One Piece : Brotherhood

The massive flagship of the Donquixote Pirates cut through the furious waves of the New World like a beast undeterred. Its figurehead, a monstrous carving of a winged demon, loomed over the churning seas as if daring the storm itself to challenge its passage.

Around the flagship, two dozen war galleons followed in formation, their banners snapping violently in the wind. The storm's rage was palpable—lightning arced across the blackened skies, and the roar of the thunder threatened to swallow the sound of the crashing waves.

Yet, the Donquixote fleet sailed unhindered, a translucent purple barrier of energy surrounding the flagship, shielding it from the storm's fury.

Seated cross-legged on the figurehead was a blind, middle-aged man, his posture serene despite the chaos around him. Issho, known to the world as Fujitora, rested his shikomizue, a sword-cane, across his broad shoulders.

His rugged features bore the lines of a man who had seen more than his share of hardship and sorrow. The faint scars on his face hinted at countless battles, but his blind eyes, perpetually closed to the world's light, held a wisdom that cut deeper than sight ever could.

The storm's electric light illuminated his simple yet imposing figure, a stark contrast to the wild sea and the ominous fleet. His mind, however, was as turbulent as the skies above. The weight of the coming conquest bore down on him, its moral implications gnawing at his soul.

The soft crunch of boots on wet wood reached Issho's ears, pulling him from his contemplation. He didn't turn, but his lips curled into a faint smile as he sensed the familiar presence behind him.

I walked with steady steps, my balance unaffected by the ship's rocking. Years spent at sea had made me a master of its unpredictable rhythms. The storm's raging winds tugged at my coat, but I ignored them, my eyes instead drawn to the towering tempest above.

The Grand Line's weather was an enigma even to those who lived their lives on its waters. Today, it felt like the heavens themselves mirrored Issho's inner turmoil.

Placing my twin sheathed blades gently against the deck, I sat beside the blind man. His tranquil demeanor didn't fool me—I knew the storm outside was nothing compared to the tempest within him.

"Issho-san," I said, my tone casual yet probing, "something's weighing heavily on your mind, isn't it?"

Issho tilted his head slightly toward me, his blind gaze unreadable. He let out a soft sigh, his shikomizue resting loosely across his shoulders.

"Ross-kun," he began, his voice tinged with sadness, "is this conquest truly necessary? When swords clash and cannons roar, it's the innocent who pay the highest price. Even if we topple the monarchy of Elsar, will the suffering really end?"

I chuckled softly, shaking my head. "It seems you've become much more stubborn, Issho-san. Let me ask you something: If we were to halt this attack, do you truly believe the people of Elsar would stop suffering? Perhaps you could see this conquest as their liberation from a life of tyranny."

Issho turned his face toward me, his brows furrowing slightly, as if baffled by my perspective.

"Liberation?" he echoed. "Is that what you call this? Fleevance was supposed to be a liberation too. But in the end, all I did was condemn them to further despair. The scars of that failure haven't healed, Ross-kun."

The name of Fleevance made even me pause. I knew the story, because I had witnessed it firsthand—Issho had been given the reins to deal with that nation in his own way, only for his noble intentions to crumble under the harsh reality of the world.

"And what of Fleevance now, Issho-san?" I asked, my tone measured but firm. "Were you able to save all its people, or did your actions seal their fate regardless? You tried to avoid suffering, yet suffering found them anyway. It always does. Thinking about the past isn't going to change anything…"

He opened his mouth to respond, but I cut him off.

"Do you truly believe the royalty of Elsar are saints who care for their people with compassion and fairness? You're not that naïve. Monarchs, nobles, World Government—they all exploit their people. This world thrives on cruelty, Issho-san. If we conquer Elsar, we might bring the people something they've never had: measured authority. Controlled exploitation, if nothing else."

Issho shook his head, frustration evident on his face. "There are exceptions. Somewhere out there, there must be kings who truly care for their people. I can't believe this world is completely devoid of compassion."

I laughed aloud, the sound mingling with the roar of the storm. "You're an idealist, Issho-san. I'll give you that. But tell me, name one nation—just one—where everyone is content. Where hunger doesn't gnaw at the poor while the rich feast. Where cruelty doesn't thrive in the shadows."

Issho's silence was answer enough.

"You were there when we took Dressrosa," I continued, my voice hardening.

"On the surface, it looked like a paradise, didn't it? A peaceful kingdom under King Riku's reign. But peel back that façade, and what did we find? A nation starving, sacrificing everything to pay the Celestial Dragons their 'heavenly tribute.' King Riku was trying his best, they said, but his best wasn't enough. And now? Dressrosa flies our banner. If you ask its people today, how many would want to return to the World Government?"

Issho frowned but said nothing, his hands tightening around his shikomizue.

"This world," I said, my voice steady and edged with purpose, "is broken. The old ways—the cycles of tyranny and oppression—they've failed everyone. Kings, emperors, nobles... They hoard power for themselves, dragging the rest of us through the muck of their ambition. But me? My ambition isn't to sit on a throne, Issho-san. Thrones are shackles, gilded cages that blind men to the truth."

I paused, the wind roaring around us as if echoing my conviction. "No, I don't want to be a king. I want to be the kingmaker—the one who shapes the destiny of this fractured world. My brother, Doffy, has the vision, the strength, and the will to claim the ultimate prize: the throne that rules over all others. And I'll carve the path for him. I'll shatter the old systems, bend the seas to my will, and ensure he stands where he belongs."

Issho turned his blind eyes toward me, his face a mask of contemplation. "You would stake your life, your soul, on someone else's ambition? Is that what drives you, Ross-kun?"

I leaned forward, the storm's fury painting the moment in flashes of electric light. "It's not just ambition—it's destiny. You've seen it, Issho-san. This world thrives on cruelty, its rulers bleeding their people dry while the weak suffer in silence. I've seen it too. And I've seen what my brother can do. With his vision, with my support, we can break that cycle. We can create something new—not perfect, maybe not even just, but better."

My fists clenched at my sides as my voice gained an edge of steel. "Do you think the kings and nobles who cling to their power care about justice? About fairness? No. They care about maintaining their status, their control. That's why we'll tear them down. Piece by piece, we'll take this world and rebuild it in a way they'll never recognize. And when it's done, Doffy will sit at the top—not because he craves power, but because only he has the strength to wield it."

Issho was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he spoke, his tone measured but firm. "It's a dangerous game you play, Ross-kun. Power can corrupt even the strongest of men. Even your brother."

I met his gaze head-on, unwavering. "That's why I'll be there. To temper him. To guide him. To ensure that what we build doesn't crumble into the same rot that we've spent our lives fighting against. I trust Doffy, and I trust myself to see this through."

"But Doffy… isn't the same as you. He tends to...". My gaze sharpened as I understood where Issho was going with his words.

The storm above seemed to pale in comparison to the rage that burned within me. My aura flared like a tempest, dark and suffocating, overpowering even the surrounding sea. The ship groaned beneath the weight of my presence, the air thick with tension as Issho's usually serene expression hardened slightly, though he remained seated.

"No matter..." My voice was low, dangerous, and seething with restrained fury. "Doffy is my brother, and that's all that matters to me, Issho-san."

I turned my gaze on him, my words cutting through the storm like a blade. "You're family, Issho-san. So, I'll overlook your disrespect—once. Just this once. But tell me... What do you think you know about my brother? Do you believe he was born inherently evil? That he's some monster who thrives on chaos for its own sake?"

I relaxed my feet, letting the sea breeze hit my face, the weight of my past pressing on my chest, but my voice never wavered.

"No... You don't know. You couldn't possibly understand. Doffy and I weren't born into chaos; we were born as gods in this world. Celestial Dragons. We were raised to believe that tormenting and oppressing others wasn't just acceptable—it was the natural order. That's how we were taught, Issho-san. That's how we lived. Until it was all ripped away by one man's naive delusion."

I turned away briefly, staring into the chaotic horizon. The memories I carried were like scars on my soul, and yet they fueled me. "Our father," I said bitterly, "decided to renounce everything. He called it compassion, equality, justice—whatever label made him feel righteous. But his 'noble' ambition led us to ruin. He cast us out of the heavens and left us at the mercy of this world."

I turned back to Issho, my voice rising, raw and unrelenting. "But it wasn't the tyrants, the kings, the pirates, or the World Nobles you despise who came for us. No, it was the same 'innocents' you idolize. The same common people who talk of freedom and fairness. They knew we were no longer protected by privilege, so they descended upon us like vultures."

My fists clenched as the memories flashed before me. "They dragged us through the dirt like animals. My mother—she was taken from us, beaten and broken, just like that. Doffy... My brother, my protector... They strung him up like a trophy for the town to play with, a child, humiliated and tortured for sport. Do you understand, Issho-san? It wasn't justice; it was cruelty—pure, unfiltered cruelty. The kind of cruelty that's in every human heart when they're handed power over the weak."

My tone grew heavier and sharper, my presence bearing down like the storm itself. "And do you think we deserved that? Do you think children—children, Issho—should pay for the sins of their ancestors? No. But it happened. Doffy shielded me from the worst of it, but even he couldn't protect me from everything. I've seen the true nature of humans. The innocent, the righteous—they're just as capable of evil when given the chance."

Issho's blind gaze remained steady, but his hand gripped his shikomizue tightly. I could feel the weight of my words settling on him, even as he tried to process them.

"You sit there and question my brother's vision, his resolve, his character," I continued, my voice dropping to a deadly calm. "But you know nothing. Doffy and I understand this world in a way no one else can. We know what needs to be done to bring order to this chaos. We've seen the best and the worst of humanity, Issho-san, and we know how to wield that knowledge."

I leaned closer, my voice now a whisper that cut deeper than any shout. "So don't you dare think you know better. Not about Doffy. Not about what he's endured. And not about what this world truly is."

The storm raged on, as if in response to my fury, but I didn't care. My words were truth forged in fire, and the truth would not be denied. Doffy wasn't a monster. He was a survivor, a visionary shaped by pain, betrayal, and the cold, hard reality of this broken world. And for that, he would conquer it.

Issho's shoulders slumped, his blind gaze turning back to the horizon. The storm raged on, its fury mirroring the conflict within him. He didn't argue further, but his silence was heavy with thought.

Finally, he spoke, his voice barely audible over the storm. "Perhaps you're right, Ross-kun. Perhaps this world doesn't leave room for men like me. But if I must play my part in it, I'll do so on my own terms. For now, I'll follow your lead. But mark my words—if we lose sight of the people, of their suffering, I'll stand against you."

I smiled faintly, rising to my feet as the fleet surged forward through the storm.

"I wouldn't expect anything less from you, Issho-san."

As I stood up, the wind tore at my coat, howling like a beast denied its prey. The storm above raged on, its crackling lightning briefly illuminating Issho's face, etched with turmoil. I glanced down at him, his blind eyes still fixed on the horizon, and decided to press further—if only to draw out the iron resolve I knew resided beneath his doubts.

"You know, Issho-san," I began, my voice cutting through the storm like a blade, "it's not just about conquest or power. It's about survival. The world isn't kind to those without strength, and kindness without strength is just an invitation for vultures to circle."

Issho tilted his head slightly, the faintest crease forming on his brow. "Strength," he echoed softly.

"That's what the world worships, isn't it? But strength alone can't shape the future, Ross-kun. Justice, fairness—those must temper it. Otherwise, we're no better than the monsters we fight against."

I laughed, a low, humorless sound. "Justice? Fairness? Those words hold meaning for the strong. The weak don't get the luxury of justice—they only get what the strong allow. You think the people of Elsar, or anywhere else for that matter, care who holds the throne as long as their children are fed and their lives are their own? They don't. They've been so battered by the world's cruelty that they've learned to live with scraps and call it survival."

Issho shifted slightly, his grip on his shikomizue tightening. "And you believe we're different? That we're the ones who will rewrite that script? Tell me, Ross-kun, what makes us any better? We've taken what we wanted by force, left scars on the seas we've sailed. Are we really liberators, or just another set of tyrants replacing the old?"

I crouched down beside him, the wind whipping my hair across my face. "I'm not naive, Issho-san. I know what we are. Pirates, conquerors, warriors—we've all left blood in our wake. But the difference lies in intent. The royalty we overthrow? They hoard power for themselves, exploiting the people beneath them. Me? I'm not interested in ruling over ashes. I want to build something better. Something stronger."

Issho's lips pressed into a thin line. "Something stronger, perhaps. But better? That remains to be seen."

I met his blind gaze, unwavering. "You have doubts, Issho-san. I understand that. It's your nature—you're a man who feels the weight of every life lost, every injustice left uncorrected. That's why I need you by my side. Not as a follower, but as a balance. You've seen the worst of this world, just as I have. If I ever lose sight of the line between strength and tyranny, I trust you to remind me."

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The storm raged on, the ship groaning under the weight of the waves, but between us, there was a heavy stillness. Finally, Issho let out a soft sigh, as if releasing some of the burden he carried.

"Ross-kun," he said quietly, his voice steady now, "I'll hold you to that promise. The path you've chosen is fraught with peril, not just for the people you seek to rule, but for your soul. If you ever stray too far, I'll be there to correct you—no matter the cost."

I smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Good. I wouldn't want it any other way, Issho-san. But for now, let's focus on what's ahead. The storm will pass, and when it does, Elsar will be ours. Together, we'll decide what kind of world we're building."

Issho nodded, though his expression remained solemn. "The storm may pass, Ross-kun, but storms leave scars. Remember that."

I stood, grabbing my blades and steadying myself against the wind. "Scars are proof of survival, Issho-san. And survival is the first step toward change."

As the fleet pressed on, the storm's fury seemed almost insignificant compared to the weight of our conversation. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay Elsar, a kingdom steeped in its own traditions, injustices, and power struggles. For the Donquixote fleet, it was merely the next conquest in a long list. For Issho, it was yet another test of the ideals he clung to in a world that seemed designed to crush them.

And for me? It was another step toward reshaping the broken system that ruled this world—a system that, for all its cruelty, had forged men like Issho and me to challenge it.

*****

Logue Town, East Blue

The scaffold that had once borne the Pirate King's final moments stood as a grim monument to the end of an era. Its weathered wood bore the scars of time, but the air around it still held a weight that made even the bravest hesitate.

Before this symbol of justice—or of a flawed world order, depending on one's perspective—a man stood, his tattered coat billowing slightly in the salty East Blue breeze.

Dorian Lacasse, once a towering figure of chaos during the Rocks era, raised a hand to his chest, his fingers brushing against the jagged scar that marred his skin. It was a constant reminder of a battle lost—not to Roger directly, but to the tides of fate that had crowned him Pirate King while Dorian had faded into obscurity.

"So this is where you ended up, Roger," Dorian muttered, his voice low and venomous, though a twisted grin spread across his face.

"Executed like a spectacle for the world to cheer. A mutt slaughtered in the square." His chuckle carried no mirth, only rage barely concealed beneath layers of sardonic mockery.

But the twitch of his jaw betrayed the depth of his bitterness. Losing to Xebec had been one thing—Xebec was a hurricane incarnate, a monster who had earned his place in history. But Roger? A rookie, back then? That was a humiliation Dorian could not forgive.

He stepped forward, his boots crunching against the gravel that littered the plaza. A single Marine, stationed at the scaffold's perimeter, noticed the movement and stepped into his path. The young Marine's face was resolute, though the tremble in his voice gave away his unease.

"Hey, you! Stop right there!" the Marine barked. "This area is restricted! Step back, or—"

The Marine didn't finish his sentence. A dark, viscous liquid snaked out from beneath Dorian's boots, moving with an eerie, sentient precision. Before the Marine could react, the substance engulfed him, forming a sphere of oil that cocooned his body and sealed his mouth and nose.

The Marine's muffled screams and frantic struggles were short-lived as his strength faded, the lack of oxygen beginning to take its toll.

The scene drew the attention of the other Marines stationed nearby. They rushed forward, weapons drawn, their faces a mix of confusion and growing horror as they saw their comrade suspended within the shimmering, oily prison.

"Stay back!" one Marine shouted, his rifle trembling in his hands. "Who the hell are you?!"

Another Marine, a captain with graying hair and a seasoned face, froze mid-step. His eyes widened in recognition as he took in the sight of Dorian Lacasse, the infamous Shichibukai whose reputation stretched far beyond the East Blue. The captain's face turned ashen, and his voice cracked as he barked out orders.

"Stop! Everyone, halt!" The captain roared, his voice carrying above the rising panic. "Do not engage! That man is Dorian Lacasse!"

His warning came too late. More spheres of oil erupted from the ground, ensnaring Marines one by one. Their panicked cries filled the plaza as they clawed at the liquid prisons, their movements growing weaker with each passing second.

"Pathetic," Dorian sneered, his hand twitching as if orchestrating the macabre scene. "Is this the best the East Blue has to offer? No wonder Roger ran circles around you fools."

Suddenly, the air shifted.

The oppressive, suffocating sensation of Dorian's presence was eclipsed by something far greater, far more primal. It was as though the heavens themselves had opened, and an invisible hand pressed down upon the plaza with the weight of a mountain. The very atmosphere seemed to crackle with power, and the gathered Marines froze in place, their terror turning to awe.

Even Dorian faltered. His smirk faded, replaced by a look of sharp focus as the oil spheres he controlled trembled, then burst apart with a deafening crack. The marines trapped within fell to the ground, gasping for air as the oil evaporated into nothingness.

"Who dares—" Dorian began, but his words died in his throat.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The sound of deliberate, unhurried footsteps echoed through the plaza, cutting through the tension like a blade. Each step carried the weight of inevitability, a harbinger of something—or someone—unstoppable.

Dorian turned, his sharp eyes narrowing at the approaching figure. The man wore a Marine's coat draped over his shoulders like a cape, its hem dragging slightly on the ground. Beneath the coat, a muscular frame moved with a deceptively relaxed gait, hands stuffed casually into his pants pockets. His hair, a wild mop of pepper black, gleamed faintly under the overcast sky.

Monkey D. Garp, the Hero of the Marines, strode into view. Behind him, Bogard, his ever-loyal lieutenant, followed silently, one hand resting on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

The sheer presence of Garp was overwhelming, a force of nature that demanded attention without needing to speak. His expression was one of calm, but his sharp, steel-gray eyes burned with a fierce intensity that seemed to pierce through Dorian's very soul.

"Dorian Lacasse," Garp said, his voice carrying an unshakable authority. "You've made a mess of my plaza."

Dorian's lips curled into a grin, though there was no humor in it. "Garp. I didn't expect to see you out here in this backwater. Finally decided to retire in the East Blue, have you? And since when did Loguetown become your home…?"

Garp tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a faint smirk. "Nah. Just taking a stroll. But then I hear some punk's throwing a tantrum by the scaffold. Figured I'd check it out."

The weight of Garp's Conqueror's Haki intensified, a tidal wave of pressure that made the weaker Marines around him collapse to their knees, though it wasn't aimed at them. Dorian felt the full brunt of the haki—a crushing force that reminded him of his recent defeat at the hands of Whitebeard. But this... this was different. It wasn't just power. It was Garp.

"You've been licking your wounds since Whitebeard handed you your ass, haven't you?" Garp said, his grin widening. "And now you come here, thinking you'll play tough guy with a bunch of rookies? Tsk. Guess I'll have to teach you some manners."

Dorian's grin faltered, and his hand twitched toward his weapon. "Don't think for a second that I'm the same man you fought back then, Garp. If you want a fight, I'll—"

BOOM!

Before Dorian could finish, Garp vanished. The ground where he'd been standing erupted in a cloud of dust and gravel, and an instant later, he was in front of Dorian, his fist cocked back.

"Filthy Pirate…!" Garp roared, his voice like thunder. His punch connected with Dorian's midsection, sending the Shichibukai hurtling backward. Dorian smashed into the base of the building with enough force to splinter stone and steel, a grunt of pain escaping his lips.

Before Garp could launch himself into another earth-shaking assault, a blur moved between him and his target. The polished scabbard of a sword intercepted Garp's path, halting his advance with surprising precision. Bogard, Garp's steadfast aide, stood firm, his sheathed blade outstretched like a barrier between the Marine hero and the battered Shichibukai.

"Garp-san, please," Bogard said in his calm, measured tone, though a bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "You've just returned to active duty. That's a Shichibukai you're about to pulverize. Sengoku-san will have my head if you cause an international incident."

Garp's fist hovered mid-swing, the sheer momentum of his halted punch causing a gust of wind to whip through the plaza. He narrowed his eyes at Bogard, his imposing form towering over his lieutenant.

"And?" Garp grunted, his voice gruff and laced with irritation.

Bogard straightened, tightening his grip on his scabbard. "And if you smash him, we're going to spend the next three months buried in paperwork. Do you really want Sengoku-san yelling at us again? Or worse, trying to guilt-trip you into taking responsibility? We both know how he gets."

Garp groaned, his massive shoulders sagging as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Tch. That old goat and his lectures. I should have just left him to die, that bastard."

Bogard pressed on, seizing the opportunity to steer Garp's focus. "Garp-san, think of the bigger picture. This isn't just about Dorian. There's something deeper going on with these new Shichibukai—we need them alive to figure out who's pulling the strings."

The mention of a larger conspiracy seemed to spark something in Garp, though it was quickly overshadowed by his irritation. He turned his gaze to Dorian, who was still leaning against the wreckage of the scaffold, coughing and trying to regain his breath.

Garp let out a loud humph, crossing his arms like a sulking child. "Fine, fine. I won't smash him. But only because Sengoku begged me to come back. The first thing I'm doing is taking over that SWORD group of his."

Bogard blinked, caught off guard. "SWORD, Garp-san?"

"Yeah, that secret squad of his. I'm taking it over. First order of business? Hunting down these Shichibukai clowns one by one." Garp jabbed a thumb in Dorian's direction, his grin returning.

"Starting with this slimy oil bucket over here."

Dorian glared at Garp, his crimson eyes narrowing like embers in a dying fire. A flicker of resentment crossed his face, but he held his tongue, his better judgment prevailing. He wasn't here to engage in a brawl, especially not with someone like Garp.

It wasn't fear that kept Dorian silent—no, he had faced titans like Whitebeard, Xebec, and even Roger in his heyday. But picking a fight with Garp here and now would serve no purpose, only derail his plans.

His pride still smoldered, but he was no fool. There were priorities, and Garp—despite being a walking calamity—was not the reason Dorian had come to this corner of the world.

Dorian leaned back against the broken building, his body aching from the earlier clash, though he masked his discomfort behind a composed veneer. His scarred hand traced the length of his chest subconsciously, a grim reminder of battles past. His true objective was elsewhere, far from this backwater stage.

"Tequila Wolf..." Dorian muttered under his breath, so faint it was almost lost in the commotion around him. The name carried a weight of mystery and purpose, a singular fixation that had driven him to this forgotten sea. That place—shrouded in secrecy and misery—was where his next step awaited.

"And another thing!" Garp continued, his tone growing more animated. "I'm telling Sengoku we need a bigger budget. We couldn't even afford half the snacks that I wanted. A Marine can't save the world on an empty stomach, Bogard!"

Bogard sighed, strapping his sword into his belt with a resigned expression. "You're just going to retire again if Sengoku-san doesn't give you more crackers, aren't you?"

"Damn right I will!" Garp barked, puffing out his chest.

The scene was almost comical. The man who had just sent shockwaves through the plaza, cowing one of the most infamous pirates in the world, was now grumbling about snacks like an irate grandfather at a family gathering. Bogard couldn't decide whether to laugh or despair.

Meanwhile, the fallen Marines, still shaken but alive, began to stir. Garp's attention shifted, his expression softening as he walked over to the nearest Marine, a young man barely out of his teens who was coughing and gasping for air.

"Oi, you still breathing?" Garp asked, crouching down and patting the Marine on the shoulder with enough force to nearly flatten him. "You did good, kid. Next time, don't rush in without a plan."

The Marine nodded weakly, his eyes wide as he looked up at the living legend, towering once again, draped in a Marine Justice coat.