The cave loomed before Ivar like the gaping maw of some ancient beast, its jagged edges outlined by the dim light of his lantern he made from some wood and leaves. The air that greeted him was cold and damp, carrying a metallic tang that spoke of centuries of undisturbed silence. He stepped inside, boots crunching against loose gravel, each step echoing faintly in the distance.
The walls were tight at first, forcing him to hunch slightly as he moved. Thin rivulets of water trailed down the smooth rock, glinting in the flickering light. The deeper he went, the more deliberate the space began to feel. The jagged walls gave way to smoother surfaces, their natural imperfections replaced with patterns carved by unseen hands. Symbols lined the passage, faint and worn with age, but even their faded forms exuded a strange power.
His breath fogged in the stale air as he descended further. The passage opened abruptly into a vast chamber, the sudden expanse swallowing the light of his lantern. He paused, holding it higher, and the room slowly came into view.
A towering monolith dominated the center—a stone of deep indigo that seemed to drink in the light rather than reflect it. Strange symbols carved into its surface glowed faintly, their shapes too complex and alien for any ordinary script.
A Poneglyph.
Ivar's breath caught as he approached. He didn't need to know the meaning of the carvings to understand their significance. He'd seen one before, years ago. Not in some grand treasure vault or forgotten ruin, but during one of his father's lessons.
The memory was sharp and cold. He'd been younger then, barely able to stand the weight of the sword his father had thrust into his hands. The Poneglyph had stood behind his father like a sentinel, silent and unyielding. To Ivar, it had seemed like a piece of the world itself.
His father's words hadn't been poetic or awestruck; they'd been harsh, calculating. A Poneglyph wasn't a relic to be admired or protected—it was a means to power, a tool that could shift the balance of the seas. Everything in his father's world was like that. Weapons, men, even family—all tools to be sharpened or discarded.
The memory twisted, pulling him deeper into the past. He could almost hear the crack of his father's voice cutting through the air, feel the weight of his expectations pressing down like an iron chain. But what came next—the blood, the screams, the lifeless body of his little sister—made his chest tighten. His hand twitched, clenching into a fist as he forced the memory back into the darkness where it belonged.
He turned away from the Poneglyph, his gaze settling on a smaller pedestal near the far edge of the chamber. Unlike the monolith, this wasn't made to endure the ages. The dark stone was chipped and worn, yet it still held something of importance. Sitting atop it, bathed in the dim glow of the lantern, was a strange fruit.
Its skin was dark, almost black, with swirling patterns etched into its surface like spiraling currents. It seemed alive, the patterns shifting slightly under the flickering light.
Ivar stepped closer, his heart pounding.
The sight of the fruit dredged up more lessons from his father, unbidden and unwanted. Devil Fruits—tools, like everything else, but tools of immense power. Their rarity and danger made them both a prize and a curse. To eat one was to be forever changed, and to risk drowning for the rest of your life.
But his father had never feared curses, and neither did he.
Ivar picked up the fruit, its cool skin strange against his fingers. For a moment, he hesitated. He knew the cost, but what was it compared to the power it promised? Power wasn't given—it was taken, and he had no intention of leaving this cave empty-handed.
He bit into it.
The taste hit him like a wave of decay, bitter and foul, as though the fruit itself fought against being consumed. He gagged but forced himself to swallow, his throat burning as the flesh slid down. He tossed the remainder aside, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
The change was immediate.
A searing heat ignited in his chest, spreading outward in violent waves. It burned through his veins, setting his nerves alight. He staggered, dropping the lantern as he clutched at his chest. The light flickered wildly, casting erratic shadows across the walls.
The pain grew worse, pulling him to his knees. He tore at his shirt, gasping for air as his skin seemed to writhe under the pressure. Then he saw it—a dark shape spreading across his chest like ink spilled onto paper.
It took form slowly, deliberate and unrelenting. A hydra's head, its coiled neck and piercing eyes etched into his skin. The pain began to ebb, replaced by something far more profound. Power.
It coursed through him like a storm, wild and unrestrained. He could feel his senses sharpening, the faintest sounds in the chamber now crystal clear. The slow drip of water, the soft creak of his leather boots—all of it came into focus with startling clarity.
He gritted his teeth, pushing himself to his feet. Testing the surge of energy, he drove his fist into the nearest wall. The impact sent a crack spiderwebbing across the stone, the vibrations rippling through the chamber.
He stared at his hand, flexing his fingers. The hydra tattoo pulsed faintly before dimming, the power retreating but never disappearing. It lingered beneath his skin, coiled and waiting.
The lantern's light steadied, and he adjusted his coat, his smirk returning.
The Poneglyph and pedestal were relics of the past, but what he'd taken from this place was something new, something alive. His father had spent a lifetime turning him into a weapon. Now, for the first time, Ivar felt like the weapon had been forged entirely in his own hands.
With a final glance at the chamber, he turned and strode toward the exit. The shadows stretched long behind him, but he didn't look back. His future didn't lie in the past—or in his father's teachings.
No, this power was his alone.
And the world would tremble for it.