As Imai pulled down her hood, a strong breeze swept through the stadium, causing her dark blue hair to flutter in the wind like a banner of war.
The audience, many of them ordinary civilians, gazed at her in confusion, unsure of who she was. But among the pirates scattered in the crowd, a ripple of recognition passed through. For those who had sailed the seas three years ago, there was no mistaking the figure now standing before them.
How could anyone forget such a merciless killer?
"I-It's you!'' Brûlée stammered, her voice trembling. A trace of fear flickered in her eyes, and she instinctively began backing away.
Oven, too, faltered, his confident demeanor cracking. The other pirates exchanged uneasy glances before taking hesitant steps back. Their bravado evaporated, replaced by pounding hearts and clammy hands. The pirate Imai had previously subdued had already fled, his courage entirely snuffed out the moment he saw her unmasked.
Even Uta, standing a few feet behind Imai, unconsciously stepped back. While she wasn't paralyzed by fear like the others, she couldn't deny the chill that ran down her spine.
So this is her…
Shanks had told Uta stories—half warnings, half cautionary tales—about a woman whose unparalleled skill and bloodlust had turned the tides of battle in the most horrific way imaginable. A woman who had once stood toe-to-toe with the Yonko themselves, and whose very name sent ripples of dread through the seas.
One story, in particular, stood out vividly in Uta's mind. It was about an event so catastrophic that the World Government had buried it beneath layers of secrecy. A war fought on the island of Centaurea, deep in the South Blue.
It was known only by whispers among those who had survived: the Battle on Centaurea.
Another name had been etched into infamy—Loss of a Million.
The battle was an unmitigated slaughter. Pirates and marines clashed on the desolate island, and by the end of the conflict, a staggering million lives had been extinguished.
The government never acknowledged the event publicly, ensuring that no records of it reached the public. But the truth couldn't be erased, not from the memories of those who had witnessed it.
Of the countless combatants, only ten figures remained standing by the end. Five were admirals: Fermi, Shishio, Heiwa, Chiyoko, and Daisuke—each renowned as paragons of strength and justice. Opposing them were the four emperors: Big Mom, Kaido, Whitebeard, and Shanks.
And then there was her.
Imai, an enigma who had been little more than a rumor before the battle, emerged as a force of nature. She stood apart, a whirlwind of death and destruction. The admirals, with all their strength, were unable to contain her.
She carved through the battlefield with her cursed blades, Shodai Kitetsu and Muramasa, leaving trails of blood and carnage in her wake.
By the end of the first month, her kill count alone had reached a quarter-million. And yet, she showed no signs of exhaustion. If anything, her thirst for blood only grew more insatiable.
Uta remembered the fear in Shanks's voice when he spoke of the moment Imai changed the tide of the war.
The second month brought a reckoning.
"SHING!"
"Two Sword Style: Limb Severing!"
The strongest admiral, Daisuke, fell first. In a flurry of motion, Imai severed his arms and legs with surgical precision. The strike was so swift he didn't even have time to scream.
Before the others could intervene, Imai drove one of her blades through his chest, extracting his heart as if it were a piece of fruit skewered on a stick.
She didn't stop there.
Shishio, hailed as the greatest swordsman of the era, tried to retaliate, but his legend ended the moment his right arm hit the ground. Without it, his blade was useless. His pleas for mercy fell on deaf ears as Imai claimed his heart, placing it beside Daisuke's lifeless one.
Fermi's rage made him reckless. He charged at Imai, but his fury was met with a clean decapitation. His headless body crumpled, and his heart joined the growing collection at Imai's feet.
The remaining admirals, now outnumbered and outmatched, were frozen in terror.
By the third month, Imai had become a reaper among mortals.
Chiyoko, once a proud and unyielding warrior, knelt before Imai, tears streaming down her face as she begged for mercy. "Please... I don't want to die."
Imai's expression remained cold, her voice devoid of emotion. "Then die begging."
With one swift motion, Chiyoko's head rolled across the blood-soaked battlefield.
Heiwa, the last admiral standing, collapsed to her knees. Her green eyes, dulled by despair, stared blankly at the carnage around her. She no longer had the will to fight.
"I won't kill you," Imai said, her tone chillingly matter-of-fact.
Heiwa's head snapped up, confused. "What?"
"You will live. You will report everything to the ones who control this world," Imai continued, tilting Heiwa's chin upward with the flat of her blade.
The sound of distant sirens signaled the arrival of marine reinforcements. But the war was already over. The battlefield was nothing more than a graveyard.
As the four emperors watched silently from the sidelines, Imai turned to them. Her voice carried an unsettling calm.
"Unless the four of you want to fight me too, I suggest we leave."
None of them responded. None dared to.
The Battle on Centaurea ended that day, etched forever into the memories of those who survived.
The World Government covered it up, branding the event a classified disaster. But for the emperors, admirals, and survivors, it marked the emergence of a monster.
Imai became a name whispered with equal parts fear and awe. Her legend grew as she cut down every challenger who sought to test her strength. She became the Empress of the Blade.
And three years later, when her power and influence reached an apex, the world declared her the Fifth Emperor.
Now, in the present, Imai stood on the stage, her dark blue hair glinting under the stadium lights. The pirates who had once laughed and jeered now trembled at the sight of her.
Her grin widened. "So, Oven... Brûlée... do you still want to fight me?"
Oven gritted his teeth, sweat dripping down his temple. Brûlée's knees wobbled as she tried to speak, but no words came out.
The silence was deafening, broken only by Imai's calm voice.
"That's what I thought."