The fifteen hundred years of the Sea Circle Calendar are a vast span for a lone traveler, yet for the collective memory of humanity, they are but a fleeting moment. Even so, this history remains a tapestry of tatters and gaps.
Ancient civilizations have vanished; scientific progress has stalled and backslid. The path of human advancement is a jagged trail of ruins and thorns.
Yet, most tragically, while wisdom fades and technology rots, the art of the kill remains eternal.
Strangulation.
It is one of the oldest methods of taking a life. Its precise origin is lost to the ages, but its efficacy remains unchallenged on the battlefield and the gallows alike. It is a tireless thief of breath. "Strangler Ghost" Falugo, a pirate with a bounty of 114 million Berries, was a man who had mastered this morbid craft. From the South Blue to the Grand Line, he had paved his way with a mountain of corpses to earn his fearsome moniker.
Though his arrival in the "Purgatory" of the New World had gifted him his first taste of defeat, he had not spiraled into oblivion. He had endured. Even if it meant living as another man's hound, he chose to survive.
Unfortunately—
Squelch!
A streak of pale yellow light flashed by.
Three fresh lacerations, deep enough to grate against the bone, opened on Falugo's right shoulder. Feeling the white-hot sting of the new wounds, his face contorted into a mask of pure agony and frustration.
As he had feared, this battle was proving to be a nightmare. It wasn't just the legendary durability of a Zoan user that frustrated him; it was the speed. For five minutes, every time he reached out to grapple, he came away with nothing but a few tufts of leopard fur. He wasn't fighting a man; he was fighting the wind.
Dick, in his massive cheetah form, was toying with him. He moved like an erratic gale, circling Falugo with predatory grace. Every time that wind brushed past him, it left behind a long, weeping red mark. As his wounds multiplied, it wasn't just blood spilling onto the stones; his very strength was draining away.
Feigning weakness, exposing deliberate openings—nothing worked.
"Damn you! Who the hell are you?" Falugo roared in fury. "A man with your strength shouldn't be a nobody on these seas!"
The New World was indeed a place where "crouching tigers and hidden dragons" were common, but true powerhouses usually had a name. Aside from isolated nations like Wano, any warrior of this caliber was immediately cataloged by the major powers. Strength required the sharpening stone of other strong men to grow; once you made a move, your secrets usually became public record.
Yet, search as he might through his memory, he couldn't place a face to the name of this cheetah-man.
"Who am I?"
Dick's voice drifted through the air, as elusive as his flickering shadow.
"Since you're so desperate to know, I'll indulge you. I am Dick. I have consumed the Ancient Zoan: Cat-Cat Fruit, Model: Giant Cheetah. Remember that name well. For one day, it shall echo throughout the heavens alongside the name of Prince Elus."
With those arrogant words, the final blow descended.
Dick shifted from his full beast form into his hybrid state. The leopard-man, now standing upright, drove his claws deep into Falugo's shoulder. The wound was horrific, an explosion of torn muscle and shattered bone.
Blood erupted like a geyser.
"I won't die... I refuse to die... my master said... he said I was the man who would make the Salier Strangulation Style famous across the world... I... I cannot die here..." Falugo collapsed onto the stones. With half his face pressed against the rough gravel, he struggled to keep his eyes open, staring fixedly at the hybrid warrior standing before him.
He wheezed, murmuring to himself, his eyes clouding over with a mixture of despair and unyielding resentment.
"You've lost," Dick said, looking down at him. His blonde ponytail fell over his shoulder, the fine strands dancing in the sea breeze.
"Am I... am I dying?"
Reality finally settled over Falugo like a shroud. He had fallen. Again.
It was a total, absolute defeat. From the start of the engagement, he hadn't found a single opening to apply his craft. He had been a target—nothing more. The sheer volume of blood he had lost was now forcing a heavy, cold lethargy into his limbs.
Even his iron will could not resist the darkness of blood loss.
"Do you want to die?"
Hearing the weak, fluttering pulse of Falugo's voice, Dick blinked and asked the question quite plainly.
The light in Falugo's dimming eyes flickered back to life. He squeezed the last drop of strength from his body to tilt his head up. "Can I... still live?"
"I can give you a chance. But whether you actually survive... that will depend entirely on your own luck."
"...Thank you."
With that final word, Falugo's strength evaporated. The shock of his injuries claimed his consciousness.
"Yikes. I hope he doesn't just kick the bucket right here," Dick muttered, scratching his head as he looked at the blood-soaked pirate.
The fight had been exhilarating, but the cleanup was proving to be a chore. He'd promised the man a "chance," and he couldn't very well let him die now, or he'd be a man of his word no longer. He let out a sigh, knelt down, and pulled out a travel-sized medical kit to begin stanching the bleeding.
"Dick, what in the world are you doing?"
The voice came from behind. It was Eschbach.
"Stopping the bleeding! Can't you see?"
Dick's first aid was evidently as refined as a sledgehammer. Compared to his combat skills, his medical technique was a disaster in the making.
"Are you sure you aren't trying to finish him off?"
Eschbach looked at Dick's clumsy attempts and couldn't bear the sight of "murder disguised as medicine" a second longer. He stepped forward and shoved Dick aside with his foot. "Get out of the way. If you keep poking him like that, I guarantee he'll be dead in ten minutes... you're squandering perfectly good medicine."
Eschbach was a man who proved that brute size didn't preclude a delicate touch. Despite his tree-trunk-sized fingers, he was agile enough to thread a needle if required.
Dick didn't take offense to being kicked; he'd been pummeled by Eschbach plenty of times during their sparring sessions. Prince Elus always said that as long as they had a breath left in them, they should fight as if their lives depended on it. Compared to the "training" he usually endured, a light kick was practically a caress.
"By the way, Eschbach, what happened to that 'Black Beast' fellow?" Dick asked, leaning back to watch his friend work.
"In the pit over there. Go look for yourself if you're bored," Eschbach replied without looking up, his focus entirely on the emergency surgery.