Year 1510, Sea Circle Calendar — Impel Down, Crimson Lotus Hell.
The boot hit hard, forcing the breath from Ryoku Vale's lungs.
"Get up, you rotten worm. It's feeding time. Or is it dying time already?"
The voice tore him from the haze, dragging him back into a world of cold and iron.
He gasped, coughing as the stink of sweat, rot, and despair filled his nose. His body ached from head to toe, the chill of the stone floor seeping into his bones.
"Where...?"
His voice came out hoarse, barely a whisper.
The guard loomed above him, sneering beneath a weather-worn cap. "First level of hell, rookie. Crimson Lotus. Impel Down."
The name cut into his fogged mind like a knife.
The man laughed cruelly, tossing a dented tray at Ryoku's feet. "Enjoy the meal. Might be your last."
The heavy doors slammed shut, sealing him in darkness.
Silence pressed in.
Ryoku's breath trembled. The cold bit into his skin, sharper than the beatings. His shackled hands rubbed his temples, but nothing dulled the throbbing ache in his skull.
Fragments surged—memories not his own.
A ship.
A raid.
A fight... and chains.
He grimaced, fists clenching.
This... is real.
Impel Down.
The Grand Line's most cursed pit.
The place where monsters went to die slowly.
His lips curled into a bitter line.
He wasn't a captain. Not even a feared pirate.
Just Ryoku Vale. Another small fry swallowed by the sea's cruelty.
What a joke.
But even as despair clawed at him, something stirred.
A pulse—deep, foreign, ancient.
It wasn't a voice. Not in the way he'd known voices.
It was a whisper that clawed at his soul, weaving strange symbols behind his closed eyes.
A name.
Might Guy.
A seal flared across his inner vision—etched not in ink, but in crimson light and spiraling chakra.
His breath caught.
He felt it.
A weight pressed into his spirit, as if he'd signed a pact without consent.
Images flickered—battlefields soaked in blood. A man in a green jumpsuit standing against gods.
The roar of the Eight Gates tearing the heavens.
It wasn't some cheap menu.
It wasn't a blessing.
It was... a curse.
A contract of fire and death.
And he was now its vessel.
He understood instinctively.
He could call upon this Might Guy, let his spirit flood his frail body.
But at a price.
Ten hours.
No more.
And every second would gnaw at his flesh and mind.
If he overused it... his body might shatter. His spirit... erased.
There were no flashy notifications. No shopping lists.
Only the Hall of Echoes.
He saw them—towering silhouettes cloaked in fog, ancient shinobi whose names echoed in lost worlds.
Unreachable.
Locked away behind a wall of blood, sweat, and scars.
He could feel it.
The stronger the foes I defeat, the more these echoes will awaken.
The seal feeds on struggle. On conquest.
And he... would have to feed it.
He exhaled, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.
Even if the seas called him a nobody, he would carve his name into the bones of this world.
And if the seal wanted blood to open the next gate...
He would drown it in it.
But for now... Might Guy's shadow loomed behind him, a silent promise.
And in the bowels of Impel Down, Ryoku Vale smiled back at the darkness.