It's night now—I can feel the faint darkness seeping through the cracks in the ceiling. The air feels colder and heavier, and the wet stone on my back absorbs the warmth from my body.
Behind this wall, just a few meters away, were the Boa sisters.
"Hancock? Mari? Sandy? Are you there?" I called softly, my voice directed at the cracks in the wall.
"Yes... we're here," Hancock replied softly. Her voice was small, almost swallowed by the darkness, but it remained steady.
"I thought they were going to send me to the colosseum," I said, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. "What about you? Have you heard anything?"
There was a pause—long enough for me to hear the faint chirping of crickets in the distance before Hancock's voice returned, sharper and panicked.
"What? The Colosseum? Is that true? Are you going to be okay?"
She didn't shout—none of us dared to shout and draw more attention—but the sharp tone of her voice made her concern clear to me.
"There's a crazy old man in my cell," I muttered, glancing at the corner where Darius was pretending to sleep, 'I can see you peeking, old man.' "He said he'd teach me the basics, so maybe I'll be okay. What about you? You didn't... end up there too, did you?"
"No," Hancock said after a moment, and I could hear her moving, probably pulling her sister closer. "The woman in the next cell told me that young girls usually become house slaves—like servants, but lower than the lowest caste."
Her voice dropped as she said it, as if even the title left a bitter taste.
Somehow, knowing that they weren't ending up in the Colosseum relieved me... but not entirely. Sure, the heavy burden on my shoulders was lifted a little—but the truth was, life in chains was still life in chains.
"That's... good," I said, exhaling slowly. The tension in my chest eased, though only slightly. "I'm glad you and your sisters won't be thrown into that place."
For a moment, silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I didn't like it. Neither did Hancock—I could hear it in her slow breathing.
"Hey," I said, forcing a lighter tone, "want to hear another princess story?"
There was a pause before she answered, her voice softer than before.
"Yes... please."
I smiled faintly, leaning my head against the cold wall. "All right... let's start with Cinderella."
And so, the rest of the night passed in soft whispers, the dark prison cell fading from my mind as I told the story of the glass slipper, the magical fairy godmother, and the midnight escape—stories that, for a moment, made my chains feel a little lighter.
--
The next morning, Darius woke me up by kicking my leg.
"Wake up, kid."
I groaned. "What for?" I yawned as I lifted myself up to sit.
When I looked at the crack in the ceiling, I knew that the sun hadn't even risen yet.
"Training. Unless you want to die in the first match and waste my time remembering your name."
Before I could process the insult, he threw something at me. I caught it reflexively—an old, cracked piece of wood, about the length of my arm.
"…A stick?
"Your first weapon. Get used to it."
"I thought the Colosseum was all swords and spears and—"
"And fists, and chains, and broken glass, and whatever else you can get your hands on," Darius cut in. "Most fights aren't fair, kid. You'll be fighting unarmed more than half the time, or with something so broken it's more likely to kill you first than your opponent."
Darius swung the stick in his hand and raised one index finger toward me with his other hand.
"Rule number one: you learn to fight with anything."
Before I could protest, he swung his stick with both hands—faster than I expected—aiming directly at my face. I screamed, barely able to block the attack. My arms trembled from the blow.
"What the hell—"
"No one will wait for you to be ready," he shouted, swinging his stick again. "Move your feet. Keep your guard up. And for God's sake, stop flinching!
He attacked me repeatedly, without mercy, without slowing down. The stick hit my arms, ribs, and shoulders. My fingers split open after I swung too hard and missed.
"You think this hurts?" he hissed. "Wait until you're fighting a man twice your size with a spiked club, and he's trying to crush your skull while the crowd cheers him on!"
When he stopped, I was gasping for breath, my arms numb, sweat dripping into my eyes.
"You're weak," Darius said flatly. "But that's okay. We'll fix it."
I wanted to respond, but all I could do was try to catch my breath.
It hadn't even been five minutes since he first attacked, and I was already dying.
"Rule number two," he continued, pacing back and forth in the cramped cell like a sergeant training new recruits. "No reckless moves. No honor. You fight to win. Bite, gouge eyes, break knees—whatever it takes. The Celestial Dragons don't care how you win, as long as you bleed for their entertainment."
My stomach churned. "And if you lose?"
Darius gave me a thin smile, without a trace of humor.
"Then you die. And if you're lucky, they kill you quickly."
"Rule number three—move."
He attacked again. I barely ducked in time, my shoulder grazing the wall.
"Good," he said, and this time his voice almost sounded approving. "Never stand still unless you want to be turned into a corpse."
The next hour passed in a blur of thrusts, punches, feints, and kicks to the stomach as my guard dropped.
He didn't explain the techniques, but forced them on me—grabbing my wrist as I swung to throw me off balance, sweeping my legs when I got too cocky.
For the first time since I woke up in this world, I realized just how short my future might be if I didn't learn fast enough.
For the first time since I woke up in this world, I realized how short my future would be if I didn't learn quickly.
We had been training like savage all morning—Darius shouted orders, I almost fainted—twice, first because I was too tired and second because Darius hit my stomach too hard, oh it felt like my body was being rammed by a bull. After several hours of training, the cell door creaked open.
The guard came with a baton in his hand, my arms felt like wet noodles, and the sweat streaming down my face couldn't hide the frown on my forehead when I saw the guard.
When I saw another guard carrying chains, I knew this was not good. Not like something good ever happened when guards were around.
One of them yelled at me to move and follow them, not that I wouldn't have done so just by seeing the baton, which reminded me of yesterday's brutal beating of a child. Boa's sisters and several others from nearby cells also came out.
I approached Darius, wiping the sweat from my forehead.
"Old man, do you know what this is?"
He sighed softly, rubbing the scar on his neck.
"Every cow must be branded, kid."
It hit me like a punch to the stomach.
Branding.
The damn branding I'd seen before in One Piece—the claw marks of the so-called Celestial Dragons. A permanent reminder that you belong to them. From what I remember, the only way to remove it is to cut the flesh clean off. And based on the stories, most don't survive the attempt.
I swallowed hard. "...Great.
Darius finally turned to me, smiling like it was my first day of school. "Go on, kid, unless you want some broken bones before your big debut in the colosseum." His tone was wrong—too cheerful. Like a father in a stage play, sending his child out to 'bravely explore the world.' Except here, that 'world' involved hot iron and screams.
I didn't answer. I just left, because the guards weren't the patient type.
And somewhere behind me, Darius shouted in the same tone, full of mockery, "Stand up straight, kid. It makes the smoke look prettier."
I didn't answer.
What could I say?
--
The corridor smelled of smoke before we even reached the room.
The bitter, metallic smell hung in the air, the kind of smell that makes your stomach churn because you know something is wrong.
We were herded into a large room, its walls lined with chains and hooks. In the center of the room, a giant iron furnace glowed red, its heat so intense that my skin prickled. And next to it—lying like the devil's signature—was a dragon-claw-shaped iron burner.
A guard pulled it out far enough for us to see its light, then returned it to the flames. A little show, I suppose. The "look what's coming" part of the show.
A small child in front of me hissed. The nearest guard struck him hard, sending him crashing to his knees.
"Be quiet," the man shouted. "It makes it worse when they squirm."
The first victim was pushed forward. The iron hissed against the person's flesh, and the scream that followed was sharp and raw—like something tearing inside their own chest. The smell was pungent. Burning flesh. My grip on reality wavered for a moment, and I had to force myself not to back away.
Boa Hancock was in front of me in the line, her face locked in the false calm expression she always wore for her sisters.
Marigold and Sandersonia clung to her as if their lives depended on her. I didn't know how she could stand so straight. Even though she looked calm, I could see a slight tremor in her hands, but her posture remained steady without wavering.
When her turn came, she didn't scream. Not at all. She just gritted her teeth until they almost cracked. Her sisters didn't have the same composure—they screamed, I even saw tears welling up in their eyes, but they didn't fight back. The smell of their burning flesh mixed with the smoke until the air was painful to breathe.
T Then it was my turn.
The guard didn't even bother to warn me. He just grabbed my shoulder and pushed me forward onto the wooden block. My face was pressed against the cracked surface, my cheek rubbing against the wood as someone pulled the back of my shirt up, exposing my unblemished back.
The smell of burning metal filled my nose. Then the burning sensation.
It was worse than anything I could have imagined—like fire and a knife at the same time, piercing my skin and going straight to my muscles. My hands clenched so tightly that my nails dug into my palms and drew blood. My vision turned white at the edges, almost causing me to lose consciousness, and I may have let out a sound I didn't even know I could make. The pain was too great to process, and the hissing on my back drowned out my screams.
"AAAAAAAAARRRRRGGGGHHH"
When the iron was pulled out, my back still felt like it was burning. I staggered, but one of the guards pushed me toward the exit.
There it was. My new identity, carved into my flesh. Property.
I held back the urge to laugh, because at this point I could only laugh or break. Or maybe both—both were good.
Welcome to One Piece, Vincent Vector. You are officially part of the livestock.
As they pushed me back into the cell, my legs felt like wet ropes. Every step made the pain flare up like someone was scratching hot coals on my back again.
Darius turned from where he was sitting cross-legged in the corner of the room, his eyebrows raised.
"Ah. Got your brand, huh?"
I didn't answer—just leaned against the wall and slid down to sit, holding back the groan that wanted to escape.
He whistled softly. "It hurts like hell, doesn't it?"
I glanced at him with an expression that probably meant 'of course', but he just smiled cynically. Without another word, he grabbed the collar of his worn shirt and pulled it aside, revealing the same dragon claw mark, burned into the skin below his heart, along with a scar that stopped right next to the mark.
"Twenty-three years ago," he said, tapping the mark with his finger. "They burned it into my body right here. I thought I would faint, but…" His smile widened, sharp and almost proud. "I didn't give them that satisfaction."
I swallowed hard. The sight of it—old and twisted by time and wrinkles—made my stomach churn.
"Here's the thing, kid," he continued, leaning forward so the dim light caught the blistered texture of the mark. "That mark? It never stops hurting. Oh, the fire fades, but the mark? No, you'll remember the scar. And that's the point. They want you to remember that you belong to them."
Hearing Darius' words sent a wave of heat wash over my back once more, sweat pouring down my body again, the exhaustion and pain merging together once more. I bit my lip, refusing to faint in front of him, but my body betrayed me—swaying slowly, leaning a little too heavily to one side.
Darius noticed. Of course he noticed.
"Calm down, kid," he said, his voice dropping, almost serious. "Breathe through this. Don't let this knock you down on your first day of being branded.
I nodded, my breathing already labored. The edges of the cell blurred for a moment, and I had to force myself to focus on the floor so I wouldn't fall.
This was just the beginning.
The fatigue from this morning's training began to return, added to the mental exhaustion after going through what they did to my back.
I tried to focus on Darius's words, but his voice blurred into a dull hum behind the pounding of my heart in my ears.
"Breathe through this," he said.
Right. Breathe. Easy advice when your spine feels like it's on fire and every breath makes it worse.
My vision narrowed. The dark, filthy cells seemed to envelop me, and the floor appeared tilted, even though I knew it wasn't moving. I caught Darius's smile before the darkness swallowed everything.
---
When I woke up, the first thing I smelled was sweat and raw iron—not the stench of rotten wood or wet stone. My hands were tied with rough rope, and I was sitting in one corner of the room.
I blinked, and then realized something. I was no longer in my prison cell. Now I was in a fairly large room with high stone walls and a rough wooden gate on one side, with bright light shining behind it. Around us were several other people—some carrying sticks, some carrying swords, and some unarmed—pacing back and forth, stretching their bodies, and waiting.
Darius stood in front of me, hands folded, looking like someone about to teach a dog how to bite.
"Welcome back to the world of the living, kid," he said. "You passed out like a champ after they marked your body. I thought I'd give you the luxury of waking up at your new workplace."
"...Workplace?" I muttered.
He smiled broadly like a wolf and pointed to the wooden gate. "The Colosseum. There you must learn to fight fast, or you'll decorate the sand with your guts. Lucky for you..." He pointed to his own chest. "...you have me."
The loud bang startled me, and my curiosity drew me closer to the wooden gate. Behind the gate, I saw a sand arena surrounding the two fighters, and the cheers of the spectators in the stands echoed loudly. One of the fighters had already fallen into the sand, with one leg bent at an unnatural angle, and the other fighter slammed his stick into the first fighter, knocking him unconscious. The second fighter grinned because he was already the winner today, basking in the crowd's cheers.
Darius stepped closer, crouching down until we were level. "Remember, kid—never fall. If you lie down for more than a few seconds, you're dead. Second—if you can't win, make them bleed enough to remember you. And last—" His smile disappeared. "—don't die. Not until you have a way out."
He pulled me to my feet, my back screaming in protest, then untied the ropes that still bound my hands.
"Now," he said, pushing me into the center of the arena through a wooden gate opened by one of the guards, "let's see if you can stay upright for more than ten seconds."
The gate closed tightly behind me with a sound that echoed like a final verdict. The sand felt loose beneath my bare feet—too loose. With every step, my feet sank deep enough to throw me off balance.
Across from me, they chose my opponent—a man twice my size, his bulging muscles clearly visible without a shirt, like hard stone and his sharp, lustful eyes made me uncomfortable because of the lust he exuded. Not the lust for food or women. But the lust for violence. He cracked his knuckles, his grin revealing more teeth than comfort.
"It's your lucky day, kid," Darius shouted from behind the fence. "They're giving you a warm-up opponent."
A warm-up? This guy looked like he could tear me in two just to see the color of my insides.
The man attacked.
My instincts screamed for me to run, but the wall behind me was too high, and the gate was locked, and then Darius's earlier words burned into my skull: Never fall. Never die.
I ducked to the side just in time to feel the rush of air as his fist grazed my ear. I stumbled, barely able to stand, and he spun around with a speed that made my stomach churn.
"Don't just dodge, hit him!" Darius yelled. "Make him respect you!"
Respect me? This man probably didn't even respect gravity.
He attacked me again, this time with a low punch. My body moved before my brain registered it, my foot kicking up sand that hit his face. He grunted, staggering back just enough for me to swing my fist into his ribs.
It felt like punching a tree. My knuckles hurt, but he felt it—enough to make him grunt a little.
"Better!" shouted Darius. "Now keep moving before he—"
The man's hand clamped around my neck like a vise. My vision blurred as my toes lifted off the ground. He choked me with one hand, lifting me as if I weighed nothing. My legs kicked uselessly in the air.
Through the haze, I saw Darius moving closer to the gate, his voice sharp.
"Bite him, kid!"
What?
"BITE HIM!"
So I did. I sank my teeth into the side of his arm with all my strength. He roared, released me, and I fell hard onto the sand, gasping for precious air.
I didn't have time to celebrate—he was already attacking me again.
"Now his knees!" Darius yelled.
I lunged forward, slamming my knee into the side of his leg. He staggered, cursed, and for the first time, I saw something other than confidence in his eyes.
"Finish him!" Darius yelled.
I didn't think—I just swung my fist again, this time at his jaw. The impact shook my entire arm, but he fell to his knees, clutching his face before I hit him again and knocked him flat on the sand.
The gate creaked open, and two guards entered, dragging him out without a word.
I stood there, trembling, my chest rising and falling, my hands shaking from pain and adrenaline.
Darius grinned at me from the other side. "Not bad, kid. You didn't die. That's a start."
Darius grinned at me from the other side. "Not bad, kid. You didn't die. That's a good start."
As the guards pushed me inside the waiting room, my legs gave way. I fell to the floor, still gasping for breath, the coppery taste of blood heavy on my tongue. My hands hurt, my ribs throbbed, and my throat burned from being choked.
Darius crouched in front of me. "Well... you didn't die. Which, in my book, is a victory."
I tried to laugh, but what came out was more like a groan. "I'm sure my spine would disagree."
"Your spine will live." He reached into the tattered cloth he used as a pouch and pulled out what looked like a piece of dirty cloth. "Be quiet."
"What are you—"
Before I could finish, he grabbed my hand and began to bandage it. I flinched. "Ouch! Damn it!"
"Stop complaining," he said flatly, tightening the bandage. "You think that hurts? Don't kid yourself, your opponent is just a beginner like you. Even so, if you had frozen for a second longer out there, that man would have broken you in two and used your ribs as toothpicks."
"…Comforting."
"That's the truth." He moved to my other hand, examining the swollen knuckles. "And you'd better get used to it, because the Colosseum doesn't care if you're tired, injured, or scared. They ring the bell, you fight. Or you die. Simple math."
He tied the last bandage and sat back on his heels, staring at me as if assessing a piece of meat. "You've got spirit, kid. I've seen hundreds of slaves enter that arena. Most freeze. Most die. You didn't. You fought."
"I bit him," I muttered.
He grinned. "Exactly. There's no such thing as dirty fighting here. You use what you've got—teeth, nails, sand in the eyes—doesn't matter. The crowd won't remember how you won. Only that you got out."
I leaned against the wall, still feeling the tremor in my arms. "And if I didn't?"
Darius shrugged. "Then you don't have to worry about tomorrow."
There was no warmth in his tone, but somehow, it wasn't cruel either. Just… fact. Cold, unshakable fact.
He stood, stretching his back with a groan. "Rest up, kid. You'll need it. First fights are never the hardest—they're just the ones that teach you how much harder it can get."
And with that, he turned away, leaving me to the quiet, my bruises, and the terrifying knowledge that this was only the beginning.