Drum Island, Grand Line
"Damn that old hag…" Smoker growled, his voice low and rough as he struck a match and lit one of his cigars. The flame briefly illuminated his sharp features before the glow vanished into the swirling snowfall. He took a long drag, letting the smoke roll out in heavy clouds that curled around him. The cold didn't touch him—not really—but the ritual of smoking, the weight of the cigar between his teeth, gave him a strange kind of comfort amidst the endless white.
"Sooner or later, I swear I'm going to beat her black and blue. All she ever does is send me running errands like some rookie cabin boy…"
The crunch of boots on snow echoed as he pulled his fur-lined coat tighter around himself. His breath misted in the frigid air as he muttered, "So what are we supposed to be looking for this time? Some rare herb? A rock that only appears under moonlight? Whatever it is, I'm sure it's not going to be lying around on this gods-forsaken iceberg. Why don't we just call in some favors, use our family's pull, and get her whatever she wants in bulk?"
Beside him, Robin's soft laugh broke through the stillness. It wasn't mocking, but it carried that knowing sharpness only she possessed. "If foraging is too difficult for you, Smoker, you could have stayed behind and helped Lucci shovel snow. And are you sure you can best Lady Kureha…or have you forgotten what happened the last time you challenged her…?"
Smoker shot her a sideways glare through the haze of cigar smoke, but she only smiled, her dark eyes glimmering with quiet amusement.
He knew what she was thinking—what everyone was thinking. Kureha wasn't tormenting him because she despised him. No, the witch doctor had made a game out of him, finding joy in seeing how far she could push his patience. Every ridiculous task she piled on him, every absurd errand, wasn't about necessity—it was about watching him squirm, about needling at that rigid young pride he carried like a badge.
And yet, Smoker stayed.
Not because he liked it. Not because he was willing. But because Kureha's knowledge of haki was unparalleled, deeper than any scroll, any master, or any battlefield instinct. She'd touched realms of power most warriors couldn't even dream of glimpsing. Lucci understood that. Hell, Lucci devoured every lesson, every word she spat like it was scripture. No matter how demeaning the chore, no matter how bitter the cold, Lucci obeyed without complaint—because Rosinante himself had ordered him here. For Lucci, this was a sacred pilgrimage.
Smoker clenched his jaw, his exhale trailing smoke into the darkening snowstorm.
He knew the truth, though he'd never admit it out loud—not to Robin, not to Lucci, not to anyone. The younger teen was already stronger than him. Faster. Sharper. The gap between them was no crack; it was a widening chasm. If Smoker walked away now, if he gave up before wringing every drop of knowledge from that devilish old woman, that chasm would swallow him whole, and Lucci would be nothing but a silhouette far ahead, untouchable.
That thought burned hotter than the cigar between his teeth.
So he endured. He cursed. He smoked. He trudged through the snow, coat drawn tight. Because no matter how much the hag laughed at his expense, no matter how bitter the errands, Smoker would not fall behind.
The snow fell in hushed silence, muffling the world in white. Robin and Smoker slowed to a halt, their footsteps crunching faintly before fading into stillness. Ahead of them, little Law had stopped in his tracks, his small frame rigid, eyes wide and unblinking. He wasn't looking at the trees or the endless snowdrifts—his gaze was fixed on the clearing just beyond the frost-laden branches.
Through the veil of falling snow, a herd of reindeer moved together, their coats a mottled brown and white, their antlers dusted with ice. They pawed the ground for buried lichen, their breath steaming in the frigid air. It should have been a peaceful sight, the quiet rhythm of survival in winter.
But then, from the far edge of the clearing, a smaller figure staggered forward.
It was a newborn, its legs spindly and trembling, still unsure of their strength. The calf's coat was a softer shade than the others, its body thin, fragile. But what stood out—what made Law's eyes fix upon it with an intensity beyond his years—was the glint of blue at the tip of its nose.
The little reindeer bleated softly, a high, plaintive sound, and stepped toward the herd, desperate to be among them. For a moment, it seemed as if it might succeed—until the nearest adult turned, ears flattening, and lowered its head with a sharp grunt. With sudden violence, the larger reindeer butted the calf away, sending it stumbling back into the snow.
The newborn scrambled up again, legs shaking, and tried once more, edging closer with hesitant steps, only to be met with the same rejection. Another shoved it aside. A third drove it into the ground, hooves striking with a brutal thud. The tiny creature cried out, a thin, pitiful sound swallowed by the storm.
Robin's hands tightened at her sides. Even Smoker's jaw clenched around his cigar, the smoke curling heavier in the cold air.
The herd moved as one—majestic, united, but merciless. They circled together, warm bodies pressed close, but the blue-nosed calf was not permitted within. Every attempt the little one made was met with force, with cold indifference, as if it were something unnatural. An aberration.
Again and again, it tried to rise, snow clinging to its fur, breath ragged, eyes wide with confusion and pain. Each time, it was knocked back down, its small frame collapsing into the whiteness. The herd's rejection was not passive; it was active, violent, unrelenting.
Law's small hands curled into fists. The boy's gaze was locked on the struggling calf, his lips pressed into a thin line. He said nothing, but the storm in his young eyes spoke volumes—rage, sorrow, recognition.
The blue-nosed reindeer stood trembling in the snow, alone against the world. The herd turned away from it, huddling together for warmth, while the outcast remained on the fringe—shivering, bleeding, yet still trying, still hoping.
From the shadows of the trees, the three humans watched in silence, hearts heavy beneath the falling snow.
"Let's go. There's nothing we can do about it. That's nature…" Smoker muttered, his voice rough and cold as the wind. He exhaled a thick stream of smoke, turned his back on the clearing, and began trudging deeper into the forest, his heavy boots crunching over ice and snow.
Robin lingered a moment longer. Her gaze drifted back toward the clearing, where the tiny blue-nosed reindeer still stumbled and cried, desperate to belong. The herd pressed tighter together, warm bodies rejecting the fragile life shivering on the outskirts. Robin's eyes softened with something almost mournful. With a quiet shake of her head, she laid a gentle hand on Law's small shoulder and gave a light tap.
"Come," she said softly, her tone neither commanding nor pleading, but carrying a weight of understanding.
Law didn't move. His sharp young eyes remained fixed on the calf, as though some invisible thread bound him to it. His lips parted, then closed again, words caught in the storm of emotions churning inside. Normally, Law carried himself with an almost aloof detachment—an old soul in a child's frame—but now that mask cracked. Something stirred within him, something raw and unguarded.
Robin's footsteps crunched softly as she turned to follow Smoker into the trees, her dark coat vanishing slowly into the white haze. Law remained behind, rooted in the snow, his small fists clenched at his sides. The blue-nosed reindeer struggled once more to rise, trembling on unsteady legs, only to be shoved down again, the herd's indifference as sharp and brutal as any blade.
For a moment, Law felt the world blur—the harsh snows of Flevance, the faces of those who had turned away from him, the suffocating truth of being different. His heart pounded as if echoing the calf's futile struggle. Outcast. Unwanted. Rejected.
He drew in a breath that shuddered in the cold. Then, slowly, he tore his eyes away.
The forest called. Kureha had set him a task—to gather the herbs and mushrooms needed for today's lesson. She had accepted him as her apprentice, not with warmth, but with a kind of ruthless acknowledgment: if he endured her teachings, he might one day stand among the greatest doctors to ever live.
Law took one last glance over his shoulder. The calf still lay in the snow, sides heaving, blue nose glistening under the pale light of the storm. The sight carved itself into his memory, searing deep into a place words could not reach.
Then, tightening his scarf around his neck, he turned and walked into the forest. His small figure followed the path Robin and Smoker had already carved through the snow, the weight of the image pressing against his young heart with every step.
The herd faded into the distance, their rejection echoing silently in his mind. But the blue-nosed reindeer remained.
****
Arabasta Kingdom, Grand Line
"But, sir… with the entire Arabasta kingdom in turmoil, this might be the best time for us to expand our—"
The trembling voice of the Baroque Works executive was cut short. From the other end of the den den mushi, a voice rasped through, cold and sharp as sand grinding against glass. It carried no warmth, no hesitation—only authority laced with venom.
"Did I not make myself clear?"
The snail's face twisted into a scowl that mirrored its master's unseen fury. The executive froze, his throat going dry.
"If you cannot follow the instructions I have given you," the voice continued, each word precise, deliberate, "then perhaps I should find a replacement for you—just as I found one for the fool who sat in your chair before you. Or do you believe I promoted you in error? That you deceived me into thinking you were competent?"
The executive's heart hammered in his chest. He swallowed hard, the memory of his predecessor's bloody end flashing in his mind. He had killed for this position, killed to prove himself worthy. And now, with one misstep, Mr. 0 threatened to erase him from existence just as easily.
Mr. 0—the enigmatic leader of Baroque Works. A shadow without a face. No one knew his true identity; no one dared ask. His orders came down like commandments, carried by Miss All Sunday or through the special den den mushi issued only to the highest executives. For most, his presence was myth, distant and untouchable. But for this trembling man, it was suddenly real—chilling and absolute.
And today, the order was unlike any he had expected.
"Listen closely," Mr. 0 hissed. "Find Nico Lily. She may still be hiding somewhere in Arabasta. Even if she has left the kingdom, I want the entire Baroque Works network to hunt her down.
Suspend all other operations—do you understand? Every bounty hunter, every informant, every shadow we own in every city is to focus on her. Nothing else matters. Not the kingdom. Not your ambitions. Not the chaos of war. Only her."
The den den mushi's eyes narrowed with Mr. 0's fury, and even through the strange mimicry of the snail, the executive felt the weight of a predator bearing down on him.
"You will not rest. You will not hesitate. And you will not fail. Call me only when you have her location."
Click.
The line went dead. The executive sat frozen, sweat beading down his temples despite the cool desert night air. His hand trembled around the transponder snail, the silence after Mr. 0's departure heavier than any storm.
Nico Lily. The Demon of Ohara. The name alone sent whispers through the underworld, a ghost the World Government hunted across the seas. How had their leader known she might be in Arabasta? And why was he committing the full might of Baroque Works—every claw and fang of the organization—to finding her before the Government caught wind?
The executive didn't know. And he didn't dare ask. He only knew one thing: if he failed, he would not live long enough to regret it.
****
The desert was merciless. Even under the pale moonlight, the sand shimmered with an unforgiving glow, stretching endlessly in all directions, broken only by the oasis nestled deep in its heart. Around that oasis clung a tiny village, little more than a handful of clay-walled huts and date palms, their roots drinking greedily from the hidden waters below. It was a forgotten place—far from the trade routes, far from the wars, far from the gaze of pirates or bounty hunters.
The people who lived here were simple folk. They rose with the sun, toiled with their herds and fields of barley, and returned home when the desert cooled. They had neither the means nor the interest to meddle in the affairs of the wider world. To them, survival itself was enough.
And yet fate, in its cruel humor, had dragged into their midst a man who was anything but simple.
Inside one of the mud-brick huts, lit only by the glow of a single oil lamp, Crocodile shifted uneasily on a low cot. The movement sent sharp stabs of pain tearing through his body, and he groaned, teeth gritted. Every inch of him was wrapped in blood-stained bandages. From his shoulder to his chest, down his legs, across his ribs—his body was a map of wounds, carved by steel and fire. The smell of dried blood and bitter desert herbs clung to the air like smoke.
Lily had left him for dead. He was certain of it.
He remembered the moment vividly: the clash with Bogard, the bitter taste of failure as his body broke under the weight of defeat, the sand swallowing him as his consciousness slipped away. And when he had opened his eyes again, she was gone. Nico Lily. The one he had trusted enough to stand at his side, the one he thought would never abandon him. Her absence cut deeper than Bogard's blade.
His pride howled. His fury burned. His broken body was little more than a cage for the storm that churned inside him.
A fresh throb of agony racked him as his hand brushed against his chest. His earlier outburst of rage—snarling orders into the transponder snail, committing the entirety of Baroque Works to hunt Lily—had undone some of the crude stitches the villagers had threaded through his torn flesh. Warm blood seeped beneath the bandages, staining them anew. Crocodile cursed under his breath but ignored the pain. The ache of his wounds was nothing compared to the inferno of betrayal consuming him.
"Once I get my hands on you," he rasped, his voice low and venomous, "I'll teach you a lesson you'll never forget… you bitch."
His words hung in the still air, dripping with venom, when the door creaked open.
An elderly man shuffled inside, carrying a small wooden tray. On it rested a clay bowl of steaming soup and a pouch of fresh herbs. His back was bent with age, his white beard trimmed short, his hands rough from years of work in the fields. His eyes, though clouded with age, carried the steady kindness of someone who had lived a life close to the earth.
"You're awake," the old man said gently. His voice was soft, unassuming. "Good. You've been sleeping for nearly a day."
Crocodile's eye flicked toward him, sharp and predatory even in weakness. He said nothing.
The elder set the tray down on a stool beside the cot and stirred the soup with a wooden spoon. "It's simple fare," he explained. "Goat broth, a little barley, and herbs to ease the pain. Drink—it will help."
Crocodile's lip curled faintly, somewhere between disdain and amusement. He didn't move.
The old man did not press him. Instead, he reached into the pouch and began preparing fresh bandages. "Your wounds are severe. You were half-buried in the sand when we found you, bleeding and broken. The desert rarely spares men in such a state… but perhaps the gods had mercy on you."
The words made Crocodile's teeth grind. Mercy? There was no mercy in the world. Only strength and weakness. He was alive because fate had a cruel sense of humor, not because the desert pitied him.
Still, he allowed the elder to unwrap the soiled bandages and clean the reopened stitches with bitter-smelling salve. The sting was sharp, but Crocodile didn't flinch. His body was a battlefield, and pain was an old companion.
"You are lucky," the old man went on as he worked. "Had we not found you when we did, the vultures would have claimed you by now. My sons carried you here, though it was no small task. You're a heavy man." He chuckled softly, though the sound faded quickly when Crocodile did not respond.
The elder glanced at his patient, studying the scarred face, the grim eye, the air of danger that clung to him even in weakness. "You need not speak, stranger. Rest is more important. Drink the soup when you can. We will keep tending to your wounds until you regain your strength."
Crocodile's gaze lingered on him for a long moment, the lamp's light reflecting in his cold eyes.
Finally, he rasped, "Why?"
The elder blinked. "Why…?"
"Why save me?" Crocodile's voice was hoarse but edged with steel. "You don't know me. You don't know what I've done. For all you know, I could be your enemy. And yet you waste your food, your medicine, on me."
The elder smiled faintly, though it was tinged with sadness. "In the desert, we do not ask such questions. A man dying in the sands is a man in need, nothing more. To turn our backs would make us no better than the vultures."
Crocodile let out a low, humorless laugh that broke into a cough. "Fools. You think kindness is a shield? You think mercy keeps you safe? The world devours men like you."
The elder did not flinch at his harshness. Instead, he dipped a cloth in warm water and wiped the blood from Crocodile's chest with steady hands. "Perhaps," he said quietly. "But if we abandon kindness, what remains of us? We are poor, forgotten people. We have little to give the world. But what little we have, we share."
Crocodile turned his head away, his jaw tightening. Gratitude did not stir in him. Only contempt. These villagers thought themselves virtuous, but he knew better. When the world's teeth closed around them, their kindness would crumble to dust. And he, Crocodile, would be the one baring those teeth.
The elder finished wrapping the fresh bandages and set the herbs aside. He lifted the bowl of soup and held it out. "Drink. It will give you strength."
For a moment, Crocodile considered refusing, if only to spite the man. But the gnawing emptiness in his gut, the weakness in his limbs, betrayed him. With a scowl, he took the bowl in his bandaged hands and drank. The broth was plain, almost tasteless, but the warmth slid down his throat and spread through his chest, easing the hollow ache within.
"Good," the elder said softly. "Rest now. Your body will heal with time. The desert is cruel, but here you are safe."
Safe. The word echoed in Crocodile's mind like mockery. He was not safe. He was never safe. He was a wounded beast, caged in a hut of mud and straw, his pride torn to shreds. But he would recover. He would rise. And when he did, this village—this oasis of fools who believed in mercy—would learn the truth.
They thought they had saved a man. In reality, they had dragged a serpent into their midst. And someday soon, when the serpent was strong enough to bare its fangs again, their kindness would be repaid in fire and blood.
Crocodile leaned back against the cot, his eye closing, though not in peace. In the darkness behind his eyelid, he saw only Lily's face—the betrayal, the absence, the wound deeper than any blade. His hand tightened around the empty soup bowl, his nails digging into the clay.
"Nico Lily…" he muttered, voice low and seething. "Run as far as you like. I'll find you. And when I do, you'll regret ever leaving me for dead."
The old man, tidying the herbs, did not hear the venom in those words. He only saw a broken man clinging to life and believed he had done good in saving him. He smiled faintly, whispered a prayer to the desert, and left the hut, closing the door softly behind him.
Inside, Crocodile lay in silence, wrapped in blood and bandages, a storm of rage festering in his chest. Outside, the village slept peacefully, unaware that the shadow they had sheltered would one day rise and erase them from the world.