Chapter 395

Water 7, Grand Line

Huff… Huff…

A young teenage boy panted heavily, his chest rising and falling as he glanced toward the entrance of the dimly lit alleyway. His heart pounded against his ribs, but his sharp blue eyes remained vigilant. He had been running—no, being chased.

Cutty Flam, an apprentice shipwright under the legendary shipwright Tom, wiped the sweat from his brow. His senior, Iceburg, had recently returned to Water 7 to assist in finishing their master's grand project: the Sea Train. Tom-san had been pushing to complete the project with almost unnatural urgency, though he never explained why.

Strangely enough, the funding never stopped. Money poured in from unknown sources, enough to keep the workshop running and even support Cutty Flam's own side projects. Tom-san had happily indulged him, never once questioning his ambitions.

But lately, something felt… off.

Rumors swirled around Water 7 like a creeping tide—whispers of an ancient weapon, a power capable of reshaping the world. Shipwrights, seasoned veterans of the trade, had begun vanishing without a trace. It was an unspoken fear in the air, a shadow lurking behind every corner. Working under the most famous shipwright in the city made Cutty Flam a target.

And tonight, he was certain. Someone was following him.

He had come to the city to purchase materials for his personal project when the uneasy feeling settled in his gut. At first, he dismissed it as paranoia, but the sensation never faded. Every time he turned a corner, the faintest scuff of boots trailed behind him. Every glance over his shoulder revealed shifting figures in the distance, lurking just out of sight.

Then—bam!

He slammed into something solid, losing his footing and crashing onto the damp alley floor.

A low chuckle rumbled above him. "You sure know how to run, don't you, kid?"

Cutty Flam looked up, his hands instinctively tightening into fists. A man in ragged, ill-fitting clothes loomed over him, the smirk on his face sharp as a blade. But it wasn't just him—three more figures stepped out from the darkness, their postures too measured, too disciplined to be mere street thugs.

He scrambled to his feet, mind racing. He could still escape—but as he turned to bolt, two more figures emerged, blocking the only other exit. He was trapped.

The leader took a slow step forward, his eyes gleaming under the flickering streetlamp. "Tell me, kid, you're one of Tom's apprentices, aren't you?"

Cutty Flam clenched his jaw, scanning his surroundings. His fingers brushed against a bent iron rod lying discarded near the alley wall. Without hesitation, he grabbed it, holding it out in front of him like a makeshift weapon.

The man scoffed. "Drop that before you hurt yourself. We're just pirates looking for a decent shipwright. Everyone knows Tom's the best in Water 7." His tone was calm, almost casual, but there was an edge beneath the surface, sharp and cold.

Pirates? No.

Cutty Flam narrowed his eyes. These men weren't pirates. Their movements were too refined, their presence too calculated. And then there was the biggest giveaway—

"If you were real pirates, you could've just walked into the workshop and made a request like anyone else," he said, gripping the rod tighter. "But instead, you tail me through the city and corner me in an alley? Doesn't add up."

The leader's smirk faltered slightly.

Cutty Flam pressed on, his voice laced with disgust. "And don't think you can fool me. I can smell a filthy pirate from a mile away." He sneered. "But you? You should've at least ditched those expensive-looking shoes before trying to play the part."

Silence.

Then—Tch.

The man clicked his tongue, his expression darkening. "Seems like you're sharper than you look, kid."

The false pirate took another step forward, now just within striking distance. Cutty Flam could feel it—the suffocating gap between their strengths. If he swung first, he wouldn't even get the chance to follow up. These weren't common thugs. They were professionals, and they wanted something.

"Listen," the man continued, his voice now devoid of its earlier playfulness. "All we need is some information. If you tell us what we want to know—or at least point us in the right direction—you get to walk away from this. Simple as that."

He paused, tilting his head slightly. "But if you refuse…"

The leader's smile returned, colder than ever.

"You'll just be another body rotting in this alley."

Cutty Flam exhaled slowly, steadying himself. His grip tightened around the iron rod, but not out of fear. No matter what they wanted to know, no matter how much they threatened him—

He would never betray Tom-san. Not now. Not ever.

****

At the farthest edge of Water 7, standing firm against the relentless sea breeze, lay one of the most esteemed shipwright workshops in the entire city—Tom's Workers. A sprawling dockyard brimming with half-built hulls, stacks of high-quality lumber, and the rhythmic symphony of hammering steel, it was the heart of Water 7's shipbuilding prowess.

Inside the main workshop, the air was thick with the scent of burning coal and hot iron. The glow of the forge cast long, flickering shadows on the walls as Tom, the long-horned cowfish fishman, worked tirelessly.

His massive hands, calloused from decades of craftsmanship, gripped the heated metal with ease, his every motion precise and effortless. Sparks flew as the metal sizzled in the furnace, turning white-hot under the intense heat.

Nearby, Iceburg, dressed in a sleeveless work shirt soaked with sweat, swung his hammer down with force, striking a steel plate against the anvil. Each impact rang through the workshop like a bell tolling, reverberating against the walls and floor. He gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip before raising the hammer once more.

CLANG.

The steel bent but not as perfectly as it should have.

CLANG.

Another swing. Another adjustment. He was close, but not close enough.

Despite all he had learned during his time in Dressrosa, despite the techniques and skills he had honed, he was still an apprentice—and standing next to Tom-san only made that fact more apparent. The legendary fishman could forge an entire hull with seemingly inhuman precision, his experience and talent beyond anything Iceburg had ever witnessed.

Tom watched as Iceburg swung again, wiping his own brow with a heavy forearm. But after another imperfect strike, he let out a booming chuckle, shaking his head.

"Put your back into it, lad!" Tom scolded, though his tone carried more amusement than frustration. "If you ruin this plate too, you're spending the night outside in the cold!"

Iceburg exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders before gripping the hammer tighter. He knew Tom wasn't joking—not entirely. They had been at this for hours, trying to get this particular steel plate just right. It was an essential piece for the Sea Train, and Tom refused to accept anything less than perfection.

So neither of them stopped.

CLANG.

CLANG.

The sound of their labor filled the workshop, drowning out the world beyond the forge.

But while Tom and Iceburg were lost in their work, Kokoro, the workshop's secretary, was anything but.

She sat at the front desk, her pearl smooth fingers gripping the edges of the wooden counter as her gaze constantly flicked toward the entrance. Her unease was growing by the minute.

Cutty Flam had left for the city alone, tasked with purchasing materials for his personal project. That had been in broad daylight—early noon. Now? It was already dark.

More than six hours had passed.

Even for that reckless boy, this was too long.

Sure, he was mischievous, often getting sidetracked with strange mechanical ideas, but even he had limits. At worst, he should've been back hours ago, excitedly rambling about his new ideas while lugging a pile of supplies through the door.

But tonight?

Nothing.

The more she thought about it, the more her stomach twisted in knots. Water 7 was different lately—darker, more dangerous. Whispers of ancient weapons, shipwrights disappearing without a trace, unfamiliar faces lurking around the docks… it all sent a shiver down her spine.

She should have never let him go alone.

Finally, she couldn't take it anymore.

With a deep breath, Kokoro pushed herself away from the desk and strode toward the heart of the workshop, where the resounding clangs of metal echoed.

"Tom-san…" she called out, but her voice barely carried over the relentless pounding of steel against steel.

Tom didn't react. Iceburg didn't pause. They were too focused, too immersed in their craft.

Kokoro hesitated for a moment, then stepped closer, her voice firmer.

"Tom-san!"

This time, Iceburg was the one to falter first. His hammer stopped mid-swing, his sweat-slicked brow furrowing as he turned toward her. Tom, now noticing the sudden break in rhythm, finally looked up, his large fishman eyes meeting hers.

For a moment, all was still except for the crackling of the forge.

Kokoro swallowed, her voice tinged with rare worry.

"Cutty hasn't come back yet."

She let that statement hang in the air for a second before continuing, her grip tightening around the fabric of her sleeve.

"It's been more than six hours."

Tom's gaze shifted toward the workshop's window. Through the smoky glass, the sky outside was pitch black, the streets beyond barely visible under the dim glow of street lamps.

A heavy silence fell over the room.

For the first time that night, Tom wasn't smiling.

****

A dim, flickering lantern cast twisted shadows across the walls of an abandoned warehouse. The scent of rusted metal, sweat, and blood hung thick in the air, suffocating, inescapable.

In the center of the room, a young teenage boy dangled from the ceiling, his arms bound above his head by thick iron chains. His body hung limply, his form battered beyond recognition.

Blood dripped in slow, rhythmic drops onto the cold concrete below, pooling at his bare feet. His once vibrant, rebellious eyes were now swollen and barely open, but they still burned with defiance.

Cutty Flam was close to death.

His body had been ravaged—several fingers missing, his left shoulder nearly torn from its socket, his skin marred with cuts, burns, and bruises so deep they had turned black. Yet despite all of this, he hadn't uttered a single word. Not even a scream.

"Tough little bastard… still don't wanna talk, huh?"

The voice was laced with cruel amusement, tinged with the smallest hint of frustration.

A man stood a few feet away, his silhouette cast long by the dim light. He was a Cipher Pol agent, clad in dark, nondescript clothing. In his hand, he held a gleaming knife, its blade still wet with the boy's blood.

With a slow, almost lazy motion, he wiped it clean with a rag, flicking away the crimson stains as if they were nothing more than an inconvenience.

They had been at this for hours.

Interrogation was an art—one that Cipher Pol had long since mastered. Pain, fear, exhaustion—everyone broke eventually. The boy should have cracked long ago. Should have begged.

Should have screamed. Should have told them what they wanted to know.

But he hadn't.

Even as they flayed his flesh, crushed his bones, and stole pieces of him one by one, he had refused to yield.

The agent let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "Heh… What a damn waste. If this brat had been trained by the organization from a young age, he could've made an excellent agent."

Cutty Flam let out a weak, rasping breath. His lips were dry, cracked, and stained with blood. His entire body screamed in agony, but he still managed the faintest, mocking smirk.

"…Too… bad…" he croaked, voice hoarse from dehydration and pain. "I… hate… your kind…"

The agent's smirk twitched slightly, annoyance creeping in. The boy was mocking them—even now. Even on the brink of death.

The warehouse served as a temporary base for the Cipher Pol unit stationed in Water 7. A dozen agents lurked in the shadows, combing through every whisper, every rumor about the ancient weapons.

The search had intensified after the existence of these mythical weapons was exposed to the world. Even the World Government itself had grown desperate, deploying every possible resource to track down any leads—and Tom the shipwright was at the top of that list.

After months of silent investigation, every veteran shipwright they interrogated pointed to the same possibility:

If there was one man in Water 7 who might hold knowledge of the ancient weapons, it was Tom.

But Tom was untouchable.

He had been granted immunity by one of the World Government's Judges from Enies Lobby. As long as that order stood, no regular Cipher Pol agents dared to target him directly.

So they had turned their attention to his apprentices.

At first, they had assumed the young boy before them would break easily—too young, too inexperienced, too tender to endure real pain.

They were wrong.

The boy had endured.

He had fought back, even in silence.

They had resorted to their most vicious methods—bones shattered, skin torn, nails ripped from his fingers, fire kissing his flesh—but even then, Cutty Flam had refused to talk.

For a moment, there was only silence. The agent stared at the boy, a mixture of irritation and reluctant respect flickering in his gaze.

"…You're really something, kid," he muttered.

Cutty Flam exhaled slowly, his head drooping forward, strands of blood-matted blue hair falling over his face.

His consciousness was slipping. His vision blurred. His body was failing him.

Was this it?

Was he going to die here?

Would Tom-san and Iceburg even find his body?

A part of him knew he should feel fear. Should panic.

But he didn't.

Because even as he felt his body shutting down… even as pain became nothing more than a dull, distant sensation…

He had won.

They hadn't gotten a single word out of him.

And even if this was his end, he would die loyal to the man who had given him a second chance at life.

His last breath would be in defiance.

His last thought, of the sea train he would never get to see completed.

His lips curled into one final smirk.

"…Go… to… hell…"

Then—darkness.

The air inside the warehouse was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and death. The Cipher Pol agents stood in the dim light, their faces unreadable, their actions cold and calculated. To them, this was just another unfortunate casualty. Another stubborn fool who refused to talk.

The boy was done for.

There was no point in keeping him any longer.

The Cipher Pol leader, a man cloaked in shadow, finally stood, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Dispose of him. Chop him up and feed him to the sharks."

His tone was absolute. Final. This was not the first time they had encountered an unbreakable fool—but stubbornness meant nothing when you were dead and forgotten.

That was how Cipher Pol worked. No morality. No hesitation. Just results.

"Yes, Captain."

The interrogator smirked as he unsheathed his blade, the steel gleaming in the dim light. With one swift motion, he swung downward, slicing through both the chains and the boy's ravaged body in a single stroke.

SHNK.

The bloodied form of Cutty Flam crashed onto the warehouse floor, hitting the cold concrete with a sickening thud. His body lay motionless, a growing pool of crimson spreading beneath him.

And then—

BOOM!

The entire warehouse shook as the front doors were blown apart, wooden splinters flying through the air. Every Cipher Pol agent inside instantly tensed, hands darting to their weapons. The dust cloud billowed outward, momentarily obscuring their vision.

Two figures stepped forward.

Through the settling dust, Tom emerged first, his massive frame trembling with rage, his usual jovial smile long gone. Beside him, Iceburg, his apprentice, gripped his hammer so tightly his knuckles had turned white.

They had come prepared—not with swords or guns, but with their tools, makeshift weapons gripped with the intent to kill.

But then their eyes fell on Cutty Flam.

A lifeless heap.

Blood-soaked. Barely human anymore.

For a split second, neither of them moved. Neither of them breathed.

Something inside them snapped.

Their blood froze.

And then—rage took over.

"Oh? Look who walked in." The Cipher Pol leader chuckled, stepping forward, completely unfazed by their arrival. "Tom, we were just discussing how to approach you. But it seems you've saved us the trouble."

He gestured toward the broken form of Cutty Flam, then turned to Iceburg, his smirk widening.

"Though I may not be able to touch you directly," he said to Tom, "the same doesn't apply to your apprentices." His gaze flickered toward Iceburg, eyes gleaming with cruel amusement.

"So let's keep this simple, shall we?" He spread his arms wide, as if making a generous offer.

"Tell us everything you know about the Ancient Weapons.****"

The warehouse fell silent.

Tom didn't answer immediately.

Instead, his massive fists clenched, his gills flaring as he inhaled deeply. The very air around him seemed to vibrate with barely contained fury.

Then, without turning to face the Cipher Pol leader, he spoke.

His deep voice shook with rage.

"Didn't the Donquixote Family send you here to ensure our safety?"

A flicker of confusion crossed the Cipher Pol agents' faces.

Then—

The sound of footsteps.

Slow, deliberate, lethal.

At the entrance of the warehouse, a new figure appeared.

Blood dripped from his blade, pooling at his feet. His piercing gaze swept across the room with the coldness of a predator.

Kyros.

The Champion of Dressrosa. The gladiator without equal.

And he wasn't alone.

The Cipher Pol lookouts and guards stationed outside? Dead. Every single one of them.

The Cipher Pol leader's smirk vanished. For the first time, doubt flickered in his eyes.

Tom exhaled sharply, his entire body shaking.

Then, his voice roared through the warehouse like a tidal wave.

"Kill them. Every last one of them."

Kyros took another step forward, his blade still slick with fresh red. His gaze drifted toward the center of the room—toward Cutty Flam's body—before landing on Iceburg.

Iceburg, who hadn't spoken a word since entering. Iceburg, who had never been one for violence. But tonight, Iceburg wasn't thinking as a shipwright. Tonight, he wasn't thinking about right or wrong.

His brother—his family—lay in a pool of his own blood. Iceburg's grip tightened around his hammer, his voice raw with hatred.

"Kill them, Kyros."

The Cipher Pol agents instinctively stepped back. Because in that moment, they realized something terrifying—

They were already dead. The Cipher Pol leader stiffened. For the first time in a long while, he felt something he wasn't accustomed to feeling— Fear.

It wasn't the presence of Tom or Iceburg that unsettled him. No, he had anticipated their arrival, even calculated how to leverage their emotions against them.

But the man who had just entered…

He was different.

A warrior bathed in the scent of fresh blood, his blade still dripping from the slaughter outside. A man who did not hesitate, did not falter, and did not know the meaning of mercy.

Kyros.

The Cipher Pol leader recognized the overwhelming bloodlust pouring off him, a suffocating presence that made the air heavy and thick, as if death itself had stepped into the room. He was no ordinary swordsman.

He was a monster.

But then—

Kyros vanished.

It was instantaneous. One second he was standing at the entrance, his crimson-stained blade glinting in the dim warehouse light—

The next, he was gone.

"Soru?!"

The Cipher Pol leader's instincts kicked in at the last possible moment. Years of elite training pushed him into action, his hands steady as he infused his blade with Armament Haki, prepared to intercept the incoming attack.

But it never came.

Instead, Kyros' blade slid against his own like a whisper, deflecting smoothly before redirecting with serpentine precision.

And then—

SHNK.

A head flew into the air. Blood sprayed in a violent arc as one of the Cipher Pol agents beside him crumpled lifelessly to the floor. The severed head struck the dim, flickering lightbulb overhead—

And the warehouse plunged into complete darkness. Then, hell was unleashed.

Muzzle flashes erupted as the Cipher Pol agents blindly opened fire, the scent of gunpowder thickening the air. Bullets ripped through the dark, illuminating brief flashes of the chaos within.

But Kyros… Kyros was already gone. A ghost in the shadows. A predator among prey.

This was not a battlefield to him. This was a coliseum. And he had spent his entire life fighting in the dark corners of the arena, his blade honed through years of bloodshed and survival.

Against insurmountable odds. Against enemies stronger, faster, and more numerous. But they all bled the same. They all died the same. And tonight, Cipher Pol would be no different.

A single breath. A single second. Kyros struck. A scream. Then silence. Blades clashed in the abyss, their sparks like dying embers swallowed by the night. Every swing, every step Kyros took was precise, calculated, lethal.

One agent felt the cold bite of steel through his ribs before he could react. Another swung wildly, only to find his arm severed at the elbow before his throat was opened. The darkness became his ally, their enemy.

Kyros had long stopped relying on sight alone. His instincts—sharpened through decades of combat—worked in harmony with his Observation Haki, making him a phantom that moved unseen, unheard, until it was too late.

The Cipher Pol agents realized the truth far too late. They were not the hunters. They were the hunted. Kyros was not fighting them. He was butchering them.

And when the last muzzle flash died, when the last body hit the floor, only one voice remained in the suffocating silence— A single, bloodstained whisper.

"You should have stayed in the dark."