"Why the long face?" Darius asked when I stepped out of the arena. He didn't even bother to look at me properly—just stood there, digging at his ear with his pinky like I was background noise.
"It's just weird… facing someone who wanted to lose." I muttered, my eyes drifting back to the arena where new fighters were already squaring up.
"It happens," he said flatly. "Plenty of reasons to lose in this place. Like your bet with that Celestial Dragon, remember? You're planning to throw a fight too, aren't you?"
He had a point, but it still sat wrong with me. "Yeah, but… I kinda knew that guy." Darius said.
That hooked me deeper than I wanted to admit. Who was that man, and why had he thrown the fight so willingly? Maybe Darius had the answer.
"Tell me, old man."
"What's the magic word?"
"Fuck you."
Darius simply turned on his heel, strolling away without so much as a glance. My teeth clenched. The curiosity burned a hole through me until finally, against my own pride, the word slipped out.
"…Please?"
He stopped. Slowly, his head rotated back toward me, deadpan eyes boring into mine.
"Not enough."
Grinding my teeth harder, I forced out, "Pretty please."
That's when his face split into a grin I'll never forget—maniacal, stretched ear to ear, like he'd just broken me in exactly the way he wanted.
"Good boy."
"Fuck you," I shot back instantly, my voice raw with frustration and middle finger in the mix.
He only chuckled, low and satisfied, like the bastard had just won something I didn't even know I was gambling.
"Hahaha… but jokes aside," Darius finally said, wiping the grin off his face, though the smugness still lingered. "I don't know his name, but I know that face. Familiar, I'd say. First showed up about a year ago."
He leaned back against the wall, voice lowering into something almost reminiscent, and I found myself listening.
"I remember him because, back then, he fought like a complete amateur. Clumsy, reckless, no real technique. Should've been slaughtered half a dozen times… but he always won. Barely, but he won. Almost died every time too."
My eyes narrowed. That sounded uncomfortably familiar.
"Kinda reminded me of you, actually," Darius added with a crooked smirk. "And when he first came in, his skin was clean too. No scars, not a mark. And now… look at him." He tilted his chin toward the arena where the man had stood minutes before, his voice almost casual. "Covered in them. It's been a long time since I've seen him actually."
"Know what happened to him?" I asked curiously, because when Darius said that man reminded him of me… that wasn't nothing. That was something. Enough to make me want to dig deeper.
"Dunno. Don't care. Not my problem." Darius shrugged, then jammed a thick finger up his nose like he was mining for treasure.
My stomach twisted when he pulled out a slimy clump and—without hesitation—popped it into his mouth.
"Man, stop that." I gagged. And that meant something, considering how much filth I'd already learned to stomach in this hellhole. If it could still make me gag, that spoke volumes.
"Want some?" he asked, fishing out another blob and holding it out to me with a straight face, like he was offering a piece of bread instead of his own snot.
"Heck no." My logical side finally snapped, and I slapped his hand. The disgusting little lump went flying off into the dirt, where it belonged.
"Wasteful brat," Darius muttered with mock disappointment, rubbing his fingers together like I'd cost him gold instead of mucus.
After my little exchange with Darius, the guard finally called his name to step into the arena.
He strolled in like it was just another lazy walk to the market, no hurry, no tension. The crowd didn't roar for him like they did the younger blood-crazed fighters, but there was a certain murmur—a recognition.
Darius's fights almost always ended the same way. He wasn't the strongest, not the fastest, not the flashiest. But he was infuriatingly clever. Every strike he threw carried a hidden intent, every dodge baited a trap. The kind of fighter who'd let you think you were winning, right up until you realized he'd been dismantling you piece by piece.
Most opponents who had never faced him before always walked in with confidence… and walked out grinding their teeth in frustration. And even the ones who had fought him, the ones who thought they knew his tricks, usually discovered too late that he still had one more hidden up his sleeve.
Of course, Darius sometimes lost. Everyone in the pit does eventually. But the thing about Darius—he never died. With that razor wit and an old fox's instincts, he knew exactly when to push, when to play dirty, and when to force the commentator's hand to stop the fight. He survived where others didn't, and in this place, survival was the sharpest weapon of all.
And this time is the same, too. Darius was dragging the fight out. He slipped just past the heavy swings of his opponent, letting the man's fists cut air. The brute was stronger—much stronger—but raw power is useless if it never connects.
Maybe Darius was waiting for a gap in his enemy's defense, or maybe he just wanted to tire him out. Hard to tell with that old fox. But one thing I knew: no matter how long it went, no matter how bloody or dull the fight became, Darius always stood at the end of the day. Win or lose, he survived. That was his art.
My eyes drifted away from the fight. His matches often turned into long, boring games of cat-and-mouse, and he had this habit of recycling the same tricks just to mock his opponent. The crowd groaned, half-amused, half-annoyed, and I decided I'd seen enough.
I scanned the corridor. That's when I noticed her.
A bronze-skinned woman, black hair flowing down her shoulders but shifting into a strange purple hue halfway down, was slumped against the wall like a discarded doll. She didn't move, didn't even twitch. From where I stood, I couldn't tell if she was breathing—or if she had already crossed over, claimed by this rotten place. Judging by the severity of the wounds on her body, the latter seemed more likely.
Curiosity—or stupidity—pushed me forward. I crouched in front of her, leaning close to check her breath. That's when her eyes shot open.
Two sharp, purple eyes locked on mine, snapping open like something straight out of a horror film.
"Whoa!?" I shouted, staggering backward from my crouching position so quickly that I ended up standing with my hands raised above my head like a stupid character in a comic book. My heart was pounding in my chest.
But even with my exaggerated reaction, she didn't move. She just stared at me with those strange, otherworldly eyes, her chest barely rising.
"What do you want?" Her voice was rough, cracked, like it had been dragged across broken glass. Understandable, considering the state she was in.
Even so, those eyes of hers still burned. Her bones might be crushed, her face pale, her body beaten to the brink—but behind all that bruise and scar, something still glowed. A stubborn ember refusing to die out.
"Just checking if you're dead," I admitted, because lying here felt pointless. The truth was, I had been watching her since her last fight. Something about the way she fought—desperate, furious, alive—had caught my attention.
"And if I am?" she asked. No denial. No fear. She spoke like someone who had already made peace with the grave, who had accepted death's hand hovering over her shoulder.
"Then I'd better start digging… and prepare some flowers," I said dryly, forcing a grin I didn't quite feel.
Her lips move upward in a smile, as if she is amused by my words.
"You're so sweet, mijo." Her voice was still raspy, cracked from exhaustion and pain, but for some reason there was a faint softness tucked inside it—like warmth buried under rubble.
I had no idea why, but the way she said it made heat rush up my face. My chest tightened, my ears burned.
"It's nothing, really," I muttered quickly, suddenly awkward. The way her tone wrapped around me made me feel like a kid standing in front of a grown-up, fumbling with words. Or worse—like some Shota character caught in the presence of an Onee-san who was far too beautiful for comfort.
And she was beautiful, no question about it. Even beaten, bruised, and half-broken, her presence was undeniable. The bronze hue of her skin glowed faintly in the dim torchlight, her long hair shifting from black into that strange purple midway, and her eyes… those purple eyes that had been fierce and burning in the arena now softened, just slightly, as they looked at me.
It only made me blush harder. My rational mind screamed this was not the time or place for that kind of reaction. But reason didn't matter—not when she looked at me like that.
And of course, she noticed. My blush only seemed to make her smile grow wider, softer… gentler. Which was absolutely not good for my heart.
"What's your name, mijo?" she asked, voice dripping with that mature, sultry tone that could melt steel. "I'd like to know the person kind enough to bury a broken woman like me… and even give me flowers."
Shit. That voice again. That dangerous, velvet-wrapped voice.
"I—I'm Vincent Vector," I stammered, throwing up what little defense I had left against her charm. "And just to be clear, the whole bury-you thing was just a joke."
"Mm?" Her purple eyes glimmered as her lips curved into something halfway between a smile and a smirk. "Are you not going to bury me if I die?"
The way she said it—light, teasing—made me realize instantly that no matter what I said, she would twist it into a weapon against me. It was a trap, plain and simple. A honey trap in the form of words.
"I… I will, but it's just—I—" Damn it. My tongue tripped over itself. Every answer I thought of only made me sink deeper into her snare.
"Aww… thank you, mijo."
Fuck. That "aww." That sound was lethal. The kind of tone that bypassed every defense, sliced past reason, and went straight to the heart. Her fight in the arena earlier? Nothing compared to this. This was true lethality—hidden not in her fists, but in her voice.
"What's your name, though? You never told me," I asked—louder than I intended—like raising my voice could somehow cover up the tremble underneath.
"Zyanya Mondragón," she said, her tone like silk dragging across raw nerves. Then, with a faint smirk, she added, "But you can call me Honey. I don't mind."
Bro. I mind. If I start calling you Honey, I won't last a week. Hell, I might not even last a day.
[Zyanya Mondragón – Age: 28 | Female]
Strength: S+
Speed: SS+
Stamina: A+
Devil Fruit: N/A
Armament Haki: A
Observation Haki: S
Conqueror's Haki: N/A
Intelligence: S
Charisma: S+
Leadership: A+
Combat Skill: SS
…What the hell?
Her stats were absurd. Not just good—absurd. Higher than Draven's, even brushing shoulders with Boa Hancock, the future Warlord of the Sea, one of the most feared women ever to sail.
And yet… I've never heard of her name. Not once.
Maybe that's the tragedy. Maybe Zyanya never made it out of this hellhole. Maybe she never got the chance to sharpen her already monstrous talents into the legend she could've been.
A walking storm hidden in chains… destined to vanish before the world ever knew her name.
"I'll call you… uh, Sis Zyanya then." My voice cracked just a little, but at least it was safe.
Her lips curved into a smile, eyes still holding that dangerous ember. "That works too."
I really wanted to run. This woman was dangerous—more dangerous than Darius. Darius's jokes could be disgusting, sure, and sometimes they just annoyed the hell out of me… but this? This teasing was on another level. She crushed my defenses with nothing but her sultry voice. What kind of power is that?
"Oh? What's going on here?"
That voice—Darius's voice—hit me like a lifeline. A voice I never thought I'd miss.
Without a second thought, I bolted behind him like a terrified child. He looked confused, but Zyanya's smile only grew wider, sharper, like she was enjoying every bit of my suffering.
"Nothing, Abuelo," she purred. "We're just chatting a little, right, mijo?"
Darius froze. And then—oh no—I saw it. The spark of realization in his eyes. The ideas forming in his old wrinkled head about me and her… one by one, each idea worse than the last.
"Wait here, kid."
And just like that, my last defense walked away, vanishing into one of the rooms. I panicked, left alone with her lethal grin… but thank every god in existence, he came back before she could open her mouth again.
"...What's that?" I frowned. He was carrying bandages and other tools.
"Some help for this lady." He shoved the entire pile into my arms. "Take this."
"You can help her, right?" I asked, desperate. If I had to patch her up, my sanity wouldn't last five minutes.
"I'm tired after the fight, you know."
I glanced at him. Not a single scratch, not a single bruise. The man looked like he'd just taken a nap, and you're not the only one who has some fight today too.
I hated this old man.