The arena buzzed with anticipation.
Today's spotlight was on a nine-win fighter, one step away from the coveted ten-win streak and the reward: a short sword named Night Raid.
But the man was already half-broken. He'd scraped through his ninth victory with serious injuries.
Normally, he would rest, wait for another nine-win opponent to surface, then strike when they were still recovering. That way, he could win the prize without facing fresh blood.
This time, though, the situation was complicated. Two wildcards had appeared, Mobius and Voss. Both of them had racked up nine straight wins, and everyone knew they weren't enemies. If the injured contender didn't step in, the final bout would be between the two companions, and he'd lose his shot at Night Raid.
So, battered or not, he had to fight.
The crowd roared as the final match was announced: Voss versus the Nine-Win Veteran.
The veteran stepped onto the sand wrapped in bandages. Blood already seeped through in places. Across from him, Voss was almost unscathed, only a bruise on his chest from a single careless punch earlier.
His speed and reflexes had carried him through every round.
The veteran sneered through the pain. He knew Voss's weakness. The boy lacked physical power. If he could land even one clean strike, his raw strength would cripple Voss and tip the balance.
The fight became a drawn-out dance of attrition. Voss darted in and out, conserving energy, letting his opponent wear himself down. The veteran pushed forward, trying to corner him, trying to land that one decisive blow.
The audience held their breath. Every near miss, every sidestep, every flash of steel tightened the tension.
Blood soaked through the veteran's bandages. His old wounds split open again, his stamina draining fast. Finally, Voss shifted.
After minutes of pure evasion, he broke rhythm. The veteran swung and Voss was already inside his guard, dagger flashing.
The blade streaked for his heart.
At the last instant, the veteran twisted. Instead of piercing his heart, the dagger sank between his ribs, scraping bone.
"Ghhhk!" He gasped, staggered, then shouted hoarsely, "I surrender!"
Voss froze, dagger still buried in flesh. For a heartbeat, his eyes stayed cold, predator's eyes. Then he pulled free, exhaling slowly.
The veteran clutched his side, face pale, but alive. Relief flickered in his eyes even through the pain. This boy was terrifying. Young, sharp, merciless.
His current strength was below his own but it wouldn't stay that way for long.
The referee raised his hand. "Winner—Viper!"
The arena exploded. Voss had claimed ten straight victories.
Night Raid was his.
Mobius didn't step up to challenge further. Their objective was complete.
By the time they collected their winnings, the sun was already low, shadows stretching long across the stands. The organizers tried to recruit them, offering positions as royal guards, under the Chaotic Kingdom's banner. But Mobius and Voss refused flatly. They weren't the type to bend knee.
From the stands, two men watched them go.
One was Turner, a grizzled veteran with a bounty of 500 million, once a pirate himself before becoming one of King Norman's most trusted generals. The other was Eric, the strongest of the kingdom, wielder of the Acid-Acid Fruit.
"They're letting them walk away?" Turner muttered.
Eric's gaze stayed locked on Teach, who led his crew out. His instincts screamed danger. "They already have someone. That man… is a threat. A big one."
Turner's brow furrowed.
If even Eric felt that way, it meant something. Eric was a monster himself, a thirty-year-old Logia powerhouse who had grown under Norman's eye. For him to sense danger from Teach, a man still young, was unsettling.
"The seas are changing," Turner murmured. "More monsters rising every year. I lived through the Rocks era. I saw Golden Lion at his peak. Even then, the world didn't feel this crowded with power."
Eric stayed silent, but his jaw clenched. His thoughts drifted back to decades ago, when Norman had still been a pirate captain chasing glory. They had crossed paths with Golden Lion Shiki, who crushed Norman with three sword strikes and left their crew broken. Norman never recovered. His ambition was shattered that day, and though he later became king, he never again chased the sea.
Eric had inherited Norman's hopes and even his Devil Fruit. With his sulfuric acid body, he was feared across the New World. But tonight, seeing Teach's shadow, he realized he had grown too comfortable.
"I need to go to sea," Eric said at last. His voice was calm, but inside burned with determination. "This kingdom… it's too small. I can't grow here."
Turner glanced at him, then nodded slowly. "Tell Norman. He'll understand."
Inside the royal palace, twilight painted the gardens gold. Flowers swayed in the evening breeze. King Norman sat alone in a pavilion, back straight despite the years. His face carried only faint lines, but his hair was streaked with gray.
Eric approached, boots echoing on stone. Before he could speak, Norman's voice cut through the stillness.
"I know," he said simply. "And I agree."
Eric froze. His brother hadn't turned, hadn't looked, but had read his heart anyway. Norman's Observation Haki had grown profound, even if his ambition had withered.
At last, Norman faced him, a gentle smile softening his features. "Before you go, one match. Show me your strength."
They walked together to a training ground inside the palace. Waiting there were the kingdom's nine generals, old veterans and rising stars alike.
Eric hadn't expected them, but it was clear they had been summoned to witness this.
Names whispered through his head; Khufu, the martial arts master with a 400 million bounty. Yasuo, the Wind Swordsman. Conley, the Zoan Crazy Lion. White, the hammer-wielding prodigy. Root, the sharpshooter.
All young, all strong, all watching.
Norman shrugged off his cloak and grinned. "Eric, don't hold back. Defeat me if you can. I won't go easy."
He blurred forward, faster than expected for a man who hadn't fought in decades.
Eric met him head-on, arm morphing into hissing acid, the stone floor sizzling where it dripped. Their fists collided, shockwaves rippling outward. Norman slid back five steps. Eric, only three.
Eric smirked.
His corrosive power was overwhelming. His acid could melt even Haki if left unchecked. Few opponents in the New World could stand against it.
But Norman wasn't new. He pressed in again, weaving through blows with seasoned skill. His martial arts, honed in an era of monsters, suppressed Eric's raw advantage.
The young generals murmured in awe.
One of the older veterans chuckled. "Don't underestimate him. Norman built his name with fists and feet. Eric's power is fearsome, but in real combat, he's still green."
The clash continued, old versus young, ambition versus experience. Sparks lit the night sky above the palace, carrying echoes of an era gone by and a new one waiting to begin.