The wind across the Tatanka Plains carried the scent of wild sage and dust, but beneath it, something else simmered—the metallic tang of blood, the acrid smoke of discharged flintlocks, and the electric crackle of conflict about to erupt.
Bō-Zak Kaminosuke circled high above the Red Rampart, his lean, wiry frame silhouetted against the blood-red sky. An obsidian titan anchoring itself within the frigid stratosphere, dominating the jagged, cloud-sheared canyons below. Spanning a monstrous expanse, its ragged primary pinions manipulate invisible thermal updrafts with a terrifying, motionless mastery. From this desolate altitude, an ancient, unblinking gaze dissects the barren wilderness, hunting the landscape for the grim geometry. His gold-flecked brown eyes, perpetually amused, narrowed as he took in the sprawl of Navy encampments, the pens holding the captive Natives, and the organized clusters of white uniforms moving through the valley.
"View from the clouds," he muttered, the words carrying that smooth, philosophical quality that made even the most mundane observations sound profound. "The Navy's got them boxed in tight. Tight as a virgin's—"
He caught himself, smirking. "Later. Priorities." His head tilted as his eyes narrowed on the intended prey. He beat his wing twice, tucked them, then he dove.
The world blurred around him as he plummeted toward the earth, wind screaming past his ears. The Navy soldiers below were just starting to notice the dark shape descending from the sky, their faces tilting upward with widening eyes and opening mouths. He opened his wings feeling the pull of the updraft against his muscles as he slowed.
The Tori Tori no Mi, Model: Kuntur—the Condor fruit—surged through his veins. His shadow detached from his body, becoming a spectral condor with a wingspan that stretched fifty meters across. The spirit-bird shrieked, a haunting sound that echoed off the canyon walls, and dove alongside its master.
The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the Navy encampment, throwing soldiers off their feet and scattering equipment like leaves. Bō-Zak straightened, his golden-flecked eyes gleaming, and raised his voice in a shriek that echoed across the valley.
"Rise and shine, you unrefined clods! The judgment breeze has arrived!"
The Navy soldiers scrambled to their feet, their faces pale, their hands shaking as they raised their flintlocks. A young ensign—barely out of training—fired wildly, the bullet whistling past Bō-Zak's ear.
Bō-Zak's smirk widened. He banked, and a spectral condor formed from his shadow, swooping toward the ensign and passing through him. The soldier's eyes went wide, his face slack, and he collapsed under the weight of his own guilt—the Sky Burial technique stripping away illusions and revealing the truth of his actions.
The other soldiers hesitated. Bō-Zak laughed, the sound wild and free.
"Come on, then! Show me what you've got! I haven't had this much fun since I stole the temple's wine supply!"
He beat his wings, climbing upward, circling around, his spectral condor banking beside him, and dove back into the fray.
---
On the ground, Atlas Acuta moved like a red blur through the chaos.
His rust-red fur was matted with sweat, his leopard-like black spots blending with the shadows cast by the setting sun. His blue sapphire irises glowed faintly with Electro, and his charcoal-tufted ears twitched forward as he scanned the pens ahead. The scar across his left cheek—a reminder of Pedro—pulled tight as he grinned.
"Race you there, kid!" Atlas called over his shoulder, with that taunting, feral edge.
Sanza Kaplan Figarland small, slight hybrid-tiger frame darted beside him, his unruly mop of red hair bobbing with each stride. His heavy Gallagher eyebrows were drawn down over his piercing eyes, and his t-shirt flapped around him like a banner of defiance. He clutched his bamboo practice sword in both hands, his knuckles white, his expression one of theatrical indignation.
"I am not racing you, mink!" Sanza snapped, his high-crust posh accent cutting through the chaos. "I am proceeding with tactical urgency! There is a difference!"
Atlas laughed, the sound bright and mocking. "Sure there is, noodle-neck junior. Keep telling yourself that."
"Don't call me that! I am not—I am the future Supreme Commander of the Holy Knights! I will have you drawn and quartered for this insolence!"
Atlas was already moving, his boots pounding against the earth as he closed the distance to the first pen. Six Navy guards stood at attention, their faces set in grim determination, their flintlocks raised.
Atlas didn't slow down.
Electro crackled along his fur, blue lightning dancing across his shoulders and down his arms. The air around him hummed with energy, the scent of ionized air—not ozone, something sharper, more primal—filling the space around him.
"Hey, boys," Atlas called out, his voice dropping to that cold, taunting register he reserved for combat. "Think you can keep up?"
He moved.
The first guard never saw him coming. Atlas's fist connected with his jaw, the Electro surging through his body and sending him crumpling to the ground in a convulsing heap. The second guard tried to raise his weapon, but Atlas was already behind him, his elbow finding the back of his skull.
The remaining four guards opened fire.
Atlas vanished.
He reappeared behind the third guard, his dual chui—Stormclaw and Thunderfang—in his hands. The seastone-core maces crackled with energy as he brought them down, the impact sending a localized EMP burst through the guard's body and into the ground.
"Two down," Atlas muttered, spinning to face the remaining guards. "Four to go. You should have run."
Sanza skidded to a halt beside him, his bamboo sword raised, his face flushed with exertion. "I told you! I am not—"
"Less talking, more hitting!" Atlas shoved him forward.
Sanza stumbled, nearly falling, then righted himself with a snarl of indignation. "VILE CREATURE!"
He charged the nearest guard, his bamboo sword swinging in a wild arc. The guard raised his flintlock to block, but Sanza's sword—imbued with the subtle energy of his Mythical Zoan—connected with the weapon and sent it flying from the guard's grip.
Sanza blinked, surprised. Then his expression shifted to one of smug satisfaction.
"Victory is mine!" he announced, with absolute certainty. "You see? I am not merely a child! I am a force to be reckoned with!"
The guard lunged at him, and Sanza squeaked, scrambling backward. "Atlas! A little help!"
Atlas was already there, his chui connecting with the guard's temple and sending him to the ground. He turned to Sanza, his blue eyes gleaming with amusement. "Nice work, kid. You almost had him."
"I DID have him! I—" Sanza's protest was cut off as another guard charged them. He yelped, ducking behind Atlas. "He's all yours!"
Atlas rolled his eyes but dispatched the guard with a flick of his wrist. The Electro surged through his opponent's body, and the guard collapsed.
With the guards neutralized, Atlas turned to the pen and swung the gate open. The Natives inside stared at him, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and hope.
Atlas's grin softened, just a fraction. Looking over his shoulder he waved for Enan Naiporo to come over. Enan Naiporo nodded, standing at the entrance he announced, "The council is safe. The Dual Flame Council has declared an alliance with the Red Hair Emperor." He gestured toward the chaos spreading across the valley. "The Navy's lost their leverage. Time to take your island back."
The Natives hesitated for a heartbeat. Then a young warrior stepped forward, his jaw set with determination. "The council... they're free?"
"Free as a bird," Atlas confirmed. "Now spread the word. We're taking this island back."
Sanza stepped up beside him, his small chest puffing out with importance. "And I helped! Don't forget that! I am the future Supreme Commander, and I—"
"Save it for the victory speech, kid." Atlas waved toward the other pens, where Nadina Chiriki, and Tanaka Arikushi were already moving through the chaos. "Go help them. Keep the Navy off balance."
Sanza scowled but obeyed, darting toward the next pen with his bamboo sword raised.
---
On the ledge overlooking the plains, Vice Admiral Auricha Uzumati watched the chaos unfold with a cold, simmering fury.
His massive frame was silhouetted against the setting sun, his jet-black braid falling to the middle of his back, the single eagle feather tucked behind his left ear moving in the breeze. His dark brown eyes—sharp and observant when focused—narrowed as he watched the Natives pour out of the pens, their voices rising in a tide of defiance.
The bear in his chest was pacing. Growling. Demanding release.
"Captain Fern," he said, his voice low and controlled, a rumble that vibrated from somewhere deep in his chest. "Rear Admiral Maddon. Rear Admiral Cain."
Captain Beatrix Fern stepped forward, her ramrod-straight posture radiating quiet authority. Her copper-red hair was pulled into its severe practical low bun, and her wide-brimmed floppy sun hat cast a shadow over her freckled face. The Steel Seeker—her hori-hori knife—was tucked into her heavy-duty waxed-canvas crossback apron, and The Reaper's Touch—her pruning snips—hung from a leather loop at her hip. Trevor, her massive garden hoe, and Begonia, her sharp-edged shovel, were strapped across her back.
Her emerald eyes swept the valley with analytical intensity.
Rear Admiral Goma Maddon stood beside her, his lean, athletic frame deceptively slight until he moved. His sharp, dark brown eyes—perpetually calm and analytical—tracked the chaos below with the focus of a man studying a complex puzzle. The black practice ping-pong ball strung on the leather cord around his neck swayed gently as he shifted his weight.
Rear Admiral Jethro Cain rounded out the group, his gaunt frame was a sliver in the atmosphere. His round spectacles glinted, and his thin mustache twitched as he watched the Natives rally. The Bailiff—his long-hafted man-catcher—was in his grip, and The Gavel—his custom-made flintlock pistol—hung at his hip.
"The council has escaped," Auricha said, his voice flat and dangerous. "The Oni Phantom is here. And now the Natives are rising." He turned to face them, his massive arms crossed over his broad chest. "Find those pirates. Bring them to me in chains."
Beatrix nodded, her emerald eyes hardening. "Yes, sir. I'll track them through the chaos."
Goma's voice was soft, almost gentle. "I'll locate their leadership. They'll have a command structure—someone coordinating this. I'll find them."
Jethro's flat, toneless voice cut through the tension. "I'll ensure no one escapes. The sentence has been issued."
They dispersed.
Auricha turned back to the valley, his dark eyes scanning the chaos below. And then he saw it—a flash of rust-red fur moving through the pens, blue lightning crackling in its wake.
Atlas Acuta.
The bear in Auricha's chest roared.
---
Atlas reached the next pen, his chui raised, when the air around him shifted.
It wasn't a sound. It wasn't a movement. It was a weight—a crushing, ancient weight that pressed down on him like the pressure of a prehistoric wilderness. The kind of weight that made weaker opponents soil themselves before a single blow was exchanged.
He turned.
Vice Admiral Auricha Uzumati stood before him, his massive frame towering over Atlas's lean form. But he was different now. The transformation was already underway—his skin darkening, his bones shifting, his features elongating into something ancient and terrible. The short-faced bear was emerging from the human shell.
Atlas's eyes went wide. His grin faltered.
"Oh," he breathed. "Good."
Auricha's voice emerged as a roar, the sound shaking the very ground beneath them. "YOU!"
Atlas darted backward, his chui raised, his Electro crackling along his fur. "I was afraid this would be too easy! You know how boring it gets when there's no challenge?
The short-faced bear lunged. Six-inch obsidian-black claws tore through the air where Atlas had been standing, carving deep gouges in the stone. Atlas had moved—barely—his instincts screaming at him to keep moving, keep dodging, keep surviving.
"So you're the one they call the Crushing Paw!" Atlas called out, taunting with a feral edge. "I've heard stories! They say you can crush a ship's hull with your bare hands!"
Auricha didn't respond. He lunged again, his claws swinging in a devastating arc. Atlas ducked, rolling under the blow, and came up behind him.
"I've got to say," Atlas said, Electro crackling along his fists, "you're not as impressive in person as the stories made you out to be!"
He lunged.
Auricha spun, his massive paw connecting with Atlas's chest and sending him flying through the air. Atlas hit the ground hard, rolling, his fur matted with dust and blood.
He pushed himself up, spitting out a mouthful of dirt. His grin was back, wider than ever.
"Okay," he admitted. "Maybe you're a little impressive."
Auricha's roar shook the valley.
Atlas's Electro flared, red lightning now mixing with the blue as his Sulong instincts surged. He was pushing himself to the limit, but he was still grinning.
"Come on, then!" he shouted. "Let's see what you've got!"
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