The bar had the particular scent of old rum, sawdust, and fear. Not the sharp, desperate fear of a condemned man, but the soft, buzzing fear of creatures who knew they were being observed. Dorian swirled the wine in his glass—an expensive red from a vineyard that no longer existed, harvested in a year when the islands still kept calendars—and let his eyes drift over the chaos.
Pirates. Always pirates. They filled the establishment like theater troupes who believed themselves to be the only actors on stage, missing entirely the single audience member who had arrived before the curtain rose.
A man was being thrown through a table. His scream came too late, after the impact, which meant he was still processing the sequence of events: the insult, the fist, the airborne trajectory. Boring. Dorian catalogued it and moved on.
Three women in the corner were carving someone apart with knives that caught the lamplight. Their technique was competent—military, perhaps, or assassin-trained—but their eyes were wrong. They looked like they were working, not playing. Labor without pleasure. How exhausting.
Near the bar, a captain was strangling his own first mate over a dispute about navigation charts. The first mate's face had gone purple, and his legs kicked in patterns that grew more erratic by the second. Dorian counted the seconds. Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty—
The captain dropped the body. Not out of mercy, but because he'd noticed the first mate had soiled himself. The captain's disgust was palpable, and he walked away without a backward glance, leaving the corpse to cool while his crew continued their revelry.
Dorian sipped his wine. The vintage was good—berries and oak and the faint memory of ash—but the entertainment was below par. He was considering whether to leave, perhaps find a different establishment in the port, when he noticed the boy.
He wasn't the main attraction. The main attraction was a brawl near the door, where six pirates had ganged up on a single opponent and were dismantling him with the methodical cruelty of men who had nothing better to do. The boy was behind the bar, trying to make himself invisible behind a stack of crates, but Dorian had excellent vision and better instincts.
The boy couldn't have been more than fourteen. His skin was the brown of sun-baked sand, and his eyes—when Dorian caught a glimpse of them—were the color of honey held up to fire. Amber. Warm and unstable. He was thin in the way that young things were thin: all limbs and angles, not yet filled out by years or violence. His hands trembled as he clutched a broken bottle neck, the jagged glass the only weapon he could reach.
Dorian tilted his head. Not the full forty-five degrees—that was for moments of genuine interest—but a careful fifteen degrees, enough to sharpen his focus.
The boy was terrified. Anyone could see that. His pulse was visible in his throat, a stuttering rhythm that Caleo could almost hear from across the room. And yet the boy hadn't run. Hadn't hidden properly. Hadn't begged.
He was waiting.
For what? Dorian wondered. For the right moment? For an opening? Or simply waiting for the inevitable, holding his broken bottle like a talisman against the void?
The brawl near the door ended. Five of the six pirates walked away; one didn't walk at all. The survivors laughed and ordered more rum, and the corpse was dragged outside by a server who showed no emotion whatsoever. The normal rhythm of pirate life resumed.
And then the brute appeared.
He came through the door like a natural disaster—shoulders wide enough to brush both jambs, head shaved clean, arms thick as anchor chains. His knuckles were scarred and blackened, and when he spoke, his voice was the sound of stones grinding together.
"Where's the captain who insulted my sister?"
The room went quiet. Not the quiet of fear, but the quiet of anticipation. Everyone knew this brute. The name passed from lip to lip in whispers that reached Dorian's ears with perfect clarity.
Gorgon.
The man had earned his name from the way his victims petrified before he killed them—not literally, but spiritually. They saw him coming, and their bodies simply stopped responding. Fear so pure it became paralysis.
Dorian watched the brute scan the room. His eyes passed over the corpses already stacking up, over the cowering bar staff, over the pirates who suddenly found their drinks fascinating. And then those eyes found the boy.
"You." The brute's voice was almost gentle. "The captain. Where is he?"
The boy didn't answer. Couldn't answer. His throat had closed around any sound, and his hands—the ones clutching the broken bottle—shook so violently the glass caught the light and threw it back in fragments.
Dorian set down his wine.
He didn't stand. Not yet. He simply uncrossed his legs and let his weight settle forward, like a predator adjusting before the pounce. The chains inside him stirred, responding to the shift in his posture, and he let them. Just barely. Just enough to feel their familiar weight against his skin.
"I asked you a question."
The brute was moving now, each step shaking the floorboards. The pirates scattered in his path, and the bar staff pressed themselves against the walls. No one was going to help the boy. No one was going to intervene.
This was the moment, Dorian realized. This was when he would discover what the boy was made of.
The bottle was rising. Not much—the boy's arms barely had the strength to lift it—but it was rising. His stance was wrong, his grip was wrong, his timing would be wrong. He would die in the next three seconds, and he knew it, and still he tried.
Brave. Foolish. Potentially magnificent.
Dorian smiled.
It wasn't a large smile. It didn't crack his face or show his teeth. It was simply a softening of his features, a recognition of something delicious on the horizon. For the first time that evening, he was interested.
"Stop."
The word came out softly, almost sweetly, like a parent calling a child away from danger. It cut through the ambient noise of the bar with impossible precision, reaching every ear in the room.
The brute stopped. Not because the word was a command—Gorgon had ignored commands before—but because something in that voice triggered an instinct older than thought. Something that whispered, very quietly, about mortality.
Dorian rose from his table. He adjusted his coat—a simple black thing, cut in a style that was fashionable in the New World three years ago—and walked toward the center of the room. His steps were unhurried, almost lazy, as if he were strolling through a garden rather than approaching a man who had killed forty-seven people with his bare hands.
"You're interrupting," the brute said. His voice had lost its grinding quality. Now it was flat. Careful. "Walk away."
"I don't think I will."
Dorian stopped three feet from the brute. Close enough to be intimate. Far enough to give the man a false sense of space.
The boy was still frozen behind the bar, the bottle raised in his trembling hands. His eyes—those beautiful amber eyes—were fixed on Dorian's back, not understanding, not hoping, simply watching.
"This boy interests me," Dorian said. "I'd prefer you didn't break him before I'd had a chance to taste him."
Gorgon's face twisted. "Taste him? What are you, some kind of—"
"Peace." Dorian raised a hand, and at his wrist, a chain emerged.
It was thin. Almost delicate. Gold in color, with links so small they seemed to shimmer rather than clink. It looked like jewelry, like a bracelet, like a curio one might purchase from a street vendor. There was nothing threatening about it.
Dorian knew this. He had designed it that way.
"Please," he said, and this time the word was addressed to the chain itself. "Don't be rude."
The chain shot forward.
It moved faster than the eye could track, faster than Gorgon could react. The brute's hand came up—a defensive motion, instinctive and fast—but the chain was already past it, already wrapping around the boy's wrist, already pulling him forward with gentle but inexorable force.
"What the—"
Dorian caught the boy's flailing arm with his other hand. The bottle clattered to the floor, its jagged edge catching the lamplight one last time before it rolled into shadow.
"Shh," Dorian murmured, close enough that his breath stirred the boy's hair. "You're safe. For now."
He released the boy and turned to face the brute.
Gorgon was staring at the chain that still hung from Dorian's wrist. His eyes had gone wide, and his breathing had grown ragged. Recognition was dawning across his face like a storm approaching the horizon.
"You're a Devil Fruit user," he said.
"I am." Caleo extended his hand, letting the chain fall away. "Does that change things?"
"It means you're a monster."
Dorian laughed. It was a pleasant laugh, warm and amused, entirely at odds with the tension that had filled the room. "How flattering. But you're mistaken. I'm not a monster. I'm simply... discriminating."
He tilted his head. Full forty-five degrees now. The brute's fear was fascinating—it had a texture, a flavor, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. But underneath the fear was something else. Anger. Pride. The desperate courage of a man who had built his reputation on never backing down.
The chain slid from Dorian's wrist and curled lazily around his fingers. It moved like a living thing, like smoke given form, like desire made solid. He watched Gorgon's eyes track its movement and smiled.
"I'd like to make a proposal," Dorian said. "A small game. You try to kill the boy. I try to stop you. If you succeed, I'll let you leave with your life. If I succeed..."
He paused, letting the silence stretch. The chain hummed in his hand, vibrating with anticipation.
"If I succeed, you tell me your name. Your real name. The one you were born with, not the one you earned."
Gorgon's face contorted. "Why would I—"
"Because if you refuse, I'll simply kill you now. And then I'll find your sister, and I'll ask her what your name was. And she'll tell me, because she won't be able to refuse either." Caleo's smile deepened. "I prefer the first option. It has more... tension."
The brute's hands came up. His knuckles cracked, and the sound was like branches breaking under snow. His stance shifted, and Dorian recognized the pattern—a fighting style from the South Blue, heavy on grappling, designed to crush larger opponents through leverage and brutality.
Not clever. Not beautiful. But effective.
"You're fast," Dorian acknowledged. "Strong too. I've been watching you for the past hour, you know. The way you handled those six pirates at the door. The efficiency of your movements. You don't waste energy on flourishes."
Gorgon charged.
The chain shot out again. This time it wasn't gentle—it wrapped around the brute's ankle and pulled, hard, yanking his feet out from under him. Gorgon hit the floor with a crash that sent dust flying, and before he could rise, three more chains had emerged, binding his wrists and his other ankle.
"Not bad," Dorian said. "Your recovery time was excellent. Most men would have stayed down for another three seconds. You were up in one."
He walked closer, his boots clicking against the wooden floor. The chains in his hand—now a bundle of five, six, seven—danced and shimmered, catching the light like a constellation of golden stars.
"But you're holding your breath," Dorian continued. "Why? Are you trying to burst your blood vessels? That won't help you escape. In fact, it will make you weaker. Slow your reactions. Cloud your judgment."
Gorgon strained against the chains. They didn't break. They didn't even creak. They simply held, elastic and unyielding, stretching slightly with each of his struggles and then snapping back into place.
"What are these things?" the brute gasped.
"Chains." Dorian knelt beside him, close enough to whisper. "Born from my flesh, bound to my will. Each one is different. Some are designed to restrain. Others to cut. Others still to... feel."
He reached out and placed a hand on Gorgon's chest. The chain connecting them hummed, and Dorian's eyes fluttered closed for a moment.
"Your heart is racing," he murmured. "One hundred and forty beats per minute. I'm impressed. Most men are at two hundred by now." His fingers traced a pattern on the brute's chest. "Your muscles are tense. You've trained them well, but you've trained them wrong. Your left shoulder is weaker than your right—you favor it, which means you've injured it at some point. A spear wound, perhaps? Or a sword?"
Gorgon said nothing. His face had gone red, and his jaw was clenched so hard Dorian could hear his teeth grinding.
"I'm going to release you now," Dorian said, rising. "You're going to stand up. You're going to walk out that door. And you're going to tell me your name."
"You said if I succeeded—"
"No." Dorian's voice was gentle, but there was an edge to it. A cold, sharp edge that cut through the room like a blade through silk. "I said if you killed the boy. You didn't. You couldn't. And now you're going to leave, because I'm allowing you to leave, because the alternative—killing you here, in front of all these witnesses—is so thoroughly uninteresting that I've already forgotten about it."
The chains retracted. All of them. They flowed back into Dorian's wrists like water into a river, disappearing beneath his skin without a trace.
Gorgon rose slowly. His limbs were shaking, and his eyes couldn't quite meet Dorian's. He looked like a man who had stared into the abyss and found the abyss staring back with mild amusement.
"Marcus," he said finally. "My name is Marcus."
"Lovely." Dorian smiled—a real smile this time, soft and warm and entirely inappropriate for the situation. "I'll remember that, Marcus. Perhaps we'll meet again, when you've grown enough to be interesting."
The brute didn't respond. He turned and walked out the door, his shoulders hunched, his stride unsteady. The pirates in the bar watched him go in silence.
Dorian turned to the boy.
The child was still frozen behind the bar, but his posture had changed. The trembling had stopped. His hands were still empty—the bottle lay forgotten on the floor—but his spine was straight, and his eyes... his eyes were fixed on Dorian with something that wasn't fear.
Recognition. Wonder. The beginning of hunger.
"What's your name?" Dorian asked.
The boy swallowed. His throat worked, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse but steady.
"Kal."
"Kal." Dorian tasted the name, rolling it around on his tongue like wine. "A short name. Strong consonants. I like it."
He reached into his coat and withdrew a small object—a knife, simple and functional, with a blade that had been recently sharpened. He set it on the bar between them.
"This is for you." Kal's eyes widened, but Dorian continued before he could speak. "Not as a gift. As a promise. The next time we meet, you'll be stronger. You'll have learned something. You'll have survived something. And I'll be watching."
Kal's hand moved toward the knife. Slowly, as if he were afraid it might vanish. His fingers closed around the handle, and he lifted it with the reverence of a man accepting a sacred relic.
"Why?" he asked.
Dorian smiled. It was the smile he reserved for moments of genuine pleasure—not the predatory grin he wore in battle, nor the social smile he deployed in conversation. This was softer. Almost tender.
"Because you lifted the bottle," he said. "You were terrified. You knew you would die. And you lifted the bottle anyway. That's not courage—that's something better. That's instinct. That's hunger."
He turned away, walking back toward his table, his wine, his evening.
"Remember, Kal. The fruit that ripens first rots first. Let yourself grow. Let yourself change. And when you're ready—when you've become something worth breaking—I'll come back for you."
The door closed behind him, and the bar erupted into chaos.
Dorian walked through the port city with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the stars. The night was warm, scented with salt and tropical flowers, and somewhere behind him, a boy was holding a knife and wondering if he had just been blessed or cursed.
Both, Dorian thought. Definitely both.
He found a quiet street and leaned against a wall, pulling out the wine bottle he'd confiscated from the bar. It was only half-full now—the rest had been spilled during his little demonstration—but it was still drinkable.
He thought about Marcus. About the fear in the brute's eyes, the way it had curdled into something almost like relief when Dorian had let him go. That was the thing about fear: it was only terrible when it was constant. The moment it broke, the moment it found an outlet, it transformed into something else. Gratitude, perhaps. Or hatred. Both were delicious in their own way.
And then there was Kal.
The boy had potential. Not the raw, unrefined potential of a million other pirates on a million other ships—the kind that fizzled out or corrupted or simply wasted itself on unworthy causes. Kal had something rarer. He had the capacity for growth.
He was green, of course. Unformed. His stance was wrong, his grip was wrong, his instincts were all wrong. But those things could be fixed. Could be shaped. Could be cultivated.
Dorian had always thought of himself as a gardener. Not of plants—of people. He planted seeds in unlikely soil, watered them with violence and opportunity, and watched them grow into things of beauty and terror. Some of them became monsters. Some became heroes. A few became something in between, something that defied easy categorization.
And when they were ripe—when they had reached the peak of their potential—he would come back and... taste them.
Not kill them. Not always. Sometimes he killed, yes, when the moment called for it. But that wasn't the point. The point was the encounter. The collision. The brief, blazing moment when two forces of nature met and one of them was transformed.
He sipped his wine and watched the stars wheel overhead. Somewhere out there, in the vast black sea of the Grand Line, pirates were fighting and dying and dreaming. Heroes were rising and falling. Legends were being born.
And Dorian was going to find them all.
Not today. Not tomorrow. But eventually. When they were ready.
When they were ripe.
He finished the wine and set the bottle down beside him. Tomorrow, he would leave this island. He would find new prey, new seeds, new gardens to cultivate. The world was large and full of wonders, and he had so much work to do.
But tonight—tonight, he would sleep with the taste of potential on his tongue and the promise of violence in his dreams.
The Hunter smiled.
And somewhere in the dark, a boy named Kal gripped a knife and began, for the first time, to dream of becoming something worth hunting.