Deep in the jungle, an eerie stillness hung in the air.
A cold wind threaded the trees, raising a shiver along the dark-red scales of the Sea Bream Fish-Man. The pain of the crosshatched scars on his body was nothing beside the horror unfolding before him.
"W-what are you doing?" Fisher Tiger stammered, eyes flicking between the dozens of "comrades" arrayed ahead. He retreated two steps, dread knotting in his chest.
Eyes that had been numb and lifeless moments ago now burned with naked hunger as they fixed on him.
"Tiger-san, I'm sorry," a Longleg Tribesman said, voice flat, gaze unwavering. "As a Fish-Man, your strength is too great."
"Exactly," said a man from the Flower Country with a thin smile. "With your power, you're the most likely to survive."
"Thank you for looking after me these past weeks, but… I have a child waiting for me," a burly, gray-bearded man forced out, eyes bloodshot.
One by one, slaves from every corner of the Four Blues—of different peoples and nations—looked at the towering Fish-Man and offered their apologies. They spoke of six months shared with him: the food he gave up, the beatings he intercepted, the wounds he bandaged. Their gratitude was real, but their faces stayed impassive and their tones cold, like mourners at an enemy's wake, offering the final rites.
"You…"
Bloodshot veins spread through Fisher Tiger's eyes. His broad hands opened and closed. His thick lips trembled.
These were the companions who had lived and slept beside him for half a year, the friends he had sworn brotherhood with. How could they choose this?
"This is a trap," he rasped. "A Celestial Dragon's trick. They never meant to let us go!"
He strained to pull reason back from the brink. "He wants to watch us butcher each other!"
Their gazes didn't waver.
"We have no choice."
"It's our only hope."
Lightning shuddered through him. He parted his cracked lips, but nothing came out.
Yes. They had no choice.
Even knowing the Celestial Dragon only wanted blood sport, even suspecting the survivor would never truly be free—this was still a sliver of hope.
Six months of captivity had ground them down. Whips by day, torture by night; insults, confinement, starvation, sickness; watching friends writhe and die. Despair and fear had burrowed to the root.
Even a lie of hope was a hope.
Fisher Tiger's face twisted, teeth bared. He whipped his gaze up toward the pampered Celestial Dragon lounging on the high platform.
"Hahahaha! Yes, that's the look…"
Rather than rage at the Fish-Man's defiance, Saint Feipuluosi went wild with glee, laughter fevered and bright.
"Comrades, allies, brothers tearing each other apart for a phantom chance!"
"Bewilderment, fury, shock, resentment—all at once! Magnificent!"
"Hahahaha… the perfect drama!"
"Well worth half a year of patience!"
White-robed CP0 agents chuckled under their masks. As his personal guard, they understood: their lord was not like the useless nobles. He was a fanatic—an "artist" in pursuit of perfection.
"Now then… let the spectacle begin!"
Saint Feipuluosi's face flushed with excitement; he flung his arms wide.
"Remove their shackles!"
Guard and slaver surged forward with keys.
Clang… clang… clang…
Heavy irons hit the ground in a rain of dull, cold sound.
Fisher Tiger heard the change in their breathing—heavy, ragged—and watched a cruel red glint wake in their eyes.
"The last survivor wins freedom!"
With a flourish, the noble's silk robe billowed.
"Begin!"
Swish!
At the word, the slaves exploded forward.
Like starving wolves, they swarmed Fisher Tiger in a heaving rush.
"No!"
The stink of bloodlust hit him like a blow; his face went white. He drew back a fist.
But faces flashed before him—memories of days upon days together—and a flicker of reluctance crossed his eyes. Gritting his teeth, he opened his hand.
They crashed over him.
He disappeared beneath a pile of bodies.
And yet a calm, almost relieved smile spread over his bloodied face.
Maybe… this is best.
He felt arms, shoulders, waists, legs lock around him—his struggles swallowed—and that absurd thought drifted through him.
He closed his eyes.
Then weight dropped away. A violent buoyancy seized him.
His eyes snapped open. No punches, no kicks, no tearing teeth. He hung suspended.
A dozen blood-soaked arms were holding him up—his whole body cradled aloft.
Silence fell.
Saint Feipuluosi's face twisted. Sensing it, he barked, "What are you doing?! Stop them!"
Guards and slavers drew steel, but a ring of slaves stepped in to block them, bodies slicked with blood.
"You…" Fisher Tiger stared into the bloodshot eyes before him, empty of expression. His heart hammered as understanding dawned.
"As a Fish-Man, your strength is unmatched," the Longleg man said, tone flat.
"Yes. You're our best chance," said the Flower Country man, voice like ice.
"Thank you for your kindness," the bearded man choked, eyes rimmed red. "Please… look after my child."
"..."
The same words—but they weighed different now.
"No…" Fisher Tiger's lips shook.
Every slave bared their teeth at once in a savage smile.
"Take care, Tiger-san. The free sea is waiting."
They roared as one—deep and wild—and heaved him with all their strength, hurling him up and out of the palace.
As he flew, Fisher Tiger wrenched his head back. His bloodshot gaze fixed on the palace below—the last sight he would carry.
Scarred, blood-slick comrades threw themselves forward with feral grins, howling at the "master" who had owned them…
Shackles crashed to the ground, eyes gleaming with a hard, bright hope as laughter broke free…
"Come on, you pig!"
In that moment,
They were no longer wretches in chains.
They were free men, standing in the sun.
To be continued...