Chapter 411

"You sure you want to do this, Dora? We can just travel back the way we came, you know."

Even I was a bit dumbfounded by Dora's latest, and possibly most reckless, request. She wanted to descend from the sky islands in the most unorthodox way imaginable. A year ago, I might have dismissed it as a suicidal idea, but after everything we had been through on Skypiea, I wasn't so sure anymore.

"No! I want to take the shortest route back to the sea below!" Dora huffed dramatically, crossing her arms as if the matter was already settled. There was no room for negotiation in her mind.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, exhaling sharply. This girl…

Her idea was nothing short of madness. She wanted to sail the ship straight off the edge of Skypiea in freefall, plummeting thousands of meters from the sky down to the Blue Sea below. It was absurd—downright suicidal! And worst of all… this entire idea was my fault. Why did I ever mention it in the first place?!

"Master, she's just throwing a tantrum again," Lucci muttered as he absentmindedly stroked Hattori, his pet pigeon. His voice was dry, unimpressed. "Sometimes, you need to stop giving in to her ridiculous whims."

Dora's eyes narrowed dangerously.

Without missing a beat, she nudged the massive serpent coiled around her shoulders. The snake hissed, sensing its master's will, and lashed out with its muscular tail—striking toward Lucci like a whip.

Lucci didn't even blink.

With casual ease, he flicked his hand, deflecting the attack like it was nothing more than an inconvenience. The serpent recoiled, defeated.

Dora pouted.

Thud.

She plopped down onto the deck, arms crossed, her expression an exaggerated mix of defiance and determination. The air around her radiated stubbornness.

"I'm not going back the boring way!" she declared, her voice carrying over the ship's deck. "You said we could survive the fall! You said it was one of the greatest adventures anyone could experience on the Sky Islands! So I want to experience it too!"

A collective shudder passed through the crew.

They were already whispering silent prayers to whatever gods were listening, pleading for mercy from this impending catastrophe. Some even clutched the mast as if it would somehow protect them from the insanity that Dora was trying to drag them into.

I looked down at her, exasperated.

Her dark eyes burned with the reckless spirit of an adventurer—untamed, wild, unbreakable. That same spark of excitement that had always drawn her to danger, to the unknown, to the impossible.

And damn it all… I knew exactly what that felt like. I sighed.

"You're really not going to let this go, are you?"

Dora grinned.

"Nope!"

It had been close to a year since we first set foot on Skypiea, and in that time, we had dedicated ourselves entirely to training. Dora had made significant strides, mastering a decent proficiency in the internal destruction technique, a level of Armament Haki that allowed her to tear apart opponents from the inside out.

And, as promised, once she had reached that milestone, I had allowed her to consume the Goro Goro no Mi, the Lightning Logia. Now, even among the giants, Dora would stand at the pinnacle of destruction, a living embodiment of calamity.

I, too, had grown—Lucci as well. Our strength had soared beyond our expectations. Yet, despite my progress, my Devil Fruit remained unawakened. I had come to realize that what I needed wasn't just more training; I needed a battle that would push me to the brink of death and beyond. Only then would I truly evolve.

However, our own growth paled in comparison to the transformation of the Shandians. They were warriors to their very core, their bloodline steeped in the traditions of war.

And now, after months of relentless training, nearly every single one of them had achieved a rudimentary grasp of both Armament and Observation Haki. Many might dismiss this as a minor accomplishment—after all, simply unlocking the basics of Haki wasn't unheard of—but those who thought that way underestimated the sheer difficulty of it.

Most people would live their entire lives without even brushing against the concept of Haki. Even those who knew about it often took decades to manifest its power. But the Shandians? They had taken to it like flames to dry wood.

The crude, punishing training methods I had devised didn't deter them in the slightest. None of them wavered. None of them broke. Their discipline and resilience were beyond anything I had ever seen.

Still, as remarkable as their progress was, I had yet to see anyone among them who could be considered truly exceptional. The only one who stood out was little Wyper. The boy had a natural affinity for Haki, something rare even among warriors.

However, he was still young—far too young for me to make an accurate assessment of his potential. Would he reach the level required to stand among the elite of the Donquixote Family? I wasn't sure. My standards were high—far higher than most. So, I decided to wait. To watch. Give him another decade or so to grow. If he truly had the talent, then perhaps one day, he could join us.

For now, however, the Shandians would remain a hidden army in the making, a force being cultivated in the shadows for the Donquixote Family. By the time we were ready for the final war, they would be a terrifying power to be reckoned with.

A sudden movement pulled me from my thoughts.

"My Lord."

Wyrah, the Shandian warrior who had taken on the role of their de facto leader, knelt before me. And with him, the entire Shandian tribe followed suit, pressing their foreheads to the ground in reverence. Even the old priestess, frail yet unwavering in her devotion, bowed until her head touched the dirt.

A wave of unease washed over me.

No matter how many times I had told them to stop, this fanatical old woman refused to listen. To her, I was a living god. A divine savior sent to deliver their people. And because the Shandians revered her as their spiritual pillar, many of them had adopted the same practice.

I had warned them—repeatedly—that I was no god. That I did not require such worship. But my protests had only made them more devout, as if denying my own divinity was some kind of sacred humility. To them, refusing their reverence was the true blasphemy.

It was… frustrating.

And yet, I did nothing to stop them now.

Because as much as I disliked being idolized, I understood the power of belief.

The Shandians had found something to rally behind. Something to unite them. And in the chaotic world we lived in, faith—no matter how misplaced—could be a weapon sharper than any blade.

For now, I let them kneel.

*****

The air inside the cargo hold was thick with the scent of salt, wood, and fresh provisions. The gentle creaking of the ship echoed in the dimly lit space, the only light filtering in through the gaps in the wooden beams above.

A Kuja warrior, tall and battle-hardened, narrowed her sharp eyes as she felt it—a presence.

Her grip tightened around her bow, drawing back an arrow in one fluid motion.

"Who's there? Come out!" Her voice was firm, edged with the wariness of someone who had survived too many battles to ignore a gut feeling.

The tension spread like wildfire.

Around her, a handful of Kuja warriors immediately reacted, their instincts honed by years of surviving in a world hostile to women alone. Their bows and spears were raised, eyes scanning the shadowed corners of the cargo hold. Even the women working under the Donquixote Family, who had long since adapted to the warrior culture of the Kuja, reached for their weapons, ready for an ambush.

The ship had only just left Amazon Lily, its course set toward Dressrosa, and they had just passed the treacherous Calm Belt. There was no room for mistakes out here—not with the sea full of dangers and unseen enemies lurking in every shadow.

The warrior took a cautious step forward, her keen eyes locked onto a stack of crates near the far wall. Something—**or someone—**was there.

The faintest shuffling sound. A held breath. A presence that didn't belong. Her arrow remained notched, ready to fly. Then—a sudden movement.

Before anyone could react, a small head of long, silky black hair peeked out from behind the crates. Large, defiant eyes met the warrior's own, filled with annoyance rather than fear.

And just like that, the entire tension inside the cargo hold crumbled into stunned silence.

The warrior's jaw slackened slightly. Boa Hancock.

Emerging from the shadows like an empress descending her throne, the eldest of the three sisters stepped forward, her tiny frame radiating a level of confidence that made it seem like she belonged there.

Behind her, two smaller figures stumbled out, guilt evident on their faces.

Sandersonia, her jade-green hair spilling over her shoulders, had the decency to at least look sheepish about getting caught. She glanced at Hancock as if waiting for orders.

Marigold, on the other hand, looked like she wanted to disappear into the crates altogether. She fidgeted, her fingers gripping the hem of her clothes, avoiding the glares of the grown warriors.

Hancock, however, stood tall.

With an indignant huff, she crossed her arms, lifting her chin as if she were the one demanding answers.

"Tch. You took too long to find us," she said, as if it was their fault for not catching them sooner. The Kuja warriors and Donquixote women stared.

Of all the things they had expected—pirates, stowaway thieves, spies—this was not it.

The warrior who had first drawn her bow slowly lowered her weapon, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.

"What in the name of the Sea Empress are you three doing here?!"

Sandersonia flinched. Marigold swallowed hard. But Hancock? Hancock simply smirked.

Hancock crossed her arms, lifting her chin with a haughty air, her long black hair cascading over her shoulders. "Hmph. I was simply too bored on the island," she declared, as if the entire situation were a minor inconvenience. "I wanted to see the seas and go on a voyage."

As one of the few children personally groomed to be the next Empress, Hancock held a special status among the Kuja. But even that did nothing to quell the rising fury in the eyes of the warrior standing before her.

The woman's hands trembled—not from fear, but from sheer exasperation.

"You... you—!" The warrior's voice rose, cracking with barely restrained anger. "Have you girls lost your minds?! Hasn't the Matriarch made it absolutely clear that under no circumstances are you to leave the island?!"

Her roar rattled the wooden beams of the cargo hold, and for the first time since they were caught, Hancock flinched.

For just a moment, her haughty demeanor wavered—but it was only for a moment. Stubborn as ever, she quickly recovered, steeling herself against the warrior's fury. She was a candidate for Empress; she couldn't afford to be seen backing down.

But her younger sisters? Sandersonia and Marigold visibly shrank under the woman's gaze.

The warrior took a step closer, her fingers clenched into fists at her sides. "Do you have any idea how dangerous things are out here? And yet you three—children—decided to sneak onto a ship and take a casual stroll across the sea?!"

Her voice boomed through the cargo hold, drawing attention from above deck.

The murmurs of the crew spread like wildfire as more warriors rushed toward the scene, their expressions shifting from confusion to frustration as they pieced together what had happened.

The stowaways had been discovered.

And yet, despite the glares, despite the rising tension, Hancock stood firm.

She scoffed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "Hmph! We've been on the sea for nearly a week now, and I don't recall any trouble. You're all just exaggerating. I don't see what's so dangerous about the—"

BOOM.

A deafening explosion cut her off. The entire ship shuddered violently, the floor beneath them tilting as a cannonball tore through the waves, landing dangerously close to their port side. A shockwave erupted from the impact, sending a spray of seawater crashing over the deck.

Hancock and her sisters screamed as they were thrown off their feet, tumbling across the wooden planks. Around them, crates and barrels toppled, their contents spilling across the cargo hold.

But the Kuja warriors? They reacted instantly.

Grabbing onto the nearest supports, they steadied themselves, their bodies moving with the rhythm of the sea. The shouting above deck escalated as more cannonfire ripped through the air, the scent of gunpowder thick and suffocating.

Then—a single, blood-chilling cry rang out from the crow's nest.

"SLAVERS!!"

The word reverberated through the ship like a death knell. The cargo hold fell into a stunned, horrified silence. A split second later, it erupted into chaos.

Weapons were drawn, orders were shouted, and the warriors rushed above deck, their expressions twisted with rage and fury.

Slavers. The most despicable scum to ever sail these seas. And they had come hunting.

****

On the deck of the lead slaver ship, amidst the crash of waves and the roaring of the wind, a hulking figure stood, towering over his men like a beast surveying its pack.

His body was massive, thick with corded muscle and layers of scarred flesh, each mark a souvenir from past conquests. His skin was tanned and weathered, a testament to decades spent under the unforgiving sun of the Grand Line.

Between his yellowed teeth, he chewed on a thick, half-burnt cigar, the acrid smoke curling around his face like a ghostly shroud. He didn't just smoke it—he gnawed on it, grinding the tobacco between his molars as if it were prey caught in his jaws. The ember at the tip flared with every slow, predatory breath.

Captain Vargo the Iron Fang. That was what they called him.

His jaw was wide and square, his teeth sharpened into crude fangs—filed down long ago in some barbaric ritual of dominance. When he grinned, it was a wolf's smile, one that promised violence and suffering. His thick beard, streaked with gray, did little to soften the brutality of his face.

Vargo's arms, covered in tribal tattoos and old scars, were as thick as tree trunks. A massive cutlass rested at his hip, its blade chipped and stained from countless raids. Across his bare chest, a long iron chain was wrapped like a sash, its links rusted with age—each link taken from the shackles of a slave he had personally captured.

"Jejeje… looks like we hit the jackpot, boys!"

The slaver captain's voice boomed across the deck, thick with anticipation as he lowered his spyglass, a manic grin splitting his scarred face. His men, hardened criminals of the worst kind, turned to him with eager grins, awaiting his orders.

"It's the Kuja Pirates," he continued, his bloodshot eyes gleaming with hunger. "An entire ship filled to the brim with prime women. We're going to be rich, you bastards!"

A chorus of cheers erupted around him, boots stomping against the deck as the message was relayed to the four other ships in their fleet.

The slaver fleet surged forward, cutting through the waters like a pack of hungry wolves. Five well-armed ships, brimming with seasoned raiders who had made their fortunes through the suffering of others.

And their prey? A single ship. A ship fleeing.

The Kuja vessel was trying to break away, its sails strained as it veered toward the New World. A telltale sign of weakness. If the warriors on board had any real strength, they would have turned to fight. Instead, they ran.

The slaver captain licked his lips.

"They're trying to avoid battle," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His grin widened, eyes dark with lust and greed. "That means there aren't any high-level fighters on board… This is better than I ever hoped for!"

The man was no fool—he had long dreamed of capturing Kuja women, of breaking them, selling them for prices that would make kings weep. But Amazon Lily was a fortress, guarded by warriors so fierce that even seasoned pirates hesitated to cross them.

A full-scale attack on the island? Suicide. But this?

This was a gift from the gods. A Kuja ship, isolated, with a seemingly weak garrison. And soon, it would be his. A slaver approached hesitantly, breaking his thoughts.

"Captain…" the man said, voice cautious. "They're flying the Donquixote flag as well."

The slaver captain stilled. Murmurs spread through the deck as the words sank in.

Even the most ruthless criminals knew about the Donquixote family. Their reputation was legendary—and terrifying. Their punishments for those who harmed their own were brutal, merciless, and absolute.

The helmsman, standing just behind the captain, tightened his grip on the wheel. "Are we sure about this?" he asked, voice low. "You know what happens to people who cross them…"

For a moment, there was silence. Then— The slaver captain spat on the deck, his face twisting with scorn.

"Tch. The Donquixote family? So what?" he sneered. He turned to face his crew, eyes burning with fury and arrogance.

"They're finished!" he roared. The men around him hesitated, but the captain pressed on, his voice carrying over the crashing waves.

"The Donquixote family is at war with the Marines! A war they can't win! Do you really think they have the time—or the strength—to chase after a single Kuja ship?"**

Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.

"And even if they do find out? What can they do?" The captain laughed, the sound cruel and mocking. "By the time they hear of this, we'll be past the Red Line. We'll have reached Sabaody, sold the women off, and disappeared into the underworld!"

He spread his arms wide, exuding absolute confidence.

"Do the Donquixote pirates dare step past the Red Line?" His lips curled into a smirk. "If they do, the Marines will crush them. The World Government will burn them to the ground. They're doomed, one way or another."

The slavers around him cheered, their fear melting away, replaced with greed and cruelty.

The captain turned back toward the fleeing Kuja ship, his eyes glinting with dark hunger.

"Prepare the harpoons. We're taking them alive."

As the harsh sea breeze whipped at his crimson captain's coat, he squinted toward the fleeing Kuja ship, the embers of his cigar glowing in the dim light.

"Jejeje… Look at 'em run," he muttered, the cigar rocking between his teeth. His voice was low, like gravel scraping against metal.

He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke, watching as his fleet gained ground.

"Ain't no runnin' from us, girls. Yer ours."

The men around him—cutthroats, slavers, and brutes of the worst kind—laughed, emboldened by their captain's confidence.

Vargo turned to his first mate, a lean, rat-faced man with a nervous tic.

"Load the harpoons. Grapple their mast. I want those pretty little things in chains before sundown."

He clenched his cigar hard, crushing the end with his teeth before spitting it onto the deck.

"And tell the boys—whoever brings me the prettiest Kuja gets first pick at the spoils."

The crew erupted in cheers, the promise of wealth and women fueling their bloodlust.

Vargo grinned once more, his sharp teeth gleaming in the dying light. Tonight, they would feast.