Hello again, folks.
Though… maybe "again" isn't the right word. Chances are, you're reading this just a few minutes after the last chapter, thanks to me dumping them all at once. But for me? It's been a week. A long, grueling, soul-draining week.
Luckily—or unluckily, depending on your perspective—it turns out most people only come to the colosseum once a week. A spectacle, not a daily routine. That applied to me too. So what do I do in between matches?
Labor.
Good old-fashioned, back-breaking labor.
Sometimes I'm pushing a cart full of God-knows-what across town for whatever noble snaps their fingers. Other times, I'm tossed into construction sites like some disposable extra, helping build… something. A palace? A monument? Doesn't matter. Apparently, the Celestial Dragons want to expand Mary Geoise. Broader, taller, grander—because of course they do.
And in between the sweat and the bruises, there's training. Or maybe "training" is too generous.
Beatings.
That's more accurate.
Courtesy of one Darius, ex-pirate captain, current slave, and full-time psycho.
He's an anomaly. Talks like a drunk uncle at a wedding one minute, and the next?
The man turns into a goddamn Viking.
Something changes in his eyes when training begins. The jokes dry up, the sarcasm fades, and what's left is a hardened soldier with murder in his bones. No mercy. No shortcuts. No sugarcoating.
Just pain.
And progress.
What I've learned about Darius, through half-mumbled stories between beatings and the rare moments he lets his guard down, is this:
Before he turned pirate, before the chains, before the scars—he was a soldier.
A real one.
Not the kind who guards a noble's gate or poses in uniform for medals.
No.
He was a frontline veteran in a war-torn island somewhere in the Grand Line. A place where the only constant was gunpowder and blood.
He fought for his homeland.
Believed in it, once.
But like most things in this world, the rot came from the top. Turns out the war he gave his youth to wasn't about justice or freedom—it was about corruption. Greed. Politics wrapped in patriotism.
Eventually, he'd had enough.
So he walked away from the flag and picked up a Jolly Roger instead. A bad decision, in hindsight—he admits it with that bitter, knowing smirk—but he made his choice. A pirate's life was a rebellion, a middle finger to everything that broke him.
And now he's here. Just like me.
But here's the thing about Darius: he's good. Really good.
Decades of experience have molded him into something dangerous. Every move he makes is deliberate. Efficient. Sharp. But—and this is the catch—he doesn't know how to teach.
Because what he knows isn't from books or drills. It's carved into his bones through fire and loss. It's instinct born from survival. And trying to pass that on to someone like me? It's like trying to teach a drowning man how to swim while he's still underwater.
So instead, he throws me in the deep end and waits to see if I float.
Spoiler: I don't.
Not yet, anyway.
Oh yeah—almost forgot.
Every night, before sleep takes me, I tell stories to the Boa sisters. Any kind. Fairy tales, legends, made-up nonsense about heroes and monsters and far-off lands that don't reek of blood and chains. It's become our little ritual.
We never see each other when it happens.
Not really.
Just disembodied voices in the dark, drifting through cracks in stone and iron. I can't even remember the last time I looked them in the eye for more than a second. Turns out my work assignments start earlier than theirs and end long after. Different duties, different routes. Different pieces of hell.
Most mornings, I only catch a glimpse—just a flash of long hair or a sleepy yawn—as the guards drag me off for another day of forced labor. Some days, not even that.
But at night, they listen.
Even when I'm too tired to think straight or my voice is hoarse from screaming while training or lifting stone across the city, I tell the stories.
And they're always there.
Quiet. Waiting.
Funny thing is, Darius never says a word about it.
He just sits in the corner, arms crossed, grinning like some lunatic bard who's watching the next generation take up the mantle. Sometimes I swear I hear him chuckle—just a low, dry sound, like dust shifting on old bones—but he never interrupts.
Not once.
Maybe in his own way… he's listening too.
And then came the day. My next match in the colosseum. Another survival bout, another blood-soaked arena with nothing but the sound of screams and steel.
As I sat cross-legged in the corner of my cell, trying to look all wise and zen while "meditating," Darius came stomping over like a grumpy war god with a limp.
"Kid. Come here."
I cracked one eye open, not even pretending to hide my annoyance. "What is it, old man? You're interrupting my very important pre-battle meditation."
Yeah, I know—I don't even fully get meditation. My first fight in this hellhole started with me waking up from being knocked out cold. No breathing exercises, no mental prep, just straight-up panic. But hey, anime said meditation was key, so here I am, acting like it matters.
Darius snorted. "Tch. Meditation. What the hell's that gonna do? I've never seen a man survive a blade to the gut just 'cause he spent five minutes thinking about it."
He gestured again, impatience in every flick of his wrist. "Most fights won't give you the luxury to 'center yourself.' You want peace and clarity? Try not dying first. Now get over here."
I sighed, got up, and walked toward him—still smirking. Despite all his bark and brutal training, Darius had always been the eccentric war vet in my head. Seeing him try to deliver a pep talk? Kinda like watching a lion try to knit.
"Listen here, you little bastard."
Darius had that look again—the kind that made my gut tighten on instinct. No grin, no sarcasm. Just steel.
So I sat up straighter. Yeah, I was listening.
"Remember your last fight," he said, voice low but sharp. "Remember how close you were to dying. Remember the blood in your mouth, the way your legs stopped listening to your brain. Remember it."
He jabbed a thick finger toward my chest. "That fear? That panic? That's your weapon. Use it."
I frowned, but he kept going.
"You think fear's your enemy? Nah. Sometimes, a scared rabbit is more dangerous than a relaxed predator. A panicked swing might land the blow that a calm one hesitates to throw. Your nerves—they'll make you move before you even realize it. And sometimes, that's what keeps you alive."
He tapped two fingers against my chest. "You feel that heart beating?"
I nodded.
"That's the drum, kid. The rhythm that says you're still in the game. So don't waste it. Play it smart. Play it hard. And never forget…"
He leaned in close. Eyes hard. Voice firm.
"All it takes is one good punch to change everything."
…
Great.
So I'm a rabbit now.
Fantastic.
But somehow—somehow—that made me feel better. A little.
But reality always finds a way to laugh at you.
Just when you think you're ready—
Boom. Life rolls in with the punchline.
Now I'm back in the arena.
Same bloodstained sand. Same deafening crowd. Same sick taste of iron in my mouth.
And standing across from me?
A guy three times my size, wielding a naginata like it's a twig and rocking a full-on white beard.
Like, not a nickname. Not a title.
An actual white beard.
No mustache, though. So, you know—not that Whitebeard.
This guy looked more like Whitebeard's awkward cousin who failed pirate cosplay night.
Honestly, it was like someone took a lumberjack, dipped him in bleach, gave him a murder stick, and dropped him in front of me with a "have fun dying" stamp.
Either way, I'm not laughing.
He stomps once, cracking the ground beneath his heel. The crowd roars. Somewhere, someone's already placing bets on how many seconds until I die.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my rags and mutter under my breath,
"Well… at least he didn't bring a mustache. That would've been intimidating."
And for fuck's sake—one good punch?
That will never work on this guy.
Seriously, what the hell were they thinking? Pairing an inexperienced kid—me—against this monster? I'm out here half-starved, unarmed, and looking like a stiff breeze could kill me, and they throw me into the ring with Captain Budget Whitebeard and his goddamn naginata.
And the crowd?
Oh, the crowd's having a blast.
"Beat him up!"
"Turn him into a bloody paste!"
"Fuck that kid!"
Charming. Real classy, guys.
The last guy who screamed that got arrested.
…
Not for the statement, unfortunately. He just picked the wrong guy to scream it next to and started a brawl.
And then there's Darius.
I spot him in the corner of my eye. Smirking. Smirking, like the world's most annoying cryptic grandpa. Like this is all some hilarious little test.
You and your fucking pep talk, old man.
But before I can come up with a plan—hell, before I can even finish the thought—
The naginata's already halfway to cleaving me in half.
My body moves before my brain catches up.
I roll. Sloppily. Desperately.
The blade slams into the dirt beside me with a heavy thunk.
Okay.
…Maybe not entirely useless advice.
But still trash-tier, Darius. Absolute bottom of the barrel.
Now focus. What do I have?
Ragged shirt. Ragged pants. Half-torn slippers that'd lose a fight against a stiff breeze.
So, basically: nothing.
He, on the other hand, has a weapon. A massive naginata.
Which could be mine… if I play this right.
Alright, plan. Think fast.
Sand.
Classic. Cheap. Easy. Works once. But once is all I need.
Now for the target.
Eyes? Nah—too high. Guy's literally a walking skyscraper. I'd need wings.
Neck? Same issue.
Balls?
Now we're talking.
Before he could brace, I bolted straight toward him—fists full of sand.
The sudden charge caught him off guard; he hesitated.
Big mistake.
That half-second pause was all I needed.
He swung—wild, wide, panicked.
Sloppy. Predictable.
I ducked low and jumped at the last second, hurling sand right into his eyes.
"AAAGGHH!"
He shrieked, stumbling, blinded. Couldn't even wipe his face—both hands still gripping the naginata like an idiot.
Perfect.
I didn't wait.
Dropped to the ground, charged forward, and aimed for the only reachable vital point.
Grabbed his crown jewels with both hands—and twisted like I was wringing out a wet towel.
"AAAGGHHH MOTHERFUCKER!!"
He howled. Let go of the naginata immediately, flailing a fist in desperation.
And yeah, one of those blind punches landed—right in my gut.
Oof.
Felt like getting hit by a horse.
Air left my lungs. Vision blurred. But I held on.
Mission accomplished.
The naginata's on the ground, and guess what? It's not his anymore.
It's a free weapon now.
Public property.
And lucky me, I just called dibs.
Only problem?
It's massive. Way too big for a kid like me to swing properly—at least not with any grace. But who said I need grace? I'm not trying to be a samurai. I just need the blade to connect with his upper body.
That's it. Doesn't matter how. Doesn't matter if it's ugly.
He's still screaming, hands cupping his poor jewels like I'd just kicked his family legacy.
He's bent over now, hulking mass twitching, eyes clenched, still half-blind.
Perfect.
I drag the naginata back—both hands, blade scraping against the dirt. No fancy stance, no technique.
Just weight.
Momentum.
And a pissed-off survival instinct.
I charge forward, screaming like a maniac, using my whole body to shove the blade upward. Not swing—just drive. Like I'm spearing a wild boar.
It connects. Hard.
Right into his ribs. He lets out a sound I don't even know how to describe. Like a dying cow gargling gravel.
And just like that…
The monster stumbles.
One knee hits the ground.
Then the rest of him follows.
Thud.
Silence.
Then cheers. Roars. Screams.
But all I hear is the blood rushing in my ears—and Darius' voice in my head.
"Remember all it takes is one good punch."
Or, you know. A well-timed nut grab and a borrowed spear.
Those were my final thoughts before darkness dragged me under like a jealous lover.
I blinked.
Stone ceiling. Cracked. Ugly. Familiar.
Great. I'm back.
Back in my cozy little hellhole.
"You awake, kid?"
Darius' gravelly voice cut through the haze like sandpaper on skin. I glanced to the corner. There he was, as majestic as ever—fishing for buried treasure in his nose like it owed him money.
"Good job in the arena, by the way."
"Yeah," I muttered.
No energy left to say more. My whole body felt like someone had used me as a mop, then forgot to wring me out. Couldn't even sit straight. I was horizontal by necessity, not choice.
Then his tone shifted.
"Listen—"
Oh no. I knew that tone. That 'let me tell you something important' tone. And I was not in the mood for life lessons.
"Don't wanna. Gimme rest, old man," I groaned, rolling away from him like a sulky burrito.
But then he added, real casual-like,
"What I wanna say is, your girlfriend was worried about you. So you better let her know you're still breathing."
Girlfriend?
My brain rebooted.
I shot up like a corpse rising from the dead, wobbling to the wall that separated my cell from the Boa sisters'.
"You could've led with that, fossil!" I barked, practically crawling to the stone divider.
Behind me, Darius just chuckled, smirk spreading across his wrinkled face like he just won a bet.
"You gotta learn to listen to your elders, kid."
I ignored him.
I pressed my ear to the wall.
"…Hey. You there?"
Silence. Then a faint, familiar voice.
"…Vincent?"
"Yeah. Still alive. Somehow."
A pause. Then a breath—relieved, shaky.
"…Good."
And in that quiet, with nothing but a dirty wall between us and Darius humming some god-awful tune in the corner, I finally let my body relax.
Just for a minute.
I'd earned that much.