-Real World-
The name Kyros had become legend in Dressrosa—a statue of the undefeated gladiator still stood proud in the Corrida Colosseum, commemorating a hero who never lost a single match. Yet over the years, influenced by the insidious power of the Hobi Hobi no Mi (Hobby-Hobby Fruit), the citizens had come to believe this champion was nothing more than folklore. A convenient fiction. A statue with no man behind it.
The truth, as always, was far crueler.
Those toys shuffling through the streets—colorful, cheerful things that danced for tourists and performed in shows—had once been living, breathing humans. Husbands stolen from wives. Sons erased from mothers' hearts. Fathers forgotten by their children. The Hobi Hobi no Mi didn't just transform bodies; it rewrote reality itself, scrubbing memories clean until not even love could remember its shape.
To be forgotten by your own family... there was no greater tragedy in the world.
Rebecca clutched the one-legged toy soldier to her chest, her revealing gladiator outfit doing nothing to protect her from the emotional storm raging through her heart. Tears streamed down her face as the Sky Screen's revelation shattered years of false memories. "Dad! Dad, why didn't you tell me earlier? I missed you so much... you were always right there!"
The toy soldier—Kyros, the legendary gladiator reduced to painted wood and fabric—could do nothing but stand stiffly in his daughter's embrace. The Hobi Hobi no Mi had stolen his tears, his expressions, his very humanity. But it couldn't erase what burned in his mechanical heart.
"Rebecca..." His voice came out flat, emotionless, a mockery of the warmth he wanted to convey. "I've always been by your side. I never left you."
Not once, he wanted to scream. Not for a single day.
He'd watched his stubborn daughter reject pretty dresses and peaceful lives, instead picking up a sword to become a gladiator—walking the same blood-soaked path he once had. He'd stood helpless in the crowds as spectators hurled insults and obscenities at her, their vitriol echoing through the arena while she fought for survival. Every wound she received, every humiliation she endured, carved deeper into his wooden shell.
There had been moments—quiet, desperate moments—when he'd nearly revealed the truth. The words had climbed to his throat a thousand times. But shame always pushed them back down. What kind of father was he? He couldn't even protect his wife. Couldn't raise his sword to save his own daughter. What right did he have to claim her as his own?
The Sky Screen had torn away that choice, exposing everything.
And now, as father and daughter clung to each other, the broadcast continued its merciless revelation.
The image shifted to a scene of unspeakable horror.
King Riku—the beloved former monarch of Dressrosa—stood over the bodies of Anna and Violet, his hands stained with their blood. The kindly old king who once danced in the streets with his people had become something monstrous, his face twisted with an emotion that looked disturbingly like satisfaction.
Rebecca's breath caught in her throat. "King Riku killed Violet? What... what could have happened to him in five years?"
She didn't even call him grandfather. The title stuck in her throat, heavy and wrong. Logically, she knew she shared blood with Elsa and Anna—they were cousins, weren't they? Seeing them cut down, watching a grandfather become a murderer... it carved something cold and hollow in her chest.
Kyros said nothing. He hadn't seen King Riku in years. The old king had vanished into Dressrosa's shadows, and despite Doflamingo's relentless searches, he'd remained a ghost. A symbol more than a man.
But what kind of symbol kills his own family?
Citizens throughout Dressrosa recognized the helmet-wearing figure on the Sky Screen—the distinctive armor of the gladiator known as "Ricky." Whispers spread through the crowds like wildfire. Could it really be him? The former king, hiding in the arena all this time?
-Broadcast-
King Riku knelt beside his daughter's corpse, his hands trembling as he reached out to close Violet's eyes. The gesture was tender despite the violence that had preceded it—a father's final service to a child he'd just murdered.
"Sleep well, Violet," he whispered, his voice cracking. "You can blame me. Hate me. Curse me for all eternity. But Doflamingo's bloodline cannot exist in this world. For the sake of everyone who suffered, it had to end. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."
But Violet's eyes wouldn't close. No matter how many times he stroked his fingers across her lids, they remained open, staring accusingly at the ceiling. At him. At the monster he'd become.
"Ah..." King Riku made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. His hands fell away from his daughter's face, leaving her glassy eyes fixed in eternal judgment. "So be it. Even in death, you refuse to forgive me."
He pushed himself upright, his knees cracking with the effort. Every movement felt like dragging weights through mud. He'd aged a decade in the span of minutes, his energy drained by the magnitude of what he'd done.
But he couldn't stop now. Couldn't afford hesitation or second thoughts.
A brave man draws his sword against the strong. A coward draws his sword against the weak.
The words echoed in his mind with damning clarity. He couldn't defeat Doflamingo—had tried and failed spectacularly three years ago. So instead, he'd found validation in slaughtering children. Told himself it was justice. Told himself it was for the people. But beneath those noble justifications lurked something darker: the simple, human need to hurt someone after years of powerlessness and humiliation.
And Elsa was still out there. Still breathing. Still carrying that cursed bloodline.
King Riku checked his pistol—three bullets remaining—and stepped over his daughter's body without looking back. The door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing the devastated landscape of the King's Plateau. Small footprints led away into the rubble, easy to follow even in the fading light.
Behind him, Violet's corpse stared at the open doorway, watching her father pursue her surviving child with eyes that would never close.
Elsa ran with everything she had, her small legs pumping frantically as tears blurred her vision. Her sister was dead. Her mother was dying or dead. And the nice old man who'd called himself "Grandpa" had revealed himself as a monster wearing a grandfather's face.
Senior Pink, she thought desperately. Eren. Someone. Anyone. Please help me.
But Senior Pink was nowhere to be found and Eren had his own problems. She was alone, running through the ruins in her thin dress with a killer at her back.
A glance over her shoulder confirmed her worst fear: King Riku was gaining ground, his longer legs eating up the distance with ruthless efficiency. Her footprints stood out clearly in the ash and dust coating the scorched earth.
Think, Elsa. Think!
She reached down and yanked off her shoes—the pretty ones Senior Pink had bought her during their last shopping trip, when she'd still believed the world was safe and adults could be trusted. They were slowing her down, and worse, leaving obvious tracks.
But even barefoot, a five-year-old's legs couldn't outpace a grown man's stride. Within moments, King Riku had closed the gap to mere meters.
The ruins!
Elsa spotted a collapsed section of palace wall, its stones creating a maze of gaps and crawlspaces. She dove for the nearest opening—a crack barely wide enough for her small body—and squeezed inside just as the first gunshot rang out.
BANG!
The bullet struck stone inches from her foot, sending chips of rock flying. Elsa screamed and scrambled deeper into the rubble, ignoring the sharp edges that tore at her dress and scraped her skin raw.
BANG! BANG!
Two more shots followed, the reports echoing through the ruins like thunder. One bullet ricocheted off the stone wall near her head, close enough that she felt the displaced air.
"Don't run, Elsa!" King Riku's voice carried the false warmth of a concerned grandfather. "You can't escape. Come back, and I'll make it quick. Painless. Not like poor Anna. I promise you won't suffer."
Liar! Elsa wanted to scream back, but fear had stolen her voice. She pressed herself further into the darkness, wiggling through a gap that would be impossible for an adult to follow.
The stones scraped her arms and legs bloody. Her beautiful dress—the one her mom had sewn for her with such care—tore on a jagged edge, leaving a long strip of fabric behind. But Elsa barely noticed the pain. Survival instinct overrode everything else as she pushed deeper and deeper into the rubble until she reached a small chamber formed by fallen support beams.
There, in the darkness with blood trickling down her limbs and her chest heaving with panicked breaths, Elsa finally stopped.
King Riku's shadow fell across the entrance she'd used, his bulk blocking most of the fading daylight. He knelt down, peering into the gap with his empty pistol hanging loose in one hand.
"Elsa," he called, his voice still carrying that horrible false gentleness. "You're trapped in there. No food. No water. How long do you think a little girl can last? A day? Two? Three if you're very strong?" He paused. "Come out now, and I'll end it quickly. That's far more mercy than Doflamingo ever showed anyone."
Elsa pressed her hands over her ears, trying to block out his voice. Tears tracked clean lines through the dust on her face as she curled into the smallest ball possible, making herself invisible in the darkness.
I want Senior Pink. I want Mama. I want Anna.
But Senior Pink was dead. Mama was dead. Anna was dead. And all she had left was this small pocket of darkness in the ruins, with a murderer waiting patiently outside for her to make a mistake.
For a five-year-old girl, life and death had become concepts too large to comprehend—yet she'd been forced to understand them anyway.