The massive galleon cut through the sparkling blue of the open sea, its towering masts crowned with billowing cream-colored sails. The ship was a fortress of timber and iron, designed not just for speed but for endurance, carrying a precious cargo of spices, silks, and rare minerals bound for the great Empire of Arabasta—one of the oldest and proudest kingdoms in the world.
Its ornate figurehead, a lion with a crown, seemed to roar defiantly at the horizon, a symbol of prosperity... and a tempting prize for the pirates that increasingly prowled these waters.
High above the main deck, perched near the rigging, a young boy wiped sweat from his brow. Barefoot and sunburnt, with a shock of unruly dark hair and a lean, wiry build, he was the ship's apprentice—a porter, a deckhand, and a sailor-in-training all rolled into one. His simple linen clothes were patched in several places, a testament to the harsh life of the sea.
"The sea seems pretty peaceful today..." he murmured, shading his eyes as he gazed up at the flawless expanse of blue sky.
Lately, though, peace was a rare thing. These waters—once bustling with secure trade between government-aligned nations—had grown treacherous. Even the mighty Arabasta, protected by treaties and the name of the World Government itself, was no longer immune. Pirate attacks were rising, ships disappearing with no trace but burnt wreckage and drifting cargo. The Navy, once a common sight along the trade routes, now seemed a distant memory.
"You little bastard—are you trying to jinx us?!" barked a gruff voice.
The boy flinched and turned to see a middle-aged sailor, thick-set with a tangled beard and a face creased like old leather, glaring at him. The man spat to the side and cast a wary eye toward the heavens, muttering superstitions under his breath.
"Don't you know better than to tempt the sea spirits?!" he added, crossing himself with fingers calloused by decades of hauling sails and scrubbing decks.
Nearby, a sailor whose skin was as weathered as the ship's boards and whose eyes gleamed with the calm of hard-earned wisdom, chuckled deeply. His name was Old Jorin, and few aboard had seen more storms than he.
"If the boy truly had the power to summon misfortune with mere words," Jorin teased, leaning on a coil of rope, "then we ought to treasure him rather than curse him. A prophet aboard, to forewarn us of our doom, eh?"
A ripple of laughter spread among the more seasoned sailors. Not every man aboard was ruled by fear.
"Yeah, laugh it up," grumbled the superstitious sailor, folding his arms. "But are you really going to sit there and pretend these waters don't trouble you? You think it's just bad luck that merchant ships are burning? That cargo is vanishing into the depths?!" He stabbed a thick finger toward the distant horizon. "We used to spot a Navy ship every day—every damn day. Now? Maybe one patrol a week, if that. Where are the Marines, huh? What's the Navy doing?!"
The mood darkened, the laughter fading into an uneasy silence. Even the creak of the timbers and the snap of the sails seemed to hush. Far out on the horizon, the sea stretched endless and empty. No friendly sails. No rescue. Only the wide, wild blue... and whatever might be lurking just beyond sight.
The young apprentice swallowed hard, gripping the rope railing a little tighter. He had only spoken a simple truth—but at sea, even truth could be dangerous.
Just as the sailors were about to exchange more words, a low, rippling sound tore through the air like a shriek of doom.
"BOOM!"
The towering mainmast of the galleon shuddered violently before it splintered apart, a massive chain-shot ripping through the thick wood like a blade through paper. Fragments of timber rained down on the deck, and a second later, a fresh barrage of cannon fire screamed across the waves, each shot landing with devastating impact. Explosions ripped through the merchant vessel, and in an instant, the ordered deck dissolved into chaos and terror.
"You bastard—!" the gruff, superstitious sailor roared, but before he could take a step, another cannonball exploded directly beneath him. His body, along with several others nearby, was torn apart in a brutal spray of blood, smoke, and shattered planks.
Through the smoke, a monstrous shape emerged, riding the waves with a predator's grace.
The pirate ship was unlike anything the merchants had ever seen—a long, sleek vessel, blackened with tar and reinforced with jagged iron along the prow. Its sails, though tattered at the edges, were dyed a deep crimson with the blood of those they had slaughtered.
And from the highest mast flew a terrifying Jolly Roger, distinguished by rapiers in place of crossbones and a backdrop of light-purple wings—the mark of a new criminal syndicate that had been carving a bloody swath through these waters.
Ruthless and enigmatic, their prey was anyone and everyone—pirates, merchants, even Marine ships. No one truly knew who sat at the heart of the organization, only that once marked by them, survival was a fleeting hope.
"Pirates!" the deckhand from the crow's nest finally screamed, his voice a wail of despair.
But the warning came far too late.
With their mainmast shattered and sails useless, the merchant galleon was dead in the water, and the pirate ship was gaining rapidly, its cannons already swiveling for a second volley.
"Maybe... maybe we can pay them a ransom—! Maybe they'll let us go!" stammered a plump merchant, his face pale with terror as he stumbled toward the captain, who was fighting to maintain a shred of order.
"Ransom...?" the captain spat, seizing the merchant by the collar. His eyes were bloodshot with fury. "Have you gone insane?! Those bastards don't care about your berries! They don't bargain—they slaughter. Once we're dead, everything will belong to them."
He shoved the merchant aside, snatched up a battered rifle from the arms locker, and turned to rally what little resistance he could muster. His voice, rough and ragged, roared across the decks:
"Fire the signal flares! NOW!"
The ship's first mate, blood running from a gash on his forehead, stumbled toward the flare station. In a practiced motion, he cracked open a metal chest, yanked out a long iron rod, and jammed it into the flare cannon—an ancient device that launched burning signals high into the sky.
With a loud hiss and a crack, a brilliant red flare shot up into the heavens, trailing smoke and fire like a comet. Another followed—a bright green flare—and then a third.
Their desperate lights painted the broken ship below in hues of blood and emerald as they vanished into the vast, uncaring sky.
"Grab a weapon, you fools!" the captain bellowed, rallying the panicked crew. "Listen well! If you think surrender will spare you, think again. Fight back! If you're to die, die with a sword in hand—give yourselves a damn chance!"
Some sailors, faces grim with resolve, armed themselves with cutlasses, rifles, and harpoons. But they were few—barely a tenth of the crew, and most were battered traders and port workers, not seasoned fighters.
Still, they would fight. Because there was no other choice.
Miles away, aboard the polished deck of a Marine ship, a young officer stood at the rail, squinting through a brass spyglass.
"Captain! Distress signal to the northeast!" he called urgently. "Sir, it's a merchant vessel under siege!"
Lowering the glass, he turned to where the ship's Marine Captain lounged lazily in a sun chair, an ornate parasol shading him from the midday sun.
The Captain—a stout man with greying hair and a gut that strained against his uniform—barely cracked an eyelid open at the report.
"Ignore it," he said lazily, waving one hand. "We have our orders. Let them burn."
The young officer stiffened in disbelief.
"But, sir! They're civilians! It's our duty—our oath—to protect them!"
The Captain chuckled—a low, humorless sound. His voice dripped with scorn.
"These so-called allied countries have grown soft. Spoiled under the protection of the World Government. They think they can defy authority now, take us for granted because the 'New World' is stirring trouble. Let them suffer. Let them learn."
"But sir—!" the officer started, but the Captain's eyes snapped open—cold, pitiless.
"When you have your own command, you can make decisions as you please. Until then, this is my ship. Question me in front of the crew again, and I'll have you stripped of rank and thrown into the brig. Do you understand, Lieutenant?"
The young officer's fists clenched at his sides.
"Y-Yes, sir," he said through gritted teeth.
The Captain closed his eyes again, a smug smile playing on his lips.
"Good. I'd hate for another 'lesson' to be needed today."
As the Marine vessel sailed on, ignoring the desperate flares staining the distant sky, the merchant ship prepared to make its final stand against the merciless tide of Baroque Works. The sea, once so peaceful, was now the stage for slaughter.
The first wave of pirates hit the merchant ship like a storm of steel and blood. Grappling hooks latched onto the broken rails, thick ropes whipping through the air as the enemy swung aboard, roaring like beasts unleashed.
The galleon's defenders—those few souls who still had the will to fight—gathered around their captain, forming a desperate line at the center of the battered deck. Their faces were grim, weapons trembling in calloused hands, but their eyes burned with defiance.
The mercenary and bounty hunters turned pirates of Baroque Works came at them with brutal efficiency. They were no mere ragtag band of drunkards; they moved with military precision, flanking and striking like predators. Their weapons—wicked, jagged swords, rifles, even handheld cannons—flashed in the chaotic sunlight.
The merchant captain, rifle in hand, barked sharp, hoarse orders.
"Hold your ground! Aim for their legs! Make them bleed before they reach you!"
The first pirate lunged—a wiry man with twin daggers. The captain shot him clean through the chest before he hit the deck, but a second, then a third attacker swarmed over the railing right after. One of the sailors was dragged screaming into the mob, his cries cut short with a sickening gurgle.
Another cannonball slammed into the aft quarter, throwing men into the air like rag dolls. Sailors fought with knives, harpoons, bare fists—but they were overwhelmed. The pirates carved through them like a sickle through wheat.
The captain fought like a cornered wolf. He smashed a rifle butt into one pirate's skull, grabbed a fallen cutlass, and hacked down another. Blood sprayed across the deck, the stench of gunpowder and death thick in the air. He shot one more pirate through the eye at close range, then impaled another through the gut.
For a brief, impossible moment, it seemed he might carve a bloody path clear. Two pirates fell dead at his feet, a third gasped on the deck, his life pouring out in a crimson river.
But a chain bolo—thrown by a grinning pirate higher up on the rigging—wrapped around the captain's legs and wrenched him off his feet. He slammed hard into the blood-slicked deck.
Before he could rise, a boot crashed into his side, followed by another. Rough hands tore the weapons from his grasp, pinning him down.
Around him, the last few defenders of the merchant ship were butchered without mercy. The screams faded, replaced by the ugly chorus of pirate laughter.
Blood soaked the planks. Bodies littered the deck like broken dolls. The ship groaned in agony, wood splintering under the violence it had been forced to bear.
And then... silence.
Broken only by the rasping breaths of the defeated captain. They dragged him across the ruined deck, blood streaking in his wake, and threw him to his knees before a figure standing tall and arrogant near the helm.
The man in charge of the pirates was hard to miss. He was a large figure, broader than most men, with short-cropped hair and a scar running down one side of his face. A thick cigar jutted from his mouth, the smoke curling around his cruel smile. His coat, black and trimmed with gold, was thrown carelessly over his shoulders like a king surveying conquered peasants.
"So..." the pirate leader chuckled, grinding the cigar between his teeth, "the bastard managed to take down three of our men, huh?"
He crouched down to the battered captain's level, regarding him like a particularly interesting insect. Blood poured from the captain's severed left arm, hastily bound with a strip of torn cloth, but the man's remaining hand was still clenched into a defiant fist.
The pirate leader tilted his head, amused, then reached out and grabbed the captain's chin roughly, forcing him to look up.
"I don't like people who challenge me," he said softly, almost conversationally. "Especially not when their fate is already sealed."
The captain glared at him with unbroken fire. Then, with a grunt, he spat blood right into the leader's face. For a moment, time itself seemed to freeze. The pirates who held the captain flinched, expecting an immediate retaliation.
The leader's face twisted—not in rage, but a slow, venomous smile. He wiped the spittle away with the back of his hand, then casually spat out the cigar onto the deck, grinding it under his heel.
"So," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "You don't fear death, huh?"
He straightened up and looked around at his men, his voice rising.
"Boys! Looks like we've found ourselves a true tough guy here!"
The pirates jeered and whooped, banging weapons against shields and rails. The leader's smile grew cold and cruel.
"It's time we set an example," he said, turning back to the struggling captain. "Seems like our little reputation hasn't sunk deep enough into these seas yet. After today..." He leaned in close, his voice a whisper full of promised agony, "...they'll remember what it means to cross Baroque Works."
At his signal, the two pirates holding the captain sneered and set about stripping away the remnants of the man's tattered coat, tearing it from his shoulders. His back, covered in scars old and new, was exposed to the jeering crowd.
The pirates let out a guttural roar of approval. They knew what was coming. The captain struggled against the arms that held him, but he was spent. His one good arm thrashed weakly. His severed stump bled sluggishly, his strength draining by the second.
The pirate leader turned back to him, grinning. "No easy death for you, sailor. No mercy.
You're going to be our message."
The men yanked the captain upright, dragging him towards the shattered mainmast that still barely stood amidst the wreckage. One pirate, a brutal-looking man with a hooked knife and a mad glint in his eye, stepped forward.
He knelt beside the captain, blade in hand. The captain spat again, this time at the deck.
He wouldn't beg. Wouldn't plead. If death was to come, he'd meet it head-on. The pirate with the hooked knife chuckled.
"Don't worry, capi…tain," he said mockingly. "We'll make sure you last long enough."
Without further ceremony, he plunged the knife into the captain's side—not to kill, but to peel.
The blade worked under the skin, lifting and slicing, as the captain let out a scream that shook the very planks of the ship.
They worked methodically, peeling the flesh from the captain's back and arms, stripping him alive. Blood poured in sheets down his body, pooling at his feet, painting the mast in glistening red. The other pirates cheered and hooted, some clapping, others betting on how long the man would last.
The pirate leader watched with calm detachment, as if observing the changing of the tide. The captain never begged. He screamed, yes—any man would—but he never asked for mercy. His body convulsed, his breath rattled, but even through the agony, his glare stayed locked on the pirate leader.
After what felt like an eternity, the skinning was done. The pirate with the hooked knife wiped his bloody hands on the tattered remains of the captain's coat, grinning like a man possessed.
Two men grabbed the captain's broken form and, using thick iron hooks and coarse ropes, hauled him up the mast like a butcher's trophy. The flayed body swayed grotesquely in the salt breeze, a crimson flag of ruin against the burnt-out sails.
Above him, fluttering from the spar, the purple flag of Baroque Works unfurled fully—ominous, terrible, undeniable.
The pirate leader lit another cigar and turned to survey the wreckage. His men were already busy stripping the ship of anything of value: crates of silk, barrels of spices, bolts of cloth, gold hidden in false floors—all taken, all claimed.
But the real prize was the message they left behind. The ruined merchant galleon, bloodied and broken, was set adrift without a mast or helm. Its rudder was smashed, its anchor line cut. It would drift wherever the currents took it—sailing tomb to the horror that had been wrought upon it.
The pirates re-boarded their own sleek brigantine—faster, deadlier, its sails marked with the sigil of Baroque Works—and slipped away into the mist without a trace.
The merchant ship floated alone in the endless blue, a graveyard adrift. Above its shattered deck, the skinned captain swung, blood dripping into the sea. The Baroque Works flag above him caught the sun, casting a long, black shadow across the water.
****
Rosemary Island, Grand Line
The dimly lit tavern was filled with the usual chatter of merchants, sailors, and marines, the clink of glasses and the murmur of voices blending into a background of raucous laughter and casual conversation.
But tonight, a dark undercurrent ran through the air, as rumors of a new and terrifying criminal syndicate began to stir the once-carefree crowd. Whispers of barbaric violence spread like wildfire, and even the loudest drinkers hushed when they caught wind of the latest tales from the sea.
A burly merchant, his face flushed with anger and the effects of drink, slammed his tankard onto the table. The wood groaned under the force, and the conversation at his table fell silent.
"They say... they say his corpse was completely skinned alive, then hung from the mast like some damn trophy," he growled, voice thick with rage. "Damn it, I knew the captain—he was stubborn, sure, but a damn good man. He didn't deserve that. No one deserves that..."
His voice cracked with grief as he slammed his fist onto the table, making the others jump. His eyes burned, red from the alcohol and the fire of his emotions. "What the hell are the marines doing about this? Nothing!" he shouted, standing abruptly, his chair screeching across the floor.
"It's their goddamn duty to protect these waters—why the hell are we out here suffering because they can't do their jobs?"
A tense silence swept across the tavern. All eyes were on the man, some filled with sympathy, others with hesitation, but none brave enough to speak up. Then, the low murmur of the room grew louder as the comment lingered in the air like smoke. Those at nearby tables, particularly the group of marines sitting by the hearth, turned their heads. The tension was palpable, thick enough to cut with a knife.
One of the marines, a burly man with a scar across his neck, stood up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. His posture was tense, and the muscles in his arms bulged beneath his uniform, ready to challenge the merchant's outburst.
But before he could take a step, the voice of a younger man cut through the brewing storm.
"Sit down, Sergeant," the voice commanded. A young lieutenant, his uniform freshly pressed but already creased with the weight of recent frustrations, placed a hand on the older marine's arm, preventing him from moving. His face was a mixture of youthful determination and hardening disillusionment, a stark contrast to the more seasoned marines around him. "It's fine. The man's in pain..."
The lieutenant took a slow swig from a bottle of whiskey, his hand trembling slightly as the burn of the alcohol seemed to calm his inner turmoil. He exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand across his face, the weight of the world hanging on his shoulders. "And... he's not wrong. We haven't been doing enough. The seas are being torn apart, and all we do is sit here and drink our damn whiskey as if everything's fine."
The older sergeant grumbled but remained seated, his mouth tight with the bitterness of the truth. The other marines, having recognized the lieutenant's authority, looked down at their drinks or shifted uneasily in their seats. None of them spoke.
The young lieutenant's gaze drifted to the flickering candlelight, his mind a storm of uncertainty. The recent inaction of the marines had gnawed at him like a disease. He was just a few steps from the frontlines of this chaos, but it seemed like the orders from Marine HQ had never come.
No ships had been sent to patrol the seas surrounding the Arabasta Kingdom or its neighboring territories, places where pirates roamed freely and ruthless syndicates like Baroque Works grew stronger by the day. It was as if the brass didn't care—or worse, they had other priorities.
His thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the merchant, who now slumped back into his chair, hands shaking from both the anger and the drink. "You think I'm lying?" the merchant sneered, his voice filled with bitterness. "My friend was skinned alive, and you're telling me it's all fine because you can't do anything? You should be out there—doing something!"
Before the angry merchant could press further, the bartender, a stocky man with a broad build and quick reflexes, intervened, his eyes narrowing as he saw the situation teetering dangerously close to violence. He quickly gestured to a few regulars who were familiar with the routine and could handle unruly customers.
"Take him home," the bartender said firmly, nodding toward the merchant, who was still seething with rage. "We don't want trouble here." His voice was calm but authoritative, and the regulars moved quickly to comply, hauling the angry merchant off to the door with ease.
The marines at the table grumbled, their frustration palpable, but they let it slide. It wasn't worth escalating things further, especially when the civilians were just doing their best to keep the peace. They turned back to their table, muttering among themselves, the atmosphere still thick with the recent tension.
"Man, this part of the sea—used to be the gateway to the Grand Line, sure. Pirates and all kinds of trouble always rolled through here. But it's getting worse," one of the marines sighed, slumping in his chair.
"Pirates, bounty hunters, mercenaries... Everyone's converging here now. I don't know how much longer this place is going to stay standing before it turns into a lawless pit. Criminals will just take over these islands sooner or later."
The young lieutenant remained silent, his eyes distant, trying to focus on anything but the whirlwind of doubt brewing inside him. The world outside the tavern was a reflection of the chaos that seemed to be spreading, and his frustration was slowly giving way to helplessness. The ideals he'd once clung to—the Marine ideals—felt distant now, tarnished by the harsh reality of what was happening around him.
"Yeah, I heard that too," another marine added, his voice low. He leaned forward, glancing around before speaking in a hushed tone. "Earlier today, I picked up chatter on the Den Den Mushi... Something's going down at Twin Cape Islands, near Reverse Mountain. Big disturbance. Pirates? Bounty hunters? Maybe both."
Before anyone could reply, a strange shift in the atmosphere caught the attention of everyone in the room. The temperature in the tavern seemed to drop a few degrees, the air suddenly thick with tension. It wasn't just the murmur of the conversation quieting down, but something far more primal. Something dangerous.
The regulars in the tavern seemed unaware, still talking among themselves, but the marines at the table froze. Every one of them, without exception, felt it. A cold, predatory aura that seemed to flood the room.
The source of it was unmistakable: a cloaked figure sitting alone at the counter. Hood drawn low, his back turned to the rest of the tavern, the man's presence was overpowering. Though he hadn't moved, every marine in the room could feel the weight of his gaze, even from behind the cloak. It was as if the figure was some kind of specter, lurking just beyond the veil of normalcy, waiting for something to snap.
The lieutenant's eyes narrowed. Something wasn't right. He gestured for the others to be ready. The rest of the marines tensed, their chairs creaking as they subtly slid them away from the table, their hands hovering near their weapons. The figure hadn't even spoken, but it was as if death itself walked among them.
A senior marine, his hand twitching toward his sword, stood up and moved slowly, cautiously, toward the cloaked man. His voice, though low, was firm. "Remove your hood."
There was no response. The man didn't even flinch, his posture relaxed, as if he was unaware—or uninterested—in the growing tension around him. Instead, the cloaked figure picked up his fork, poking at the pie that had been left half-eaten in front of him, unfazed by the silent threat building in the air.
The senior marine's patience snapped. He reached forward, his hand gripping the cloaked figure's shoulder with a force that should have been enough to shake the man. But before he could pull the hood back, something happened.
"Boom...!"
The sound was like the crack of thunder. The senior marine's body was slammed violently into the counter, his head pinned down with such force that his body went limp in an instant. The rest of the marines froze in shock. Their hands hovered over their weapons, but none of them dared move. They were paralyzed, a chill running through their spines, as if the very air around them had thickened, suffocating them with the weight of the man's presence.
The figure hadn't moved. His back still remained turned, his hooded face hidden in shadow, but the grip on the marine didn't loosen for a second. It was as though the cloaked man was made of steel, and the marine beneath him was nothing but a ragdoll.
"I wouldn't try anything foolish," the man's voice cut through the thick tension, smooth and cold. The words weren't shouted or threatening—they were delivered in the kind of tone that made you believe every word. It was an unspoken promise: to defy him would mean death. And they all understood that.
The lieutenant's eyes widened as the weight of the moment sank in. "Earlier, you were talking about a disturbance at Twin Cape, right?" The question wasn't posed as curiosity—it was an assertion. The figure already knew the answer. "Is that true?"
The marines stood frozen, not daring to move, each one still processing the fact that they were in the presence of something far beyond their control.
The cloaked figure stood up and tossed the marine aside, sending him crashing to the floor with ease. He then turned to the bartender, placing a small stack of berries on the counter, his movements slow and deliberate, as if to reassure everyone that he wasn't a threat—yet.
"Here," he said, his voice colder than before, "for the meal and the damage to the counter. That should cover it."
The bartender, his face pale, stood motionless, his eyes wide in recognition. He had glimpsed the face beneath the hood, and he knew exactly who stood before him. The man's reputation was known to all who had spent any time near the seas.
As the cloaked figure exited the tavern without another word, the atmosphere finally returned to normal, but it wasn't the same. The silence in the room lingered, thick with awe and fear. The marines, still shaken, waited a few moments before the lieutenant moved quickly to check on the fallen marine.
"Is he alive?" he asked, voice tight with tension.
The marine was unconscious but breathing, his face pale from the force of the blow. The lieutenant let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He signaled to two others to carry the unconscious marine back to the base for treatment.
Turning back to the bartender, the lieutenant's voice was low and commanding. "Did you see his face? Do you know who that was?"
The bartender, still dazed, shook his head, as if trying to shake the nightmare from his mind. But then, in a whisper so faint it was almost lost to the wind, he spoke the name that sent chills down the spines of every marine present.
"The Dark King…"