Year 1476 of the Sea Circle Calendar.
A salty wind swept across the darkest depths of Devil Island, carrying with it the scent of blood and the sea. Once the den of a colossal beast, the cavern had now become the heart of the Rocks Pirates.
On a rough throne carved from a single massive boulder sat Rocks D. Xebec — the man the World Government deemed one of the greatest threats to their rule.
Around him stood three figures powerful enough to shake the seas themselves: Edward Newgate, the man with the white beard; Shiki, the Golden Lion; and Stussy, a woman of striking beauty and mysterious origins.
At the cave's entrance, dozens of the Rocks Pirates' foot soldiers stood guard. These were no greenhorns — each was a hardened outlaw of the New World, their hands long stained with blood.
Then, suddenly, a scream echoed from the entrance, followed by a heavy thud. A drunken pirate, startled, toppled into a pile of empty bottles, the shattering glass barely noticeable amid the noise.
All eyes turned toward the shadowed mouth of the cave.
From the meeting point of blinding sunlight and suffocating darkness, a lone figure emerged. Tall and straight-backed, he wore simple yet finely made dark clothing. His steps were calm, unhurried — almost regal.
At his waist hung a long sword, plain and unadorned, yet heavy with an aura of age and battle.
His face was hidden in shadow, but the pressure radiating from him was like a freezing tide. The rowdy pirates, loud just moments ago, suddenly found themselves unable to breathe — as though invisible hands had seized their throats.
"Hey! Where'd this bastard come from? How dare you trespass into Rocks' territory?!" roared a pirate leader with a cross-shaped scar across his face. He was built like a bear, and as he hefted his massive mace, his grin twisted into something cruel — a roar meant to drown the unease crawling up his spine.
Behind him, the others stirred like a pack of enraged hyenas, grabbing whatever weapons they could find and rushing forward, eyes gleaming with bloodlust.
But the newcomer — Tenma — did not draw his sword.
He didn't even change his pace. As the wave of pirates surged toward him, he merely shifted his stance slightly — right hand on his hilt, left gripping the base of his ancient scabbard.
Move.
For a moment, his figure blurred — then stilled.
A heartbeat later, a flurry of dull thuds broke out, like rain striking rotten wood.
The scar-faced leader raised his mace — but before the weapon could fall, something struck his wrist at an impossible angle. No sound of breaking bone, just a flash of pain. His arm went numb, and the mace flew from his grasp.
Then, with a flick of Tenma's wrist, the scabbard shot forward like a serpent and struck the hollow of the man's throat.
His eyes bulged. His body went limp, collapsing to the ground without a sound, blood bubbling from his lips.
Another pirate — dual blades flashing — lunged in. The scabbard darted like a ghost, smashing into his elbow. A sharp crack split the air. His arms twisted unnaturally backward, swords clattering to the ground before a blow to his jaw sent him crashing into the wall.
A third pirate swung a chain hammer, the iron ball howling through the air. Tenma sidestepped, sliding his scabbard along the chain until it wedged perfectly between the links. He twisted —
Crack!
The iron ring snapped, and the hammer head went flying — slamming into a nearby gunman's leg. As the man screamed, the blunt end of the scabbard struck his temple, silencing him instantly.
A cyborg-like pirate roared, swinging a crude metal fist. Tenma advanced, driving his scabbard into the joint where flesh met steel. With a sharp twist, the prosthetic arm tore free in a shower of sparks and metal screeches.
The man barely managed a scream before the scabbard swept across his face like an iron ruler — his features crushed into a blur.
Every movement was clean, brutal, and precise — no wasted motion, no flash of blades. Only the sound of flesh, bone, and metal breaking under raw force.
Tenma wove through the crowd like a phantom. With each breath, another pirate fell — clutching shattered limbs, choking on blood, or simply collapsing unconscious.
It was over in less than a dozen breaths.
The last pirate raised his machete behind Tenma — but before he could strike, Tenma's wrist flicked. The scabbard whipped backward, stabbing upward into the man's chest.
A gurgle escaped his throat as he froze — then fell silently to the floor.
Silence.
Only the crackle of torches and the faint groans of the fallen remained. The air was thick with the scent of blood and smoke.
Tenma stood motionless halfway between Rocks' throne and the cave entrance, his right hand still resting on the hilt, his left gripping the bloodstained scabbard.
He lifted his head slightly, the shadow fading from his face, revealing calm, unwavering eyes. His gaze cut through the dust and death, locking onto the monstrous figure on the throne — Rocks D. Xebec.
The faint smile that curved Rocks' lips broke the stillness. He leaned forward, the air itself trembling under the weight of his presence.
Whitebeard's muscles tightened around his naginata, eyes sharp as steel. The Golden Lion's grin vanished, replaced by pure fighting intent.
Stussy's crimson lips pressed into a thin line; her stance shifted subtly, ready for battle. Her sharp eyes fixed on the bloodstained scabbard, as if trying to glimpse the blade within.
The atmosphere froze solid. The moans of the wounded became nothing but background noise.
The sword remained sheathed.
Then Tenma spoke.
His voice was calm, almost quiet — yet it sliced through the suffocating air like a blade.
"My name is Tenma," he said. "I'm here to join you."