One Piece : Brotherhood

Elsar Kingdom, New World

"Bang!" The sound of splintering wood echoed through the quiet night as the dilapidated wooden door exploded inward, shards of it scattering across the dusty floor. The soldier who had delivered the brutal kick stepped forward, his metal boots thudding against the creaking boards.

Behind him, half a dozen more heavily armed men poured into the cramped space, their armor glinting dully in the flickering light of the lanterns they carried.

The house was a picture of desolation, a stark testament to its owners' poverty. The walls were thin, patched with scraps of wood and fabric to block out the cold. A single cracked window let in a faint draft, its edges stuffed with yellowed paper in a futile attempt to keep out the chill. The room smelled faintly of mildew and stale air, the scent of a place too long neglected.

A rough wooden table stood in one corner, its surface scratched and worn, bearing the marks of years of use. Three mismatched chairs surrounded it, one of them missing a leg and propped up on a brick. A threadbare rug lay sprawled in the center of the room, its faded patterns barely visible beneath layers of grime. A few scattered pots and pans, dented and blackened from overuse, cluttered a makeshift kitchen area.

It was clear that whoever lived here had little to their name. Yet, there was something off—something that suggested this wasn't just the home of people living in poverty. It felt... deserted. Too deserted.

"Search the house!" barked the leader of the platoon, his voice cold and commanding. His dark eyes swept the room, taking in every detail with suspicion. "None from this household reported for conscription. They're either hiding or gone. Find them."

The soldiers moved like a pack of wolves, overturning furniture and ripping apart anything that might hide a clue. One of them yanked open a sagging wardrobe, its doors hanging precariously on rusted hinges, only to find it empty save for a few tattered garments. Another soldier poked through a pile of firewood stacked in the corner, scattering the logs across the floor.

It wasn't long before one of them stopped, his boot catching on the edge of something uneven beneath the tattered carpet in the center of the room. He crouched, pulling back the faded rug to reveal a wooden trapdoor, its surface weathered but sturdy.

"Sir!" he called out, his voice sharp with excitement. He rapped his knuckles against the door, the hollow sound confirming it wasn't part of the foundation.

The leader strode over, his heavy boots thudding against the floor. He crouched, examining the trapdoor with a sneer. "Well, well," he muttered, his tone dripping with malice. "Looks like they didn't run far after all."

He straightened and gestured sharply to the soldiers around him. "Open it."

Two soldiers moved quickly, their gauntleted hands prying at the edges of the trapdoor until it creaked open, revealing a dark, narrow passage descending into the earth. The air that wafted up was damp and stale, carrying the unmistakable scent of fear and desperation.

The leader's lips curled into a cruel smile as he peered into the shadowy depths. "Light the way," he ordered, drawing his sword with a metallic hiss. The steel gleamed menacingly in the dim light as he added, almost as an afterthought, "And be ready for anything."

The dozen soldiers emerged from the hidden passage, now standing on the outskirts of the town. The tunnel had been no desperate escape route—it was a calculated work of defiance. Its sheer length and precision spoke of months, if not years, of planning.

The captain's gaze swept across the massive forest ahead, its towering trees casting deep shadows in the flickering torchlight. The thick canopy above seemed to absorb sound, shrouding the forest in an ominous, expectant silence.

"These bastards must have been scheming to rebel for years," the captain growled, his lips curling in contempt. He squinted into the oppressive darkness of the forest.

"No way they could've dug all that without help. They're hiding in there somewhere—cowards." His gloved hand tightened around the hilt of his sword as his excitement grew. This wasn't just a chase; this was a hunt.

"Have the hounds been brought in?" he asked, his tone sharpening, a cruel glint in his eyes betraying his anticipation. His voice carried the same hunger as a predator before the kill.

A soldier saluted smartly, holding his torch aloft. "Yes, sir. The signal's been sent. Reinforcements and the dogs are on their way."

As if summoned by those very words, a deep, guttural howl echoed through the night, followed by several others in quick succession. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, and even the captain felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

From the shadows, they emerged—monsters in canine form. Calling them dogs would have been a laughable understatement. Each beast was an unholy amalgamation of muscle and menace, towering nearly two meters tall at the shoulder.

Their coats were ragged and coarse, stained with mud, drool, and dark patches that could only be blood. Powerful jaws dripped with saliva as their razor-sharp teeth gleamed in the torchlight. Their glowing, yellow eyes scanned the soldiers with unnerving intelligence.

Each beast was bound by chains as thick as a man's wrist, links groaning with tension as they strained against their handlers. But the handlers themselves were no less intimidating.

Towering at least four meters tall, they were clad in heavy leather armor, their faces obscured by grotesque masks. The masks bore crude, stitched designs that mimicked snarling animal faces, as if the handlers had been fused with the beasts they controlled.

The captain, as hardened as he was, instinctively took a step back as the canines padded closer, their claws gouging the earth with every step. The air seemed heavier in their presence, thick with the stench of blood and primal rage.

The handlers, however, stood silently, their massive hands holding the chains with an ease that suggested complete mastery over their monstrous charges.

One of the handlers, his voice muffled and distorted behind his mask, stepped forward. "The beasts are restless tonight, Captain," he rumbled. His tone carried a hint of menace, as if the man relished the violence to come.

"They'll catch your prey... but they'll need something to sate their hunger once it's done."

The captain stiffened but quickly masked his unease with a scoff. "Hmph. I don't care how restless they are," he retorted, though he couldn't meet the handler's gaze.

"Your orders are clear. Track every last one of those rats hiding in the forest. Bring me the healthy ones alive—we'll make examples of them. As for the rest…" He smirked, though the expression didn't reach his eyes.

"The old, the weak, and the useless... let the dogs have their fun. They've earned it."

The handler tilted his head, considering the captain's words. "Fair enough," he said after a pause, tugging lightly on the chain of the largest beast at his side. The creature let out a low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate the very air around it, causing some of the soldiers to flinch.

"But you should stay clear once they're unleashed. They're loyal, but... accidents happen."

The captain's smirk faltered, and he swallowed hard before turning away with a dismissive wave.

"Just do your job."

Behind him, the beasts began to snarl and pull at their chains, eager to be set loose. The handlers moved with calm precision, directing the canines toward the forest's edge. The soldiers formed a loose perimeter, torches flickering nervously as the first of the monsters disappeared into the trees.

The balcony jutted out from the highest spire of the grandiose palace, offering a commanding view of the capital below. The city stretched like a living tapestry—its streets bustling with the fevered preparations of a kingdom gearing for war.

Soldiers assembled in droves, cannons were mounted onto battlements, and supply caravans wound their way through the crowded avenues. Yet, to Patrick Redfield, it was all meaningless noise.

He stood motionless, draped in a high-collared crimson coat that billowed slightly in the chill wind. His pale skin, almost ethereal under the moonlight, contrasted sharply with the jet-black streaks in his slicked-back silver hair.

His sharp, angular features were locked in an expression of disdain, though a faint smirk curled at his lips—a sneer he didn't bother to conceal. His piercing red eyes, which seemed to glow faintly like embers, scanned the horizon, but their true focus was far beyond mortal sight.

Patrick Redfield's Observation Haki was an anomaly even among the greatest warriors of the seas. Its range and sensitivity were legendary. Where others might sense an enemy's intentions or movements within a limited scope, Redfield's haki spanned vast distances, weaving through the fabric of the capital and beyond.

He could feel the pulse of every life in the city—the nervous footfalls of soldiers, the hushed prayers of citizens, even the shivering breaths of a child hiding in an alley. Each presence was a thread in an intricate web, and Redfield was the spider at its center.

In his mind, the entire city unfolded as a vivid, multi-dimensional map. He could hear the distant bark of a dog, the scrape of metal as soldiers sharpened their blades, and even the whispers of rebellion in hidden corners.

He could feel the subtle shifts in the air as the forest miles away trembled under the approach of monstrous hunting hounds. His Observation Haki was not just a tool; it was a weapon—a profound testament to his unparalleled mastery.

"Pathetic," he murmured to himself, his voice a silken blade of mockery. "All this scurrying about... They believe walls and weapons will save them." His smirk deepened, exposing the tips of unnervingly sharp teeth.

"Cannon fodder is cannon fodder, no matter how you dress it up."

Behind him, the heavy, deliberate thud of booted footsteps echoed through the grand hall that led to the balcony. The air shifted slightly, and though Patrick didn't turn, he knew precisely who had arrived.

"Is something amusing, Sir Patrick?" came a gruff voice, laced with deference but tinged with unease.

Without turning, Redfield responded, his voice dripping with quiet confidence. "Amusing?

Perhaps. Or perhaps it's tragic. A king mobilizes his people for a war he has already lost."

The speaker stepped forward, revealing himself to be none other than the King of Elsar, Theron himself, his ornate golden armor gleaming under the moonlight. His crown sat heavy on his brow, its jewels reflecting the flickering torches of the city below.

His face was set in a grim frown, his deep-set eyes betraying the weight of his decisions. Beside him stood his Supreme Commander, a hulking figure in a dark, steel-plated uniform. The commander's scarred face and cold, calculating gaze marked him as a man hardened by countless battles.

The King's voice broke the tense silence. "We are prepared to give everything to ensure the survival of this kingdom. I trust you will honor your part of the agreement, Sir Patrick."

Redfield finally turned, his movement deliberate, almost theatrical. His crimson coat flared slightly as he faced the two men. His smile remained, though his gaze sharpened into something far more dangerous.

"My part?" he said softly, his voice deceptively calm but brimming with menace. "I gave you counsel, your Majesty. I offered you insight and... certain guarantees. But don't mistake me for your subordinate. I have no interest in your 'kingdom' or your petty squabbles."

The Supreme Commander bristled at Redfield's tone, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his massive greatsword. "Watch your tongue, pirate," he growled. "You may be a legend, but you stand in the presence of a king!"

Patrick's laughter rang out, cold and mirthless. He took a single step forward, and the commander froze as a suffocating pressure washed over him—a manifestation of Redfield's haki. The man staggered back but steadied himself, his sword hand trembling uncontrollably.

"Careful, mutt," Redfield whispered, his tone now razor-sharp. "You're standing on a very thin thread. I could sever it without a second thought."

The ornate chamber attached to the balcony above the capital fell silent, the air heavy with tension. The moonlight spilled across the marble floors, casting shadows as Patrick Redfield turned sharply, his crimson coat flaring dramatically. His sneer was palpable, his words dripping with scorn.

"If not for you being my nephew's loyal dog, I would have severed you limb from limb," Patrick snarled, his voice a venomous growl as his piercing red eyes locked onto the Supreme Commander.

The room froze. The commander stiffened, his hand unconsciously brushing his sword hilt. His confusion deepened when he caught a flicker of unease in the King's usually impassive gaze.

"Nephew?" he muttered under his breath, disbelief clouding his face.

It clicked, like a puzzle snapping into place. The whispers of Patrick Redfield's legendary strength, his refusal to ally with anyone, his notorious pride—why had such a man come to aid the kingdom of Elsar? The realization struck like a thunderclap. He remembered now: the former Queen Regent, the King's mother, bore a name strikingly similar to Redfield's.

The truth was both startling and unsettling. Patrick Redfield, one of the most dangerous figures on the seas, wasn't here for gold or vengeance. He was here because of family ties.

Theron, the King of Elsar, stepped forward, his regal mask cracking into a genuine smile. The icy demeanor he displayed to the world softened, revealing rare warmth. "Now, now, Uncle. I didn't summon you here to end up killing my men. I called you to help me deal with the Donquixote Family."

Redfield's expression remained a blend of amusement and disdain. His sharp voice cut through the air. "Then explain this to me, Theron…" His hand swept outward toward the city below, where the chaos of forced conscription painted a grim picture. Civilians were shoved into makeshift armor, handed crude weapons, and herded into training grounds like cattle to slaughter.

"This?"

"They're cannon fodder, Uncle," Theron replied with a smirk, though his tone carried a hint of apology. "I won't waste my true forces on filthy pirates. No offense to you."

A faint chuckle escaped Redfield's lips, though the sneer on his face remained. "Do you think this rabble will stay their hand? That they'll be the wall between you and annihilation?"

Before Theron could reply, his Supreme Commander stepped forward, his confidence barely masking the residual unease from Redfield's earlier threat.

"They won't need to stop them," the commander said, his voice firm. "No matter how bloodthirsty the Donquixote Family may be, even as Emperors of the Sea, how many people are they willing to slaughter? Our kingdom has over twenty million souls. Will they cut down every last one just to get to us? By the time they reach our army, they'll be too exhausted to stand."

A slow, sardonic clap echoed from Redfield, his smirk spreading into a cold grin. "Ruthless. I like that. But you're underestimating the monster you're dealing with." His crimson eyes darkened, memories flickering across his face like distant storms.

"You think you know their strength, but you don't. That boy… Rosinante. He's not just ruthless—he's a different breed. The Donquixote Pirates may be the smallest in number among the Emperors, but they're the most elite. He wouldn't hesitate to slaughter every last soul in this kingdom if it means getting what he wants."

A heavy silence fell. Even Theron, whose smirk had faded, looked unsettled.

"And you've seen him, Uncle?" Theron ventured cautiously, his voice betraying a rare note of curiosity.

Redfield's lips curled downward into a rare scowl. "I've seen him. I remember when that kid made a pyramid of heads in Impel Down just to send a message. He's not like the others—not Kaido, not Linlin. He's... efficient. And efficient monsters are the most dangerous of all."

Theron exhaled, his usual icy calm returning as he straightened his shoulders. "That's precisely why I called you, Uncle. I've heard the rumors. Rosinante could stand toe-to-toe with Kaido, the 'Strongest Creature.' I am no fool. I've mobilized bounty hunters, hired pirates, even reached out to the Marines."

Redfield raised a hand to silence him, his patience visibly thinning. "All meaningless," he said flatly, his voice cold as steel. "When it comes to battles at the apex, numbers mean nothing."

The air around him shifted abruptly. The temperature seemed to drop as a shiver ran through the room. And then it came—a surge of raw, unrestrained power that crashed over the chamber like a tidal wave.

Patrick Redfield unleashed his Conqueror's Haki.

The world seemed to hold its breath. An oppressive, crushing force rolled outward in all directions, reducing men to their knees and shattering the wills of all but the strongest.

Windows cracked and shattered, chandeliers swayed precariously, cracks spread across the palace walls, and far below, in the heart of the city, civilians collapsed unconscious, their eyes rolling back as if crushed by an invisible weight.

The Supreme Commander's legs buckled, though he remained upright through sheer grit, his face pale and drenched in sweat. The King himself staggered slightly, though his pride kept him standing. Patrick was holding back, yet the demonstration was overwhelming—a declaration of absolute power.

"Understand this, Theron," Redfield said, his voice a chilling calm amid the storm of haki. "You don't call me to clean up your messes. I'm here for my sister's sake—nothing more. Don't make this a habit."

The oppressive force eased as Redfield reined in his haki, though its echoes lingered, leaving an undeniable impression. He chuckled softly, though there was no warmth in it.

"I'll deal with the Donquixote, but remember… I don't work for you. The next time you summon me, I might not be so obliging."

Theron nodded slowly, his lips curling back into a faint smirk. "Understood, Uncle. I wouldn't dare take advantage of you. But… I must admit, it's comforting to have you here."

Patrick turned back to the balcony, his gaze distant as it stretched across the moonlit kingdom.

"Comforting?" His grin widened, exposing his unnervingly sharp teeth. "You may not feel that way when it's over."