, but all I could do was try to catch my breath.
"Rule number two," he went on, pacing in the cramped cell. "No flashy moves. No honor. You fight to win. You bite, you gouge eyes, you break knees—anything. The Celestial Dragons don't care how you win, just that you bleed for their entertainment."
My stomach turned. "And if you lose?"
Darius gave me a thin smile, one without an ounce of humor.
"Then you die. And if you're lucky, they kill you quick."
"Rule number three—move."
He swung again. I barely ducked in time, my shoulder brushing the wall.
"Good," he said, and this time his voice almost sounded approving. "Never stay still unless you want to get turned into a corpse."
The next hour was a blur of shoves, punches, feints, and the occasional kick-to-the-gut-when-I-let-my-guard-down.
He didn't explain techniques so much as force them into me—grabbing my wrist mid-swing to twist me off balance, sweeping my leg when I got too cocky.
For the first time since I woke up in this world, I realized just how short my future might be if I didn't learn fast enough.
We'd been training like savages all morning—Darius barking orders, me nearly passing out twice—when the cell door clanged open.
By the time the guards showed up, my arms felt like wet noodles, and even my breathing was heavier than usual.
The moment I saw the guards holding chains and batons, I knew this wasn't about training.
One of them barked something in a language I didn't understand, but the message was clear when they started dragging people out—new slaves. Me. The Boa sisters. A few others from nearby cells.
I leaned toward Darius, wiping sweat from my forehead.
"Old man, you got any idea what this is?"
He gave a slow sigh, rubbing the scar on his neck.
"Every cow needs to be branded, kid."
It hit me like a punch to the gut.
The branding.
That damned mark I'd seen before in One Piece—the hoof of the so-called Celestial Dragons. A permanent reminder that you're property. From what I remembered, the only way to remove it was to cut the flesh clean off. And judging by the stories, most didn't survive the attempt.
I swallowed hard. "…Great."
Darius finally turned to me, grinning like this was the first day of school. "Now go, unless you want a few cracked bones before your big debut in the colosseum." His tone was wrong—way too cheerful. Like a father in some stage play, sending his son off to 'bravely face the world.' Except here, the 'world' involved hot irons and screaming.
I didn't reply. I just stepped out, because the guards weren't the patient type.
And somewhere behind me, Darius called out in that same mock-cheerful voice, "Stand tall, kid. Makes the smoke look prettier."
I didn't say anything back.
What was there to say?
--
The hallway reeked of smoke before we even reached the room.
That bitter, metallic tang clung to the air, the kind of smell that made your stomach tighten because you knew it wasn't from cooking meat.
We were herded into a wide chamber, the walls lined with chains and hooks. At the center, a massive iron brazier glowed an angry orange, the heat radiating so thick it made my skin prickle. And in it—resting like the devil's own signature pen—was a branding iron shaped like the hoof of a dragon.
A guard pulled it out just far enough for us to see the glow, then slid it back into the coals. A little performance, I guess. The "look at what's coming" part of the show.
One of the younger kids ahead of me whimpered. The guard nearest him smacked him hard enough to drop him to his knees.
"Quiet," the man barked. "Makes it worse when they squirm."
The first victim was shoved forward. The iron hissed against flesh, and the scream that followed was sharp, raw—like something tearing inside your own chest. The smell hit a second later. Burned skin. My grip on reality wavered for a second, and I had to force myself not to take a step back.
Boa Hancock was just ahead of me in line, her face locked in that same fake-calm expression she always wore for her sisters. Marigold and Sandersonia clung to her like their lives depended on it. I had no idea how she was keeping it together. I could see the tiny tremor in her hands, but she stood her ground.
When her turn came, she didn't scream. Not once. Just clenched her jaw until her teeth had to be on the verge of cracking. Her sisters weren't so lucky—they cried, but didn't fight. The smell of their burned flesh mixed with the smoke until the air felt unbreathable.
Then it was me.
The guard didn't even bother to warn me. He just grabbed my shoulder and slammed me forward onto a wooden block. My face pressed against the splintered surface, cheek scraping wood as someone yanked the back of my shirt down.
The hiss came first. Then the burn.
It was worse than anything I'd imagined—like fire and knives all at once, digging straight through skin into muscle. My hands clenched so hard my nails bit into my palms. My vision went white at the edges, and I might have made a sound—I don't even know. The pain was too big to process.
When they pulled the iron away, it felt like my back was still on fire. I staggered, the guard shoving me toward the exit.
There it was. My new identity, seared into my flesh. Property.
I bit down the urge to laugh, because it was either that or break.
Welcome to One Piece, Vincent Vector. You're officially part of the livestock.
By the time they shoved me back into the cell, my legs felt like wet rope. Every step made the burn flare up like someone was raking hot coals over my back all over again.
Darius looked up from where he sat cross‑legged in the corner, one eyebrow raised.
"Ah. Got the stamp, huh?"
I didn't answer—just leaned against the wall and slid down until I was sitting, biting back the groan that wanted out.
He gave a low whistle. "Hurts like hell, doesn't it?"
I shot him a look that probably said no shit, but he only smirked. Without another word, he reached for the collar of his ragged shirt and pulled it aside, revealing the same dragon‑claw brand, burned deep into the skin just above his heart.
"Twenty‑three years ago," he said, tapping it with one scarred finger. "They burned it into me right here. Thought I was gonna pass out, but…" His grin widened, sharp and almost proud. "Didn't give them the satisfaction."
I swallowed hard. The sight of it—old and twisted with time—made my stomach churn worse than the smell of the brazier.
"Here's the thing, kid," he went on, leaning forward so the dim light caught the jagged texture of the scar. "That mark? It never stops hurting. Oh, the fire fades, but every time you look at it, you remember. And that's the point. They want you to remember you're theirs."
A wave of heat rolled through my back again, the pain spiking so hard it made my vision swim. I clenched my jaw, refusing to double over in front of him, but my body betrayed me—a slow sway, a little too much weight to one side.
Darius noticed. Of course he did.
"Easy, kid," he said, voice dropping lower, almost serious. "Breathe through it. Don't let it knock you down your first day branded."
I nodded, even though my breath was already coming shallow. The edges of the cell blurred for a moment, and I had to force myself to focus on the floorboards to keep from tipping over.
This was just the beginning.
The pain kept building, layer over layer, until my skin felt like it was still sizzling. I tried to focus on Darius' words, but they blurred into a dull drone behind the sound of my own heartbeat hammering in my ears.
"Breathe through it," he'd said.
Right. Breathe. Easy advice when your spine feels like it's on fire and every inhale makes it worse.
My vision tunneled. The dim, filthy cell closed in around me, and the floor seemed to tilt, even though I knew it wasn't moving. I caught Darius' smirk just before the black swallowed everything.
When I came to, my back throbbed like someone had driven a molten spear straight through it and left it there for fun. The air smelled of sweat and damp stone—not the rank wooden stink of the ship. My hands were tied with coarse rope, my knees pressed into gritty sand.
I blinked, and the rest of it came into focus. We weren't in the cell anymore. We were in a circular pit—walls of high stone, a crude wooden gate on one side. And all around us, the shadows of other men—some armed with clubs, some bare‑fisted—circling, stretching, cracking knuckles.
Darius stood in front of me, arms crossed, looking like a man about to teach a dog how to bite.
"Welcome back to the land of the living, kid," he said. "You passed out like a champ after they branded you. Figured I'd give you the courtesy of waking up in your new workplace."
"…Workplace?" I rasped.
He grinned, wide and wolfish. "The colosseum. Where you either learn to fight fast, or you decorate the sand with your insides. Lucky for you…" He jabbed a thumb at his own chest. "…you've got me."
A heavy thud made me flinch. One of the other fighters slammed his club into the dirt, grinning like he was already imagining the sound of bones cracking.
Darius stepped closer, crouching until we were eye‑level. "Rule one—never fall. You hit the ground, you're already dead. Rule two—if you can't win, make 'em bleed enough to remember you. Rule three—" His grin vanished. "—don't die. Not until you've got a way out."
He yanked me to my feet, and my back screamed in protest.
"Now," he said, shoving me toward the center of the pit, "let's see if you can stay upright for more than ten seconds."
The gate slammed shut behind me with a sound that echoed like a final verdict. The sand felt loose under my bare feet—too loose. Every step sank just enough to throw off my balance.
Across from me, they'd picked my opponent—a man twice my size, shirtless, his muscles carved like stone and his eyes sharp with hunger. Not hunger for food. Hunger for violence. He cracked his knuckles, his grin showing more teeth than comfort.
"Lucky day, kid," Darius called from behind the fence. "They're giving you a warm-up opponent."
A warm-up? This guy looked like he could rip me in half just to see what color my insides were.
The man charged.
Instinct screamed at me to run, but the wall was too high, the gate locked, and Darius' earlier words burned in my skull: Never fall. Never die.
I ducked sideways just in time to feel the rush of air as his fist grazed my ear. I stumbled, barely keeping my feet, and he turned with a speed that made my stomach drop.
"Don't just dodge, hit him!" Darius barked. "Make him respect you!"
Respect me? This guy probably didn't even respect gravity.
He came at me again, swinging low this time. My body moved before my brain caught up, my foot kicking up a spray of sand into his face. He snarled, staggering back just enough for me to swing my fist into his ribs.
It was like punching a tree. My knuckles screamed, but he felt it—just enough for his grin to falter.
"Better!" Darius yelled. "Now keep moving before he—"
The man's hand clamped around my neck like an iron vice. My vision sparked as my toes left the ground. He was choking me one-handed, lifting me like I weighed nothing. My feet kicked uselessly in the air.
Through the haze, I saw Darius move closer to the bars, his voice sharp.
"Bite him, kid!"
What?
"BITE HIM!"
So I did. I sank my teeth into the side of his arm with everything I had. He roared, dropping me, and I hit the sand hard, sucking in precious air.
I didn't have time to celebrate—he was already coming for me again.
"Now the knee!" Darius shouted.
I lunged forward, slamming my knee into the side of his leg. He buckled, swearing, and for the first time, I saw something other than confidence in his eyes.
"Finish it!" Darius yelled.
I didn't think—I just swung again, this time at his jaw. The impact rattled my entire arm, but he dropped to one knee, clutching his face.
The gate opened with a loud creak, and two guards stepped in, dragging him out without a word.
I stood there, shaking, my chest heaving, my hands trembling from pain and adrenaline.
Darius grinned at me from the other side. "Not bad, kid. You didn't die. That's a start."
The moment the guards shoved me back into the holding pen, my legs gave out. I dropped to the floor, my breath still ragged, the copper taste of blood heavy on my tongue. My hands ached, my ribs throbbed, and my throat burned from where he'd choked me.
Darius squatted in front of me, his scar pulling tight as he smirked. "Well… you're not dead. Which, in my book, is a win."
I tried to laugh, but it came out as more of a wheeze. "Pretty sure my spine disagrees."
"Your spine'll live." He reached into some ragged cloth he used as a pouch and pulled out what looked like a strip of dirty fabric. "Hold still."
"What are you—"
Before I could finish, he grabbed my hand and started wrapping it. I flinched. "Ow! Damn it!"
"Quit whining," he said flatly, cinching the wrap tight. "You think that's pain? That was kindergarten. If you froze for even a second longer out there, that man would've broken you in half and used your ribs as toothpicks."
"…Comforting."
"It's the truth." He moved to my other hand, inspecting the swollen knuckles. "And you'd better get used to it, because the colosseum doesn't care if you're tired, hurt, or scared. They ring the bell, you fight. Or you die. Simple math."
He tied off the last bandage and sat back on his heels, looking me over like he was appraising a piece of meat. "You've got some spark, kid. I've seen hundreds of slaves walk into that arena. Most freeze. Most die. You didn't. You fought."
"I bit him," I muttered.
He grinned. "Exactly. There's no such thing as fighting dirty here. You use what you have—teeth, nails, sand in the eyes—doesn't matter. The crowd won't remember how you won. Only that you walked out."
I leaned back against the wall, still feeling the tremors in my arms. "And if I don't?"
Darius shrugged. "Then you don't have to worry about tomorrow."
There was no warmth in his tone, but somehow, it wasn't cruelty either. Just… fact. Cold, unshakable fact.
He stood, stretching his back with a groan. "Rest up, kid. You'll need it. First fights are never the hardest—they're just the ones that teach you how much harder it can get."
And with that, he turned away, leaving me to the quiet, my bruises, and the terrifying knowledge that this was only the beginning.