The grand dining hall of Thriller Bark's castle, once a place of macabre feasts and Moria's gluttonous indulgences, had become a cage of palpable dread.
The Warlord was a wreck, his massive form pacing back and forth across the stone floor like a caged beast.
Each heavy footfall echoed in the cavernous room, a stark counterpoint to the frantic, skittering rhythm of his own panic. The mountains of food on the table lay untouched, a testament to the fear that had stolen his appetite.
"Where is he? Where is he?!" Moria muttered to himself, his voice a low, guttural rasp. He kept glancing at the white Den Den Mushi, but its World Government seal seemed to mock him.
"They said help was coming! They promised!" The image of the Sea Scourge, coolly and methodically advancing through his domain, was burned into his mind.
He could almost feel the man's presence drawing nearer, it was a chilling cold front preceding a hurricane of annihilation.
Perona floated nearby, her usual haughtiness completely evaporated, replaced by a nervous silence. She clutched Kumashi, her giant plush bear zombie, for comfort, but even its familiar bulk offered little solace.
She could feel the oppressive weight of the approaching threat, a psychic pressure that made the very air feel thick and heavy.
"I can't wait any longer!" Moria finally roared, snatching up the Den Den Mushi. His fat finger was poised over the dial when the air in the center of the room began to warp.
It started as a heat shimmer, a distortion that made the torches on the walls flicker erratically. Then, with a sound like a thousand pages of a book being riffled at once, the space itself seemed to fold and compress.
A vortex of invisible force swirled, pulling dust and loose napkins into its center before violently expelling them outward. And in the heart of this phenomenon, a figure materialized.
He was colossal, towering even over Moria, with a broad, powerful frame clad in a simple, hooded jacket. In one massive hand, he held a worn, leather-bound book.
His face was mostly hidden in shadow, but what was visible was stoic, impassive, and framed by black, wild hair. This was Bartholomew Kuma, the Tyrant, the Warlord known as the government's most reliable weapon.
"Kuma!" Moria gasped, a wave of relief so powerful it nearly buckled his knees washing over him. "You're finally here! Good, good! Quick, take us all away from this nightmare island!"
Kuma's eyes, glowing with a faint red light, regarded Moria without a trace of emotion. His voice, when it came, was a low, resonant monotone that seemed to vibrate through the stone floor. "I was ordered by the World Government to take only you away."
The words hit Moria like a physical blow. The relief on his face curdled into disbelief, then into incandescent rage. "WHAAT!?" he bellowed, his voice shaking the chandelier above.
"How dare they?! There is no way! No way I will leave my dear subordinates to suffer here! Perona! Hogback! My army! I am their captain! I won't abandon them!"
He ranted and raved, his shadow writhing and twisting on the floor behind him, a reflection of his inner turmoil. He pleaded, he threatened, he invoked his status as a Shichibukai.
But Kuma remained an immovable mountain, a statue of flesh and circuitry. He did not argue, he did not explain. He simply stood, his presence a silent, unyielding declaration of his orders.
This slowly drained out of Moria. The reality of his situation crashed down upon him. The World Government saw him as a disposable asset.
They would save the title of 'Warlord,' but not the man, and certainly not his crew. His shoulders slumped, the bluster gone, leaving only a pathetic, desperate husk. He fell to his knees with a heavy thud, the gesture utterly undignified.
"Then…" Moria's voice was a broken whisper. He looked up at Kuma, his eyes pleading. "Then send Perona away, at least. Please. She doesn't deserve to die here because of my failures."
"No! Moria-sama!" Perona shrieked, floating forward. "I won't leave you! We'll fight them together!"
"Silence, Perona!" Moria snapped, his voice cracking. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her with such sharpness. "This is my command! You will live!"
He turned his desperate gaze back to Kuma. For a long moment, the cyborg was silent. Deep within the mechanical shell, in the parts of him that were still human, a memory stirred.
A memory of a kingdom, of a daughter, of a sacrifice made for the sake of another. He saw the raw, selfish, but genuine plea in Moria's eyes. It was a flicker of the loyalty that Kuma himself had once embodied.
His programming dictated strict adherence to the order: extract Gecko Moria. But his heart, the part that was not yet fully extinguished, found a loophole. Sending Perona away did not contradict the primary directive.
"Fine," Kuma intoned, the single word carrying a surprising weight of concession.
Before Perona could protest further, Kuma raised his massive hand. The air around Perona and her bear zombie began to distort, compressing with immense force.
"Uwaaaah! Wait! Stop!" she cried, struggling against the invisible pressure, but it was futile. With a final, soft puff of displaced air, she and Kumashi vanished, sent flying to an unknown, but safe, destination.
Moria watched her disappear, a shaky sigh of relief escaping his lips. One of his children was safe. He looked up at Kuma, a weak, grateful smile on his face.
"Th-thank you, Kuma. Your Devil Fruit power… It's truly remarkable."
Kuma gave no response. He simply closed his book with a soft thud, his mission parameters now clear: await the Sea Scourge's arrival and facilitate Moria's extraction, by force if necessary. The air in the room grew tense, the calm before the storm.
The storm arrived not with thunder, but with the whisper-quiet slide of steel being drawn.
One moment, the doorway to the hall was empty. The next, a green-haired figure stood within it, three swords already bared and a fourth, a black blade, newly acquired, gleaming at his hip.
Roronoa Zoro's eyes were fixed on Moria with the intensity of a hawk sighting its prey. He didn't announce himself. He didn't issue a challenge either. He simply moved.
His form blurred. It wasn't Soru or any named technique; it was pure, unadulterated speed, honed by years of brutal training and recently refined by the teachings of a Sword God. The distance between the door and Moria vanished in the space of a heartbeat.
Kuma's optical sensors registered the movement, but his larger, bulkier frame couldn't react in time. His internal processors whirred, calculating the threat level and finding it exponentially higher than any data file on Roronoa Zoro had suggested.
Moria's eyes widened in shock, his brain barely registering the green flash before a world of agony erupted across his chest.
Zoro didn't use a named technique; he used a single, perfect, horizontal slash that carried all the focused intent Ryuma had taught him. It was the principle of "cutting nothing" applied with devastating reality.
SCHIIING!
The sound was clean and sharp. A deep, precise gash opened across Moria's torso, spraying dark blood across the stone floor.
The force of the blow lifted the massive Warlord off his feet and sent him crashing backward through his own banquet table, sending platters of food, cutlery, and shattered wood flying in every direction.
He landed in a groaning, bleeding heap, his body convulsing, his shadow flickering weakly. He was not just defeated; he was mortally wounded, his life bleeding out onto the cold stone in a matter of seconds.
Zoro landed softly, his swords already held in a ready stance, his gaze shifting from the dying Moria to the colossal cyborg. He hadn't even broken a sweat.
Kuma was, for the first time in years, utterly bewildered. His systems struggled to reconcile the data.
The target, a fellow Warlord, had been neutralized in a single, blindingly fast strike. The aggressor's power level was off the charts, far surpassing any pre-existing Marine intelligence. This was not merely a skilled swordsman; this was a monster wearing a man's skin.
The Tyrant's combat protocols instantly engaged. He shifted his weight, his massive hands rising, the pads beginning to glow with a soft pink light as he prepared to repel this new, overwhelming threat.
But Zoro didn't attack. He relaxed his stance slightly, sheathing Sandai Kitetsu and Yubashiri with practiced ease, though he kept Wado Ichimonji drawn.
He walked calmly over to the moaning, twitching form of Gecko Moria, grabbed him by the ankle with one hand, and began dragging him across the floor as if he were a sack of potatoes.
"Wait here," Zoro said to Kuma, his tone casual, almost bored. "My captain wanted to see you."
Then, without another glance at the stunned cyborg, he hauled the dying Moria out of the dining hall and disappeared down the dark corridor, leaving a wide trail of blood in his wake.
Kuma stood frozen, his programmed directives conflicting with this new, unforeseen variable. The primary target was being taken away. His mission was compromised.
And the captain who "wanted to see him" was the one man the World Government feared above all others. He remained where he was, a silent, looming sentinel in the ruined feast hall, waiting.
….
Zoro dragged Moria through the labyrinthine corridors of the castle, the Warlord's feeble struggles growing weaker with each passing second.
He emerged into the main courtyard where Ragnar and the rest of the crew waited, having cleared the area of any remaining zombie guards with effortless efficiency.
Ragnar stood with his arms crossed, watching Zoro's approach. A faint, approving smirk touched his lips.
"That was fast."
Zoro grunted, giving Moria's leg a dismissive shake before dropping it. "Too weak," he said, his voice dripping with dissatisfaction. "Didn't even endure a single slash. Pathetic."
From the sidelines, Kuro, ever the analyst, adjusted his glasses. "Maybe," he interjected dryly, "haven't you considered that it is you who is too strong? Your growth since that encounter on the bridge was… significant."
Zoro just shrugged, as if the notion was irrelevant. He had a goal, and measuring sticks were only useful if they didn't break on the first touch.
Bartolomeo, seeing his cue, stepped forward with a flourish. He produced a single, perfect red apple from within his coat. His expression was one of fanatical reverence as he looked at Ragnar. "Captain! The fruit is ready!"
Ragnar nodded. He approached the dying Moria, who was barely conscious, his breath coming in wet, ragged gasps. The Sea Scourge placed a hand on the Warlord's forehead, not with malice, but with the detached focus of a craftsman selecting a tool.
"A soul bound to shadows, trapped in a cycle of theft and decay," Ragnar murmured. "A fitting end for a man who traded his own dreams for puppets."
Soon, a complex magic circle, intricate and beautiful, flared to life on the stone beneath Moria's body. It glowed with a soft, ethereal light mixed with dark purple.
The circle enveloped Moria, the light intensifying, climbing up his body like ethereal vines. He let out one final, shuddering gasp as the energy touched him.
It wasn't a painful process; it was a process of separation, of unraveling. The Kage Kage no Mi, the Shadow-Shadow Fruit, was a Paramecia-type Devil Fruit, its power woven into the very fabric of its user's existence.
The purple light concentrated over Moria's chest, coalescing into a swirling, miniature nebula of violet and black energy.
With a final, soft pulse, the light detached from Moria's now-still body and flowed seamlessly into the red apple Bartolomeo held. The fruit trembled in his hand, its vibrant red skin darkening, shifting, transforming.
The smooth surface became textured, taking on a pattern that resembled swirling smoke and darkness, the color deepening to a rich, lustrous aubergine, almost black, with faint purple highlights. It was no longer an apple; it was the manifested Kage Kage no Mi.
Ragnar took the transformed fruit from Bartolomeo's trembling hands, examining it for a moment before tucking it away. He glanced down at the lifeless body of Gecko Moria, the once-great Warlord who had dared to challenge a king, now just so much empty flesh.
"Dispose of that," Ragnar said, his tone indicating the conversation was over. His gaze then lifted, looking past his crew, towards the dark entrance of the castle. "Now… let's go have a word with our guest. I'm curious what message the Elders saw fit to send."