Chapter 344

Though the sun had risen over the horizon, its light and warmth were nowhere to be found on the shores of the Elsar Kingdom. The sky churned violently with dark, roiling thunderclouds, and the air seemed thick with impending doom, as if the darkness itself had come to swallow the kingdom whole.

The once-pristine, snow-covered coast was now a battlefield waiting for carnage, its pure white marred by the grim preparation for slaughter.

On the frozen shoreline, more than half a million souls stood in disarray, their faces pale with fear and resignation. These were not soldiers but the kingdom's laboring class: farmers who had once tilled the soil, miners who had clawed at the earth for its treasures, and peasants who had lived their lives chained to the will of a tyrant.

For years, their backs had borne the weight of relentless toil under King Theron's iron rule, and now, in the cruelest twist of fate, they found themselves herded like cattle to the slaughterhouse.

They were armed, if one could call it that, with whatever scraps and remnants the kingdom could scrape together. Mismatched equipment hung awkwardly on their bodies: rusted helmets that barely fit, broken swords that hadn't seen battle in decades, and crude spears fashioned from farming tools.

Their armor, if it could even be called that, was riddled with holes and cracks, more likely to invite death than repel it. Entire rows of them were barefoot, their feet blistered and bloody from being marched across the snow and ice. They shivered, not just from the cold but from the suffocating dread of the fate that awaited them.

They were not warriors. They were survivors of Theron's oppression, now forced to stand as a human wall between their kingdom and the wrath of the Donquixote Family. Some clutched their weapons with trembling hands, whispering prayers to gods who had long since abandoned them.

Others were silent, their eyes hollow, resigned to the inevitability of their deaths.

Behind them, the kingdom's soldiers—armed, trained, and merciless—watched with cold indifference. Any who dared to step out of line or attempt to flee were cut down without hesitation, their bodies left in the snow as warnings to the others. To resist was to die, and to stay was also to die, though perhaps slightly slower.

The people had no choice. All these years, they had been used, exploited, and discarded by their king, and now, they were to be offered up like sacrificial lambs to buy him time and satiate the fury of the demon approaching from the sea.

The sound of thunder rumbled overhead, echoing ominously across the coast. The already turbulent sky seemed to grow darker as a massive fleet of ships emerged from the horizon. They flew the ominous, unmistakable colors of the Donquixote Family, their ships cutting through the stormy waves like predators closing in on their prey.

Each mast bore the grim insignia of a crew that the world had come to fear, a symbol that promised not just death but complete annihilation.

The peasants' dread deepened with every second. Their hands grew slick with sweat despite the cold as the fleet drew closer. Some began to tremble uncontrollably, the weight of their pitiful weapons feeling like anchors pulling them toward the abyss. A few broke down into sobs, begging for mercy from gods, kings, or anyone who might listen.

Yet there was no mercy to be found. Not from Theron, who had ordered their assembly without a second thought, and certainly not from the Donquixote Family, whose approach was a harbinger of slaughter.

The closer the Donquixote fleet sailed, the more palpable the terror became. The air itself seemed to tighten, heavy with a sense of inevitable death. Even the waves seemed to bow in deference to the approaching fleet, crashing against the shore in reverent despair.

To the peasants, the Donquixote ships were not just vessels—they were heralds of death, and behind them loomed a darkness so absolute it seemed to blot out hope itself.

The snow-laden shore of the Elsar Kingdom, normally a tranquil stretch where the icy winds whispered through the frostbitten trees, was now the stage for a scene of unprecedented horror.

The Donquixote invasion fleet loomed over the waters, its flagship, a grotesque behemoth of iron and shadow, radiating malice. The oppressive silence, broken only by the rhythmic crashing of the icy waves, gnawed at the nerves of the gathered defenders.

They clutched their crude weapons with trembling hands, their breath visible in the frigid air as they stared at the ships in dread.

The gangplanks slammed into the surf like harbingers of doom, their weight sending sprays of freezing water into the faces of those standing closest.

The soldiers and peasants alike exchanged uncertain glances, expecting a horde of marauding pirates to descend at any moment. But nothing happened. Instead, a chilling stillness lingered—an unnatural pause that felt more terrifying than any battle cry.

Then, a dull thunk echoed from the flagship's gangplank. A small, round object rolled down, splashing into the shallows. Another followed, and another, until dozens, then hundreds, of these objects tumbled into the waves. The tide carried them closer, bobbing grotesquely, their dark silhouettes indistinct against the icy foam.

The peasant at the front of the line, a wiry man with sunken cheeks and a broken spear, dared to glance down as one of the objects bumped against his foot. The moment his eyes focused, his knees buckled.

It was a severed head.

Its lifeless eyes stared back at him, the face twisted in an eternal scream of agony. Blood had frozen along the neck's jagged stump, and its blue lips trembled faintly with the motion of the waves.

The man recoiled, falling to his knees, his spear slipping from his grasp. Around him, gasps and cries of shock rippled through the ranks as more severed heads floated ashore, a sea of the dead rushing toward them with merciless intent. The pale faces of the victims were unmistakable—friends, neighbors, comrades who had disappeared weeks or months ago, now unrecognizably mutilated.

"H-How…?" someone whispered, their voice trembling with disbelief. The question hung unanswered in the frigid air.

The wave of decapitated heads grew thicker and thicker, tens of thousands of them surging forward like a tide of nightmares. The shoreline transformed into a macabre carpet of bloated flesh, frozen expressions of terror and pain reflecting the fates of those who had faced the Donquixote pirates before.

Some heads were still adorned with scraps of armor or tattered banners, marking them as soldiers from other doomed kingdoms. Others bore the unmistakable features of peasants, fishermen, and even women and children.

The defenders' fragile resolve shattered. Panic erupted.

"Run! Run for your lives!" someone screamed, and like a crack in a dam, the ranks broke. Peasants threw down their weapons and bolted toward the forest, their bare feet kicking up sprays of icy slush. Soldiers, trained though they were, hesitated, their discipline faltering as their eyes widened in abject terror.

"Hold the line!" bellowed the commander of the vanguard, a grizzled knight whose booming voice barely rose above the cacophony of fear. He swung his sword to block a fleeing soldier. "You ungrateful bastards… stand and fight! Or you all die!"

But his words were lost in the chaos. Men and women trampled one another in their desperation to escape, their cries blending with the mournful howl of the wind. The once-organized lines of defense dissolved into a rabble of shrieking, flailing bodies.

A young recruit, barely more than a boy, dropped his shield and fell to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably as the heads floated around him, their sightless eyes locking onto his.

Meanwhile, the officers scrambled to restore order, but their commands were drowned out by the raw, primal terror that consumed the defenders.

Even the hardened knights, who had faced countless battles, felt their stomachs churn at the sight of the severed heads, some of which now rolled onto the shore, their icy mouths opening and closing as if whispering the doom of those still standing.

The cacophony of war was deafening: the sharp crack of gunfire, the thunderous boom of cannons, and the metallic clang of blades slicing through the icy air. Yet, none of these sounds were directed at the looming Donquixote fleet.

The chaos came from the defenders themselves. The once-organized line of resistance had devolved into a stampede of desperation, men and women trampling one another in a frantic bid to escape the hell unfolding before their eyes.

Amid the carnage, the commander of the Elsar Kingdom's vanguard stood resolute, his expression twisted into a mask of grim determination. He understood the stakes—if the line crumbled entirely, their kingdom would fall before the Donquixote pirates even fired a shot. His voice roared over the panic, his commands sharp as the winter air.

"Cut them down!" he bellowed, his words like a death knell. "Kill anyone who flees! If they fear death, we'll show them there's no escape from it!"

At his orders, the kingdom's soldiers—once sworn to protect their people—turned their blades, guns, and cannons on the fleeing masses. Gunshots rang out in quick succession, and screams erupted as bullets tore through backs.

Cannons, meant to repel the invaders, roared as they unleashed devastation upon the very people they were meant to defend. The frosty beach became a slaughterhouse, blood painting the snow red as the soldiers ruthlessly mowed down their countrymen.

A young mother clutching her child stumbled through the chaos, her breath visible in frantic gasps. She fell to her knees, pleading to a soldier who stood over her with a raised sword.

"Please! Mercy, I beg you!"

But mercy was a forgotten word on this battlefield. The blade came down, silencing her cries. Her child's wail was lost in the din, swallowed by the stampede that continued to claim thousands more lives.

From the bow of the flagship, I observed the scene with a calm detachment, my hands resting on the cold iron railing as my sharp eyes scanned the unfolding pandemonium. The once-proud army of Elsar had become a horde of sheep, blindly trampling over one another in a desperate attempt to flee. The air was thick with the acrid stench of gunpowder, blood, and terror.

By my side, Diamante chuckled, his voice laced with sadistic glee. His glittering cloak shifted in the wind as he tilted his head, relishing the carnage. "Young Master Ross, shall I give the order for the fleet to attack? It would be quick work to annihilate what's left."

I turned to him, my lips curling into a faint smirk. "No, not yet. Let the soldiers keep slaughtering their own. Pile the heads higher on the shore. I want them to understand the weight of defying the Donquixote Pirates. Let every soul here know: there is no salvation, no hope, in standing against us. If they must wield their weapons, they'll soon learn whom they should point them at."

Diamante nodded, his grin widening. "Understood, Young Master Ross. A lesson in despair, it is."

As the orders filtered through the ranks of our fleet, the crew leaped into action with practiced precision. Heads already floating in the tide were collected and stacked into grotesque mounds on the shore. The sight was a visceral message—an unholy monument to our dominion.

To my other side, Lucci stood with his arms crossed, the air around him charged with predatory anticipation. His voice was low and eager. "So, are you planning to take the first swing, Master? Or should I get to work?"

I chuckled, my gaze lifting toward the towering snow-covered spires of the Elsar Kingdom in the distance. My observation haki stretched out, reaching through the swirling winds of chaos until it touched something—a presence, immense and seething with power. It wasn't fear or desperation like the others; it was composed, focused, waiting.

"No," I said, my tone calm but brimming with intent. "You and the others can handle the rabble. This one... This opponent is mine. None of you are ready to face what I've sensed."

Lucci's eyes narrowed, his disappointment clear. "Tch. Always keeping the good fights for yourself."

A flicker of lightning crackled at my fingertips, and in an instant, I was surrounded by a corona of electric energy.

"Issho," I called out, my voice steady as I addressed the quiet giant standing behind me. His blind eyes remained fixed on the chaos below, his expression unreadable.

"I'm leaving things here to you. Whether you choose to save the so-called innocent lives or let them burn is up to you. Just ensure none of our own are harmed."

Issho nodded, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his katana. "Understood, Young Master. I will act as I see fit."

With that, I vanished, a bolt of lightning streaking across the battlefield. Snow and ice melted where my energy touched down, leaving only scorched earth in my wake. I moved with purpose, my senses locked onto the powerful figure within the heart of the kingdom—a force worthy of my time.

Behind me, the beach descended further into madness. The defenders who dared to fight were mercilessly cut down, and those who fled found themselves slaughtered by their own. And towering above it all, the mound of severed heads grew higher, a grim monument to the inevitability of the Donquixote Pirates' reign.

*****

The island was cloaked in a veil of eerie silence, broken only by the raucous laughter and bawdy songs of the pirates reveling by the campfire. Smoke curled lazily into the night sky, mingling with the salt-laden air.

The aroma of roasting meat drifted tantalizingly, its rich, savory scent carrying across the clearing and into the shadows where Yamato crouched beneath a thorny bush.

Her tattered cloak, worn from countless battles with the elements, barely shielded her from the biting chill of the night. The fabric was riddled with holes, its edges frayed, a testament to her harrowing escape from the inferno that was Hachinosu.

The charred wreckage of that once-infamous island haunted her dreams, but her resolve burned brighter than her fear. Her stomach growled audibly, a sharp pang of hunger tightening her chest, but she didn't flinch. She pressed a grimy hand against her midsection as if to quiet the rebellious noise.

Golden eyes peered out from beneath the hood of her cloak, fixed hungrily on the spit turning over the fire. A slab of meat, glistening with juices, sizzled and crackled as the pirates took turns slicing chunks and filling their mouths.

Yamato's throat ached as she swallowed against her hunger, the raw need for sustenance threatening to overwhelm her.

But she couldn't act—not yet.

The bush's thorns bit into her legs and hands as she shifted slightly, careful not to rustle the leaves. Every movement was deliberate, her instincts honed by weeks of survival.

She had braved the unforgiving seas in a battered, leaky boat, driven by little more than sheer willpower. She had defied nature's fury, endured starvation, and narrowly avoided the clutches of predators, both man and beast, to reach this desolate spit of land.

It was luck—or perhaps destiny—that had brought her here, a pirates' emergency shelter now turned into their temporary den of debauchery.

The pirates were celebrating some recent haul, gold and jewels piled carelessly near their fire, their crude weapons strewn about. Yamato had no interest in the treasure. Her gaze never wavered from the roasting meat.

Her muscles tensed each time one of the pirates turned toward the darkness, their drunken laughter rolling across the clearing like thunder. She knew she had to wait for the embers to dim, for the revelry to fade into the snores of the passed out.

The cold gnawed at her bones, but the hunger gnawed at her spirit. She had eaten scraps for days, scavenging what little the sea had to offer—shellfish, bitter roots, even seaweed. But this was different. Her body yearned for the warmth of real food, for strength to fuel the fire burning within her. This wasn't just survival; it was preparation.

Kaido.

The name reverberated in her mind like a war drum, a constant reminder of why she couldn't falter. Her father's shadow loomed large in her heart, a tempest of pain and fury. She clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms.

Her resolve was unshakable: she would find the one who could teach her the strength to stand against the tyrant, her spiritual master—the one who would make her dream of vengeance a reality.

But first, she had to survive this night.

The pirates' songs began to waver, their voices slurring as exhaustion took hold. One by one, they toppled over, snoring loudly, the firelight casting flickering shadows over their sprawled forms. The embers dimmed, their red glow pulsing faintly like a dying heartbeat.

Yamato's breath was shallow, her movements slow and deliberate. She crept forward, wincing as a thorn snagged her cloak. Her heart pounded in her chest, loud as the crash of waves on the shore.

Each step brought her closer to the prize. The fire's warmth brushed her face, its heat a cruel contrast to the icy night. The scent of the meat was overpowering now, and her mouth watered uncontrollably.

Her fingers, raw and trembling, reached out to grab a piece. The world seemed to hold its breath.

But then, one of the pirates stirred, muttering in his sleep. Yamato froze, her hand hovering inches from the spit. Her golden eyes darted toward him, muscles coiled like a spring. He turned over, scratching his stomach, before settling back into his drunken stupor. She exhaled silently and snatched the meat, retreating quickly into the shadows.

Yamato's teeth were just about to sink into the precious slab of roasted meat when a booming voice shattered the silence, cutting through the night like a jagged blade.

"Look here, boys!" the voice bellowed, dripping with malice. "Didn't I tell you? There's a rat on the island!"

The ground seemed to tremble as the source of the voice stepped forward. A massive figure loomed from the shadows, illuminated by the dying embers of the fire. He stood over four meters tall, his grotesque frame swathed in patched leather and furs, the stench of blood and sweat rolling off him in waves.

His face was a canvas of scars, one jagged line splitting his lip, giving his sneer a sinister curve. A rusted axe, almost as large as Yamato herself, rested on his shoulder.

Yamato's body tensed like a cornered animal. Her instincts screamed at her to move, and she sprang backward into the open beach, the pale moonlight spilling over her tattered cloak.

Behind the monstrous pirate, the others stirred. What had seemed like drunken stupor moments ago melted away as one by one, the pirates rose with predatory grins. Their earlier revelry had been a charade, a cruel game to lure out intruders.

"Tch, tch..." one of the men hissed, his cutlass already gleaming in the moonlight. He was wiry, with a rat-like face and a voice to match. "You've got sharp senses, captain. I thought that wreck of a boat washed up here by chance. Who'd have guessed someone actually made it to our island?"

The wind howled, whipping Yamato's cloak violently. With a sharp gust, the hood was pulled back, revealing her wild mane of white hair and fierce golden eyes.

The pirates froze for a moment, caught off guard.

"It's a girl..." one of them gasped, his voice high-pitched with surprise. Then, as if a dam had broken, the silence was replaced by lecherous laughter.

"The gods are kind tonight!" another pirate jeered, his grin revealing yellowed teeth. "I was wondering how I'd keep warm on a night like this."

The towering captain stepped forward, his eyes narrowing with cruel amusement. "Don't worry, little rat. We'll take real good care of you." His massive hand reached out, eager to snatch her up like prey.

Yamato moved faster than his eyes could track. She darted to the side, and as she spun, a glint of metal flashed from beneath her cloak. In her hand now was a sturdy metal rod, its surface worn but dependable.

The captain paused, his grin widening. "Ah, a feisty one! Looks like we won't be bored tonight, boys!"

He lunged, but Yamato was already moving, her rod swinging in a wide arc. The captain raised his arm to block, his arrogance betraying him. The rod connected with a sickening crack, and his expression twisted into one of shock and pain. His forearm snapped like a dry twig, the jagged bone protruding through the skin.

"Wh-what the—" Before he could warn his crew, Yamato's feral roar cut him off. Her face contorted, her eyes glowing with primal fury. With a flash of sharp teeth, she lunged at his throat and sank her jaws deep. Blood sprayed across the sand as she ripped his jugular out in one savage motion. The captain's gurgled scream was short-lived, his massive frame crumpling to the ground like a felled tree.

The beach fell silent. The pirates stood frozen, their drunken bravado shattered by the sight of their leader's lifeless body. Blood pooled at their feet, staining the pristine moonlit sand.

"She's a monster..." one pirate whispered, his voice trembling.

But Yamato wasn't done. She straightened, her rod dripping with blood, her golden eyes gleaming with a predatory light. Her body began to shift, her silhouette expanding as her mythical zoan form emerged.

Fur as white as snow sprouted along her arms and legs, her frame towering above the pirates now. Her horns curved like a demon's, and her maw bore fangs capable of rending flesh with ease. The wind howled louder, almost as if nature itself was responding to her transformation.

What followed was carnage. Yamato moved like a storm; her bloodstained form was a blur of devastating strikes. One pirate lunged at her, but his cutlass shattered like glass against her reinforced hide. She retaliated by driving her claw through his chest with such force that it splintered his ribcage.

Another pirate tried to flee, but she was on him in seconds, her jaws snapping around his spine and severing it with a sickening crunch.

Screams filled the air, each one cut short by the sound of breaking bones and tearing flesh. The sand turned crimson, soaked with the blood of the fallen. Yamato showed no mercy, her movements precise and unrelenting. One pirate managed to stab her side, but the blade barely penetrated before she crushed his skull with a single swing.

By the time the last body hit the ground, the once-raucous camp was silent save for the crackle of the dying fire.

Yamato stood amidst the carnage, her chest heaving, her white fur stained with blood. Her mythical zoan form shimmered as she shifted back to her human appearance. Her tattered cloak hung in shreds, barely clinging to her shoulders.

She returned to the fire and picked up the roasted meat she had dropped earlier. Sitting cross-legged on the sand, she tore into her meal, the savory juices mingling with the metallic tang of blood still on her lips.

The bodies of the pirates lay strewn around her in gruesome displays—limbs torn apart, faces twisted in terror. The once-proud stash of loot was forgotten, scattered among the remains. The moonlight bathed Yamato's blood-streaked figure as she ate in silence, her gaze fixed on the horizon.

She was no helpless girl. She was a warrior, a beast, a survivor. And she had a mission. This was only the beginning.