Holy Land Mary Geoise - 1507
It's been two years since the day my right cheek was split open.
My life has been nothing but training and labor since then. I stand taller now, about 170 cm (5'7"), with toned muscles built from relentless work and training. Strength comes with muscle, of course— but unfortunately, I can't grow stronger infinitely—my child's body simply doesn't allow it. Though I'm still more than powerful enough to put down a normal adult with ease.
In the two years of training, I've managed to grasp the faint edges of Observation Haki. It's still vague, like trying to catch whispers in the crowd, but it's progress nonetheless. Armament, though—that's another story entirely. I've struggled with it every step of the way. Armament demands strength first and foremost, and as a child, I simply don't have the raw power it needs. Not yet, at least.
In these two years, I have been training with Darius almost every day. The old man isn't the strongest nor the most skilled, sure, but when you think the old man's got nothing left up his sleeve—then he shows you just how wrong you are. That's why I keep sticking with him. The real difference now is Draven. Instead of training Haki just once a week, we train every other day. And the one who proposed that madness? Darius himself.
The reason is simple—his finesse, his tricks, his skill—they're already polished sharp, hard to break through on their own. But since he never learned Haki, there's still room for him to grow. That's the gap he's trying to close now.
Every day I grew stronger—strong enough to put down most fighters in the colosseum. Because of that, I became a regular in the prime-time arena, the most brutal stage of them all.
And because of that, I nearly crossed the Styx river more than once—especially in the matches proposed by that pompadour head "astronaut." I always lost, sure, sometimes because I let them win… other times because the opponent was just a damn monster.
And every time that happened, I ended up in those dark rooms for a new round of "makeup." My face became something I barely recognized—cheeks split and stitched with wire, burns etched in after someone shoved me into boiling water, and even holes left behind from a cheerful little game they called "rat torture."
Fortunately, that Mario doctor seems obsessed only with my face. He never touches the rest of me—or maybe because the Celestial Dragons don't want a Defective product, so he's ordered to keep the damage "cosmetic."
That's the reason why I often wear a sack over my head now—two holes for my eyes, some doodles scratched across the fabric, to make it look like a scarecrow. I don't keep it on all the time, only when I know I'll be seeing Boa Hancock. Even after all this time, I still haven't told her my secret. but I also never learned what truly happened to her that night.
By not sharing our secret with each other, my relationship with Hancock has felt stuck since that day. Of course I still tell her and her sisters stories most nights, but nothing beyond that. We both keep our own secrets, and because of that, the words between us have thinned. These days, I find myself talking more with her sisters than with Hancock herself.
I don't plan on telling her my secret anytime soon, either. In my eyes, it's far too heavy a burden for a kid her age to carry—Hancock's only fourteen now.
*BOOM*
Welp, no time to think about that right now—I'm in the middle of my weekly match, facing off against the Whitebeard wannabe. The first guy who ever beat me. Not in the arena, but a lose is a lose.
And the giant lumbers toward me again, the same guy who once dropped me flat like a sack of trash. Back then, it was hard to dodge his punch. Now? Every twitch, every shift of weight, every tiny breath feels like he's spelling it out for me.
He swings that oversized Naginata like he thinks he's the real deal, but in my eyes, he's moving in slow motion. My Haki paints the path before it even happens—I'm already two steps ahead before his blade cuts the air.
I slip past him, my footwork light, almost lazy, and drive a fist into his belly. He grunts, staggers, and tries to recover with a wild backhand swing. I duck under it, barely even needing to try. The crowd roars like they're watching some back-and-forth, but the truth is, this fight is already over.
A quick jab to the throat, a sweep at his knee, and the wannabe crashes down, choking and gasping. His Naginata clatters against the floor like a bell tolling his defeat.
I don't even need to finish him off—the man can't get up. I just stand there, breathing steady, while the announcer declares me the winner.
Once upon a time, he crushed me. Now? Thanks to my training and Haki, he's nothing more than another stepping stone.
Once my match was done and the cheers faded behind me, I made my way back to the waiting rooms. There they were—Darius with his usual smug grin and Zyanya lounging like a cat who just found something fun to toy with. Both of them stopped mid-conversation the moment they saw me coming.
Darius with that old bastard's glint, as if he was already cooking up a joke at my expense, and Zyanya with that mischievous smirk like she'd already thought of some too.
In the two years that passed, Darius hasn't really changed—still the same annoying old bastard with that grin plastered across his face, the only difference is, this guy becomes more annoying every day, so that's that.
Zyanya, though, is different. After spending so much time together, she's become one of the closest people to me, aside from a select few, even though we just meet in the arena once a week, but the bond we have is a really tightly knotted one.
And under Darius's little bits of guidance after most of her matches, her fighting skills have sharpened considerably. But appearance-wise, she hasn't changed much, except for her hair—longer now, which she ties into a ponytail now.
My skin prickled under their gaze. Darius with his jokes, was already hell enough, but ever since Zyanya joined in, the two of them had made it their personal hobby to tease me into the grave. Two years of this nonsense, and I still hadn't grown immune to it.
So, yeah, standing there after a victory, drenched in sweat, waiting for the worst part of today, seeing them like that. It was the way those two were looking at me, like I was about to walk right into another kind of fight—one I could never win.
"What?" I asked, already annoyed by their usual antics. Darius, who always seemed relaxed and lazy, never missed a chance to tease me or pull some prank whenever the opportunity came. And Zyanya, with her Onee-san vibes, always sent shudders down my spine whenever she slipped into one of her mature or seductive roleplays
"Nothing, mijo. You did well out there." It was Zyanya who replied, her voice dripping with that sultry tone of hers. If you heard her speak right now, you'd never believe this same woman could scream like a Spartan when she wanted to.
"You don't say." I don't know why, but every time I hear her voice my cheeks still manage to flush—well, whatever's left of them.
"Good boy." When Zyanya said that, I just shot her my middle finger, which only made her laugh even harder at my reply. "Fufufu."
"What is it, Darius?" Ever since I stepped out of the arena, he's been eyeing me with those lazy eyes of his—like he wants to say something. But it's Darius; whatever comes out of his mouth could be dead serious or just another one of his pranks.
"Just wondering." He brushes his chin as if in thought. "Perchance, you don't want to tell your little girlfriend about your bet with those snot-nosed 'gods'?"
"I'm not," I said firmly. I won't tell them.
"And your reasoning again?" he ask.
"They're too young to know this." I pointed at my ruined face—burn marks, holes, and stitches scattered everywhere.
"And you said she hides some secret from you, no?"
"Yes."
"Why not share some of your problems so she can share hers?"
"My problems won't go away if I tell her, and the same applies to her." My reasoning sounded valid, right? If I have a problem, it won't just vanish because I tell someone. And if she told me hers, I'd only end up worrying, thus carrying more burden along with mine.
"You and your logic, man." He looked up at the ceiling as if giving up on me. This wasn't the first time he'd brought up this specific topic in the last two years; he is, in fact, always bringing up this topic every week. It's become annoying to me, but I always gave the same answer. Why he was so interested in it, I didn't know—but I still believed my logic was right.
"I don't see why you should worry about this—it's not your problem anyway." He only glanced at me from the corner of his eye, his head still tilted upward.
"Zyanya, help me out here." He turned his tired eyes toward her.
"Unfortunately, I don't understand the problem. Besides, I don't even know who you're talking about." Right—she still doesn't know Hancock. We've only ever mentioned her as "my little girlfriend," but they've never met. And maybe that's why Zyanya chooses not to meddle.
"In some matters, you shine as bright as the sun, but in cases like this, you're as dense as a block of concrete." He hunched forward, eyes down, spouting a line straight out of some cultivation story.
"Where did you hear that?" I asked, curious. Are there cultivation stories in this world too? Or something similar?
"Eh? Just something I thought of yesterday morning, you know, while I was mixing some cement." …Eh? Is this guy supposed to be some old cultivation elder? Only they could come up with those one-liners while working with cement.
"Keep it up, old man, maybe you'll become a sect elder someday," I tell him in the most serene way possible while patting his shoulder just to emphasize it.
"Eh? What? What is it? I don't understand." He looked around, slightly confused with the term 'sect', even glancing at Zyanya—who looked just as lost as Darius.
Only I understood the reference. Maybe Fujitora would too; he has that sect elder vibe about him. He'd probably do great if he lived in a cultivation world.
"Vincent," Jamie called from the colosseum entrance. After two years of knowing him, I've realized Jamie can be a pretty mysterious guy. I'm certain he's hiding something, but I still don't know what. Not that I've dug too deep—after all, I still need him.
"Looks like work. I'm heading out first, guys." I waved a quick goodbye to the two of them before walking toward the exit. Since getting closer to Jamie, I don't bother with words anymore—just a nod is enough to let him know I've got it.
Aside from labor and training, sometimes I get pulled into running errands for Captain Oliver, like this time—delivering his drugs, collecting payments from his customers, and all sorts of things. Jamie helps me a lot with that. After all, a lone slave wandering the streets draws too much attention.
Yesterday, Captain Oliver told me to deliver some of the drugs I'd hidden to one of his customers. Normally, I just drop the package in a specific spot and mark it so the buyer knows where to look. But this time, Captain Oliver said I had to meet the man directly—apparently, he was a VIP who wanted to check the quality before buying in bulk. Of course, I'm kinda suspicious of the guy, but it's my job. I do what I have to do.
"So, you know the guy I'm meeting today?" I tried to fish for info from him. Jamie's still a mystery wrapped in that friendly face of his, but he's been around long enough to count as a friend—well, more of a coworker than anything else. Don't get me wrong, he's one of the kindest guards I've ever met, but at the end of the day, he's still a guard. And with all his secrets, I can't help but think twice before getting too close.
Though maybe he won't answer—not because he doesn't want to, but because he doesn't know a damn thing. He doesn't even know what jobs his captain gives me. Or maybe he does, and just chooses not to meddle, so when things go south, he can wash his hands clean.