The lash whistled through the air before Malik even saw it coming. He shifted his shoulder just enough to take the brunt of the blow along the bone instead of the ribs. Pain burned hot and sharp, but his expression didn't change.
The overseer snarled, annoyed by the boy's stoicism.
"You think you're clever, huh?" he spat, cracking the whip again. The strike drew a line of red across Malik's back, but Malik didn't flinch. Not once.
That only made the man angrier.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Malik lifted his head, his mismatched eyes one green like venom, one crimson like fresh blood locking onto the overseer's face. There was no defiance in his gaze, no obvious rebellion. Just a calm that unsettled the grown man holding the whip.
"Better," Malik murmured, voice soft but laced with something sharp.
The overseer's lips curled into a sneer, but he looked away first, spitting on the ground. "Worthless brat. Get back to work."
Malik turned and walked back to his post, dragging his chains through the mud. His back burned, his shoulder throbbed, but his posture stayed loose and relaxed, his expression unreadable.
Inside, though, he cataloged everything. Every insult. Every strike. Every weakness.
The overseer's right knee buckled slightly when he walked. He favored his left leg. His whip hand twitched between strikes, meaning he telegraphed his movements. The man also had a tendency to stand too close to his prisoners close enough for someone faster to take advantage.
Malik filed it away.
He wasn't strong enough yet. Not yet.
But one day, that man's blood would soak the same mud he forced others to kneel in.
The Celestial Dragons' estate loomed above him like a fortress of marble and gold. Malik had been brought here weeks ago, sold as nothing more than a number on a ledger. The chains around his wrists and ankles bore the mark of the World Nobles, engraved with tiny patterns that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. Expensive, cruel things.
The courtyard where the slaves worked was wide and immaculate, lined with statues and trimmed hedges. Malik had spent his days scrubbing the pristine stone floors while marines and guards patrolled lazily with rifles slung over their shoulders.
There was no laughter here. Not from the guards, not from the nobles. Only the soft chatter of servants and the occasional crack of a whip.
Malik's hands were raw, skin split and calloused. He didn't complain. He didn't speak much at all. He watched. He listened.
At night, when they were locked in the underground cells, Malik would sit against the cold stone walls, his mismatched eyes glowing faintly in the dim torchlight. The other children avoided him, whispering about the boy who never cried, never broke.
Some thought he was cursed. Others thought he was simply empty.
Neither was true.
Malik was waiting.
He traced one of the scars on his forearm absentmindedly, his mind running through escape plans, guard shifts, and weapon locations. The odds weren't in his favor. Not yet. He was small, underfed, and unarmed
But he was learning
One evening, a group of nobles visited the courtyard. They lounged in silk robes and golden masks, laughing softly as guards paraded the slaves before them. Malik was among the group, his chains heavier than most.
"Such striking eyes," one noble murmured, tilting his head as he inspected Malik. "Exotic."
"Defiant," another corrected, his voice sharp. "That boy has spirit. It should be beaten out of him."
Malik lowered his gaze slightly, letting his braids fall forward to shadow his face. But he was smiling faintly beneath the curtain of hair. They didn't see him. Not really. To them, he was nothing more than a commodity.
Good. Let them underestimate him.
Days bled into weeks. The scars on Malik's back and arms multiplied, a canvas of cruelty that painted his story without words. He never cried out. The guards stopped trying to provoke him after a while; there was no satisfaction in punishing a child who refused to break.
Instead, they feared him. Not openly. Not yet. But whispers started among the lower ranked marines.
"That boy," they said. "There's something wrong with him."
"Feels like he's watching me even when he's not looking."
"Those eyes…"
One night, Malik sat awake while the others slept. The cell was silent except for the slow drip of water from a crack in the ceiling. Moonlight spilled faintly through the iron bars of a small window high above, casting silver streaks across the floor.
Malik tilted his head back and stared at the moon, his breathing steady.
He could feel it.
That strange pulse again.
The Devil Fruit's aura had been growing stronger over the past few days, almost as if it were calling to him. It was stored somewhere above, heavily guarded, but Malik could feel its presence through the walls, through the chains, through everything.
His lips curved into a faint smile.
The world thought he was a chained child, powerless and broken.
They had no idea they'd locked a storm in their cellar.
A marine sergeant stood watch above, leaning against the railing with a cigarette dangling from his lips. He blew out a stream of smoke, frowning.
"Can't shake this feeling," he muttered.
"What feeling?" another marine asked, glancing over.
"That we're sitting on a powder keg," the sergeant said, his voice low. "And that kid down there is the spark."
The younger marine snorted. "He's a kid. We could snap him in half."
The sergeant's jaw tightened. His mind replayed the moment he'd caught those mismatched eyes staring through him like a predator sizing up prey.
"Yeah," he said, flicking the cigarette into the waves. "That's what scares me."
Back in the cell, Malik's eyes glinted faintly in the moonlight. His head tilted slightly as the sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor.
The guards were making their rounds earlier than usual. He listened closely, cataloging their voices, their pace, the sound of their rifles shifting against their belts.
Something was changing.
Malik exhaled slowly, resting his head against the wall, his expression calm.
But inside, every nerve was alight with anticipation.
It wouldn't be tonight. Not yet.
But the night was coming.
And when it did, the world would remember the name Malik.