(04/02/24 - 14:30) (Thursday February 4, 1524)
The Sabaody Archipelago stood as a place of impossible geography and absolute contradictions.
Massive, striped tree trunks known as the Yarukiman Mangroves rose directly out of the ocean, their roots intertwining to form the very ground of the island. Natural resin secreted from the roots floated upward, forming giant, iridescent bubbles that drifted into the sky before popping. The surface beauty masked a rotten core. Sabaody was the final stop in Paradise before the New World, acting as a lawless hub for pirates, bounty hunters, and the global slave trade.
Today, the island was engulfed in absolute chaos. Plumes of black smoke rose from the coastal groves. Marine infantrymen ran across the grassy roots in disorganized formations, shouting frantic orders into Transponder Snails, the telepathic mollusks used for long-distance communication. The military blockade had failed. The Straw Hats had regrouped at Sabaody Archipelago and left for Fishman Island. The notorious pirate crew had coated their ship in special resin and plunged beneath the waves, slipping right through the fingers of the World Government.
While the naval officers scrambled in a panic to report the failure, a completely different scene unfolded at the highest-security port of Grove One. A colossal galleon cut through the ocean waves, perfectly ignoring the commotion behind it. The ship was a floating fortress of pristine white wood and gold trim. Its massive sails bore the symbol of the World Government: a large cross intersecting four circles. The Marines on the island actively cleared a path for it, completely abandoning their pirate pursuits to ensure the galleon faced no obstacles.
This vessel belonged to the World Nobles, the Celestial Dragons. They were the descendants of the world's creators, individuals who possessed such absolute political power that a simple insult directed at them would summon a Marine Admiral to eradicate an entire island. The massive ship sailed steadily forward, catching the wind to begin its long voyage toward the Red Line and the Holy Land of Mary Geoise.
On the open upper deck, heavily armored guards in spotless white uniforms stood at rigid attention. The sea breeze carried the smell of salt and luxury.
Below deck, in the depths of the ship's cargo hold, the air stagnated into a foul mixture of sweat, rusted iron, and dried blood. The only light came from a few flickering oil lanterns swinging from the wooden ceiling. The groaning of the ship's timbers echoed continuously.
A sharp, deafening crack echoed through the confined space.
The young man woke to a sensation of tearing flesh and absolute agony. His vision swam in a haze of red and black. He gasped, sucking in a lungful of the putrid air, which immediately triggered a violent coughing fit. He tried to reach back to grab his burning shoulder, but his arms jerked to a violent halt. The loud clanking of heavy iron chains resonated against the wooden floor.
He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus. He expected to see the familiar popcorn ceiling of his small apartment. He expected to feel the soft mattress under his back. He had fallen asleep stressing over a pile of rejected job applications and escaping his mundane twenty-two-year-old life by reading web novels.
Instead, he stared at a dark, damp wooden floor covered in old stains.
Another sharp crack split the air. A leather whip lashed across his back. The skin split open. The sheer volume of the pain bypassed his vocal cords entirely, leaving him gasping silently as his muscles locked up in a full-body spasm. The burning sensation radiating from his back forced his mind into total overdrive.
He looked down at his arms. They were bound by thick, rusted iron cuffs attached to a heavy chain secured to a central wooden mast. The arms belonging to him were entirely unfamiliar. The skin was a deep, dark brown, currently smeared with grime and fresh crimson blood. He felt messy, tight afro curls falling into his eyes, sticky with sweat and dirt. He was painfully thin, his muscles visibly atrophied from malnutrition. His chest heaved as he struggled to process the sensory overload.
This was not a nightmare. The cold iron cutting into his wrists and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth provided absolute proof of his reality.
He heard a sickening thud next to him. He slowly turned his head. To his immediate left knelt another captive. The man was little more than a walking skeleton, his skin pale and stretched tight over jutting ribs. The slave had collapsed sideways onto the wooden planks, coughing up a mixture of saliva and blood. To his right sat a third captive, another severely emaciated man staring blankly at the wall with dead, hollow eyes.
A thick, heavy metal collar rested around the neck of every single captive, including his own. The cold metal pressed uncomfortably against his throat, weighing down his head.
"Get up. You are ruining my entertainment."
The voice was grating, dripping with an arrogant, nasally whine. The young man forced his neck to tilt upward.
Standing a few feet away was a man dressed in a bulky, pristine white pressurized suit. The outfit made him look like a bloated astronaut. A spherical glass resin bubble completely enclosed the man's head, connected to an oxygen supply. The man held a blood-stained leather whip in his right hand. He looked down at the captives with the exact same expression a child might have while burning ants with a magnifying glass.
Standing in the shadows directly behind the tormentor was a tall, imposing figure. This second man wore a perfectly tailored white suit and a white mask that completely obscured his facial features. The silent guard radiated an aura of overwhelming pressure, standing perfectly still, watching the scene with mechanical indifference.
The fragmented pieces of the young man's casual web novel and anime knowledge slammed together with the current body memories like puzzle pieces falling into place. The giant trees, the bubbles, the white suit, the glass helmet, the heavy iron collars.
He was in the world of One Piece. He was a slave to a Celestial Dragon. The silent man in the back was an agent of Cipher Pol Aigis Zero, CP0. The iron ring around his neck was an explosive collar designed to detonate and blow his head off if he tried to escape or remove it.
The Celestial Dragon frowned behind his glass bubble, clearly annoyed by the lack of screaming. He raised the leather whip high into the air and brought it down hard on the young man's back.
The lash tore a fresh line of agony across his shoulder blades. The young man bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, filling his mouth with the taste of copper to keep his jaw clamped shut. He knew the tropes well enough. Showing weakness to a sadist only invited more torture. He forced his breathing to slow, enduring the burning fire across his skin.
'Think.' He commanded himself, staring at the splinters in the wooden floor. 'Panic will get me killed. I have no powers. I have no strength. I need to survive the day.'
"Boring," the Celestial Dragon whined, tossing the bloody whip onto the floor. "The new ones are always so fragile. The auction house assured me these pieces of trash had stamina. They just lie there and bleed. I want the ones that beg."
The Celestial Dragon turned around, his bulky suit rustling with the movement. "Let them rot down here for the rest of the day. Bring me my meal. I want to eat on the upper deck and watch the horizon."
"Understood, Saint Charlos," the CP0 agent replied. The voice was entirely devoid of emotion, a flat, mechanical sound.
The two men walked toward the heavy wooden stairs leading up to the main deck. The heavy iron-banded door slammed shut behind them, plunging the hold back into dim, flickering shadows. The lock clicked loudly into place.
The young man let out a ragged breath, collapsing forward until his forehead rested against the cold, damp wood of the floor. The pain in his back pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The salt from the ocean air seeped through the cracks in the ship's hull, stinging the open gashes on his skin.
He shifted his weight slightly, testing the length of the chain. He had about three feet of slack between his wrist cuffs and the iron ring bolted to the central mast. He pulled his hands toward his chest, inspecting his new body more closely. His hands were calloused and covered in small, healing cuts. His dark skin was heavily bruised around the ribs and shoulders.
He looked over at the slave on his left. The skeletal man had stopped coughing and was now taking shallow, wheezing breaths, his eyes closed in a fitful stupor. The slave on the right remained completely immobile, his hollow eyes fixed on the exact same spot on the wall. They were broken. Their wills had been crushed long before this ship ever set sail.
The young man felt a deep pang of pity for them. It was a visceral, human reaction to seeing such immense suffering. However, the cold reality of his situation crushed any immediate heroic impulses. He had no illusions about his current capabilities. He was severely injured, malnourished, and shackled to a floor guarded by one of the highest tiers of the World Government's military might. Trying to organize a rebellion right now would only result in a headless corpse. He needed to be pragmatic. He needed a sliver of an opportunity.
The ship pitched slightly as it caught a strong current, sailing further away from the archipelago. The continuous creaking of the wooden hull became the only sound in the dark hold.
He closed his eyes, focusing entirely on the rhythm of the ship and the agonizing throbbing in his back. The first day had begun. He would conserve his energy. He would watch the guards. He would map out the limited space of the hold. He would survive until an opening presented itself, no matter how small.
'I am not dying in this dark box.' he promised himself silently, letting the exhaustion finally pull him into a restless, pain-filled sleep.
----
Author Note:
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