I woke to the artificial sun on the ceiling glowing brighter. There were no clocks in the room, but my body told me I'd slept long. For the first time in ages, lying on a soft bed instead of filthy planks, I felt rested. It was a trap—comfort lulls you, makes you forget who you are and where you are. I wouldn't let it.
First, I went to the white marvel in the corner of the room. Probably the greatest invention I'd seen in my short life. I still pressed the lever warily, but it was better than a pit in the ground. The sink was another wonder—clean, cool water flowed at my command. I drank and splashed my face, catching my reflection in the polished metal. An exhausted boy with a collar around his neck. The brand on my back burned beneath the robe. That's who I was: Subject F.
I sat on the bed and waited. Two hours of total silence, alone with my thoughts. Where to start? My plan for survival and escape. It sounded foolish, I knew, but without a goal, I'd become like those women in the baths—empty-eyed shells.
Step one: information. I needed to know everything. What was this place? What was "Section F"? What did they want from me? Most importantly, were there any weak points?
Step two: observation. I already knew about the Den Den Mushi cameras. They saw everything I did in this room. So, I had to hide my true thoughts and act the model slave.
Step three: strength. I was weak—an eight-year-old couldn't fight guards. But I could get stronger. I had to try.
Finally, a soft click, and my door slid open. I stepped into the corridor. Other slaves were already there—men, women, even a few teenagers—silently lining up for the elevator. Surprisingly, many looked… normal. Not broken or starved. Their eyes held fatigue and wariness, not despair.
A middle-aged man with thick mustaches and a scar over his eyebrow glanced at me. "New kid?" he whispered.
I nodded, trying to look scared and confused.
"Got it. Name's John," he said. "Listen up, kid. Do what everyone else does. Ten to an elevator, no pushing. It'll take us to the cafeteria. Grab a tray, get in line, take what they give you, no fuss. The food's decent."
Our turn came quickly. We boarded the elevator, and it glided silently downward. The doors opened, and I froze. A massive hall filled with hundreds of tables and chairs. Elevators on three other sides spilled out streams of slaves. Every kind of person was here: some with long arms, a man with shark-like skin, a woman with small horns on her forehead. A kaleidoscope of races and peoples, united by one fate, one brand on their backs.
Guards stood along the perimeter, maintaining order. No weapons—no swords or rifles. They didn't need them. The collars around our necks were their weapons.
I grabbed a tray, as John had said, and joined the line. Two steamed cutlets and a heap of mashed potatoes were slapped onto my plate. The smell was real, edible. My stomach growled. Spotting John at a far table, I sat across from him.
Time for answers. I swallowed a bite of cutlet—better than anything I'd ever tasted. But even this simple joy was tainted. They fed us well to keep our bodies ready for their purposes.
"Thanks for the help," I said quietly, staring at my plate.
"No big deal," John waved it off. "Everyone's new once. Just don't stir trouble, and you'll last."
"Last?" I looked up. "Why last here? What is this place? What do they do to us?"
John stopped chewing. His heavy gaze weighed me, as if deciding whether to talk about such things with a kid. Finally, he gave a humorless chuckle.
"What's that, kid? Planning an escape?" His question was quiet but sharp as a blade.
I shook my head slowly, eyes on my potatoes. "No."
His gaze softened. "Good answer." He resumed eating. "Listen, as weird as it sounds, life here's better than for slaves topside. Good food, warm beds, no beatings without reason. We get to meet basic needs. But there's a price. We don't last long."
He swallowed and lowered his voice, making me lean in. "Some last ten years if they're lucky. Others die in a month. It's no secret—anyone here a week knows it. Just don't shout it. Each section has its task. Mine's L." He tapped his badge. "Drugs. They test new pills on me and others like me. Pop a pill, get scanned, and I'm free till the next time. Our section's the biggest—most scientists, most slaves. Highest death rate, too. So, kid, I won't last long."
He fell silent, staring at his plate, then noticed my badge. His face shifted subtly, showing pity mixed with… superstitious fear.
"Section F…" he whispered. "Lucky and unlucky, kid. There aren't many like you. All we know is F deals with Devil Fruits. You guys can sit idle for months—half a year, a year. But when the experiment starts… no one comes back."
No one comes back. That should've terrified me, but beneath the horror and despair, a tiny, insane spark of hope ignited. It was a chance. The only, impossible chance to get out. Even a village kid like me knew about Devil Fruits. I recalled stories from traveling merchants in our tavern, sipping cheap ale—tales of people turning into fire, causing earthquakes, or becoming giant beasts.
There were three types: Zoan, granting animal powers; Paramecia, giving varied superhuman abilities; and Logia, the rarest, letting you become an element.
A Paramecia controlling space or a Logia making me invincible would be ideal. But the odds of getting something useful were slim. Why give slaves known fruits? The answer hit me: they didn't. They gave us unknown fruits, unlisted in any book. We were guinea pigs—they fed us a fruit, watched what happened, and recorded it.
And then? If the power was useful and controllable, the slave might be taken topside as a trained pet for the Celestial Dragons. If it was too dangerous or useless? Obvious—they'd kill us to keep the power from falling into the wrong hands.
Still… it was a chance.
***
Somewhere on the Grand Line…
Fog drifted over the wreckage-strewn shore of a nameless island. Two Marines in tattered uniforms patrolled, scavenging anything of value.
"Look, Tanaka!" shouted the younger, freckled one, pointing at something stuck in the wet sand.
It was a fruit—oddly shaped, shimmering in dark purple hues with swirling, pulsating patterns.
"A Devil Fruit!" gasped Tanaka, older and more experienced. "Get the book, quick!"
The young Marine pulled a battered tome from his pack—The Devil Fruit Encyclopedia. Tanaka flipped through it, fingers trembling with excitement.
"Wanna eat it?" the younger asked with a nervous laugh. "Might make you invincible."
"Idiot!" Tanaka snapped, eyes glued to the book. "If it's not in the catalog, we can sell it. Not for some measly hundred million like a useless fruit…"
He reached the end, then flipped through again. His eyes widened. "It's not here…"
The young Marine swallowed. "How… how much is it worth?"
Tanaka's eyes gleamed with mad greed. "An unknown fruit starts at a billion beli. A billion! I'll be richer than a king! I—"
A wet, slicing sound cut through the fog. Tanaka gurgled, looking down at the bloody blade of his own sword protruding from his chest. He turned slowly, confusion on his face, to see his partner.
The freckled Marine twisted the sword with cruel precision and yanked it out. Tanaka collapsed face-first into the sand.
"No," the young Marine said, wiping the blade on the dead man's pants. His freckled face twisted into an ugly grin. "I'll be the rich one."
***
Six months passed—182 days, to be exact. I counted each one. Life became a polished routine. Wake to the artificial sun. Lunch in the noisy cafeteria. Then long hours alone in my white cage, dedicated to learning.
I taught myself to read. As promised, slaves could request books, so I started with simple children's picture books. The alphabet was easy; I knew how words sounded, just needed to match them to symbols. Harder were words I'd never heard.
"What's 'rigging'?" I asked John once, pointing at a book.
He stared through the cafeteria wall for a long time. "It's… the set of ropes and gear for securing, lifting, moving, or holding cargo," he finally said. A month later, Section L took him for "testing." I never saw him again.
Training was tougher. I approached a huge former pirate, his muscles like tree trunks, and asked how to get strong. He laughed and said something odd.
"It's not about how you swing your fists, kid," he said. "It's what you put into the punch. Will—that's what matters."
I didn't fully get it. So, every day, I squatted until my legs turned to jelly, did push-ups until my arms gave out. I poured all my hate and will to live into each move. With decent food and exercise, I grew stronger—not the scrawny kid who stepped off the ship anymore.
On the 183rd day, the routine broke. My door slid open not at noon but early morning. A faceless man in a black suit stood in the doorway.
"Subject F, follow me."
My heart skipped, then raced. The day had come.
I was led to a spacious white room, like an office. Three other slaves stood along the wall: an ordinary pirate, a woman, and a quiet teenager. I joined them silently. Six more arrived. Ten of us—ten "Fs." The door closed behind the last.
Dr. Aris stepped forward, tablet in hand, eyeing us like lab rats. "Greetings, specimens," he said evenly. "Today is a big day for science. Remember your order in line. From now until the experiment ends, you are numbers. Number one," he pointed at the pirate. "Number two. Number three."
He reached me. "Number four."
And so on. I was Number Four. My identity erased, reduced to a designation.
"Assistants, bring them in," Aris ordered.
Two men in lab coats wheeled in a large rack. On ten stands lay them—Devil Fruits, each uniquely bizarre. My eyes scanned them, but my mind locked onto one: dark purple, shaped like an elongated pear, covered in intricate patterns. It wasn't the brightest or biggest, but I felt… a pull. An invisible thread connecting me to it. It called me.
"Attention," Aris said, adjusting a recording Den Den Mushi. "Rules are simple. When the countdown ends, you all approach and eat one fruit simultaneously."
I didn't get the point of the rule—why create a rush? But then I realized it played to my advantage. I wouldn't have to wait my turn and risk someone taking my fruit.
"Three."
I tensed my legs, ready to spring.
"Two."
My eyes fixed on the purple fruit. The woman, Number Two, was staring at it too. My heart pounded.
"One!"
Chaos erupted. The pirate shoved someone aside; others lunged for the nearest or flashiest fruits. I bolted for my target. The woman's hands reached for it at the same time. In another life, I might've yielded, but not here, not now. This was my only shot. I knocked her hands away with a sharp move. She yelped, startled, as I grabbed the fruit.
It was warm, vibrating strangely in my palm. Without hesitation, I bit into it. The taste was vile—like chewing rotten earth mixed with manure. My stomach heaved, but I clamped my hand over my mouth, forcing myself to swallow. I had to eat it all. Who knew what would happen with just half? A weaker power? A flawed one? I couldn't risk it. Gagging and choking, I ate every bit.
I looked around. The others had finished too—some crying, some panting, leaning against the wall.
"Excellent," Aris said, a hint of scientific glee in his voice, scribbling on his tablet. "All specimens have consumed the fruits. Testing begins. Number One, to the testing ground."
The humiliating, nauseating taste lingered, but inside… nothing. I closed my eyes, searching for a spark, a new power. I tried to feel something—warmth, a tingle, a surge. But there was only emptiness. For a moment, icy fear gripped my heart. Had it not worked?
Before panic set in, guards entered, moving in unison as if by silent command. Two approached me and snapped handcuffs on my wrists—not the rusty shackles from the ship, but smooth, heavy ones glinting dark blue.
The moment the metal touched my skin, I felt it: overwhelming, bone-deep weakness. Like my bones were gone, my blood replaced with lead. My legs buckled, but a guard steadied me. I glanced around—all nine "numbers" swayed, faces pale. Any power we might've gained was instantly stripped away.
"So you don't get any ideas," Aris said calmly, observing our reactions. "These are Sea Prism Stone cuffs, or Kairoseki. A unique material emitting the sea's energy. It nullifies any Devil Fruit power, rendering the user helpless. Now you understand your place. Watch the tests closely. The sooner we classify your abilities, the sooner you return to your rooms."
He was lying. "Return to your rooms" sounded like "we'll let you go," but the venom in his words was clear.
Number One was pushed toward a large door. It opened, and he entered the next area, separated from us by thick, clear glass. We were spectators in a theater of horrors, knowing we'd soon take the stage.
The testing ground had three distinct zones. The first, nearest us, held a rack loaded with materials: stones, metal chunks, wood, silk spools, vials of slime, spiderwebs under glass, sand, clay…
Aris's amplified voice came through the speakers, linked to a Den Den Mushi. "Number One, approach the first rack. Touch each material in order. Take your time. Report anything unusual immediately."
The pirate, looking confused but clinging to scraps of courage, approached and jabbed a granite boulder. Nothing. He ran his hand over silk. Nothing. He dipped a finger in slime, grimacing. Still nothing. He worked through the rack, his confidence fading with each touch.
"I feel nothing," he said toward our "aquarium."
"Expected," Aris commented flatly. "Number One, proceed to the second zone."
The second zone had another rack, this time with animal samples: fur scraps, scales, feathers, each paired with a photo of the animal it came from. The pirate approached warily.
"Same order. Begin."
He touched a piece of bear fur. Then carp scales. Nothing. He reached the end, where bright, rainbow-hued feathers sat, paired with a photo of a large parrot. The moment his fingers brushed the soft plumage, something extraordinary happened.
His body arched. He screamed—a strange, rattling cry. His hair turned vibrant green, a red crest sprouting on his head. His arm bones cracked, reshaping before our eyes. Skin sprouted feathers, and his arms stretched into huge, clumsy wings.
"What the he-e-ell?! Squawk!" he rasped, his voice now shrill and birdlike, mimicking a parrot's cry.
Aris didn't flinch, scribbling on his tablet with clinical interest. "Specimen Number One," he dictated to the recording snail. "Zoan-type fruit, model: Bird, likely Ara. First activation of hybrid form via tactile contact with corresponding biomaterial. Speech imitation retained but distorted. Interesting…"
Guards entered, grabbing the still-screaming pirate, who flailed his new wings in panic, and dragged him out through another door.
"Number One, dismissed," Aris said indifferently, as if the experiment was over. He turned to us, the nine remaining. I understood: the first zone tested Paramecias tied to materials, the second Zoans, the third… something else.
"Number Two," he ordered. "To the testing ground."
The woman flinched. Guards removed her cuffs. She froze for a moment, but a shove sent her toward the door. She walked like she was headed to execution. The door closed with a heavy thud.
She moved cautiously, almost fearfully, in the first zone, barely touching each material, jerking her hand back as if expecting a burn. Nothing. In the second zone, she moved even slower, her eyes wide with dread at the fur and feathers. Nothing again. When she cleared both racks, a collective sigh of relief rippled through us. At least she wouldn't turn into an animal. But what awaited in the third zone?
The third zone was nearly empty—white walls, white floor. In the center, on a metal chair, sat a man in a perfectly tailored black suit, reading a newspaper, ignoring everything. His relaxed posture radiated concentrated menace, unsettling even through the glass.
The woman swallowed and approached. He didn't look up until she stopped a few meters away. Slowly, without a wasted motion, he folded the paper, set it on the chair, and stood.
"Finally," he said, his voice calm and bored. "I was getting restless."
He stepped toward her. She was tall, but beside him, she seemed fragile. Without warning, he struck her in the stomach with a short, precise blow. She doubled over, gasping.
"What's wrong?" he asked, tilting his head curiously. "I thought you gained a power. Feel it, awaken it. Fight back."
He grabbed her hair and struck her face. She flew back, collapsing. I saw other slaves turn away, unable to watch, but I forced myself to look. I had to see, to understand.
"Stop…" she whispered, trying to crawl away. "Please…"
He loomed over her, his boots squeaking softly. "Louder. I can't hear you."
He raised his foot, and in a final burst of desperation, she screamed, "STOP!"
The word rang like a gunshot. The agent froze, his foot an inch from her face. His neck muscles tensed, but he stood like a statue.
The woman, disbelieving, raised her head. A spark of power flashed in her eyes. "Bite… bite your tongue," she rasped.
Something horrific happened. The agent's jaw clenched. Slowly, against his will, his mouth opened. His body shook with effort. A black aura flickered around his fists, and with a roar, he broke free, staggering back.
He panted, rubbing his neck, then… laughed—a low, chilling sound. "Not bad," he said, straightening. "Very good. But know your place, slave."
Before she could respond, he stepped forward and delivered a precise, almost invisible strike to her temple with the edge of his hand. Her eyes rolled back, and she went limp. The blow was calculated—not to kill, but to knock out.
"Specimen Number Two," Aris dictated. "Paramecia-type fruit, tentatively 'Command.' First activation via vocal order under emotional stress. Effectiveness depends on target's willpower, can be overcome by Haki users. Requires further study."
Guards entered, lifted her unconscious body, and carried it away. The agent retrieved his newspaper, brushed off imaginary dust, and sat as if nothing had happened.
"Number Three," Aris ordered. "To the testing ground."
Guards removed the teenager's cuffs. He took a hesitant step, then another, like walking on thin ice. His face was pale, sweat beading on his temples. He was terrified—and that was the sanest response.
In the first zone, he moved as cautiously as the woman, pausing before touching each sample. Wood, metal, silk—nothing. He reached a small pile of gray ash, likely from burned wood. Hesitating, he dipped his fingers into it.
He froze.
"I… I feel it," he whispered, eyes wide with surprise. "It's… alive."
Aris tilted his head, his voice tinged with scientific curiosity. "Describe the sensation, Number Three."
"It… obeys. I can…" The boy focused, and the ash stirred, rising in a tiny vortex.
"Enough," Aris cut him off, scribbling. "Skip the second zone. Straight to the third. We likely have a Logia."
The boy's face flickered with confusion, then hope. Even I knew what that meant—control over an element, the chance to be more than a beast. He straightened, his fear gone as he walked to the third zone.
The agent set his newspaper aside as the boy stopped before him. "Two interesting ones in a row," he drawled, cracking his neck. "Let's see what you've got."
He didn't wait. His movement blurred—one moment ten meters away, the next his fist aimed at the boy's stomach. Number Three screamed, but the punch passed through him. A hole formed where the fist struck, its edges crumbling into gray ash.
"What…?" the boy gasped, staring at the hole, then the agent. A wild, euphoric grin spread across his face. "I'm… invincible!"
His body dissolved into a swirling cloud of ash. His collar, no longer touching flesh, emitted a shrill beep and exploded in a bright flash. The blast passed harmlessly through the ash cloud.
"HA-HA-HA!" his distorted, vibrating laugh echoed. "I'M A GOD! YOU HEAR ME? SUCK IT, BASTARDS!"
Instead of attacking, the cloud surged toward the floor. He wasn't fighting—he was escaping. The ash began seeping through cracks between tiles. He nearly succeeded, most of his "body" already beneath the floor, when he froze. The vortex jerked, and a screaming, solid boy tumbled out, instantly reverting to ash.
"Tch-tch-tch," the agent clucked. "Such childishness. Time for a lesson."
He raised one finger. "Your first mistake: thinking you could escape. Foolish boy, did you think we'd test you in an unsecured room? This entire chamber—walls, ceiling, floor beneath these tiles—is Sea Prism Stone. You were doomed from the start."
He raised a second finger. "Your second mistake: thinking invincibility makes you all-powerful. In your backwater village, you might've been a local god. But not here."
Though the boy was ash, the agent lunged. His fist, coated in something black and glossy, struck the cloud's center.
A dull, wet sound rang out. The vortex collapsed, and the boy's body hit the floor, eyes rolled back. One punch—one punch to defeat someone I thought was invincible.
"Specimen Number Three," Aris dictated as guards dragged the body away. "Logia-type fruit, tentatively 'Ash.' Allows the user to create, control, and become ash. Specimen showed aggression and attempted escape."
He finished and turned his cold gaze on me. "Number Four. To the testing ground."
My turn. I swallowed, cold sweat trickling down my back. I'd learned three vital lessons. First: power could be an illusion. Second: escape was impossible, at least this way. Third, most crucial: there were people here who could beat even the "invincible" with their bare hands.
And I was about to face one.
The guards removed my Kairoseki cuffs with a soft click. Strength flooded back, the weakness fading like a phantom echo. I stood, rubbing my wrists, awaiting orders.
"Number Four, proceed to the first zone," Aris's voice crackled through the speakers.
I nodded and approached the material rack. My goal was simple: look scared, obedient, and useless. I placed my hand on the granite boulder. Instantly, I felt it.
Not warmth or a tingle, but a low hum in my mind—a mental resonance. I knew the stone: its exact position, weight, density. Strangely, I also sensed my robe, the cold metal of my collar, everything in my field of vision echoing with this odd connection. Like I could extend invisible threads to each object.
I moved to the sand pile and touched it. Nothing—silence in my head. Same with sugar powder and a vial of water. My power didn't work on fine, loose, or liquid substances. That was the first rule. And I wouldn't tell anyone. Hiding information was my only real chance to escape.
"I… feel nothing," I said, my voice tinged with disappointment and fear.
"Expected. Second zone," Aris commanded flatly.
In the second zone, with animal samples, it happened again. Approaching the rack, I felt resonance from every item—bear fur, carp scales, a peacock feather. Then it hit me: I sensed a connection between them.
I looked at my collar and the peacock feather. A vivid, instinctive urge rose—to swap them. I could almost see the cold metal vanishing from my neck, replaced by a weightless feather. A smile threatened to spread across my face at the realization of this incredible power. But I clenched my fists, forcing my expression blank.
"Nothing," I repeated, staring at the floor. "Absolutely nothing."
"Hm. Proceed to the third zone," Aris said, a hint of curiosity in his voice.
The door closed behind me. The agent sat in the center, same newspaper in hand. I was certain he wasn't reading it—just using it to seem more detached and dangerous.
He folded it slowly, set it on the chair, and stood. "Number Four," he drawled, cracking his neck. "You're coming through like an assembly line. Three out of four made it to me. Almost a record."
Like before, he moved—a blur, too fast for a normal eye. But I'd seen it. I couldn't match his speed, but I knew his move and target. As he vanished, I threw myself right, clumsily tumbling aside.
His fist missed by an inch, striking air.
Surprise flickered in his eyes. He hadn't expected it, but it changed nothing. Before I could rise, his foot slammed into my ribs. Air rushed from my lungs, pain darkening my vision.
"Not bad," he hissed, looming over me.
He began beating me—methodically, brutally, each strike calculated. He wasn't trying to knock me out. His goal was to break me, force me to activate my power in desperation.
"Stop… please…" I rasped, tasting blood.
He grabbed my hair, lifting my head. "Want me to stop? Fight back. Show me your power!"
My head rang. His boot was inches from my face. I knew I could do it—one mental effort, and we'd swap places. Or I could swap with his newspaper. But revealing my power would end the pain only to seal my fate. They'd know, prepare, and I'd lose.
No, I had to endure.
He struck again. And again. The world narrowed to a point of pain. He kept hitting until I blacked out.
***
"Interesting case," Aris's voice came as guards lifted my limp body. He watched through the glass with curiosity. "Specimen Number Four showed no abilities. Either deliberate concealment, unlikely, or activation requires a specific emotional or physical trigger not achieved during the stress test."
He paused, his gaze sharpening. "Schedule additional tests for Subject F-4. Increase surveillance."
The guards dragged me from the room.
"Next. Number Five, to the testing ground."