It's been… what? Days? Weeks?
Hell if I know. Time doesn't mean much when you're stuck in this floating box. There's no window, no sun, no way to tell morning from night—just the dim, flickering oil lamp hanging outside in the corridor. The lamps had gone out countless times, only to be lazily refilled by guards who clearly didn't care if we sat in darkness forever.
The ship also stopped several times—perhaps to resupply. Each time, the routine was the same: footsteps, shouting, and then… new faces. Sometimes just one poor soul. Sometimes five. They come in all ages, from wrinkled old men to fresh-faced teens.
Fortunately, none of them were young enough to be put in this cell. A little mercy, I guess.
I'm still hanging out with Boa Hancock and her sisters here.
And my relationship with Boa Hancock?
It turns out... it's good, actually.
And just thinking about her alone made those damn stat reappear in my vision.
Yes, it turns out I can activate or deactivate them at will. I don't know how, but at least they don't interfere with my vision unless I want them to. One small victory in a sea of trash.
But no matter what I try—whispering "status," shouting "menu," even striking a full-on Kamen Rider henshin pose—I've got no system.
No skill trees.
No inventory.
No ability to check my own stats.
Just this weird floating stat sheet thing that floating above people's heads… but only after I learn their real name.
Seriously, I've been staring at the guards and slaves for hours. Nothing appeared.
But as soon as I heard a boy's name—Maru—boom. His stats appeared as if I had just opened some hidden file.
[Maru – Age: 14 | Male]
Strength: B
Speed: C
Stamina: E
Devil Fruit: N/A
Armament Haki: D
Observation Haki: D+
Conqueror's Haki: N/A
Intelligence: C
Charisma: D+
Leadership: F+
Combat Skill: D+
And what do those stats mean?
Hell if I know.
There's no manual. No benchmark. For all I know, a C grade could be average—or it could mean that the child is as weak as wet bread. But here's the part that really confuses me:
The Haki stats.
How the hell does a kid like Maru have Haki?
And it's not just him—Boa's sister too. When I asked if they had awakened their Haki, they just shrugged and stared blankly. They said they knew what it was, but didn't know how to use it.
So… basically: no. No training, no experience. But their stat sheets still show the grades—real ones. Even pretty good grades. Which means one thing:
These stats aren't measuring what they can do. They're measuring what they could do.
Potential.
And if that's true… then Boa Hancock?
Her sheet was packed with S, and her Charisma even hit an EX. Which I think the highest grade.
Which makes a goddamn sense.
As the most beautiful woman in the entire goddamn world, she deserves that clean EX in Charisma.
Even if right now, she's just a cute little girl clinging to pride and pretending to be brave.
There was a huge difference between the Hancock I saw before me and the mighty Snake Princess she'll become.
But right now, the mighty Snake Princess— the future Empress of Amazon Lily, the woman who would one day make the Marines sweat just by her presence—was still just a little girl. Surprising, I know.
When I first spoke to her, she only answered what was necessary—short answers that gave the impression of indifference and coldness. That made me imagine the Hancock I knew from stories: strong, cool, beautiful… unreachable.
But now? Now she's just a little girl wearing a mask. A mask to prevent her siblings from falling apart. She has to be strong so they can be strong. And honestly? That makes her more impressive than her future self.
Still, the mask cracked a little when I started telling the Boa siblings a series of Disney princess stories. Yes... Disney. Out of all the stories I could've used, I went with Disney, okay I know Disney today doesn't meet the standards or is even below them, but old Disney? They're the G.O.A.T. I'm telling you.
And it help lighten the mood telling them Disney princess stories, even if only a little.
And it turned out that they all decided they were princesses. That meant that, as the only man in this small group, I was appointed prince. Every time I was awake lately, I was constantly asked to tell stories they had never heard before.
Like right now.
"Can you tell us the story of Princess Belle?" Hancock asked in a voice softer than I'd ever heard before.
I leaned back, ready to tell the story of a girl, a beast, and a lot of Stockholm syndrome disguised as romance
--
On that day, the ship stopped.
Another supply stop, I thought... but this time something felt different.
From the deck, the air felt heavier, heavier than lead. Then there were sounds—boots clattering on wooden stairs, the groaning of old hinges, the jingle of keys, and amid those sounds, a man's shout—rough and desperate—cut short by a sharp, commanding voice.
Footsteps grew closer, each step heightening the tension, until a guard appeared in front of our cell. His shadow stretched across the floor as if it would devour all the children in this cell.
And with slow, measured movements, he opened the gate. The hinges creaked in protest—a terrible, rusty sound, like nails scraping bone, creeping along my spine.
Most of the children were already pale before he even arrived, but as soon as the door opened, their faces turned completely white, as if the last remnants of life had been pulled into the underworld.
Then he spoke.
"Get up. Move."
The guard's voice was low but filled with venom. He didn't wait for a reaction—his hand shot out, grabbed the arm of one of the smaller children, and pulled him to his feet.
The boy's legs buckled immediately, and he fell back to the floor.
The guard's face contorted into a terrifying expression. Without a word, he reached behind his back and pulled out a worn iron baton. Without hesitation, he struck the fallen boy hard. The sound of the baton hitting the boy's ribs was sharp and terrifying.
"Get up, you little bastard."
The blows came again and again, each harder than the last, until the boy was gasping for breath through clenched teeth. Fear—more than strength—finally forced him to stand, unsteady but afraid to fall again.
The guard's eyes scanned the cell like a predator searching for its next prey.
"What are you all looking at?" he shouted, his voice cracking like a whip. "On your feet. Now. Anyone who stays down gets my baton to the face."
Of course, that meant our small group began to move. Boa Hancock protected her sisters behind her like a human shield, her petite body radiating courage. I stayed close by her side, following her footsteps.
None of us looked at the guard. Eye contact felt like asking for trouble, and the last thing I wanted was to find out how creatively he could use his baton.
As we walked, I finally realized how big this ship was. Row after row of cells, filled with people—men, women, children. There were about a hundreds of them. Maybe close to five hundred. And every single one of them had the same look in their eyes: the empty, weary gaze of someone who knew escape was not an option.
As we stepped outside, the light hit me like a slap. It wasn't even bright—thick clouds covered the sky—but after so long in the darkness, it was almost blinding.
Then I saw it.
A red wall stretching in both directions until it disappeared into the horizon, so large that it made our ship look like a toy. The red wall was so high that it disappeared into the clouds, its peak completely invisible.
The Red Line.
And it was even more frightening when seen up close. It looked like a wall at the edge of the world, separating the earth from whatever lay beyond it.
Then I saw it.
A red wall stretching in both directions until it disappeared into the horizon, so large that it made our ship look like a toy. The red wall was so high that it disappeared into the clouds, its peak completely invisible.
The Red Line.
And it was even more frightening when seen up close. It looked like a wall at the edge of the world, separating the earth from whatever lay beyond it.
We were now at the dock—the dock so vast it could easily swallow dozens of ships like ours without much trouble—and in front there was a city, a large city built like a trading center with crates everywhere and thousands of people shouting to sell their wares as the other walked the streets. However, instead of taking us down to the bustling port city, they led us to something towering in the far distance, something more like an "industrial nightmare" than a "gateway to the Holy Land." This was not a lift for humans. No, it was a freight elevator, large enough to transport a small ship intact. Its walls were covered in black mold and rust that flaked off when touched, as if no one cared whether the elevator would break while hanging thousands of meters above the sea.
We're shoved inside like livestock—shoulder to shoulder, like a morning trains in Japan, only worse. The kind of packed where breathing feels like a luxury and sitting is an impossible dream. Then—a loud, mechanical thud. The doors closed behind us, and just like that, I was inside another box. A different box. Not wood or iron this time, but cold, rusty metal, and the suffocating pressure of bodies.
I glance up. The ceiling stretches unnaturally high, so tall I almost can't see it. And I start wondering—was this thing made to carry ships? It would explain the scale.
If I'm not mistaken, there are only two known ways to cross the Red Line:
One is down—through Fishman Island. With a ship and a bubble coating, it's dangerous but affordable. The other is up—to Mary Geoise. And that route? It's not for the poor.
It seems like this lift really meant to carry ships and cargo not people, the reason we're inside this lift is because we are no longer a person, but a cargo too.
I glance to my side, where Boa Hancock and her sisters stand. Hancock wears a look that tries too hard to look brave—chin up, shoulders stiff, eyes forward. From afar, she might seem composed, but from this close, I can see the flaw. Her lips tremble ever so slightly, and her jaw's locked tight like she's holding back a scream, Even so, it's still much better than its sister.
Her sisters fare far worse; both are pale and restless, their movements stiff and jerky, as if Michael Jackson himself had possessed them. Every time their arms so much as graze the person beside them, they flinch like they've touched fire.
Something in my chest knots. Maybe it's the closeness of the air, the rattling of the chains, or the thought of what's waiting at the top, but I can't just stand there. I extend my hand toward them—not to pull them away from Hancock, but to bridge the distance, to give them one more hold in this cramped box. One of their hands is already locked onto Hancock's, and as they look at my outstretched arms they hesitated but after a brief glance between themselves, they take mine as well.
It seems a few days isn't enough to gain their full trust, not surprising.
Their grip is hesitant at first, cold fingers curling loosely around mine. But as the lift creaked and swayed upward, that grip tightens. The longer we stand like that, the calmer their breathing became. The tension eased, their shoulders relaxed, and the terrifying pallor on their faces faded enough that they no longer looked like walking corpses.
We say nothing for the rest of the ascent— no words can match the sound of creaking gears and the hollow echo inside the lift—but the silent connection between our hands speaks for itself. In a place built to strip people of all comfort, maybe that small connection was enough to give them a moment's relief.
Finally—after what felt like hours—the lift groaned to a stop. The doors creaked open, and for the first time in what felt like forever, we were greeted by a clear, open sky. Only a few clouds drifted lazily overhead, the sunlight sharp and unobstructed.
And there, in the distance, lies what is known as the "Land of the Gods," Mary Geoise.
Magnificent buildings stretch across the horizon, grand and intimidating, with clean white facades that seem to scream of divinity and superiority. It's not subtle—of course not, they want the whole world to know who's at the top and who rules it. With Pangaea Castle standing in the middle of it all, makes every other city in the world look small in comparison.
Even from here, the castle dominated the horizon—taller than the Eiffel Tower on Earth, but its colossal size was on an entirely different level. The castle's area stretches vast, engulfing the entire region beneath its shadow. The name immediately came to mind—not because I cared, but because "Pangaea" sounded exactly like something an edgy teenager or someone with chuunibyo syndrome would write in their notebook. Still... the thing was massive, I had to admit.
But we didn't go anywhere near that place.
Instead, the guards directed us in the opposite direction, pushing and shouting orders as if they were herding cattle.
Our destination?
A giant complex, yes—but far from luxurious. Dirt clung to its stone walls, cracks spread like a spider web across its surface, and a foul stench hit us even before we got close. The complex was located far from the city's splendor, hidden like an unwanted secret—its isolation as suffocating as its walls.
And something told me we wouldn't be leaving it anytime soon.
As the guards began pushing us into new cells—this time smaller, more cramped, with fewer people per room—I immediately realized that I wouldn't be sharing a cell with Boa Hancock and her sisters.
Fortunately, her cell was right next to mine. Close enough that we could probably still whisper through the bars if we kept our voices down, maybe even see each other if the guard ever let us out. But for now, that was the only comfort I had.
After locking us all in, the guards turned and left without another word. No threats, no grunts, no orders—just silence and the sound of heavy boots fading down the corridor.
I turned to take look of my new prison.
And that's when I noticed—I wasn't alone.
Sitting in the corner was a man. Or more precisely… an old man.
His gray hair fell unevenly over a face covered in deep wrinkles. His back leaned against the cold wall as if it had become one with it. But what surprised me most wasn't his age.
It was the scar.
A single, vicious line that ran from his left cheek, cut clean across his neck, and disappeared beneath the tattered remains of his shirt—down, I assumed, through his chest and beyond. A scar like that didn't just tell a story.
It screamed one.
"What?" he said, catching my gaze. "Never seen a handsome man before?"
He smiled cynically—an expression so inappropriate here that it felt almost wrong, like laughing at a funeral.
"Sorry, kid, but I don't swing that way," he added mockingly. "Try Mandle in the next cell. He's not as sexy as me, but he's a little more... open-minded."
Ah…
His words left me speechless for a moment.
Here I was, trying to make sense of this nightmare, and this crazy old man thought we were in a bar, joking around while drinking cheap beer. I glanced around the cell—cracked stone walls, a floor barely large enough for two people to lie down without having to breathe each other's sweat, and the thick smell of mold and rust in the air.
Yeah… what the actual hell is wrong with this guy?
"Um—" I began, still trying to find a reasonable point of entry into the conversation.
But of course, he cut me off without missing a beat.
"What? Cat got your tongue, kid? I'm Darius Capta—oops, former captain of the Iron Gale Pirates. Ever heard of me?" He puffed his chest out like he expected an applause.
Then something flickered above his head.
[Darius – Age: 64 | Male]
Strength: B+
Speed: S
Stamina: B+
Devil Fruit: N/A
Armament Haki: A+
Observation Haki: B+
Conqueror's Haki: N/A
Intelligence: A
Charisma: B
Leadership: A
Combat Skill: A+
That clinched it.
These stats—they aren't power levels. They're potential.
Because if he has those stats, and Hancock—a literal twelve-year-old—is outscoring him in nearly every category…
Yeah. There's no way those grades reflect their current condition.
She can barely throw a punch, but her Strength stat is at S level.
So either these stats don't follow RPG logic, or I'm going crazy. Honestly? It could be both.
Still—Darius?
Nope.
Not a single bell rung.
Even so, I didn't show it. Because crazy or not, this man had something I desperately needed—information. And in a place like this, knowing even a little could mean the difference between survival and becoming a permanent stain on the walls of this cell.
"Oh yes, I think I've heard of you before," I lied smoothly.
Why? Because the way he acted clearly showed he was a "retired pirate who liked to tell anyone who would listen about his 'glorious' past"—the kind of person who would sail halfway around the world just to tell an exaggerated, alcohol-fueled version of his own life story.
"You heard? Ahahahahah!" he laughed hysterically, laughing like a madman. He literally rolled around on the dirty cell floor like a madman seeing sunlight for the first time in years. "You little shit—you're lying through your teeth! I don't even have a bounty on my head! Hahaha!"
Oh, shit. He was messing with me.
My face flushed with embarrassment.
What the hell do you mean you're a pirate with no bounty? That's like saying you're a chef who's never held a knife.
"Fuck you, old man. You're no pirate," I shot back. It wasn't my best comeback, but it was all I could to regain back some dignity. Not that it worked—especially against this crazy bastard—but at least it felt like something.
"Oh, it's true," he said, his cynical smile widening. "The first time I sailed out to sea, my two crewmates and I met Admiral Sengoku himself. Guess what? We weren't even sent to Impel Down. No."
His face suddenly darkened for a moment. "We were sold at Sabaody instead."
I caught it— just a glimpse of regret in his eyes—before it was hidden behind the same annoying smile.
"My two crewmates? Dead. Twenty years ago. Killed in that damn colosseum."
He threw his head back and laughed again, the sound bouncing off the cell walls.
"And me? I'm still here. Winner of the race, baby. Hahaha!"
…Is that what I'll turn into if I stay here long enough?
A hollow madman who laughs because he's still alive, as if it were some disgusting trophy? Yeah, thanks, no.
"—haha... ahhh, but enough with the jokes, kid. What's your name?"
Just like that, his voice softened, his smile softened. The sudden change made me uncomfortable.
"My name is Vincent Vector," I said slowly. "And for the record, you're the one joking around."
"It doesn't matter who's joking," Darius grinned. "You still make me laugh."
Shameful. Absolutely shameful.
He laughed at his own joke, then blamed me. Unbelievable.
Then the old bastard leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes narrowing as if observing my weakness.
"So, Vincent… you fight?"
I frowned. "Fight?"
"Yeah. Y'know—punch, kick, stab, slit someone's throat if necessary."
He grinned, showing teeth that had seen better days. "Because if you don't, you will."
I gave him a look. "You sound awfully sure about that."
"That's because I've been here longer than you've been alive, kid." His voice hardened, his humor disappearing for the first time. "I've fought in the Celestial Dragons' colosseum more times than I can count. Killed men. Been nearly killed more times than I could count. And you know why I'm still here?"
"…Luck?"
He chuckled darkly. "Because I'm good. And because I know the rules of survival in that pit."
Something about the way he said pit made my stomach tighten.
"Colosseum?" I asked.
"Oh yes. You think they keep us here just to clean the floors and look pretty? No. Sometimes they like to watch us kill each other for their entertainment. A big, fancy arena—slaves fighting for their lives while those bastards drink wine and bet money."
I felt my throat go dry. "And… you think I'm gonna be thrown in there?"
Darius' grin widened, and it wasn't reassuring.
"Young man, they don't give anything away for free. You'll end up in that hole sooner or later. The question is—do you want to go in blind and die quickly, or do you want to learn from someone who has survived there for two decades?"
"…And you'll… teach me?"
He shrugged. "Why not? I need a partner. It might even make the fight more interesting."
Then his voice changed, lower and sharper. "Of course, training with me comes at a price. You listen. You follow orders. You don't talk back to the wrong people. And when we're in the pit, you watch my back."
I stared at him, unsure if this was the best opportunity or the worst decision I had ever made.
Darius didn't seem to care—he just leaned back, closing his eyes as if the deal was already final.
"Welcome to the Colosseum, kid."