The dawn over Wano broke without warmth. The sun, once proud and golden over the Flower Capital, now rose like a dying ember behind a veil of ash. Black smoke coiled upward from the chimneys of the forges that fed Kaido's war machine, staining the sky with soot. The air smelled of iron, sweat, and despair.
At the edge of the Kibi Province, a small port town clung to life like a barnacle to a rotting ship hull. Once, it had been a place of laughter—merchants shouting across the market square, fishermen calling greetings from the docks, and children chasing paper kites through the mist.
Now, it was a ghost of itself.
The streets were narrow and half-flooded, lined with sagging houses built of rotted timber. Market stalls leaned at odd angles, their canopies torn and patched. The air was thick with silence—not peace, but the kind that comes from fear too deep to speak. Everywhere, eyes avoided other eyes.
The people of Wano had always been proud. But pride had long since been beaten out of them—replaced by the dull, mechanical rhythm of survival.
They were not bound in chains, like the prisoners in the Udon mines, but their captivity was no less cruel. There were no iron manacles on their wrists—only the invisible shackles of fear. Each day was the same. Work the fields. Give up the harvest. Bow your head. And pray that the Beast Pirates didn't choose your house next.
At the town's center, a small market still tried to breathe. Vendors spread meager wares on mats—wilted vegetables, broken tools, and scraps of dried fish. Children in tattered clothes huddled close to their mothers, watching the skies for the shadows of Kaido's men.
The air trembled as a pair of Beast Pirates swaggered through the square. Their laughter was loud, ugly, cruel. The symbol of the Hundred Beasts glared from their shoulders—a mark that had become synonymous with terror.
Flanking them were two armored samurai, men who once swore loyalty to the Shogun of Wano. Their faces were hidden behind grim masks; their swords, once symbols of honor, were now tools of subjugation.
They served not for faith or duty—but to survive. Behind them came a noble—a bloated man draped in silk and arrogance. One of the few remaining Kurozumi vassals who had been pardoned by Oden after Orochi's fall, the vassal family had pledged loyalty to Kaido in exchange for power and protection. He walked with the gait of one who believed the world beneath him existed only for his amusement.
His entourage stopped before a small stall—a farmer's stand stacked with sacks of rice, pale and fragrant despite the grime of the market. The merchant behind it was old and thin, his back bent from years of labor, his eyes weary but defiant. The noble's gaze swept over the meager goods, and his lips curled in disdain.
"This is all?" he sneered. "From such fertile fields, and this is what you bring to the levy?"
The old farmer bowed low. His voice trembled.
"F-Forgive me, my lord. The soil has grown poor… the rains—"
A backhand struck his face, snapping his head to the side. Blood spattered across the sacks of rice.
"Lies!" the noble barked. "You think you can deceive your betters? I can smell the greed on you, peasant. Where is the rest of it?"
The Beast Pirate beside him snickered, hefting his club. "Maybe he's hiding some for himself, huh?"
The noble's eyes glittered with malice. "Search his home."
Two of the samurai moved at once, their armored boots pounding against the dirt. Minutes later they returned, dragging a small boy—no more than eight years old—clutching a handful of rice grains. The market went still.
The old man fell to his knees, voice cracking. "No! Please! He's my grandson—he was starving, my lord! I swear it was just a handful, please—"
The noble's smile was slow and venomous. "So. You would steal from your lord's tithe."
He gestured lazily. The pirate stepped forward. His club rose. The sound it made when it came down was wet and final. The boy collapsed, limp as seaweed. The farmer screamed — a sound so raw and broken it didn't seem human. He lunged, but a samurai caught him by the throat and forced him down into the dirt.
The market watched. No one moved. No one dared. Mothers pressed their children's faces into their arms. Merchants turned away. The world shrank to the sound of the wind rattling through the broken banners. The noble looked down at the trembling man and sighed, as though bored.
"You peasants never learn. Greed is the curse of the lowborn."
He flicked his fingers. The samurai drew his blade in a single, fluid motion. A whisper of steel. A spray of red. The old man's body fell forward beside his grandson's. The noble wiped a speck of blood from his cheek, annoyed. "Have the rice taken to the castle. And clean this mess before the stench spreads."
He turned to leave, surrounded by his guards and pirates. Their laughter faded into the fog.
The market was silent again. For a long while, no one spoke. The only sound was the creak of the stalls in the current and the soft, hollow moan of the wind through the bamboo. Then, slowly, the people began to move again. A woman returned to her stand, arranging wilted herbs with trembling hands. A fisherman lifted his basket and shuffled away.
No one looked at the bodies. No one dared.
A small child tugged at his mother's sleeve, whispering through tears. "Mama… why didn't anyone stop them?"
Her answer was a whisper, dry as dust. "Because, my son… that's how we survive… that's become our way of life."
The woman's trembling hands clutched her child close as the last echoes of the execution faded down the blood-stained street. Her breath came ragged, not from fear anymore but from the weight of everything she could no longer bear to feel.
Her eyes drifted toward a figure standing half-buried in shadow beneath the warped beams of an old teahouse. He had been there since before the noble's arrival—silent, unmoving—as if carved from the darkness itself.
Even without seeing his face, she knew what he was. The way he stood, the subtle stillness in his breath, the faint glint of a katana's hilt beneath his tattered cloak—there was no mistaking it.
He was a samurai.
Once, that word had meant everything. To the people of Wano, samurai had not been mere warriors. They were the soul of the nation—the embodiment of honor, duty, and sacrifice.
A samurai's sword was said to reflect their heart: sharp, unbending, and pure.
They were the bulwark between chaos and peace, the flame that stood against the darkness. Children once whispered their names with reverence. Men found courage in their presence. Women wept with pride when their sons pledged the way of the blade.
That was what a samurai had been—once. But that world was gone. Now, the woman's gaze hardened. Rage—deep and bitter—burned behind her eyes. For to her, the word "samurai" had become a curse.
They were ghosts in fine armor. Shadows of men who had traded their swords for silence. Once proud warriors who had bent their knees to beasts, to nobles, to tyrants—watching from the shadows while their people starved and bled. Her lips trembled, but her words came out sharp as a blade.
"Samurai…" she spat under her breath, her voice shaking. "You were supposed to protect us. But all I see before me is a coward…!"
Denjiro didn't move. The woman's eyes lingered on him—searching for something, anything—remorse, courage, or defiance. But all she saw was stillness, like a grave marker standing over a forgotten field. She turned away, clutching her child as she disappeared into the fog, her footsteps echoing like the dying heartbeats of a nation.
Denjiro's jaw tightened. The dawnlight cut across his face, revealing eyes that burned with a fury he could no longer hide. He had seen that look a thousand times—in the eyes of peasants, farmers, and widows—all of them carrying the same unspoken question: Where were the samurai when Wano fell? Where were the samurai when their beloved Shogun Oden-sama fell?
He wanted to scream. He wanted to draw his blade and cut down every beast, every noble, every coward who had sold his honor for a meal. But he didn't. Because he couldn't—not yet. Every instinct in his warrior's soul rebelled against the silence, but he knew this was not the time to fight. The flame that would free Wano had to burn at the right moment, or it would be snuffed out before it could take hold.
And so, he watched. He endured. He carried the unbearable weight of restraint. Yet each scene—every act of cruelty, every tear shed by his people—was carving into him like a thousand invisible blades. He clenched his fists so tightly his nails drew blood. His knuckles trembled, but he forced his breath to steady.
****
The moon hung low over Kibi, pale and swollen like an unblinking eye. The streets had emptied long ago, leaving only the sound of waves gnawing at the docks and the whisper of wind slipping through the empty alleys.
The woman walked alone, her child limp in her arms. His breath came shallow, every rise of his chest a small victory against the night. His tiny fingers clutched at her tattered sleeve—a weak, instinctive gesture that tore at what little remained of her heart.
She had no tears left to shed. Her bare feet left faint prints in the dirt—soft, hesitant, almost guilty. Each step carried her farther from home, deeper into the heart of despair she swore she would never enter.
Her thoughts were a storm—guilt, shame, hunger, love—all colliding in the hollow space that hunger carved into the human soul. He's a samurai, she told herself. A real one. I saw the sword… I saw his stance. She swallowed hard, her throat as dry as the cracked earth beneath her feet.
They said there's a reward… rice, maybe even medicine. Enough to feed my boy for a week… maybe more.
The memory of the morning's execution still lingered—the old farmer's scream, the boy's body falling limp in the mud. She had sworn that she would never bow to monsters, never betray what little honor she still had left. But honor didn't fill a child's stomach.
When she reached her hut earlier, she had found her son's lips pale and trembling. He had whispered for food he knew wasn't there. His belly was empty; his eyes too dull for a child. She had knelt by his side, praying to gods that no longer answered.
And then she remembered the poster nailed to the wall by the market square and every square throughout Wano—a crudely written poster with a single line of text:
"Information on rebel samurai—grain and silver—will be given."
That had been enough. Now she stood before the Beast Pirates' outpost, a squat wooden building squirming with torchlight and the stench of smoke and spilled grog. Laughter rolled out from inside—thick, cruel, and careless.
A pair of drunken pirates lounged by the door, half-beast silhouettes cast long across the dirt. One had the snout of a jackal, the other the scales of a lizard, both adorned with Kaido's mark branded into their flesh like badges of pride. The woman hesitated. Her heart pounded so loudly it drowned out the waves.
"Oi," the jackal-headed one growled when he noticed her shadow creeping closer. "What's this? A rat out past curfew?"
"I—" Her voice cracked. She clutched her child tighter. "I came to… to report something."
That caught their attention. The lizard-man leaned forward, his yellow eyes narrowing. "Report, eh? Are you sure you know what happens to people who waste our time, woman?"
She shook her head quickly. "No, I swear. I saw a man. A samurai."
The laughter stopped. Even in their drunken stupor, that word still cut through like a blade. The jackal's grin stretched wide, teeth glinting in the firelight.
"A samurai, you say?"
"Yes." Her voice trembled. "At the market square. He—he was standing in the shadows near the old teahouse… He had a sword."
The lizard-man snorted, rising to his full height. "You saw the sword yourself?"
"I did. I… I think he might be one of the rebels."
For a heartbeat, silence hung heavy. Then the jackal barked a laugh. "Hah! What luck, eh? Looks like the boss will be pleased tonight. And you…" — his eyes slid toward the child—"you'll get your rice."
He reached into a burlap sack beside him and tossed a small bundle toward her feet. The sack burst open on impact—a few handfuls of grain spilling across the dirt like gold dust.
She stared at it, chest heaving. It wasn't much, but to her, it might as well have been salvation.
"Tell the boss inside," the jackal said, waving her off. "He'll want the details. Every hair and scar of that samurai's face. Don't leave anything out, or you'll lose more than your meal." She nodded weakly, clutching the bundle, her tears finally falling—not of joy, but of shame.
Within moments, the outpost roared to life. Orders were shouted, and boots thundered on the planks. The torches flared brighter, their flames cutting through the mist. The air grew thick with the smell of oil and blood. A horn blew — deep and guttural, echoing across the town like a beast's cry.
From the shadows of the hills, riders stirred—gifts of Kaido's army, those gifted the power of monsters with artificial Zoans. Their eyes gleamed red under the torchlight as they gathered their weapons and fanned out across the town.
The night was broken by the clamor of armor, the heavy footfalls of soldiers, and the growl of engines as the Beast Pirates' patrol ships ignited their lamps in the harbor.
"Find him!" a commander barked, his voice booming. "A rogue samurai in Kibi—find him before sunrise!"
The horns echoed again. The hunt had begun.
From a distance, hidden atop a shattered rooftop, Denjiro watched as the chaos spread through the port. Dozens of pirates poured into the alleys, torches blazing, shouting orders and threats. He could feel their bloodlust—crude, loud, and unrestrained.
He didn't know who had betrayed him. But when he saw the small silhouette of the woman at the outpost, clutching a sack of rice to her chest, he understood. And he didn't hate her for it.
His jaw tightened as he turned away, cloak billowing in the wind. "So this is what we've become… So this is how low the pride of Wano has fallen...!" he murmured to the night. Below, the Beast Pirates howled like hounds catching a scent. The sound echoed across the ruined port, through the fields, and up the mountains—a chorus of cruelty in a land that had forgotten mercy.
And somewhere, in that storm of sound, the faintest whisper seemed to answer him. The whisper of the people's despair and the buried heartbeat of rebellion waiting—waiting for the moment when silence would end and blades would sing once more.
****
Vander Decken IX stood among the commoners, his rough cloak pulled tight over his shoulders. Beneath the hood, his eyes gleamed with a feverish light, every breath trembling with anticipation.
The line inched forward. Each step brought him closer to the inner chamber, to the heart of Ryugu Palace—to her.
He could hear the voices of the other fishmen ahead, their tones warm and humble as they offered their blessings and meager gifts. Coral beads. Shimmering shells. Crates of luminous sea urchins. Trinkets that meant everything to those who had so little.
Vander Decken's hands shook as he clutched his own offering—a simple pearl wrapped in a strip of whale leather. A perfect disguise for a man with an imperfect soul. He wasn't here for blessings. He wasn't here for reverence. He was here to mark a goddess.
The chamber opened before him in a rush of light and color. The vast coral dome shimmered like a dream. The ceiling glittered with living jellyfish that cast their soft luminescence upon the gathered crowd. In the center stood a cradle carved from pink coral and silver, resting upon a dais surrounded by the royal family.
There was Queen Otohime, pale and radiant, her smile weary yet tender—the embodiment of grace and hope. At her side stood King Neptune, massive and proud, his trident resting against the dais, his eyes vigilant and sharp.
Their sons—Fukaboshi, Ryuboshi, and Manboshi—stood as little sentinels at the crib's edges, their expressions a mix of awe and confusion, puffing out their chests as if already sworn to guard their tiny sister from the world.
And there she lay—the child who would one day be known as Princess Shirahoshi. Her scales shimmered with soft hues of pink and blue, her hair like strands of spun coral light. She slept peacefully, her tiny hand curling into a fist every so often, as though she already dreamed of holding the ocean itself.
The people gasped when they saw her—the embodiment of their hopes, the promise that the seas themselves had not forsaken them. The line of visitors moved with reverence. Each fishman or mermaid stepped forward, bowed low before the royal family, and placed their offerings before the cradle.
Some whispered prayers. Others wept quietly. Otohime thanked each one personally, her voice soft but carrying the warmth of sunlight filtering through clear waters.
Neptune, though smiling, was alert. His gaze swept the crowd like a slow tide, reading every movement, every gesture. The birth of a daughter—a princess—had not happened in centuries. It was both a blessing and a risk. And his instincts, sharpened by years of rule and war, whispered that danger was never far—not even in moments of joy.
Then came Vander Decken's turn. He stepped forward slowly, his cloak brushing the coral tiles, his head bowed low. His pulse thudded in his ears. Beneath the hood, his mouth twitched into a smile.
His entire life—the long, cursed legacy of the Decken bloodline—had led him to this moment. He was not strong like his ancestors. He could not command the Flying Dutchman as they once did. But he had something they lacked—patience.
He had inherited the Mato Mato no Mi, a power of obsession and doom. A single touch would bind him to his chosen target forever—an invisible link that would allow him to strike, no matter the distance. And before him lay the newborn Poseidon reborn, the mermaid princess destined to command the Sea Kings themselves. All he needed was one touch.
He reached the dais. Neptune's towering figure loomed above him. The king's voice was deep and commanding, though polite.
"State your name and offering, subject of the sea."
Vander Decken bowed. "Merely a humble sailor, Your Majesty. I bring a pearl—a token of devotion to the future of Fishman Island."
Neptune's eyes narrowed slightly. Something about the man's tone—the tremor in his breath—didn't sit right. The king's fingers tightened around the trident.
"Step forward," he said.
Vander Decken obeyed, each movement rehearsed a hundred times in his mind. He knelt before the cradle, his shadow falling over the sleeping princess. For a brief second, the noise of the chamber faded—the whispers, the shuffling, and the gasps all vanished beneath the pounding of his heart.
He could smell the faint sweetness of coral nectar in the air. He could hear the gentle bubbling of water through the palace walls. And in that quiet moment, he thought he could almost hear destiny breathing down his neck. His gloved left hand lowered the pearl onto the silk beside her.
Then, with his bare right hand—trembling but sure—he brushed the soft cheek of the newborn princess. It was the lightest touch. A gesture of blessing to any onlooker. But for him, it was the seal of fate.
The curse of the Mato Mato no Mi flared silently — an invisible mark that only he could sense, a tether between him and the child that would last until one of them perished.
Neptune's eyes snapped toward him, a flash of intuition screaming through his chest. Something about the man's movement—the quick, furtive glance, the strange stillness afterward—chilled the king's blood.
But Vander Decken was already bowing, his cloak falling forward to hide his expression. He rose smoothly, backing away with a reverent nod.
"May the princess live long and bring peace to the seas," he said softly.
And then he turned, slipping into the crowd as quickly as he had appeared. Neptune's gaze followed him until he vanished beyond the coral doors. The king's hand remained on his trident, unease gnawing at his gut. Something wasn't right. He could feel it—a disturbance in the tide, faint but real.
"Your Majesty?" Otohime asked gently, seeing the tension in his jaw.
He forced a smile. "It's nothing," he lied. "Perhaps I'm just being too nervous…Jamon."
She touched his arm, and he tried to believe it—tried to let it go. But far beyond the palace walls, in the shadow of the reef, Vander Decken IX paused as he stepped onto his small ship. The glow of the palace shimmered behind him, a distant dream of light and laughter.
He slipped a leather glove over his marked palm, concealing the faint shimmer that pulsed there like a heartbeat. His lips curled into a trembling grin.
"It's done," he whispered.
"The goddess is mine."
The sea around him seemed to darken—as if the ocean itself had shuddered in forewarning of the storm that would one day come to claim them all.