The stench of fear, sweat, and unwashed bodies had seeped into the damp wooden planks of the ship's hold. It was so thick it felt tangible, like you could reach out and touch it. On a ship bearing the flag of the World Government, dozens of people—adults and children alike—shivered in the dank twilight, bound by the clinking shackles on their ankles.
Eight-year-old Francis slept, curled up in a corner. Only in dreams could he escape. Sleep was his sole luxury, the only flicker of happiness in a life torn apart by parents who sold him for a handful of coins.
Nearby, a girl sobbed—the daughter of some unfortunate pirate. Across from her sat a former merchant ship captain who had gambled away not just his ship but his freedom. Each of them was "merchandise," sailing toward the world's grandest market, destined to grovel at the feet of the Celestial Dragons.
The rusty screech of a bolt shattered the silence, making everyone flinch. The door swung open, and a hulking figure appeared in the doorway. Sunlight stabbed at eyes accustomed to darkness, forcing them to squint.
"Move it, you scum!" roared the overseer, a fat man with a scruffy beard, lazily swinging a whip in his hand. "Get up to the deck!"
He had no intention of damaging the "goods," but a crack of his whip against the floor near the closest prisoner spurred everyone into hurried motion.
Francis's dream burst like a soap bubble. Cold reality crashed over him with renewed force. Clinging to one another, swaying from hunger and the ship's rocking, the prisoners stumbled up to the deck.
What they saw was so breathtaking it momentarily erased their misery. Directly ahead, a colossal, blood-red cliff pierced the sky—the Red Line. It split the world in two, its peak lost in the clouds where, rumor had it, the holy land of Mariejois lay, the abode of this world's gods.
"Line up, rats!" bellowed the overseer, whom Francis had learned was named Adam from snippets of overheard conversation.
A whip crack kicked up a puff of dust. Francis didn't wait for a second warning. He saw the adults forming a line and quickly slipped in beside them. The other children, initially hesitant, followed his lead. Survival instinct was the best teacher.
Adam pulled a strange creature from his coat—a snail with a phone-like shell—and barked short phrases into it. The Den Den Mushi clicked sleepily in response. The wait wasn't long. Half an hour later, men in impeccably pressed black suits descended from a platform jutting out from the cliff.
The man leading them, with cold gray eyes and thin lips, scanned the crowd of prisoners with disdain.
"Well, Adam, let's see what trash you've brought us this time," he said quietly, his voice cutting sharper than any shout.
Adam transformed instantly, bowing obsequiously, a sycophantic smile plastered on his face. "All top-quality, Lord Jaime, as you requested! Fresh merchandise, no defects, I assure you!"
Jaime smirked, unconvinced. "I hope so. And I hope you remember our terms, Adam. No more than ten percent defective. Otherwise, our partnership ends. Let's begin. Adults—strip."
Men and women, their faces frozen in humiliation, began shedding their rags. The children started unbuttoning their shirts too, but Jaime stopped them with a lazy gesture. "Not the children."
He inspected each adult like a butcher appraising a carcass—checking teeth, probing muscles, making them turn, shamelessly examining intimate areas. Every scar, brand, or tattoo drew his meticulous scrutiny. Only the best would do for the Celestial Dragons.
When it came to the children, the inspection changed. Jaime didn't touch them. He simply approached each one, staring into their eyes as if probing their souls for sparks of submission—or defiance that needed to be snuffed out.
When he reached Francis, their gazes locked. Most children's eyes held only primal fear, but Jaime saw something different in Francis's—an unbroken will, a flicker of childish pride. The boy didn't look away, accepting the silent challenge.
Jaime's lips curled into a predatory, icy smile. "Well, well, a brave one." He patted Francis's cheek twice, possessively. "You're not bad, kid, but…"
A sudden, lightning-fast knee to Francis's stomach cut off his words. Air rushed from the boy's lungs with a wheeze, the world tilted, and he doubled over, gasping from sharp, blinding pain.
"…lose that look, pup," Jaime finished in a harder tone, looming over him. "You're just a slave now. Lower your eyes and remember this feeling. This is your new place in life. Be grateful I'm the one teaching you this lesson."
The pain burned, drowning out everything except one cold, clear thought that crystallized in Francis's mind with uncanny clarity for a child: You bastard, if I survive, I'll kill you.
The rest of the inspection passed without incident. Jaime straightened and waved dismissively at two gaunt men. "Numbers two and five—unsuitable," he told Adam. "Two out of twenty. Not bad, you stayed within the limit this time."
He pulled a stack of bills from his inner pocket and tossed it to the ground at Adam's feet like scraps to a dog. Adam scrambled to pick it up, muttering thanks.
"The rest, follow me," Jaime ordered the slaves.
As they walked a few dozen meters, two gunshots rang out behind them. No one turned back. That was the fate of those who didn't make the cut.
They were led to a massive platform built into the red cliff—an elevator. Only now did Francis see what powered it. Below, in a vast hollow, dozens of slaves like him, with empty, detached faces, turned a gigantic winch, hoisting the platform toward the clouds, toward Mariejois.
Looking at their hollow faces, Francis realized that could be his fate—or worse.
"Shit."
The elevator stopped short of the sunlit summit. Its gates opened to a vast cave carved into the cliff, lit by torches. The air was heavy, thick with the smell of coal.
"You've arrived at the penultimate stop of your journey," Jaime's voice, amplified by the echo, sounded solemn and sinister. "Now you'll receive the mark of ownership. A brand you should wear with pride. It will show the world who you are and whom you serve."
In the cave's center, a forge blazed. Slave-smiths with indifferent faces fanned the bellows, heating iron brands to a glowing red. Their shape was unmistakable, even to those who'd never seen it: the Hoof of the Celestial Dragon.
A burly pirate was dragged forward first. Two guards pinned his arms, a third pressed his head against a stone wall. The red-hot iron hissed as it seared his back. An inhuman scream of pain, mingled with the stench of burning flesh, filled the cave. Everyone screamed—men, women, adults, children—a primal, instinctive terror.
When Francis's turn came, he squeezed his eyes shut, but it didn't help. The pain was all-consuming, a white-hot flash that burned away his screams and tears, leaving only a trembling body and a brand that would burn forever.
Staggering and sobbing, they were herded to vast baths. Ice-cold water shocked their scorched skin. Other slaves, women in plain gray dresses, worked silently, scrubbing the newcomers with rough brushes. Their movements were mechanical, their gazes empty. Francis looked into their faces and saw not people but dolls with their souls scooped out. Each wore a metal collar around their neck. He swallowed hard, imagining the cold weight on his own.
Clean but still trembling, the slaves were lined up and given new clothes: a white robe and matching pants, simple and faceless, with one distinct feature—a large circular cutout on the back, exposing the raw, inflamed brand for all to see.
Now they looked almost civilized, save for their sunken cheeks and lifeless eyes no amount of cleanliness could hide. Jaime surveyed the group with satisfaction, his gaze lingering briefly on Francis. The boy, remembering his earlier lesson, immediately dropped his eyes to the floor. The corner of Jaime's mouth twitched in a smirk.
"Now you look like proper slaves. Acceptable. Just one final touch."
More men in black suits entered, carrying collars. When one approached Francis, the boy felt a strange sensation. The collar, seemingly too large for his thin neck, clicked shut and adjusted itself snugly but not suffocatingly.
"You'll now be assigned to departments," Jaime announced. "Your useful life begins."
They were led to the top. Blinding sunlight forced them to squint. Perfectly trimmed emerald grass, pristine white paths, majestic buildings nestled in greenery, and a crystalline sky overhead—the beauty was so flawless it felt artificial.
"What are you gawking at? You're not here for a tour!" Jaime's bark snapped them back to reality. He delivered a powerful kick to one man's backside, sending him sprawling three meters across the perfect lawn.
They hurried into a massive domed building. Inside a spacious hall, six people were already engaged in heated debate.
"…it's idiotic! Don't you get it, you foolish woman? The future lies in scientific progress! We need the best specimens!" one argued.
"Tell that to the Celestial Dragons when they run out of pretty toys to amuse themselves," came the cold retort.
The arguers fell silent as the slaves entered. Francis quickly sized up the "buyers."
First was a clerk in a white coat from the Scientific Research Center—a dry, pedantic man in a pristine lab coat and thin-rimmed glasses. He viewed the slaves not as people but as biological material.
Second was his recent opponent, Madam Elsa, who oversaw entertainment and leisure for the world's elite. A tall, stately woman in a luxurious silk kimono with a daringly low neckline, she smelled of expensive perfume and scanned the slaves with the lazy, appraising gaze of a predator picking out a new toy.
Third was a stern giant from the Transportation Department, nearly three meters tall with arms as thick as a man's leg. He looked bored, needing only brute strength—human draft animals.
Fourth was a silver-haired woman from the Service Department. Her warm, grandmotherly smile sent a chill down Francis's spine. Only a sick person could smile like that in this place.
The fifth, an unremarkable man, exuded cold menace. His rigid posture and empty, attentive stare marked him as Security Department. He wasn't here to choose slaves but to pick targets for training drills.
The sixth, an elderly man from Life Support, stood with perfect posture despite his age, muscles evident beneath simple clothing. He needed durable, obedient workers for the systems that kept everything running.
"You know the rules," Jaime's even voice cut through the silence. "Each picks one. Order's set. Madam Elsa, go ahead."
The woman in the kimono glided toward the line, her silk rustling softly against the marble floor. She ignored the adults, dismissing them as "used material," and stopped before the children. Her dark, piercing gaze fixed on Francis.
"Such a defiant look… such a spirited face…" she purred, trailing a nail along his cheek. He flinched. "You'd be wildly popular with some of our guests. There's fire in you, and they love to extinguish it."
Crazy bitch, Francis thought, his blood running cold at the fate she implied. Maybe death in the hold would've been better.
But Elsa, chuckling at his reaction, moved on. She stopped before a twelve-year-old girl with long dark hair. "Porcelain skin, perfect hair, a supple body… Amazon blood, isn't it? What a delightfully rare specimen. I choose you."
"Please, Madam, take my sisters too!" the girl pleaded, pointing to two younger girls clinging to her legs. "Don't separate us!"
"Oh, such touching selflessness," Elsa smiled, her expression devoid of warmth. "Admirable, dear, but business is business. They're not as pretty as you."
"I'll do anything!" the girl sobbed.
"You will anyway," Elsa said, lifting the girl's chin with a gentle but commanding touch. "But… fine. If there's room at the end, I might take one of them. Though I had my eye on this boy first."
"Next—Research Department," Jaime announced.
The clerk in the white coat, whom Elsa had called a fool, strolled along the line with feigned interest. "Wow, such big feet! Potential for muscle regeneration studies! And you—unique eye color! Heterochromia, a great genetic marker!"
He stopped before Francis and, without looking at him, declared, "I'll take this one."
He didn't care about Francis specifically—he just wanted to spite Elsa. Her face darkened. "Bastard," she hissed, audible to all.
The clerk only smirked, adjusting his glasses.
"Jaime," the giant from Transportation cut in, "my turn."
He pointed at the largest man, a former pirate, without preamble. "You. Go punch that column."
The man hesitated, then obeyed. The blow was strong, but the giant only grunted. "Weak. But it'll do. I'll take him."
The old man with perfect posture approached a stocky, shorter man. Without a word, he took the man's hand, turned it over, felt the calluses, and studied his stance.
"Worked in a port? Or construction?" he asked.
"A forge," the slave rasped.
"Good. You'll do."
The grandmotherly woman approached a group of women and spoke warmly to a frightened young one. "Can you manage a household, dear? Cook, clean floors? Don't worry, it'll be fine."
She patted the woman's cheek maternally, but her eyes were cold and appraising, like a cattle trader's. The woman nodded silently, and the old lady said, "I'll take her."
Last came the Security man. He moved soundlessly, passing the adults and stopping before the remaining children. Without a word, he pointed at a teenage boy. The boy backed away in terror, but guards seized him. The choice was made. Francis avoided looking, cold sweat trickling down his back.
Surprisingly, the two younger Amazon sisters remained, and Elsa, with a regal gesture, pointed at them. "Those too. No sense wasting merchandise."
"Selection complete. Get to work," Jaime concluded.
Francis and the two men chosen by the clerk followed him out. A carriage awaited, pulled by collared slaves. Unlike the clerk, Dr. Aris, as he introduced himself, the new slaves walked behind.
They approached a nondescript gray building, devoid of ornamentation. "Here it is! The citadel of the future!" Aris proclaimed, arms spread wide.
Inside was a single elevator, revealing the main complex was underground. It moved smoothly, unlike the slave-powered lift from before.
Do they show you your possible fate to break your will? Francis thought. Show you the hell you'll face if you're useless?
The doors opened, not to labs with test tubes but to a sterile white corridor.
"These are the living quarters," Aris explained, striding ahead, his voice echoing. "We have sections A to Z, each for a different project. You'll live in private rooms. A scientist from Section A can't take you if you're assigned to Section G, even though you're slaves. Order is paramount—the foundation of the scientific method."
He pinned a badge with a letter to each of their chests. Francis's was "F."
"Your only duty is to wait in your room until called. Lunch is at noon; doors open automatically. Follow the main flow. You get an hour to eat. You can request books or a music Den Den Mushi if you can't read. We need you sane. A damaged specimen is useless."
He led Francis to a door. "This is yours."
The boy stepped inside. The door closed silently behind him with a click that rang like a gunshot in the stillness.
Silence. It was the first thing that struck Francis. After weeks in the hold amid creaking planks and prisoners' groans, after the screams during branding, this absolute, dead silence pressed on his ears.
The room was blindingly white—walls, ceiling, floor. He stepped forward cautiously, his feet leaving faint marks on the pristine surface. He approached the bed and poked it warily. It gave way softly. For a boy used to sleeping on planks or, at best, a straw mattress, it was a miracle.
His gaze fell on a separate room—a bathroom, with a strange white device like a porcelain throne. A glossy plaque on the wall bore clear, childlike illustrations.
First image: a stick figure smiling, sitting on the device.
Second: the figure stands.
Third: its hand points to a lever, an arrow indicating to push it down.
Fourth: "dirty" brown clumps vanish from the device, replaced by sparkling blue water with stars of cleanliness. A thumbs-up beside it.
Francis approached, never having seen such a thing. With distrust and curiosity, he pressed the lever.
A powerful swirl of water spun inside, disappearing with a sucking sound. He flinched—this was magic, terrifying and incomprehensible. He waited, then peered inside. The bowl refilled with clear water. He pressed the lever again. The same vortex. In his village, there was only a pit latrine out back. This technology was as much a symbol of power as the brand on his back.
He stepped back from the marvel and sat on the bed's edge, then, gathering courage, lay down. His body sank into softness, like lying on a cloud. The comfort was so alien it sparked unease. This luxury was part of the cage. As his body relaxed, his mind raced, replaying everything since leaving the hall.
He hadn't just followed Aris mindlessly. He memorized: left turn at the fountain with winged fish, straight down the alley with perfectly round trees, seven guards at the gray building's entrance, the elevator's position. He ran the route through his mind, burning it into memory. But the conclusions were grim.
He stared at the blank white ceiling, trying to calm himself. Then he noticed it—a tiny black dot in the corner where the walls met. Not dirt, not a flaw—too perfect. Sitting up, he stared. It didn't move, but he felt it watching. A tiny surveillance Den Den Mushi, its lens-eye fixed on him.
A chill erased the bed's warmth. He bolted to the bathroom and checked the ceiling. Another dot, above the strange toilet.
They're everywhere, always watching.
He returned to the room and sat on the bed, now feeling hard and cold. The only exit he knew was the guarded elevator. He had no information about what lay beyond this corridor, no strength to fight even one guard, no allies. He was trapped in a sterile box deep underground, under constant surveillance, his only right to wait for the call to an experiment.
Francis stared at the empty white ceiling. A single hot tear rolled down his cheek. He was alone. Utterly alone.
"Fuck."