One Piece : Brotherhood

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[Silent_stiele]

*****

Flevance, North Blue

Gunshots echoed like a death knell across the borders of Flevance, drowning out cries that pleaded for mercy.

"Bang... bang... bang..." The unending roar of gunfire painted the fields red, while columns of black smoke rose as fire-spewing soldiers in hazmat suits set ablaze anyone who fell in their path. People lay scattered, shot down or engulfed in flames, the ground beneath them turning to scorched, lifeless earth.

In the mud, a young mother, her leg useless from a bullet wound, clawed forward. Blood smeared her path as she dragged herself inch by inch, clutching her infant tightly to her chest, her heart clinging to one desperate hope—that she might somehow reach safety.

Her face streaked with tears and dirt, she looked up at a soldier from the neighboring country, a flicker of hope in her eyes. "Please, sir," she whispered, her voice hoarse from exhaustion and terror, "my child... at least let my child live."

The soldier hesitated, gripping his weapon tighter as he looked at the woman. Her eyes bore into him, desperate, begging for mercy, humanity, anything. He shifted his gaze, trying to convince himself to move along, to let her be.

But before he could turn away, another soldier, silent and efficient, stepped forward with a flamethrower. He did not look at her, did not hear her cries or see her crawling away.

He aimed his weapon with practiced indifference, and in an instant, a column of flames burst forth, engulfing the mother and her child in a single, merciless sweep. Their figures disappeared into the blaze, their cries swallowed in the roar of fire.

The young soldier stared in mute horror, paralyzed as the fire burned out, leaving only charred remains in the mud. The mother's last plea echoed in his mind, haunting him as he forced himself to move, his heart twisting.

In the cruel calculus of survival, he told himself, these people—infected or not—had to be sacrificed. Flevance's plague was feared to be deadly, unstoppable, its victims condemned by the mere suspicion of contamination. Better they perish than risk the spread to their own families, their loved ones. That was the logic he clung to.

But even so, a hollow bitterness gnawed at him. He couldn't forget how, only weeks ago, the people of Flevance boasted of their prosperity, of the endless wealth their amber lead had granted them.

They had flaunted their riches, seemingly untouched by the hardships faced by those in neighboring lands. Now, that same amber lead had betrayed them, poisoning their very blood, infecting their lives, and leaving them to die in droves at their own borders.

All around him, families ran, holding each other close as they fled the slaughter, only to fall as bullets pierced the air. He saw a young boy stumble, his mother's hand slipping from his grip as she was struck down, her outstretched arm rigid in death.

A father's scream tore through the chaos as he shielded his daughter, taking the bullets meant for her, only for soldiers to drag her out from beneath his fallen body and finish her, too. The fire raged on, spreading over bodies like a blanket, reducing them to ash.

The soldier's fingers trembled on the trigger, his gaze fixed forward, refusing to see, to understand the depth of the horror.

***

Far off on the coastline, a colossal pirate ship cut through the waters, its blackened sails bearing the unmistakable jolly roger of the Donquixote Pirates.

As it approached, the blockade of neighboring kingdoms' ships bristled with alarm. The vessel was on a direct collision course, plowing through the waves without a hint of slowing down.

"Pirates incoming!" shouted one of the border captains, eyes widening as he recognized the threat.

"What are your orders, Captain?" A soldier stammered, watching the incoming behemoth with a mix of dread and confusion. The orders were explicit: no ship was to breach the blockade except for the Marines. But this was no ordinary pirate ship. It flew the flag of the Donquixote Pirates.

"That… that's Donquixote's mark!" The captain muttered, staring harder through his spyglass.

"Why now? And so boldly?" He thought of the stories of Fujitora Issho, a man with the strength to raze entire armies and the only reason none of the neighboring forces had dared to cross into Flevance's borders.

Their forces had yet to break the kingdom's last defenses; Fujitora held them in check, a living symbol of terror. But today, the Marine Admiral was here. Surely, with such a force present, even the Donquixote Pirates could not stand against them?

"Sink it!" The captain finally barked, his voice filled with forced conviction. "If they want to test the strength of an Admiral, let them try!"

The crew moved, priming cannons and readying for battle as the massive pirate ship neared. But before they could fire a single shot, a flash of steel caught the glinting sunlight.

Standing on the rail of the Donquixote vessel was a lone swordsman, his hands resting calmly on the hilts of his twin blades. It was Miyamoto, his gaze sharp and focused, yet his stance relaxed as if this were mere practice. In one fluid motion, his hands tightened, and he moved.

"Niten Ichi Ryu: Twin Rashomon," he whispered, and his swords were drawn, then sheathed so quickly it was like a flash of crimson light had cut through the very fabric of the air.

A deep red cross-shaped slash surged forward from Miyamoto's twin blades, carving through the very sea itself and tearing through the blockade.

In an instant, the five galleons in formation directly in the attack's path were split cleanly in two, the mighty hulls that had held the line reduced to smoldering ruins. The force of the attack sent waves crashing, the sea itself roiling from the blow.

Sailors barely had time to scream as their vessels were rent apart, sinking swiftly into the ocean's depths. A mix of anguished cries and desperate calls for help filled the air, but it was too late. The unforgiving sea swallowed the remains of the ships and their crews in seconds, leaving only the faint traces of wreckage floating in the aftermath.

Miyamoto stepped back down from the railing, dusting off his hands calmly. His expression remained stoic, though his eyes glinted with the edge of one who had perfected the art of the blade.

"That was a bit rash, Miyamoto-san," I remarked with a chuckle, watching the seas reclaim the wreckage. "Perhaps they were hoping for a chance to talk."

Miyamoto met my gaze, his face impassive, but there was a silent understanding between us. Words, we both knew, would never have swayed the pride and fear clouding their minds. In this world, respect was often earned through blood and power, and sometimes a single swing of a blade said more than any words could.

"Aren't we going to let Issho-san know we're here? I'm sure he could use our help." Little Robin asked, her voice soft but hopeful, her eyes glimmering with that familiar, undying optimism. She had heard the rumors—the heart-wrenching accounts of the hellscape that Flevance had become.

I turned to her, my face hardening as I took in the idealism shining in her gaze. "No, Robin. Issho needs to understand something on his own, without interference. This world… it doesn't let you save everyone without forcing blood onto your hands. His ideals are beautiful but naive, much like yours."

Her face fell as she looked down, a trace of determination still lingering. "But… there has to be a way. We can help them—some of them, at least…"

I felt a twinge of sympathy but held firm, my voice sharpening. "And how do you plan to save all those lives, then? Tell me, Robin, what's your brilliant solution? Are you suggesting we slaughter every single soldier here just to clear a path? These kingdoms are fighting to keep a deadly plague from reaching their borders. Or do you intend to personally transport millions of citizens out of Flevance? And then what? Can you guarantee the plague won't spread to every corner of this sea?"

She started to speak, but her voice faltered, uncertainty clouding her expression. "But… Brother Ross, it's caused by a Devil Fruit user. If we capture him, won't it end?"

"Are you absolutely sure of that?" I asked, my tone pointed. "Yes, according to Issho, Haki works as a countermeasure against the infection. That suggests it's the work of a Devil Fruit user. But what makes you think killing or capturing him will stop it? And even if it did, can you fathom what it would take to care for the masses left alive in that city? Every mouth, every wound, every soul that's turned against one another in blind panic?"

Her brows furrowed, the weight of the truth sinking in. "But we could still try, couldn't we?"

"Robin," I said, lowering my voice, "you're a bright girl. The world sees you as a monster already—just as they see me and everyone on this ship. Our lives and every kindness we offer will be twisted into something vile by people who don't know us. Kindness… kindness is a trait I can respect in you, but foolishness is another matter. Being naive, holding to ideas that put you in harm's way, will only end up hurting those you care for in the end."

I let her sit with my words as I turned my attention back to the haunted, broken land of Flevance. Letting my observation Haki spread out, I felt the depth of its devastation—a chaotic spiral of suffering.

Lives lost to disease, desperation, betrayal… people who had clung to hope just days ago were now clawing at each other, driven to brutal acts in their fear. Those who had tried to help were the first to be snuffed out, crushed beneath the heels of survival.

This world… it had no pity for the hopeful. Flevance was proof enough of that. It was a living, breathing nightmare, a place where the kind-hearted perished first, and trust had rotted away faster than the disease could spread.

Miyamoto glanced at Robin, seeing her downcast eyes and the faint trace of hurt in her expression. He sighed, knowing that my harsh words, while difficult to hear, were meant to shield her from the harsher truths they all had to face someday.

She was young and kindhearted, but here, in a world devoid of mercy, her innocence could only endanger her.

"Ross-kun, what are your orders?" Miyamoto's tone was quiet but resolute.

I looked toward the decaying kingdom on the horizon, my gaze unwavering. "Christina and her men have already gathered every information about the wealth of the royal family, they will be transported soon enough." I said, my voice laced with an edge of contempt.

"They're planning to hand it over to the Marines, possibly to a newly-arrived Admiral. I trust Issho's strength, but I worry his current state of mind might make him overlook what's most important. So, we'll stay on standby. No matter what happens, he's family, and we'll be there if he needs us."

I paused, glancing at Robin, Leo, and Mansherry, their faces clouded with a blend of sorrow and desperation. "And Law—securing his safety is crucial. He might find a place with us someday, and I won't let this chaos be the end of him."

The reassurance seemed to lift some of the heaviness from Leo and Mansherry's faces, though Robin remained pensive, clearly torn by the harshness of reality.

***

Deep within the crumbling, plague-stricken heart of Flevance, Issho stood amidst a field of corpses piled high in the central plaza. Blind to the bloodied scenes around him but keenly aware through his heightened senses, he felt the presence of every single body, each life cut short by a fate beyond their control.

His heart was heavy, and silent tears traced lines down his face. The cries of the wounded, the stifled sobs of parents clutching dying children, and the faint, fragile breaths of those who would soon succumb echoed in his mind, a haunting symphony of suffering.

For the first time, the words Ross had once spoken struck him like a hammer to his soul: "You either die a hero… or live long enough to become a villain." Years of fighting for justice and upholding ideals had brought him here, to this city of death and despair.

All his strength, his power—it felt hollow, like a shell cracked and stripped of purpose. How many lives had he saved? How many had he condemned? In this moment, power felt meaningless.

Beside him, Lance knelt on the ground, desperately trying to stabilize a child, barely more than a baby, whose body was decimated by the plague. Her skin was pale, her breaths shallow, and despite his best efforts, he knew her fate was sealed.

Even Christina, who never hesitated to pass judgment, was silent, her own sharp words subdued in the face of the unimaginable horror around them.

For the first time in years, his resolve wavered, a growing, gnawing question clouding the purpose he'd held for so long. All his life, he had sworn to protect the helpless, to bring justice, to make a difference—but what good was power if it couldn't save even a single life without condemning another?

The faint touch of a small hand gripped the edge of his tattered, blood-soaked yukata, pulling him from his thoughts. Looking down, he could feel the aura of a young girl, frail and broken, struggling for every breath.

Her skin was cold, her limbs thin and withered by disease, her body ravaged beyond recognition. He kneeled, placing a gentle hand on her trembling shoulder as she clung to him with the desperation of someone who had nothing left to lose.

"Mercy…" she choked out, her tiny voice no stronger than a whisper, each word laced with agony. "Please… sir… kill me. I beg you…" Her small fingers tightened around his yukata, as though she could anchor herself in him and escape the pain, even for just a moment.

Issho's heart twisted, a surge of helplessness surging through him like a tidal wave. He could sense her life fading, her suffering immense and raw, every inch of her young body turned against her. But he couldn't do it. His grip on his sword, steady for so many years, faltered.

"Little one," he said softly, the words catching in his throat. "It… it's going to be okay. You just have to hold on a little longer. We're… we're here to help. I'll do everything I can to make the pain go away."

The girl looked up at him with glassy eyes, her once-bright spirit all but extinguished. Her gaze was hollow, a mirror of her shattered hope. She shook her head, her voice breaking, yet chillingly practical.

"Please, sir… don't lie to me. I know I'm dying. I know you can't fix this… can't stop this pain." Her words cut through his heart like a blade, each one a raw reminder of the futility that had come to define his journey. "Please… I just want it to end…"

Issho clenched his fists, torn between mercy and the beliefs he held. How could he deny her wish when even standing by her side felt like a betrayal of his ideals? She was just a child, yet her words held a wisdom he couldn't deny—a wisdom that forced him to confront the cruel irony of his own ideals. Yet he couldn't do it. The blade he'd drawn for so many battles now felt unbearably heavy.

But then, Christina stepped forward. Her presence was as steady as her resolve, and she knelt beside the girl, her voice unwavering, though her eyes held a depth of sorrow she rarely revealed.

"Child…" she said gently, brushing a lock of hair from the girl's face. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. No one deserves this."

The girl's hand shifted from Issho's yukata to Christina's, her last hope anchored in Christina's touch. With a nod, barely perceptible, the girl surrendered to the final mercy she so desperately wanted. Christina held her close, whispering a soft apology, and with a swift, steady motion, ended her suffering.

Issho's heart broke as he listened to the silence that followed. For a moment, the entire plaza seemed to pause, as if even the relentless disease recognized the weight of the moment. The burden of his ideals, the loss of every life he'd failed to save, bore down on him like a mountain.

And he finally understood, painfully, the true meaning of the words Ross had once spoken to him: "You either die a hero… or live long enough to become a villain."

Issho gripped his blade tightly, his heart hollow and his purpose sharpened into an unyielding resolve. His face was expressionless, but there was a lethal intent in the way he held himself, a shadow that seemed to grow in the air around him.

Christina watched as he took his first unsteady step, his blind eyes set firmly ahead, then straightened and began to walk with fierce determination toward the royal palace of Flevance.

The faint tremor in his step vanished as he went, replaced by a bone-deep certainty, each stride powerful, fueled by a fury that burned away any doubt. Christina knew she was witnessing a side of Issho rarely seen—a wrath both righteous and devastating.

She held her ground, her gaze following his receding figure, wondering just how much destruction lay in store for the corrupted nobility who had watched their kingdom collapse and done nothing but ensure their own wealth.

The guards at the gates of the palace were on high alert, their rigid stance betraying a sliver of unease as they saw Issho advancing.

With his tattered cloak, blood-splattered robes, and blindfolded eyes, he was a grim figure, like a reaper stalking into the heart of their kingdom. One of the guards swallowed nervously, his fingers twitching near the hilt of his sword.

"Halt!" the guard called, voice barely steady. "You've no business here!"

But Issho gave no answer. Without a pause or even an acknowledgment, he flicked his blade with a movement so swift and clean that the guard didn't even feel the impact until his armor cracked apart, a thin line of red tracing across his chest.

In seconds, the guard staggered and fell, blood pooling on the cold stone steps. And it was not just him behind him the massive wall that acted as the outer defense of the palace crumbled sliced clean through.

Another guard charged forward, his eyes wide with terror, but Issho didn't hesitate. With a twist of his wrist, his sword danced in the air, a stroke of unimaginable speed that severed the man's spear in two. He finished the attack in a single motion, the guard dropping to his knees before him, hand outstretched in a silent plea before falling limp.

Issho moved like a phantom, his senses heightened, every sound, every shift of movement becoming painfully clear in his perception. Thousands of guards appeared from every corner, blocking his path, but none lasted more than a heartbeat against him.

His blade moved with a silent fury, cutting down anyone who dared to approach. There was no hesitation, no mercy, only the steady, relentless motion of a man on a mission.

One guard, trembling as he raised his shield, managed to gasp out a warning. "It's—It's him! He's here to kill the king! Get the others!"

Issho's ears picked up the frantic scrambling of footsteps, and with a focused twist of his blade, he lashed out in the direction of the sound.

The air itself seemed to scream as a shockwave pulsed from his sword, ripping apart entire sections of the grand palace and sending the guards flying back against the walls.

Plaster and stone shattered around him, debris raining down as he continued forward, unflinching, his footsteps steady on the crumbling floor.

By the time he reached the grand hall that led to the king's chamber, the place was in shambles.

Pieces of fine marble statues lay scattered on the floor, crushed beneath his advance, and the gilded columns were marred by scorch marks and splatters of blood.

Issho could feel the king's presence, cowering in the distance beyond the ornate doors, shrouded by layers of riches and false grandeur.

With a low, guttural growl, he raised his sword high and brought it down with all his might. The ground trembled beneath him as the force of the strike shattered the doors, sending splinters flying in every direction.

The once-grand doors lay scattered like toothpicks, and there, beyond the broken remnants of his luxury, stood the king, trembling, surrounded by a half-circle of panicked guards who had no idea what to do.

"You… what are you doing here?" the king stammered, his voice small and fearful, a far cry from the commanding tone he had once used to lord over his people.

Issho's gaze was dark, and he stepped forward, each movement carrying the weight of the countless lives lost, the suffering he had witnessed.

"You watched your people suffer…you let them die like animals in the streets. All for your greed. This kingdom is a ruin because of you."

The king's guards along with the Marines and government agents charged, but Issho's blade moved with a rage that defied words. He swung, sending out a wave of energy that ripped through the soldiers, the force of his strikes echoing through the chamber like thunder.

With each step, his senses sharpened further, his fury honing his powers, pushing him toward a breaking point. Every life cut down, every blow struck, added fuel to the fire within him, burning away the last of his restraint.

And then, something within Issho snapped, and his power surged. His grip on his sword tightened, and with a deep breath, he unleashed the full force of his gravity abilities.

The air grew dense, a crushing pressure radiating out from him, pressing down on everything in its range. Guards stumbled and fell, gasping for breath as the very floor beneath them cracked and buckled under the immense force.

With a flick of his wrist, Issho raised his blade high and brought it down with an earth-shattering force. A pulse of gravitational energy exploded outward, tearing through the floor and walls, creating a crater that widened with each second, threatening to swallow the entire room.

The guards screamed, their bodies unable to withstand the crushing force, their armor and bones alike shattering under the weight of Issho's wrath.

The king, pinned to the floor by the unrelenting gravity, whimpered, tears streaming down his face. "Please…please, I didn't mean for any of this…"

Issho paused, the crushing force lessening just enough for the king to catch his breath. "You didn't mean for this?" he whispered, his voice laced with a cold fury. "Every life lost, every innocent who suffered, all because of your greed. You chose this."

With a final step, Issho raised his sword, and the gravity around him intensified once more, the weight of his judgment bearing down on the king. For a brief moment, the king's eyes widened in horror as he realized that no amount of pleading would save him.

And then, with a single, decisive stroke, Issho brought his blade down, the weight of his power ensuring that the king's reign—and his life—would come to a brutal, resounding end.

"Clang!"

Just as Issho's blade descended with the weight of a landslide, a figure interposed itself between the sword and the quaking king, meeting the strike with a defiant, ringing clash. The clash of metal resounded like thunder through the ruined throne room, echoing off walls marred by Issho's earlier onslaught.

The sheer force of Issho's attack bore down mercilessly on the figure's defenses, causing the interloper's knees to buckle beneath the enormous pressure. The ornate marble floor shattered into a jagged crater that radiated outwards, spider-webbing across the ground in fractures and sending pieces of broken stone flying through the air like shrapnel.

The figure grimaced, visibly straining, as the crushing gravity of Issho's unleashed fury bore down upon him. Every muscle trembled under the weight of Issho's wrath, each second feeling like an eternity as he struggled to keep his footing.

Dust swirled around them in a suffocating cloud, obscuring everything beyond the epicenter of their clash. Despite the formidable strength of the unknown protector, he was clearly dwarfed by the intensity of Issho's power, his boots grinding into the marble, cracking it further as he fought against the relentless press of Issho's attack.

Issho's blindfolded gaze held steady, his expression unmoved, yet a flicker of curiosity stirred behind his quiet fury. He had not expected anyone in this place, especially not within the royal guard, to have the audacity—or the strength—to stand in his way.

His blade remained poised, held firm against the stranger's weapon, though he could feel the slight trembling in his opponent's grip, the mortal struggle against his gravity-enhanced strike.

"Who are you," Issho's voice was a low rumble, a demand as much as a question, "to stand between me and my justice?"

*****

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