Loguetown, East Blue
"Zing…!"
The sound cut through the air like lightning, followed by an eerie silence. The spectators stood frozen, their eyes wide with shock, as the head of another would-be thief hit the crimson-stained stone pavement. Blood pooled around the lifeless body, yet no one moved, too stunned to react to the swift execution.
Miyamoto flicked Benihime in one fluid motion, ridding the blade of blood before sliding it back into its scabbard. His face was calm, almost indifferent, as if the act of cutting down a man was as casual as drawing breath. For him, it was. This was not the first, nor would it be the last fool to try and steal from the century-old armor shop in Loguetown.
The allure of a Meito—especially a Supreme Grade blade—was simply too tempting for some. And the weapon currently displayed in Ipponmatsu's shop had become the obsession of men with more greed than sense.
Ipponmatsu, the shop's aging owner's grandson, had long stopped reacting to the violence. At first, when the killings began two days prior, he had lost control of his bowels.
Now, he simply moved like a man in a trance, dragging yet another corpse from the shop's side and collecting the head. Many of those who had made an attempt on the blade had bounties, and their severed heads would fetch a price worth more than what they'd hoped to steal.
As he tossed the body into a pile of others waiting to be claimed, murmurs spread among the crowd gathered outside the shop. Word of the shop's display had traveled far and wide, drawing visitors from neighboring islands and even overshadowing the infamous execution scaffolding where Gol D. Roger had been executed.
"They sure are cruel… What's so special about a simple blade? Is all this bloodshed really necessary?" One of the spectators muttered, horrified yet fascinated by the scene unfolding before him.
A nearby commoner scoffed. "What do you know? That shop's displaying blades so rare that each one costs tens of millions of berries. People would kill for the chance to get their hands on them."
But amidst the crowd, a man—a true sword enthusiast—knew the real weight of the weapons on display. He had already visited the shop more than a dozen times, meticulously studying the swords as long as they allowed him inside.
While the average person saw shiny steel and legendary stories, he understood the gravity of what was truly inside the shop. It wasn't just rare—it was history in the making.
The line to see the weapons snaked around the block, with people waiting hours just for a chance to glimpse the blades. Yet none drew as much attention as Shirayuki—the supposed 13th Supreme Grade blade, the one blade that defied all known logic and history.
Until recently, the world believed there were only twelve Supreme Grade swords, legendary weapons crafted by masters whose techniques had long been lost to time. These blades were coveted by the most powerful figures in the world, and many had been lost or hidden away, their whereabouts unknown. For over a millennium, the list of these twelve blades had remained unchanged.
But now, a new contender stood in the display of the old man's humble shop: Shirayuki.
At first, the sword enthusiast had been skeptical. How could there be a 13th Supreme Grade blade when history spoke only of twelve? Was it some sort of hoax? Some trick to drum up business? But after examining the weapon up close, over and over again, he could no longer deny the truth. This was no fake.
Shirayuki was unlike any blade he had ever encountered. The craftsmanship was flawless, and the steel shimmered with an ethereal glow, as if it had been kissed by the very essence of winter itself. Its edge was so sharp that the air seemed to hum as it passed through, and the blade itself gave off a chilling aura, like a breath of frost on a bitterly cold night.
The longer he studied it, the more he became convinced: this was a Supreme Grade blade, every bit as powerful as the twelve that had come before it. Perhaps even more so.
Shirayuki—named after the "White Snow" it resembled—was as deadly as it was beautiful, a weapon that could cleave through armies and strike fear into the hearts of even the most seasoned warriors. Its mystery only added to its allure. Who had forged it? How had it come to exist? And why had it remained hidden for so long?
The crowd, largely ignorant of its true significance, buzzed with excitement and curiosity. Some came just to gawk at the famous swords; others, more dangerous, with greed in their eyes, hoping to make a fortune by stealing it.
But those who truly understood what Shirayuki represented knew better. This blade was more than just steel and legend—it was the culmination of centuries of sword-making mastery, an unparalleled weapon that defied history itself.
The sword enthusiast glanced at the bodies now being cleared from the shop's entrance. Each one had thought they could take Shirayuki by force, and each one had paid with their life.
A weapon of such power wasn't something that could be owned by just anyone. It demanded respect—earned only by those worthy of wielding it.
"Sir...! Do we act? That samurai may be strong, but with our team, we can keep him busy while we grab the blades," whispered a young Cipher Pol agent, his eyes glinting with a dangerous mix of arrogance and ambition.
He was disguised as a civilian, standing amidst the crowded street in Loguetown, where the display of the legendary swords had captivated everyone. The atmosphere was tense, and whispers of theft and power rippled through the throng of onlookers.
The Cipher Pol leader, a seasoned operative, stood quietly, his face grim. Orders had come from high up—capture the Supreme Grade blades, no matter the cost. The World Government saw the weapons as a potential asset, and with the anniversary of Roger's execution drawing attention, they had sent agents to the area in hopes of seizing any opportunity.
Many operatives were already stationed in nearby waters, hunting for remnants of Roger's legacy. And now, they had their eyes on the prize in this very shop.
Even the Marines stationed in Loguetown had been approached, with orders to "safeguard" the weapon under the guise of maintaining public order. But the Commodore in charge had outright refused.
He wasn't a fool. He knew exactly who the blade belonged to—Donquixote Rosinante, the young man whispered to be a shadow emperor of the seas. Rosinante wasn't here to cause trouble, but the Commodore understood that provoking him would turn Loguetown into a graveyard. The man would slaughter every Marine in the area without hesitation if they dared cross him.
The Cipher Pol agents, however, were given no such reprieve. The World Government wanted the blade and had mobilized their operatives for what was essentially a suicide mission.
"We wouldn't make it three steps before we lose our heads," the team leader muttered under his breath. He had been around long enough to sense danger, and right now, it felt like a predator was watching them, waiting for them to make a move.
The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. The killer intent was suffocating, subtle but ever-present. Someone—no, something—was toying with them, daring them to act.
"Sir…?" the young agent repeated, eyes burning with the naive fervor of the newly indoctrinated.
"We have orders. If the World Government demands something, the citizens are obligated to hand it over. And if it belongs to pirates, even better. We'll be doing justice."
The leader turned slowly, casting a cold gaze at the agent. This one was new, too new. Too green to understand the gravity of the situation they were in. The fire in his eyes, born from government brainwashing, would only get him killed. The Cipher Pol leader had seen it before—the kind of blind loyalty that made men think they could take on the world and come out alive.
"Why don't you go ahead then," the leader said, a dry chuckle escaping his lips. "Maybe the old man will just hand the blade over to the government with a smile."
To his horror, the young agent didn't recognize the sarcasm. He straightened up, as if given an order, and started moving toward the shop, pushing aside civilians as he made his way through the crowd.
The leader cursed under his breath. "Fool."
Just as he was about to step forward to stop the rookie from sealing his own fate, a cold whisper brushed against his ear like a blade. "You will stay right where you are if you value your life."
The voice was low, quiet, but it carried the weight of absolute death. The Cipher Pol leader froze, every muscle locking in place. His observation Haki had been active the entire time, but he hadn't sensed anyone approaching. Now, someone was standing shoulder to shoulder with him, close enough to kill him a dozen times over, and he hadn't even realized it.
His blood ran cold. He didn't need to turn his head to know who it was. The air itself seemed to grow heavier, darker. There was only one person in Loguetown who could exude this kind of killing intent so effortlessly.
Donquixote Rosinante.
The name alone was enough to make most men tremble, and now, standing next to him, the Cipher Pol leader could feel the weight of the stories—the whispers of Rosinante being the "Shadow Emperor." The tales of his power, his ruthless nature, were not exaggerations, not wild rumors inflated by fear. They were real. And the leader knew, without a doubt, that this was no situation they could win.
Meanwhile, the young agent, oblivious to the doom awaiting him, marched toward the shop, full of the belief that the might of the World Government could bend anyone to their will.
"Hey, you!" the rookie shouted as he reached the front of the crowd, pointing at Ipponmatsu, who was making sure that people didn't cut the line.
"Under the authority of the World Government, I demand you surrender the blades for confiscation!"
The crowd fell silent, shocked by the audacity of the young agent. Ipponmatsu's face paled, but it wasn't the agent that scared him—it was the men protecting the shop, and more importantly, the monster lurking in the shadows.
The rookie didn't get far.
A low hum cut through the air, and in an instant, the young agent collapsed, his body falling limp as blood sprayed from a precise cut across his throat. The crowd gasped, recoiling in horror.
Miyamoto, the samurai guarding the shop, hadn't even moved from his position, his sword already sheathed after the single stroke.
The Cipher Pol leader didn't dare move. His rookie's body lay crumpled, lifeless, in the middle of the street. And next to him, the quiet, cold presence of Rosinante lingered like death itself.
Meanwhile, inside the shop, the tension was palpable as a young couple stood near the back, the woman clutching a toddler no older than two. Her eyes were wide with fear as she tugged at her husband's sleeve, desperately trying to pull him back.
"Takeshi...!" she whispered urgently, her voice trembling. "Please, let it go! These aren't the kind of people we can mess with!"
Her husband, Takeshi, was a sword enthusiast with a strong sense of justice, and the display of legendary weapons—the Meito, no less—had sparked a fire inside him that she was struggling to extinguish.
He wasn't an impulsive man by nature, but something about seeing those blades in the hands of criminals, pirates no less, stirred something deep within him. His brow furrowed, and his hands tightened into fists.
"How can I just stand by and watch?" Takeshi muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible but laced with determination.
"These criminals are flaunting these legendary blades as if they're toys. Do they even understand what a sword signifies? The honor, the tradition…? It's an insult."
The small crowd inside the shop, drawn by the allure of the three Grade Meito displayed under one roof, had begun to sense the brewing confrontation. A few of them, recognizing the signs, subtly edged away from Takeshi, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.
They had already seen too many fools meet their end at the hands of the shop's protector—Miyamoto, the samurai who guarded the blades with lethal precision. Blood had stained the stone streets outside the shop more times than they cared to count in the past few days.
Takeshi's wife, near tears, gripped his arm tighter, her voice breaking. "Takeshi, please! You promised me—no trouble! For Tashigi's sake, don't do this!"
The mention of their daughter made him pause, his gaze softening as he looked down at the little girl cradled in her mother's arms. He reached out to caress Tashigi's hair gently, the child giggling innocently, unaware of the growing tension around her.
But then, the fire returned to his eyes. "I have to do this—for her," Takeshi said, his voice firm but quiet, as if trying to justify it to himself more than anyone else. "I can't let her think her father was a coward. That I stood by and did nothing while these unworthy criminals desecrate these blades.
My dream... it's always been to restore the Meito to those who truly understand their worth. And I'm confident I can bring down that man." His gaze flickered to Miyamoto, who sat near the entrance, calm and unbothered by the rising tension in the store, as if the world around him didn't concern him in the slightest.
The samurai hadn't so much as blinked, but the reputation of his blade, Benihime, and his effortless kills had already spread through Loguetown. Even with that knowledge, Takeshi's righteous stubbornness outweighed his fear. He was skilled, after all. He had trained for years and earned recognition for his swordsmanship. Surely, he could stand against this man.
A bystander, an older man with a weathered face, stepped forward, hoping to appeal to Takeshi's reason. "Son, listen to your wife. I've seen what happens here. I've seen men like you—good men, brave men—cut down like nothing. That man," he pointed at Miyamoto, "is not someone you want to cross. Not for a dream. Not for anything."
Another voice chimed in from the back of the room, a younger man, shaking his head. "You think you're doing the right thing, but there's no honor in dying for something so reckless. These aren't just criminals; they're monsters. People who will kill without a second thought."
But Takeshi's expression remained resolute, his jaw clenched tight. He heard their words, but his mind was made up. He turned back to his wife, who was now openly crying, her voice desperate.
"Please...Takeshi, I'm begging you. Don't throw your life away. Don't leave me to raise our daughter alone. Tashigi needs you. I need you," she pleaded, her voice cracking with emotion. She gripped his sleeve with both hands now, refusing to let go, even as she felt his resolve harden.
Takeshi gently pried her fingers from his arm, his touch soft but his decision final. "I'm sorry, love. But if I walk away now, what kind of example will I set for her? I want her to know that sometimes... sometimes you have to fight for what's right, even if it's dangerous."
A few people in the crowd murmured in disbelief, but most looked away, already resigned to what they knew was about to happen. Takeshi stepped forward, squaring his shoulders, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.
"Don't do it!" a final voice from the crowd urged, but Takeshi ignored it, his eyes now locked on Miyamoto, who sat still, his sword resting at his side.
The air grew thick with anticipation, and the room seemed to hold its breath as Takeshi took his first step toward the samurai.
Miyamoto, still seated, finally opened his eyes, his gaze meeting Takeshi's. There was no malice there, no anger—just a calm, detached observation, as if he were watching a leaf fall from a tree.
In that moment, Takeshi felt a chill creep down his spine, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he tried to shake off. His grip tightened on his sword, but his hands, once steady, now trembled slightly.
Takeshi hesitated for just a moment, doubt creeping into his mind. But the shame of backing down, of allowing fear to cloud his sense of righteousness, burned hotter than the danger that stood before him.
He shot a glance at Miyamoto, who sat calmly by the entrance, and then turned toward the old man, the owner of the armor shop. His voice rang out louder than before, shaking off the fear that had momentarily gripped him.
"This is the legendary Shusui... It's the treasure of Wano!" The old man's voice echoed in the shop as he continued explaining the history and significance of the blade to a group of children gathered around the display case.
"Sir!" Takeshi called out, his tone sharper now, cutting through the old man's lesson. The children went silent, their wide-eyed gazes turning toward him. The entire store fell into a hush, and all eyes focused on the young man who dared interrupt.
The old man slowly turned to Takeshi, his gaze weary but curious, as if he had seen this kind of thing before. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing, allowing Takeshi to speak his mind.
Takeshi clenched his fists, his voice trembling but resolute. "What you're doing is wrong. How can you, of all people, someone who clearly understands the significance of these legendary blades, allow them to fall into the hands of criminals? How can you let such unworthy scum wield sacred treasures like these?"
For a moment, the shop remained still, as if holding its breath. The old man simply looked at him, his expression unreadable, as if measuring the weight of Takeshi's words. But before he could respond, a cold, sharp voice cut through the air like a blade.
"Do you think you are worthy?"
Miyamoto's voice held an edge that made the air in the shop grow heavy. The crowd parted instinctively, giving the samurai a wide berth as he stepped toward the display case of Shusui. His gaze, cold and unflinching, locked onto Takeshi like a predator sizing up its prey. There was no anger in his tone, only a calm, deadly challenge.
Takeshi felt the weight of that stare but refused to back down. His pride, his sense of righteousness, flared even brighter.
"Do you think pirate scum like you are worthy of wielding the Meito?" His words were fierce, but his voice wavered slightly, the realization that he was crossing a dangerous line starting to creep in.
Miyamoto's eyes never left him, hard and unblinking, as if daring Takeshi to prove his claim. With a slow, deliberate motion, the samurai tilted his head toward the door and made a small gesture with his hand, beckoning him outside.
"If you believe you're worthy, then prove it. But not here. Cleaning the blood again inside the shop would be troublesome. Step outside."
The quiet, almost casual way Miyamoto spoke sent a chill through the room. The crowd shifted nervously, knowing what was about to happen, some of them already averting their eyes from the inevitable outcome. Takeshi's wife clutched their daughter tighter, her face pale with fear.
"Takeshi... please, for our daughter's sake... don't do this," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. She grabbed at his arm, pulling him back, her voice breaking. "You promised me, remember? You promised no trouble. Don't throw your life away for this."
But Takeshi's pride blinded him to the truth that everyone else could see. His sense of justice, his belief that he was in the right, overwhelmed his judgment. In East Blue, tales of the Grand Line and the New World were distant and often distorted, stories of monsters and legends that seemed like fantasies. Takeshi, like many from the Blues, had no real understanding of the true scale of danger he was facing.
"I can't walk away from this," Takeshi muttered, shaking off his wife's grip. He placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, his gaze now locked on Miyamoto, who had already stepped outside, waiting.
Inside the shop, the tension was palpable. A young man standing near the back of the room nudged his friend, eyes wide with disbelief. He was holding a thick stack of bounty posters, his fingers flipping through them anxiously.
"Is this guy crazy?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the silence. "He's practically asking for death." His fingers finally stopped on a particular poster, and he fished it out, staring at it in stunned silence.
The poster displayed a fierce, almost serene portrait of Miyamoto Uzuki, the same man who had just challenged Takeshi to step outside. Beneath the image, the bounty amount was clear as day, sending a wave of disbelief through the young man.
[WANTED]
[UZUKI MIYAMOTO]
[DEAD OR ALIVE]
[919,567,000 BERRY]
He showed it to his friend, who recoiled in shock. "Over nine hundred million...!? That guy's insane if he thinks he has a chance." They both looked toward the door where Takeshi had just exited, shaking their heads, already knowing how this was going to end.
Outside, the crowd gathered, forming a loose circle around Miyamoto and Takeshi. The sun cast long shadows, and the air seemed to thicken with the weight of what was about to happen. Takeshi's wife stood just inside the doorway, her hands covering her mouth as tears streamed down her face.
Miyamoto stood still, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, Benihime. His eyes never left Takeshi, who was now standing a few paces away, drawing his blade with shaky hands.
"I'll show you..." Takeshi muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "I'll show you that not all men are afraid to fight for what's right."
Miyamoto remained calm, his posture relaxed, as if he had already decided the outcome. The difference in their skill, in their very presence, was staggering. But Takeshi, blinded by his pride, couldn't see it.
And then, in a flash of steel and a blur of motion, it was over.
Takeshi stood frozen, his sword still raised, but now empty of strength. A single, deadly arc had undone him—blood spurted from the deep gash that ran diagonally across his chest.
His eyes widened in shock as his severed sword arm flew through the air, tumbling lifelessly before hitting the ground with a dull thud. The disbelief in his gaze lingered for only a moment longer, as his body, drained of all fight, crumpled to the earth beneath him.
Miyamoto hadn't even drawn his blade fully. It was already back in its sheath, a soft click the only sound that marked the end of the duel.
The crowd remained silent, watching as Takeshi's wife ran to his side with the little girl in her arms, sobbing uncontrollably. She cradled him in her arms, pleading for him to stay with her, but the light in his eyes was already fading.
Miyamoto, without a word or a glance back, turned and walked away, leaving behind nothing but silence, a broken man, and the weight of a dream shattered by the harsh reality of the world he never truly understood.
*****
Dear Readers,
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story! Your support truly means everything to me, and I appreciate every single one of you who has joined me on this journey. I'm excited to share that for every 500 power stones I receive (weekly), I'll be posting an extra chapter as a token of my gratitude. (Each additional review will help my story reach further.)
Additionally, if you'd like to dive deeper into the world I've created, I invite you to join my Patreon page, where you can access over 65 plus additional chapters and more exclusive content. Your support not only helps me continue writing but also motivates me to create even better stories for you all. (I truly appreciate any support that I can get through Patreon.)
Thank you once again for your encouragement and enthusiasm. Happy reading, and I can't wait to share more with you!
With heartfelt thanks,
[Silent_stiele]
Patreon : www.patreon.com/Silent_stiele