Part I: The Gathering of Lords
The Grand Hall of the Shogun's palace was a masterpiece of Wano architecture—high ceilings supported by pillars carved with ancient dragons, floors of polished wood that gleamed like still water, and walls adorned with tapestries depicting the legendary exploits of Wano's founders. At the far end, elevated on a platform, sat the Shogun's seat—not quite a throne, for Wano's rulers preferred to sit among equals rather than above them, but positioned to command the room's attention nonetheless.
It was here that Kozuki Sukiyaki had summoned the daimyos of Wano's six regions for an emergency council.
The summons itself had caused ripples of speculation across the country. The Shogun rarely called for full assembly outside of the annual New Year's council or times of genuine crisis. For him to gather all the regional lords with such urgency suggested something significant had occurred.
The daimyos arrived in order of distance from the Flower Capital:
Shimotsuki Yasuie of Hakumai came first, having been present at the palace when the summons went out. His weathered face carried the wisdom of someone who'd governed wisely for decades, and his easy smile put most at ease—but those who knew him well recognized the sharp mind behind that genial exterior.
Fugetsu Omusubi of Kibi arrived next, a portly man whose love of good food and sake masked a shrewd understanding of economics and trade. His region produced most of Wano's rice, making him wealthy and influential beyond his military strength.
Uzuki Tempura of Udon followed, accompanied by his retinue of workers from the famous prison quarries that his region managed. Tall and severe, Tempura believed in hard work and discipline above all else.
Amatsuki Takeru of Ringo came fourth, his white hair a stark contrast to his still-powerful frame. At sixty-seven, he was the oldest of the daimyos, and his region—the snow-covered northern reaches of Wano—produced the finest swordsmiths in the country.
Kurozumi Orochi entered with Sukiyaki, as he often did, serving as the Shogun's assistant and advisor. He bowed low to each daimyo as they arrived, his movements obsequious and carefully calculated. At thirty-two, he was young for his position, but Sukiyaki had taken pity on the last surviving member of the Kurozumi clan and given him a chance to redeem his family's name.
Most of the other daimyos barely acknowledged Orochi's presence, their distaste for his lineage evident in their cold stares.
And finally, Oden himself entered, representing the Kuri region that he'd only recently brought under control after defeating its bandit lords. At eighteen, he was by far the youngest daimyo, and his appointment had been controversial. But none could deny his strength or his success in pacifying what had been Wano's most lawless territory.
When all were assembled, Sukiyaki stood, and the room fell silent.
"My lords," he began, his voice carrying the authority of his position, "I have called you here to discuss a matter of unprecedented nature. Two days ago, my son discovered a man—an outsider—washed up on Kuri's shores."
The reaction was immediate. Several daimyos leaned forward who don't know nothing about all this, their expressions shifting from curiosity to concern. Uzuki Tempura actually rose from his seat.
"An outsider?" Tempura's voice was sharp. "In Wano? How is that possible? Our barriers—"
"Were circumvented by the ocean and waterfall itself," Sukiyaki interrupted. "This was no intentional breach. The man was unconscious, severely injured, and appeared to have survived something catastrophic."
"Then we should return him to the ocean," Fugetsu Omusubi said bluntly. "The ancestors' decree is clear. No outsiders may set foot on Wano's soil."
"The ancestors' decree," Yasuie interjected smoothly, "also commands us to show honor and hospitality. Would you have us murder an unconscious man? That would bring shame to all of Wano."
"Better shame than the corruption of outside influence," Tempura countered.
"Enough," Sukiyaki's voice cut through the rising debate. "The man is here. He is being treated. And before we make any decisions about his fate, you need to understand what—and who—we're dealing with."
He gestured to one of his guards, who brought forward the stranger's weapons—the black-gold sword and the bow of pure Haki.
The moment they were laid on the floor before the assembled daimyos, every blade in the room reacted.
Yasuie's sword hummed in its sheath. Tempura's nodachi actually shifted position slightly. And Amatsuki Takeru—the master swordsman—inhaled sharply as his own legendary blade, Nidai Kitetsu, began to vibrate with such intensity he had to place a hand on it to keep it from dancing out of its scabbard entirely.
"What sorcery is this?" Omusubi demanded.
"Not sorcery," Takeru said quietly, his eyes locked on the black-gold blade. "Recognition. These weapons are not just superior to ours—they're of a different category entirely. Look at the sword. That's not just a Black Blade. That's a Supreme Black Blade, forged through battles we can barely imagine and saturated with Haki at a level I've never encountered."
He reached out tentatively, and the blade pulsed—a single wave of presence that sent everyone's hands moving toward their own weapons in pure reflex.
"It's alive," Takeru breathed. "Or close enough to it that the difference doesn't matter. This sword has killed gods or demons or both, and it remembers."
"And the bow?" Yasuie asked.
"Has no physical string," Sukiyaki supplied. "It manifests one from pure Haki when drawn. Which means its wielder can create solid constructs from will alone—a level of mastery that belongs in legends, not reality."
The daimyos absorbed this information in various states of disbelief.
"Who is this man?" Tempura finally asked. "What manner of warrior carries weapons like these?"
"That," Sukiyaki said carefully, "is the question I hoped you could help answer. Because when I stood before him—even unconscious, even injured—I felt a presence equal to my own. The authority of a ruler. The weight of command. This is not merely a warrior. This is someone who has led, who has governed, who has borne responsibility for others."
"A king," Yasuie said thoughtfully. "From some nation beyond our shores."
"Possibly. Or a general. Or a warlord. But someone significant." Sukiyaki looked at each daimyo in turn. "Which means we cannot simply send him away. He may carry knowledge we need. Understanding of the outside world that could help us prepare for—"
"Prepare for what?" Omusubi interrupted. "Our isolation has protected us for centuries. Why do we need to prepare for anything?"
"Because isolation is not the same as invulnerability," Oden spoke up, earning surprised looks that the young daimyo had remained quiet this long. "We assume the outside world can't reach us, but here's proof that it can. If a man can wash up on our shores, what else might arrive? We need to understand what's out there."
"Spoken like your father's son," Tempura said, though his tone suggested this was not entirely a compliment. "Always questioning the wisdom of our ancestors."
"I'm not questioning their wisdom," Oden shot back. "I'm suggesting that wisdom meant for one age might not apply to another."
Before the argument could escalate, Orochi cleared his throat softly—a sound calculated to draw attention without seeming presumptuous.
"My lords, if I may?" His voice carried the perfect amount of deference. "Perhaps the solution is simpler than we think. We heal this stranger, we question him about the outside world to satisfy our curiosity, and then we escort him back to the sea with supplies and our blessing. This way, we honor both hospitality and isolation."
Several daimyos nodded at this reasonable-sounding proposal.
But Sukiyaki, watching Orochi's face carefully, saw something in his retainer's eyes that troubled him. A calculation. A scheming quality that seemed out of place in such a straightforward suggestion.
Suddenly Both Sword and Bow tremble and shockingly fly towards the exit.
Before he could address it, however, the Grand Hall's doors opened, and a guard entered, bowing low.
"My lord, forgive the interruption, but—"
The guard's words died in his throat as the temperature in the room suddenly plummeted.
Not literally—the physical temperature remained unchanged. But every person present felt it: a pressure, descending like a physical weight, making the air thick and difficult to breathe.
Conqueror's Haki.
But unlike any they'd experienced before.
Most Haki felt like being in the presence of a predator—dangerous, threatening, triggering fight-or-flight instincts.
This felt like standing before a force of nature. An avalanche. A tsunami. Something so vast and inevitable that fighting it seemed not just futile but absurd.
Part II: The Entrance of the King
The doors to the Grand Hall opened wider, and through them walked a figure who commanded attention without trying.
Amarendra Baahubali had recovered remarkably in the two days since washing ashore. The bandages were gone, revealing the full extent of his physique—muscles that seemed carved from bronze, scars that told stories of battles survived, and a bearing that transcended mere physical presence.
He wore simple clothing borrowed from the palace—a dark hakama and a plain shirt that somehow looked regal on his frame. His black-gold sword hung at his waist, and his bow was slung across his back, both weapons seeming to radiate their own subtle presence as they returned to their King which shocked everyone and wonder just how powerful his haki to do this.
But it was the way he moved that captured every eye.
Each step was measured, precise, carrying the unconscious grace of someone who'd spent a lifetime moving with absolute control. His head was high, his shoulders back, his gaze sweeping the room with the assurance of someone accustomed to reading the power dynamics of any space he entered.
He walked like he owned the hall.
Not with arrogance—there was no swagger, no deliberate intimidation. But with the natural authority of someone who'd commanded respect for so long that it had become as instinctive as breathing.
Behind him, almost comically excited, came Oden who is in Hall actually run behind Baahubali along with his retainer who are coming or follow with Baahubali. The young daimyo had a barely suppressed grin on his face, clearly viewing this as showing off his discovery to the assembled lords.
The daimyos' reactions varied:
Yasuie watched with open curiosity, his scholar's mind already cataloging details.
Tempura's hand had moved to his sword hilt, pure warrior instinct responding to perceived threat.
Omusubi had actually pushed his chair back slightly, creating distance.
Takeru sat perfectly still, but his eyes were sharp, evaluating.
And Orochi—
Orochi had gone pale. Sweat beaded on his forehead, and his hands trembled where they gripped the armrests of his chair. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, and his eyes had gone wide with something that looked very much like primal terror.
Because while the others felt Baahubali's presence as powerful, as impressive, as remarkable—Orochi, whose life had been built on manipulation and schemes, whose survival depended on reading people and finding their weaknesses—felt something different.
He felt exposed.
As if those dark eyes could see through every mask, every pretense, every carefully constructed lie. As if all his plotting and planning was laid bare before a gaze that had witnessed—and judged—far more dangerous schemers than him.
Baahubali's eyes swept the room, and when they passed over Orochi, the retainer actually flinched.
The stranger's expression showed confusion—as if he couldn't understand why this man was so afraid, couldn't remember ever meeting him before.
But his instincts, operating without conscious direction, had already identified Orochi as a threat. Not a physical threat—the man clearly had no combat ability. But a danger nonetheless. The kind of poison that worked from shadows rather than confronting directly.
The moment passed, and Baahubali's attention moved to Sukiyaki.
Their eyes met, and something passed between them—a recognition of equals, of leaders who understood the weight of authority.
Then, to everyone's shock, Baahubali bowed.
Not a deep bow, not subservience, but the respectful acknowledgment one ruler gives another.
"Shogun Sukiyaki," Baahubali's voice carried clearly, his accent unfamiliar but his words perfectly understandable. "I am grateful for your hospitality and the care your physicians have shown me. You have shown honor to a stranger, and I am in your debt."
The formality was perfect—the exact degree of respect appropriate for addressing Wano's highest authority without debasing himself. As if he'd been trained in courtly etiquette from birth.
Sukiyaki nodded acknowledgment, then his eyes widened as Baahubali turned to Oden who standing like a Proud buffon with his cheeky smirk without any custom and formality.
"Oden-sama," the stranger said, and his tone shifted—still respectful, but now carrying the gentle authority of someone addressing a student. "You should bow to your Shogun."
Oden blinked. "What? But he's my father—"
"Right now, he is not your father," Baahubali interrupted gently. "He is the Shogun. The embodiment of Wano's authority, the anchor that supports this entire nation. When he sits in that seat, wearing those robes, he represents something greater than himself. And if you cannot respect the position, you cannot understand the responsibility that comes with it."
His dark eyes held Oden's gaze with absolute certainty.
"You wish to be free, to sail the seas, to choose your own destiny. I understand that desire—I feel echoes of it in myself even if I cannot remember why. But freedom without responsibility is chaos. Power without respect for order is tyranny. If you would be a leader, you must first learn to honor the structures that make leadership possible."
The hall was silent. Every person present held their breath, waiting to see how Oden—who'd never bowed to anyone, who'd defied his father at every turn, who'd burned down gambling houses and fought bandits and refused every attempt to make him behave like proper nobility—would respond.
Oden looked at Baahubali. Then at his father. Then back at Baahubali.
And slowly, almost reluctantly, he bowed.
Not a casual nod, but a proper bow—deep, respectful, acknowledging his father's authority as Shogun.
"Forgive my disrespect, Father," Oden said, his voice actually carrying genuine contrition. "Baahubali-sama is right. When you sit there, you're not just my parent. You're everyone's Shogun. And that position deserves respect."
Sukiyaki's face showed a mixture of shock, pleasure, and something like wonder. His son—his wild, uncontrollable son—had just bowed voluntarily. Had shown respect for authority not because he was forced to, but because someone he admired had explained why it mattered.
"I... accept your respect, Kozuki Oden, Daimyo of Kuri," Sukiyaki replied formally, honoring his son's gesture with appropriate recognition.
Then his eyes returned to Baahubali, and genuine curiosity colored his next words.
"Who are you, truly? What kind of life teaches a man to speak with such authority about leadership and responsibility?"
Baahubali's expression tightened, frustration and confusion warring across his features. He looked toward the high windows, toward the sky visible beyond them, as if searching for answers written in the clouds.
"I don't know," he admitted, and the honesty in his voice was painful to hear. "I know my name—Baahubali. And I know that I fought something. Something terrible. Something that threatened... honor? Innocence? The words don't come easily, but I remember the feeling."
His hand moved to his sword, touching the hilt with unconscious familiarity.
"I remember fighting to protect someone's honor. Many someones. I remember that I succeeded—that what I fought for was preserved, even as I was..." He gestured vaguely at himself. "Swept away. Lost."
He looked back at Sukiyaki, and despite the confusion in his words, his eyes held absolute certainty.
"But I know this: whatever I fought for, it was worth any price. I carry no regrets about that battle, even if I can't remember its details."
The daimyos absorbed this statement, each interpreting it through their own understanding.
Yasuie saw a warrior who'd sacrificed himself for a cause.
Tempura saw a soldier who'd followed orders unto death.
Omusubi saw a fool who'd thrown his life away for abstract principles.
Takeru saw something deeper—a master warrior whose martial prowess was secondary to his moral conviction.
And Sukiyaki saw a mirror of his own struggles—the burden of choosing between personal desire and duty, between what one wanted and what one's position demanded.
"The power of honor," Sukiyaki said quietly. "Yes. We understand that concept well in Wano. Our entire society is built upon it."
He studied Baahubali carefully, noting how Oden stood slightly behind the stranger, looking up at him with something approaching reverence. His son, who'd never taken anyone as a role model, who'd rejected every attempt to mold him into proper nobility...
Was clearly beginning to see Baahubali as someone worth emulating.
That was simultaneously encouraging and concerning.
"Oden," Sukiyaki said, making a decision. "I task you with showing our guest the breadth of Wano. Take him to each region, introduce him to our customs and culture. Let him experience what makes our nation unique."
Oden's face lit up with delight. "Really? I can show him everything?"
"Everything appropriate," Sukiyaki amended. "No burning down gambling houses. No starting wars with bandits. No incidents that will require me to apologize to other daimyos."
"I make no promises!" Oden grinned, already mentally planning the tour.
Baahubali bowed again to Sukiyaki. "Thank you, Shogun. I will learn what I can of your culture. Perhaps in understanding Wano, I might better understand myself."
"Perhaps," Sukiyaki agreed. "You may go."
As Oden eagerly began explaining various landmarks they would visit, practically dragging Baahubali toward the exit, the stranger's eyes once again passed over Orochi.
Their gazes met for just a second.
And in that second, Orochi felt his soul laid bare.
Not through any mystical power—simply through the assessment of someone who'd spent a lifetime identifying threats. Baahubali didn't know what Orochi was planning, didn't understand the web of conspiracies being woven but Baahubali Observation Haki is very powerful which can sense emotions and empathy.
But he recognized a predator when he saw one. Recognized the kind of man who attacked from shadows rather than facing opponents directly.
And Orochi, reading that recognition in those dark eyes, felt his carefully constructed confidence crack.
When Baahubali's silhouette finally passed through the doors, when his overwhelming presence faded from the hall, Orochi discovered he was soaking wet—his clothes drenched with sweat, his hands trembling uncontrollably.
"What happened to you?" Sukiyaki's voice cut through Orochi's paralysis. The Shogun was staring at his retainer with concern and growing suspicion. "You look like you've seen a demon."
Before Orochi could formulate an answer, Uzuki Tempura's voice rang out, dripping with contempt.
"The coward shows his true colors. Just like his ancestor."
The words hit like a physical blow. Orochi's head snapped toward Tempura, rage and shame warring in his expression.
"My lords," he began, voice carefully controlled despite his shaking, "I assure you—"
"Your ancestor was a daimyo once," Fugetsu Omusubi interrupted, his normally jovial tone gone cold. "Did you know that, young Orochi? Kurozumi Hidesaki ruled a small region in Ringo. But when a dispute arose with neighboring territories, did he face his opponents with honor? Did he challenge them to combat like a true samurai?"
"No," Takeru continued, his ancient voice carrying the weight of remembered history. "He used poison. Slipped it into their sake during a peace negotiation. Killed three daimyos and sixteen of their retainers in a single night."
"We hunted down his entire bloodline for that dishonor," Yasuie added, though his tone was more regretful than condemning. "Not because they'd killed—war happens, deaths occur. But because they'd violated the most sacred rule of our society: that warriors face each other directly, that conflicts are resolved through strength and skill, not treachery."
Orochi's face had gone from pale to flushed, humiliation and fury making his voice shake.
"I am not my ancestor! I have served Shogun Sukiyaki faithfully for years! I have—"
"You have survived by being useful," Tempura cut him off. "But don't mistake utility for respect. We tolerate you because the Shogun wills it, not because we've forgotten what the Kurozumi name represents."
"And when faced with a truly powerful man," Omusubi added with cruel accuracy, "you responded exactly as your ancestor would have—with fear. You practically wet yourself when that stranger looked at you."
"Enough!" Sukiyaki's voice cracked like a whip, silencing the daimyos. "I will not have my retainer insulted in my presence, regardless of his lineage. Orochi has proven his loyalty to me, and that should be sufficient."
The daimyos bowed, accepting the rebuke, but their eyes remained cold when they looked at Orochi.
Sukiyaki turned to his shaking retainer. "Orochi, perhaps you should retire. You seem... unwell."
It was a dismissal dressed as concern, and Orochi recognized it for what it was. He bowed low—too low, the gesture almost servile—and retreated from the hall with what little dignity he could salvage.
As the door closed behind him, Sukiyaki turned back to the assembled daimyos.
"Now. Let us discuss the real matter at hand. You've all felt Baahubali's presence. You've seen his weapons. You've heard his words. What are your assessments?"
Amatsuki Takeru spoke first, his age granting him precedence.
"That man is nobility. Not in the sense of inherited title, but in the true sense—he has been shaped by responsibility and power into something beyond a mere warrior. His bearing, his speech, his instinctive understanding of authority and respect..." The old swordsman paused. "I have met kings and generals and warlords. He surpasses them all."
"Agreed," Yasuie nodded. "Did you notice how he addressed each of us? He hadn't been told our ranks, yet somehow he understood the hierarchy of this room. He knew you sat highest, Sukiyaki, but he also recognized that we daimyos hold significant authority. That's not learned in a day—that's ingrained through years of navigating complex political structures."
"His weapons tell their own story," Takeru continued. "A sword doesn't achieve that level of perfection through casual use. Every battle leaves a mark, every victory saturates the blade with more Haki. For a sword to achieve that coloring—black and gold perfectly merged—it would require decades of constant combat at the highest levels and his weapons are somewhat sentient which also respond when they sense Baahubali presence which is shocking experience for them as this remind me of Sword God Ryumma."
This Statement shocked everyone to the core but can't deny it as they also experience the same what Takeru feel.
"But he can't be more than thirty," Omusubi protested. "You're suggesting he's been fighting master-level opponents since childhood?"
"I'm suggesting exactly that," Takeru confirmed. "This man was trained from birth to be a warrior-king. Everything about him screams royal lineage—not the soft nobility of inherited privilege, but the hard-earned authority of someone groomed to lead."
Tempura frowned. "Then why can't he remember? What happened to strip away those memories while leaving his instincts intact?"
"Trauma," Yasuie suggested. "Whatever battle he fought before washing ashore—the one he mentioned about protecting honor—it must have been catastrophic. The kind of conflict that breaks a normal man's mind."
"But his mind isn't broken," Sukiyaki observed. "Confused, yes. Lacking context, certainly. But fundamentally sound. He reasons clearly, speaks with intelligence, demonstrates emotional control. His memories are gone, but his essential self remains."
"Which means they could return," Takeru said. "Given time, given triggers, given experiences that resonate with his past—those memories might surface."
The daimyos contemplated this possibility in silence.
"Should we want them to return?" Omusubi finally asked. "If this man commanded armies, if he waged wars, if he comes from some nation powerful enough to produce warriors of this caliber... what happens when he remembers who he is and where his loyalties lie?"
"That assumes his loyalties would conflict with Wano's interests," Yasuie countered. "We have no evidence he's an enemy."
"We have no evidence he's a friend either."
"Enough speculation," Sukiyaki decided. "For now, we observe. Oden will keep him occupied, and we will monitor how he interacts with our people, our customs, our culture. If his memories return, we'll assess the situation then. If they don't... well, perhaps Wano gains a powerful ally."
"And if he proves to be a threat?" Tempura pressed.
Sukiyaki's expression hardened. "Then we do what must be done. But I will not condemn a man for what he might be rather than what he is. He has shown us nothing but respect and honor. We will return the same."
The daimyos nodded acceptance, though several looked unconvinced.
"There is one more concern," Yasuie said carefully. "Did you see how Oden looked at him? Your son has found a role model, Sukiyaki. For the first time in his life, Oden is actually listening to someone, respecting someone's authority."
"I noticed," Sukiyaki replied. "Is this not a good thing? Perhaps Baahubali's influence will temper my son's wildness."
"Or perhaps," Takeru said slowly, "it will give that wildness direction. Oden wants to leave Wano, to sail the world. And now he's found someone who seems to embody everything he imagines the outside world to be—powerful, honorable, free from the constraints of tradition."
"You think Baahubali will encourage Oden to leave?"
"I think Baahubali will teach Oden that there are different kinds of honor than what we practice here. Different ways of being strong, of being noble, of being a leader." Takeru met Sukiyaki's eyes. "And when those teachings take root, when Oden sees a path that doesn't require staying in Wano... will you be able to keep him here?"
Sukiyaki had no answer to that question.
Part III: The Serpent's Schemes
In his private chambers, far from the Grand Hall and the daimyos who despised him, Kurozumi Orochi finally allowed his mask to slip.
He paced back and forth, his mind racing, fury and fear battling for dominance.
That man. That damned stranger with his perfect bearing and his terrifying presence. The way he'd looked at Orochi—as if seeing through decades of carefully constructed lies in a single glance.
"How?" Orochi muttered to himself. "How could he know? He has amnesia. He doesn't remember anything. So why did he look at me like... like..."
Like prey, his mind supplied. Like something to be eliminated.
It wasn't possible. Orochi had been careful, had played the loyal retainer perfectly for years. Sukiyaki trusted him. The daimyos tolerated him. No one suspected the web he'd been weaving, the alliances he'd been building, the slow poison he'd been introducing into Wano's governance.
So how had a stranger with no memory identified him as a threat within seconds?
"Instinct," Orochi spat the word like a curse. "He doesn't know what I am, but his warrior's intuition recognized a predator."
That was the problem with men like Baahubali—they'd spent so long in combat, faced so many enemies, that they developed a sixth sense for danger. They could identify threats the way animals could sense approaching storms.
And Orochi was a threat. Just not the kind Baahubali was accustomed to fighting.
"He'll ruin everything," Orochi muttered, his pacing becoming more agitated. "If he stays in Wano, if he gains influence, if people start seeing him as some paragon of honor and strength... how can I corrupt a system when there's someone like that shining a light on every shadow?"
The plan had been proceeding perfectly. Sukiyaki was growing older, more tired, the burden of leadership weighing on him. Oden was a disaster as an heir—powerful but irresponsible, respected for his strength but dismissed for his immaturity. The daimyos were fractured, each focused on their own region's interests rather than Wano's unity.
All of which made it easier for Orochi to position himself as indispensable. To slowly take on more responsibilities. To make himself the spider at the center of Wano's administrative web.
And then, when the time was right, when Sukiyaki was gone and Oden had discredited himself thoroughly... Orochi would reveal his true power. The Hebi Hebi no Mi, Model: Yamata no Orochi—the mythical eight-headed serpent Devil Fruit he'd eaten in secret. The weapon that would let him kill anyone who opposed his claim to the shogunate.
But that plan required patience. Required careful maneuvering. Required that no one significant interfere.
And Baahubali was very significant.
"I need to remove him," Orochi decided. "But how? I can't poison him—men with Haki that strong can sense toxins in their food. I can't have him assassinated—he'd cut down any killer I sent. And I can't turn the daimyos against him without revealing my own involvement."
He paused his pacing, struck by a thought.
"But I can make him want to leave. I can ensure his time in Wano is... uncomfortable. That he sees no reason to stay."
Orochi moved to his desk, pulling out paper and ink. He began writing carefully coded messages to his agents throughout Wano—men and women who owed him favors, who shared his resentment of the current order, who would act without asking too many questions.
Make things difficult for the stranger, he wrote. Nothing obvious. Nothing that can be traced back to me. But ensure his experience in Wano is unpleasant enough that he chooses to leave of his own accord.
And if he doesn't leave... ensure he has an accident. The kind that looks natural. The kind that raises no suspicions.
He sealed the messages and called for his most trusted courier—a woman named Higurashi, who'd been with him since childhood.
"Distribute these," he ordered. "And remember—"
"No one can know they came from you," she finished. The old woman's face was sharp with cunning. "I understand, young master. This stranger threatens your plans."
"He threatens everything we've worked for," Orochi corrected. "The Kurozumi clan was destroyed because our ancestor used poison instead of facing his enemies directly. We were condemned for being clever instead of honorable."
His face twisted with bitterness.
"But I will restore our name. I will prove that intelligence triumphs over strength. That the patient serpent defeats the proud lion. And this Baahubali—this king without a kingdom—will not stand in my way."
Higurashi bowed and left to carry out her master's orders.
Alone again, Orochi allowed himself a small, cruel smile.
"Enjoy your tour of Wano, stranger. Admire our culture, our customs, our honor. But know that honor is a weakness. That tradition is chains. And that the only thing that truly matters in this world is power."
He looked out his window toward where he knew Oden and Baahubali were preparing for their journey.
"You made Oden bow to his father. Made him show respect for authority. The daimyos were impressed." Orochi's smile widened. "But I wonder... will you still be so impressive when my schemes bear fruit? When the people you try to protect suffer despite your strength? When you realize that not all enemies can be defeated with a sword?"
The serpent settled back into his chair, already planning his next move.
He'd waited this long for revenge. A few more months—or years—wouldn't matter.
And in the end, Wano would belong to him.
Part IV: The Journey Begins
Unaware of the plots being woven in shadows, Baahubali stood with Oden and his retainers at the palace gates, preparing for their tour of Wano.
"First stop: Kuri!" Oden announced enthusiastically. "My territory! I want to show you the lawless region I tamed with my bare hands!"
"You had help," Kin'emon reminded him dryly.
"Okay, with my bare hands and nine really competent retainers," Oden amended. "The point is, Kuri used to be ruled by bandits and monsters, and now it's civilized! Mostly! Sort of civilized!"
Baahubali listened with mild amusement, noting how Oden's retainers rolled their eyes at their lord's exaggerations but made no move to contradict him more seriously.
There was real affection there. Real loyalty.
It reminded him of something, though he couldn't say what.
"Before we depart," Baahubali said, "I should thank you properly, Oden-sama. You saved my life when you pulled me from the ocean. You brought me here, ensured I received care, gave me shelter. That is a debt I cannot easily repay."
"Don't worry about it!" Oden waved off the gratitude. "Besides, you've already paid me back by making me look good in front of my father. He's never seen me bow before. You should have seen his face!"
"Respect for authority is not payment," Baahubali said seriously. "It is simply what is right. Your father bears the weight of this nation on his shoulders. The least his son can do is acknowledge that burden."
"See, this is what I'm talking about!" Oden threw an arm around Baahubali's shoulders, seemingly unaware of how the gesture made several retainers tense. "You just get it! You understand about duty and honor but also about freedom and choosing your own path! How do you balance those things?"
"I... don't know," Baahubali admitted. "The words come naturally, but I cannot recall where I learned them. It's frustrating, speaking wisdom I don't remember acquiring."
"Maybe it's better this way," Denjiro suggested. "You're not constrained by memories of how things were done before. You can see Wano with fresh eyes, without prejudice or preconception."
"Perhaps," Baahubali agreed. "Though I confess, there are moments when I see something—a gesture, a building, a way of speaking—and it feels familiar. Like an echo of something I've forgotten."
"Then we'll make new memories!" Oden declared. "Better memories! Memories of exploring Wano, meeting incredible people, and having amazing adventures!"
As they set off, Baahubali found himself genuinely looking forward to the journey. Not just because it might trigger his missing memories, but because for the first time since awakening, he felt a sense of purpose.
He might not remember who he'd been, but he could still learn, still grow, still understand this strange new world he'd found himself in.
And perhaps, in understanding Wano, he would begin to understand himself.
Behind them, watching from a palace window, Sukiyaki observed their departure with mixed feelings.
Pride that his son had finally found a positive influence.
Concern about what that influence might lead to.
And hope—perhaps foolish hope—that this mysterious stranger might somehow help bridge the gap between Oden's need for freedom and Wano's need for stability.
"Be careful, my son," Sukiyaki murmured. "The world beyond our borders is dangerous. And I fear that this Baahubali, for all his honor and strength, carries dangers of his own. Not malicious dangers, perhaps. But the danger of showing you possibilities you can never unsee. Truths you can never unlearn."
He turned from the window, returning to the endless administrative work that filled his days.
Unaware that in the shadows of his own palace, a serpent was coiling, preparing to strike.
Unaware that the stranger he'd welcomed with honor would become the catalyst for changes that would reshape Wano forever.
Unaware that the legend called Baahubali—Shield of Dharma, King of Mahishmati, the brother of Legendary duo Roger and Garp, the man who'd defied gods—was beginning to awaken.
Not in memory, not yet.
But in instinct.
In purpose.
In the unshakeable conviction that some things—honor, protection of the innocent, resistance to tyranny—transcended any loss of memory.
The journey through Wano was about to begin.
And with it, the first steps toward remembering who he truly was.
To Be Continued...
The King without memory walks through the Land of Samurai, his instincts guiding him even as his mind searches for context. Oden has found his role model. Orochi has found his greatest threat. And Wano,isolated for centuries, is about to discover what happens when dharma meets tradition. The stage is set for transformation, for conflict, for the awakening of a legend.
In this story, Baahubali begins to recall not the memories of the One Piece world, but those of his past life in the Mahishmati Empire. At first, he believes he belongs to the world of One Piece where his Empire exist somewhere, yet slowly fragments of his true identity return—memories of being a member of Roger's crew, forging his own legend during the fateful God Valley Arc.
Everyone knows that once Baahubali remembers everything, he will become overwhelmingly powerful—strong enough to challenge and even defeat the World Government itself. And that is precisely why he cannot regain all of his memories at once. Something shocking awaits in the future, a twist that will decide how his destiny unfolds.