Trinity Island, New World
Douglas Bullet stood amidst the ruins of what had once been a thriving city, now reduced to a hellscape of smoking rubble and crumbled buildings. The sky, once clear, was blotted out by thick plumes of ash and smoke that choked the air.
Fires burned everywhere, casting a hellish glow over the desolation. It was a sight of pure devastation—a grotesque testament to the three-day-long battle that had ravaged the island, and more than 200,000 souls had been wiped out in the process. The air was thick with the stench of blood and burning flesh, a silent memorial to Bullet's ruthless rampage.
Standing at the epicenter of this annihilation was Bullet himself, a towering figure in his mid-twenties, his body rippling with muscle and scarred from countless battles. His olive-green military coat, now tattered and singed at the edges, flapped in the dying wind.
His once golden hair, slicked back, was now matted with blood—his own and others'. His right arm, covered in pulsating veins, clenched tightly into a fist, the muscles tense as if straining to hold back a storm of rage.
He stood over the broken body of a man who had once been a fellow crewmate, a veteran of the Roger Pirates. Now, that man was barely recognizable, his face a mass of broken bone and bruised flesh. His jaw was dislocated, his nose crushed in, and one eye was swollen shut. Blood trickled from his mouth, dripping down onto the shattered stone beneath him.
The man's breathing was ragged and shallow, every intake of air a struggle. Yet, despite his body's mutilation, despite being on the verge of death, his spirit remained unbroken.
Bullet's chest rose and fell heavily, his breaths coming in sharp, ragged gasps. His injuries were no less severe. Blood flowed from gashes across his arms and chest, staining his clothes and mixing with the dirt and soot that covered his skin.
His left shoulder was dislocated, hanging limply at his side, and his ribs were bruised and likely cracked. But for all the pain wracking his body, Bullet's eyes burned with raw, unquenchable fury.
This had been the fight of his life. The former Roger Pirate had put up a fierce resistance, pushing Bullet to his very limits. They had battled for three days, the sheer intensity of their conflict destroying not just the city, but the entire island. Buildings had crumbled under the shockwaves of their attacks, and the once-lively streets had become a war zone.
The ground itself bore the scars of their battle—deep craters where fists and weapons had collided, entire sections of the earth torn apart as if by gods clashing. Bullet had fought countless battles before, but none like this. His opponent had been a veteran, an elite, and even now, lying broken before him, the man still defied him.
As Bullet loomed over him, his boot pressing down on the man's shattered chest, he spoke in a low, venomous growl, his voice thick with anger. "Tell me where it is," Bullet demanded, his teeth gritted. "For old times' sake, I'll give you a quick death. You have nothing left—no power, no family, no strength. Just tell me where the Eternal Pose to Raftel is, and I'll end it."
The man's one good eye flickered open, bloodshot and filled with defiance. His lips curled into a weak, mocking smile, though the effort made him cough up more blood. Despite the unbearable pain, despite his nearing death, he held onto the last shred of dignity that remained.
"Heh... over my dead body, you bastard," the man rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet filled with a venom that cut deeper than any blade. His breath wheezed through cracked ribs, but the defiance in his eyes never dimmed.
"If not for Roger showing you mercy back then, you'd be nothing. Do you really think you'd be standing here now?"
Bullet's jaw clenched, his expression twisting in fury. The mention of Roger's mercy was like salt on a festering wound. Roger's decision to spare him, to let him live instead of recognizing Bullet's true potential, was the ultimate insult in Bullet's eyes.
Roger had seen him as a mere child—an angry, broken boy not worth taking along on the final journey to Raftel. It was a scar that had never healed, a constant reminder of his own inadequacies. And now, even in this moment of supposed victory, that wound was being ripped open again.
"You think Roger was merciful?" Bullet spat, his fist tightening until his knuckles were white. "That was his biggest mistake! Sparing me was an insult! I was stronger than any of you... but he refused to see it."
His voice was shaking with fury now, his entire body trembling with rage. "I'll surpass him. I'll surpass all of you! And once I get my hands on what you've been hiding, I'll prove it to the world!"
The man beneath him coughed, a gurgling, wet sound. Blood trickled down the side of his face, but the smirk never left his lips. "You'll never find it," he wheezed. "Raftel's not a place for weaklings like you, Bullet. You'll die chasing shadows... just like you always have."
Bullet's eyes darkened, his temper reaching a boiling point. "Tell me where the Eternal Pose is," he growled, the threat heavy in his voice. But the man only shook his head weakly, laughing through the pain.
Douglas Bullet stood over the crumpled body of his opponent, blood dripping from his bruised knuckles. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body still trembling with barely contained rage.
The man beneath him—bloodied, broken, and on the verge of death—looked up at Bullet with a faint smile playing on his lips. His face was barely recognizable, caked in blood and bruises, his bones shattered from Bullet's relentless onslaught.
Yet, there was something in his eyes—a glint of defiance, a flicker of resistance—that hadn't been extinguished. Even in the face of death, the man held firm.
"It doesn't matter to me if you are not inclined to tell me," Bullet growled, his voice thick with frustration. He leaned down closer, his bloodstained face only inches away from the man's broken form.
"However, if you did, I wouldn't have to kill the rest of your old crew."
The threat hung in the air, heavy and menacing, but instead of fear, Bullet was met with something unexpected. The man chuckled. It started as a weak, pained sound, but it soon grew into a deep, hearty laugh that echoed through the ruins around them. Bullet's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as the laughter grated on his nerves.
"Hahaha...! You think you can kill the rest of the crew?" The man wheezed, his voice hoarse but filled with amusement. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, but he didn't seem to care. In his mind, death was already inevitable.
He had lost everything—his family, his friends, his new life as a shipwright on this quiet island. All of it had been obliterated by Bullet's rampage. But even now, staring death in the face, he felt no fear. "You really don't understand, do you, Bullet?"
Bullet's scowl deepened. "You're in no position to laugh, old man. If you think I won't hunt them down one by one, you're sorely mistaken."
But the man only laughed harder, the sound raw and broken. "You... you idiot," he coughed, blood spraying from his mouth.
"You have no idea what you're dealing with. Do you think the others will just sit back and let you take them down like this? Do you really think you can stand against them? You barely survived me, and I was nothing but the bottom rung of Roger's crew."
Bullet stiffened at the words, his fists clenching tighter. He could feel the tremor of doubt creeping into his mind, though he fought to suppress it. He'd been telling himself for years that only Roger himself had surpassed him. That the others—Rayleigh, Scopper Gaban, and the rest—were nothing more than obstacles to be torn down. But the truth was... even he feared them.
The man's laughter died down to a weak, rasping breath, but the mocking smile never left his face. "You should be terrified, Bullet. If any of them find out you were behind this, they won't stop until they've hunted you down. Trust me when I say you won't stand a chance."
He paused, coughing up more blood, before continuing in a voice barely above a whisper. "And if you ever face Rayleigh... or Gabban... well, I hope you've said your goodbyes."
Bullet's face twitched at the mention of Rayleigh and Gabban. For all his bluster, for all his defiance, there was a very real fear buried deep inside him—fear that he had tried to keep hidden, even from himself. He'd witnessed firsthand the monstrous strength of Rayleigh, the Dark King, and Gabban, Roger's right hand in battle.
They had been forces of nature, far beyond anything Bullet had ever seen, even now when he believed he was at his strongest. The idea of confronting them, especially now, sent a chill down his spine. It was why he had erased the entire island, killing every last witness. He wanted no trace of his presence here—at least not until he was ready.
"Shut up," Bullet growled, though his voice lacked the usual venom. The man's words had struck deeper than he'd care to admit.
"You think I'm scared of them? They're relics of a dead era. Sooner or later, I'll surpass them all. Raftel holds the key to everything—power, treasure, the truth of the world. Once I get my hands on the Eternal Pose, none of them will matter anymore. Not Rayleigh, not Gabban, not even Roger's shadow will stop me."
But despite Bullet's bravado, the man could see the fear in his eyes. He could see how the names of Rayleigh and Gabban had shaken him, even if Bullet wouldn't admit it.
"You're chasing a dream, Bullet," the man said softly, his voice fading with each word. "The secrets of Raftel... the Ancient Weapons... they won't make you the king of this world. You'll only find your end there."
Bullet sneered, though it was clear the man's defiance had gotten under his skin. His face twisted in fury as he glared down at the dying pirate. "You talk too much for a dead man. So you better…"
"Go to hell, Bullet…!!!" The man roared, cutting off Bullet's threat.
With a snarl, Bullet's patience snapped, and he couldn't help but lose control, though it was clear the man's defiance had gotten under his skin. His face twisted in fury as he glared down at the dying pirate. "You talk too much for a dead man."
With a single swift motion, Bullet slammed his fist down onto the man's chest, the sheer force of the blow reverberating through the ground. There was a sickening crunch as ribs cracked and organs ruptured. The man's body convulsed once before falling completely still, the life drained from his eyes.
For a moment, Bullet stood there, his chest heaving, his hand still embedded in the corpse. His body ached, his injuries screaming at him, but the real pain was deeper—an emptiness gnawing at him. He'd won the battle, but the prize he sought had once again slipped through his fingers.
Wiping the blood from his hands, Bullet straightened up, looking out over the ruins of the city he had destroyed. His anger flared again, but this time it was mixed with frustration. Even now, after all this carnage, he was still in the dark, still chasing shadows of Roger's legacy. And the threat of the other Roger Pirates loomed larger than ever in his mind.
"I don't need their approval," he muttered to himself, more for reassurance than anything else.
"Once I have Raftel's secrets, the world will bow to me. Rayleigh, Gabban... they'll all kneel before my power."
But despite his words, the nagging doubt remained, festering in the back of his mind like a wound that wouldn't heal. Bullet turned away from the body and began to walk through the wreckage, leaving the destroyed city and the man's corpse behind. The journey ahead would be long, and the enemies he sought to surpass were still out there, waiting.
And as much as he hated to admit it, Bullet knew one thing: he wasn't ready to face them. Not yet.
Bullet stood there, breathing heavily, his fist still clenched. Blood dripped from his knuckles, staining the ground beneath him. The rage that had consumed him moments ago now simmered into a cold, bitter anger.
The man was dead, and with him, another chance to uncover Roger's secrets was lost. Bullet had hunted down two members of Roger's old crew members, only to be met with this same defiance, this same refusal to yield what he needed.
His scowl deepened as he turned away from the corpse, his gaze sweeping over the desolation he had wrought. This entire island had been razed to the ground—all for the sake of one man and a secret that still eluded him. The shadow of Gol D. Roger loomed larger than ever in Bullet's mind, a constant reminder that no matter how strong he became, he was still chasing ghosts.
Bloodied, battered, but unbroken, Douglas Bullet stood amidst the ruin, the weight of his failure hanging heavy in the air. But he would not stop. The hunt would continue, and the secrets of Raftel would be his—no matter how many lives he had to take, no matter how much of the world he had to burn.
*********
Corrida Colosseum, Dressrosa
The midday sun blazed high over the Corrido Colosseum, casting golden rays upon the thousands of spectators gathered for what was promised to be a monumental event.
The energy in the air was thick, palpable, as people flooded the stands, eagerly anticipating the battle that was about to unfold. This wasn't just any ordinary match—it was history in the making.
In the center of the arena, the Colosseum's grand announcer, Gatz, stood with a wide grin, his voice booming through the stadium as he riled up the already feverish crowd.
"Welcome to the most anticipated spectacle in Corrido Colosseum's storied history!" Gatz's voice echoed. "Today, you are not just spectators! No, you are witnesses to the potential crowning of a legend!"
The roar of the crowd grew louder, shaking the very ground beneath them. Bets were being placed, drinks passed around, and food vendors shouted over the tumultuous noise. Some cheered for their favorites, others simply wanted to see bloodshed. But today, the attention of the crowd was fixed on one man.
"That's right, ladies and gentlemen!" Gatz continued, his eyes wide with excitement. "Today, we stand on the precipice of something no gladiator has ever achieved before! Standing in that tunnel, waiting to step into the light, is the warrior you all know too well—*Kyros*! If he wins today, it will be his 3,000th victory!"
The crowd's chant rose in unison, "Kyros! Kyros! Kyros!" The name echoed throughout the arena, shaking the very pillars of the Colosseum.
In the special viewing box high above, King Riku sat with his hands clasped, observing the arena with an intense gaze. Beside him sat Issho, the guardian of Dressrosa and also the core member of the Donquixote family, who was widely known as Fujitora.
Though blind, Issho's presence was commanding. He had been invited here at King Riku's personal request, asked to observe and evaluate Kyros—should the gladiator achieve his historic victory today, then Riku wanted to see if the warrior could be inducted into the Donquixote family.
"Kyros has been more than just a warrior to this Colosseum," King Riku said quietly, leaning toward Issho. "He is a symbol. But symbols can be fleeting. I wanted you to witness this, to judge his strength not just with your senses but with your wisdom."
Issho nodded slowly, gripping the hilt of his sword stick with a calm yet firm hand. "Strength is a complicated thing, Your Majesty. The weight of 3,000 victories is heavy, but even heavier is the burden of remaining untainted after reaping so many lives."
Issho was already aware of the circumstances under which Kyros had ended up within the Colosseium, so he was intrigued and had come here to personally evaluate the young man.
As the gates of the arena creaked open, a hush fell over the crowd. The tension was unbearable as more than two dozen gladiators entered the arena—warriors from every corner of the New World, each more ferocious than the last. Muscles rippled under scarred skin, weapons gleamed in the midday sun, and each step these fighters took was heavy with intent.
These were not ordinary combatants. These were hardened killers, some with reputations that sent fear into the hearts of kings.
Then, across from them, the final gate opened.
A shadowed figure emerged. His footsteps were steady, deliberate. The crowd erupted into frenzied cheers the moment they saw him step into the light.
Kyros.
The gladiator who had not tasted defeat in his entire career. His tall, imposing frame gleamed with battle-hardened muscle. His bare chest was riddled with scars, each one a testament to the countless battles he'd fought. His armor was minimal, a tribute to his need for speed over protection. In his right hand, he gripped a massive sword—its edges jagged and worn from years of brutal combat.
But what stood out the most were Kyros' eyes. They were focused, cold, unyielding. The eyes of a man who had long since lost any fear of death. His very presence seemed to shift the air in the arena. Silence blanketed the space for a brief second as everyone held their breath.
Gatz, with his energy never wavering, raised his arms. "The moment you've all been waiting for! On one side, warriors of the New World! On the other, Kyros, undefeated champion, gladiator supreme! This... is an all-out free-for-all! FIGHT!"
The signal was given, and the arena erupted into chaos.
One gladiator, wielding a massive spiked club, charged at Kyros with a guttural roar. His steps thundered across the sand as he swung the weapon down with brutal force. Kyros sidestepped, his movements fluid, and in a single, swift strike, he severed the man's arm at the elbow, sending a fountain of blood spraying into the air.
The crowd roared as the man collapsed in agony, clutching the stump of his arm. But there was no time to linger. Three more opponents closed in on Kyros from different angles—each one more dangerous than the last.
A swordsman from the long arm tribe, wielding twin blades, unleashed a flurry of strikes. A hulking brute with steel knuckles lunged forward with bone-crushing force. And from behind, a slender assassin darted forward, twin daggers gleaming with venomous intent.
Kyros moved with grace and precision, parrying the agile swordsman's attacks with ease. Sparks flew as steel met steel, but Kyros' movements were a step ahead of his opponent. He twisted his body, dodging the brute's fist by mere inches.
The assassin struck from behind, but Kyros spun, his sword catching both daggers in mid-air. With a swift kick, he sent the assassin sprawling backward, disarming him in an instant.
The Wano swordsman lunged again, but Kyros was ready. In a single fluid motion, he disarmed the swordsman with a parry and drove his blade through the brute's shoulder, rendering him incapable of using his arm. A second later, Kyros slammed the pommel of his sword into the assassin's skull, knocking him unconscious.
The crowd was on its feet, the roar deafening. People were screaming, cheering, throwing their fists in the air as Kyros continued his dance of death.
From the VIP box, Issho's ears twitched, attuned to the violent symphony below. "His strength is undeniable," the blind man said, his voice calm despite the chaos. "But it is his precision, his awareness of the battlefield… it is as though he can see the fight before it happens. I am sure he has attained a very high level in terms of haki."
King Riku nodded gravely, watching Kyros with pride but also with concern. "He fights not just for himself. He fights for his honor, his legacy. But no man can carry the weight of 3,000 victories forever."
Back in the arena, Kyros faced the last gladiator standing—a towering man clad in black armor, wielding a massive war hammer. The man grinned through a broken helmet, stepping over the bodies of the fallen as he swung his hammer overhead with crushing force.
Kyros braced himself, raising his sword to block. The impact was thunderous, sending shockwaves through the ground. Sand and dust exploded into the air, blinding the audience for a brief moment.
The battle raged on for more than an hour, a grueling test of endurance, skill, and raw power that held the entire Corrida Colosseum in a state of breathless suspense. Each gladiator in the arena was no mere brawler—these were seasoned warriors, many of them proficient in both Armament and Observation Haki, honed through countless life-or-death battles.
The invisible force of their haki crackled in the air, rippling across the battlefield like invisible currents of destruction. To the untrained eye, it seemed like pure chaos, but to those who understood the art of haki, the fight was a masterclass in combat at the highest level.
From the stands, the roar of the crowd echoed through the Colosseum, though many had no comprehension of the intricacies of haki. To them, it was a spectacle of gods clashing, each strike causing shockwaves that rippled through the stone structure of the Colosseum itself. Walls quaked, cracks spider-webbed through the ancient stone pillars, and debris rained down from the ceiling with every collision of fists and weapons.
"Look at that!" Gatz's voice boomed over the chaos, the excitement in his voice palpable. "These gladiators are tearing the Colosseum apart! Their strength is beyond anything we've ever seen!"
A nearby section of the audience gasped as one of the gladiators, a hulking figure covered in scars, swung his massive mace towards another combatant. The swing was met by a counterattack—a perfectly timed block infused with Armament Haki. The resulting explosion of force sent a shockwave outward, the sheer power of the clash tearing up chunks of the arena floor and sending spectators scrambling to avoid falling debris.
In the VIP box, King Riku watched intently, his knuckles white as they gripped the armrest of his chair. The spectacle before him was exhilarating but also nerve-wracking, the destructive power of the gladiators reminding him of just how dangerous the world outside Dressrosa could be. By his side, Issho sat still as stone, though his brow furrowed slightly, indicating his concentration on the scene below.
"They're fighting with everything they have," King Riku remarked quietly, his eyes never leaving the battlefield. "But this… this level of devastation… even our mighty Colosseum cannot withstand it for much longer."
Issho nodded, though his face remained calm. "Their haki resonates with each strike. Each blow is a testament to the strength of their will. Yet even in the chaos, there is control. They are warriors, fighting with purpose. Maybe I will suggest it to Master Doffy; some of them can be put to some use instead of becoming mindless killing machines here within the Colosseum."
Down in the arena, Kyros continued to battle through the storm. His opponents, each one skilled in their own right, converged on him, knowing that to take him down was their only chance of survival.
A towering gladiator swung a spiked flail at him, its head infused with Armament Haki, shimmering with lethal intent. Kyros dodged, his body moving with fluid precision as his Observation Haki warned him of the attack moments before it happened.
His feet barely touched the ground as he leaped, narrowly avoiding another strike from behind, this time from a spear-wielding warrior aiming for his back.
Kyros landed, pivoting swiftly, and countered with a devastating slash of his sword, the blade sheathed in black Armament Haki. The sword connected with the spear, and the clash sent another shockwave through the arena, cracking the ground beneath them and sending nearby gladiators sprawling to the ground.
The crowd erupted with cheers as the gladiators continued to exchange blows, their haki-infused attacks lighting up the arena. Waves of pressure from their haki sent ripples of force through the air, colliding like thunderstorms clashing in the sky.
To the audience, it was pure spectacle—the sound of metal clashing against metal, the bursts of energy that exploded with each strike, and the sight of warriors pushing their bodies to the brink of collapse.
But those who understood the fight on a deeper level could see the intricacies at play. Every strike was calculated, every movement precise. The gladiators were not just fighting with brute strength; they were using their haki to read each other's movements, anticipate attacks, and defend with near-perfect timing.
Observation Haki allowed them to dodge attacks with a hair's breadth of space, while Armament Haki hardened their bodies and weapons to withstand devastating blows.
In the crowd, an older spectator leaned over to his friend, pointing toward the battle. "Did you see that? Kyros just dodged a hit that would've taken his head clean off!"
His friend nodded, eyes wide. "I don't even know how they're still standing after this long. The energy they're putting out—it's inhuman!"
As the battle raged on, cracks began to spread across the Colosseum walls. Entire sections of the stone structure trembled under the constant barrage of force. Some parts of the stands had collapsed, leaving spectators scrambling for safety, but their excitement never waned. They were witnessing history—a clash of titans that would be spoken of for years to come.
From the center of the arena, Kyros turned his attention to the last few remaining opponents. He could feel the strain in his muscles, the weight of the battle pressing down on him, but his resolve never faltered. His eyes, sharp as ever, scanned his enemies.
The man with the spiked flail was breathing heavily, his attacks growing slower. Another gladiator, wielding twin axes, was limping slightly, his leg injured from an earlier strike. They were tiring.
But so was Kyros.
Sweat dripped down his face, and his chest heaved with each breath. The battle had dragged on longer than he had anticipated, and each opponent had forced him to push harder than before.
His Observation Haki pulsed through his senses, giving him a heightened awareness of every movement on the battlefield. He could feel the shifting weight of the Colosseum floor beneath him, the slight tremor as one of the gladiators shifted his stance, the tightening of a hand around a weapon.
The spiked-flail gladiator roared, charging forward in a final, desperate attempt to take down Kyros. His weapon came down with the force of a hammer, but Kyros was ready. He sidestepped the blow, and with a quick, precise movement, he brought his sword down, cutting through the chain of the flail and disarming his opponent.
Before the gladiator could react, Kyros delivered a powerful punch to his gut, the force of Armament Haki behind it, sending the man crashing into the ground with a resounding thud.
The crowd erupted in cheers once again, their voices rising above the sounds of battle. Kyros straightened, his sword gleaming in the sunlight, and looked around at the remaining opponents. It was clear now—they were beaten.
When the dust settled, Kyros stood victorious, his sword buried deep in the chest of his final opponent.
The arena went silent for a brief moment before erupting into deafening cheers. The crowd chanted Kyros' name once more, but this time, it was louder, more profound. This was history. The undefeated champion had secured his 3,000th victory.
Up in the VIP box, King Riku let out a long breath. "He has done it…"
Issho nodded, a small smile touching his lips. "Yes… but at what cost?"
Kyros stood in the center of the arena, drenched in blood, his sword still in his hand. His eyes scanned the crowd, but they were distant. The cheers, the glory—they meant little to him. In his heart, the weight of 3,000 victories was heavier than ever before.
*****
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