The sun hung low over the horizon, half-swallowed by the sea. Shadows stretched long across the captain's quarters aboard the Marine ship.
"Come in," Finn said, sitting up from the worn sofa.
The door opened. A seaman stepped inside, cradling something wrapped in cloth across both arms like a sacred relic.
"Report, Captain Finn. Mission accomplished. Sōzai is secured."
Finn gestured him forward. The seaman closed the distance in three precise steps and raised the bundle, presenting the blade at eye level.
Sōzai. ("Sin of Creation")
One of the Great Grade swords.
The world held countless blades, but only a few deserved the title of "famous." They were ranked in a strict hierarchy: the Supreme Grade, twelve blades of legendary status. The Great Grade, twenty-one swords of exceptional craft. The Skillful Grade, fifty blades of notable quality. And below those, an uncounted number of swords simply called "Grade" blades.
The Supreme Grade swords were the pinnacle. Yoru, the black blade wielded by Dracule Mihawk, the world's greatest swordsman and future Warlord of the Sea. Murakumogiri, the bisento carried by Edward Newgate, Whitebeard, the strongest man alive. And the First Generation Kitetsu, a cursed blade of legend. These were weapons that could cut through legends themselves.
The Great Grade blades ranked just below them. Wado Ichimonji and Shusui, both destined to rest in the hands of Roronoa Zoro, belonged to this tier.
The Skillful Grade blades needed no elaboration. Competent weapons, nothing more.
But the sword now before Finn, Sōzai, stood among the twenty-one Great Grade swords. A genuine treasure.
He reached out and accepted the blade with both hands. The scabbard was dark lacquered wood, almost black, with faint geometric patterns barely visible along its length. The guard resembled a tiger's open jaws, brass teeth gleaming. Black cord wrapped the handle in a traditional pattern, interwoven with strips of deep crimson.
At first glance, it appeared understated. Unremarkable, even.
Finn gripped the scabbard in his left hand and the handle in his right. Slowly, he drew the blade free. Metal whispered against wood.
Two finger-widths emerged, and he felt it. A pressure against his skin, cold and sharp. The steel caught the dying sunlight and threw it back as a pale blue gleam. The aura radiating from the partially drawn blade felt like standing too close to a winter river, all cutting chill and hidden danger.
A smile tugged at his lips.
He pulled harder. The blade sang free of its sheath in one smooth motion.
The steel was dark gold, almost midnight in color. Hamon patterns rippled along its length in layered waves, the distinctive signature of master craftsmanship. The weight felt perfect in his grip. The balance was flawless. The length suited his reach exactly.
Looking at the sheathed sword, one might imagine a quiet mountain stream, peaceful and serene.
Holding the bare blade was different. It felt like gripping a tiger by its throat. One wrong move, one moment of carelessness, and it would bite.
As a swordsman... well, could he call himself that? He wasn't particularly skilled. His technique was functional at best, basic at worst.
But holding this blade, Finn knew it was genuine. This was absolutely Sōzai, one of the twenty-one Great Grade swords. The difference between this and the standard-issue blade he'd carried before was like comparing a warhorse to a mule. He could feel the quality in his bones.
"What a magnificent sword," Finn breathed, eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. "Truly worthy of its rank among the world's twenty-one Great Grade blades. With Sōzai in hand, I'm far more confident about the officer training assessment."
"Captain, with your strength, you'll definitely pass the assessment and earn your transfer to Marineford," the major said quickly, the compliment practiced and smooth.
Finn allowed himself a moment of satisfaction.
He wasn't native to this world.
His soul had crossed an impossible distance and awakened in this body. Born in the North Blue as a commoner, his full name was Rodriguez Finn. No family legacy, no inherited wealth, no connections worth mentioning.
He was nineteen years old now. Seven years ago, at the age of twelve, alone and with no other prospects, he'd gritted his teeth and joined the Marines. He'd started at the absolute bottom of the 113th Branch hierarchy, one of the North Blue stations under Marine Headquarters command.
Those first years were brutal. Sweeping floors, swabbing decks, hauling cargo, scrubbing latrines. Every menial task that needed doing on a Marine ship fell to the lowest ranked recruits. He'd done it all.
But over seven years, he'd climbed. Step by bloody step, he'd risen through the ranks. Now he stood as second-in-command of the 113th Branch, deputy to the base commander. His rank was Captain, though with the qualifier that mattered: Branch Captain.
It wasn't the same as a Headquarters Captain. Not even close. But it was still an achievement few could claim at nineteen.
Those seven years had cost him. He'd suffered, bled, and taken risks that should have killed him. Some luck had been involved, certainly. But mostly it had been stubbornness, calculation, and refusing to die when death seemed easier.
Finn knew exactly how cruel this world was. He'd learned that lesson in blood and pain.
That's why he obsessed over strength. Power was the only currency that mattered in a world where monsters walked the seas and individuals could level cities.
But knowledge wasn't enough. He had no prestigious bloodline, no famous mentor to guide his training, no one to teach him the secrets that separated the strong from the merely competent. He'd had to claw for every scrap of improvement.
For seven years, he'd dreamed of finding a Devil Fruit. Those legendary treasures of the sea granted incredible powers, but they were exactly that: legendary. Rare beyond measure. He'd worked in the Marines from age twelve to nineteen and had never once seen a real Devil Fruit with his own eyes.
He'd thought joining the Marines would give him access to the Six Powers, those superhuman techniques that elite Marines wielded. Close combat skills that let users move faster than the eye could follow, kick with the force of cannons, and harden their bodies like steel.
But that hope had died quickly.
The Six Powers had a threshold. The Branch Marines stationed in the Four Blues, the calmer seas outside the Grand Line, weren't qualified to learn them. Only Marines stationed in Grand Line branches had that privilege. And Marine Headquarters at Marineford? They definitely had access.
So despite years of service, Finn had never learned a single one of the Six Powers.
As for Haki, the mysterious spiritual force that the truly powerful wielded? He'd never even been in the same room as someone who could use it.
If pressed to describe his current skills, Finn would say he'd learned basic swordsmanship from the branch's kendo instructor. Fundamental techniques, nothing fancy. Enough that he could hold a blade without embarrassing himself.
So yes, he could barely call himself a swordsman.
But as a transmigrator, Finn wasn't entirely without advantages. If he had to name his cheat abilities, he'd found two.
The first was something he'd come to call "Iron Will," though he didn't know if it was a talent, a gift from whatever force had thrown him into this world, or something else entirely. Over the years, he'd mapped its effects carefully.
He had dramatically increased resistance to pain, injury effects, and fatigue. Not immunity, but resistance. Especially in combat, no matter how severe his wounds became, he barely felt the pain. He didn't lose focus or fighting spirit because his body was screaming at him to stop.
It didn't mean he couldn't be injured. He absolutely could. Sever his head, and he'd die. Bleed out, and he'd die. The wounds were real, the damage was real.
But the mental component, the psychological impact of pain? That was muted almost to nothing.
If an enemy stabbed him, he wouldn't flinch or cry out. He wouldn't make the reflexive movements that pain forced on people. He could counterattack instantly, without hesitation.
However, in Finn's assessment, the ability's true value wasn't in combat. It was in training.
Building strength was exhausting, boring work. Endless repetition. Pushing your body past its limits again and again until something inside you broke and reformed stronger. Most people couldn't maintain that discipline. The pain and fatigue wore them down.
But Iron Will meant Finn never relaxed his training. Not once in seven years. His fundamentals were rock-solid because he'd practiced the same basic movements thousands of times without his will ever wavering. And his resistance to fatigue meant he could push harder, longer, faster than anyone with his level of talent had any right to.
It had carried him far.
Beyond Iron Will, there was something else. His consciousness, his soul, whatever defined him as "him," contained something strange. A black core, deep inside. He still didn't understand what it was. Some kind of spiritual construct? A byproduct of his transmigration?
Whatever it was, it had an effect. Every time Finn broke through a limit, every time his body grew stronger or faster or more durable, he felt the black core pulse. And when it did, his physical abilities increased far beyond what the training alone should have granted. The improvement was exponential compared to normal people.
So his situation was contradictory. Generally speaking, his strength was unremarkable. Even in the North Blue, one of the weaker seas, he couldn't claim to stand out among serious fighters.
But he wasn't weak, either. At minimum, he was strong enough to hold the rank of Branch Captain without it being a joke. That position demanded real power.
Forget swordsmanship for a moment. Just in terms of raw physical might, Finn could shatter the five-meter-wide, three-meter-tall solid stone blocks in the branch training yard with a single punch. No technique, no tricks. Just overwhelming force.
That was the foundation of his authority. That was why, at only nineteen years old, he commanded respect from men twice his age.
"Thank you," Finn said, returning his focus to the present. He sheathed Sōzai with care. "Any problems during the operation?"
"None, sir," the major replied immediately.
It was a simple operation, really. They'd stormed the docks, killed some criminals operating outside the law, and confiscated evidence of their crimes. Perfectly reasonable Marine work. What could possibly be controversial about that?
"Excellent. Return to base."
The 113th Branch ship pulled away from Srilan's port as the last light faded from the sky. By the time they reached open water, stars had begun to emerge overhead.
Several days later, on a different island in the North Blue, within the headquarters of the Donquixote Family.
The young Doflamingo wasn't yet an adult. Just a teenager, though calling him a "kid" felt wrong somehow. He carried himself with an intensity that made grown men uncomfortable.
His temper was volcanic. The hatred he held for the world practically radiated from him like heat from a forge. At this age, he hadn't yet learned to mask it. The destructive urges that would one day make him one of the most dangerous pirates alive were raw and undisguised.
Stories circulated among the family. Doflamingo had once tripped on a raised cobblestone while walking through a town. In response, he'd ordered the entire street demolished. Buildings reduced to rubble. The road torn up and replaced.
That was the kind of rage simmering inside him at all times.
Right now, his jaw was tight with barely controlled anger.
"The Marines took the sword?" Diamante asked, surprise evident in his tone. He was one of Doflamingo's top officers, a tall man with face paint and an elaborate costume.
Trebol nodded, mucus hanging from his upper lip as always. "That's right. A Captain from the 113th Branch. Should we kill him, Young Master?"
Doflamingo stared at the wall for a long moment, fingers drumming against the armrest of his chair. Then he shook his head.
"No. Leave it for now."
Trebol blinked. "But Young Master..."
"I said leave it." Doflamingo's voice was flat, but the edge in it made Trebol step back. "Several important figures from Marine Headquarters have arrived in the North Blue recently. This isn't the time to start a war with the Marines over a sword."
Despite his youth, despite his terrible temper, Doflamingo's intelligence showed through. He was smart enough to pick his battles. A famous blade was valuable, yes. But directly challenging Marine authority right now? While high-ranking officers were in the area? That was suicide.
Besides, he had more pressing concerns.
"Has Rosinante been found yet?" Doflamingo asked, his voice dropping to something dangerous.
His younger brother. Rosinante had run away not long ago. Just vanished without warning, without explanation.
Doflamingo and his entire organization had been searching for weeks. They'd turned over every stone in the North Blue, called in every favor, leaned on every contact.
Nothing. The boy had disappeared like smoke in wind.
And that, far more than some stolen sword, made Doflamingo's blood boil.