One Piece : Brotherhood

Kano country, West Blue

"Boom…!"

The ground splintered, sending a violent shockwave across the battlefield as Don Chinjao, pride of the Happo Navy, was flung into the air like a ragdoll.

The thunderous crash that followed seemed to echo the shattering of the very pride that once radiated from the man—a pride built on decades of battle and ruthless conquests. Now, it was being obliterated by a boy no older than ten.

Chinjao gasped, blood pooling in his mouth as he struggled to regain his footing. His body trembled beneath the weight of disbelief, drenched in crimson, his once-mighty form battered beyond recognition. His breaths were ragged, his armor of invincibility stripped away by the merciless assault of this monstrous child.

The boy—no, the force of nature before him—was Rob Lucci, a prodigy whose presence on the battlefield defied all logic. Despite his youthful appearance, Lucci was a demon in combat. His body rippled with unnatural power, his crimson scales glowing like embers under the moonlight. His eyes, cold and calculating, showed no emotion, no mercy.

Chinjao, groaning amidst the debris, could hardly fathom the reality of the situation. A mere ten-year-old, handling him like this? There was no explanation that didn't terrify him. In his mind, there was only one conclusion: the kid must've consumed a Mythical Zoan Devil Fruit, one of legendary power, perhaps one of the strongest ever known. There was simply no other way that this child could withstand his blows, shrugging them off as if they were nothing.

"How...?" Chinjao muttered through bloodied lips, his voice hoarse. "How is this happening?"

Lucci was on him again in a flash, a black blur that tore through the air with deadly precision.

"Busoshoku Koka!" Lucci's voice rang out, young yet commanding. His arm turned black with hardened Haki, a sheen so perfect it gleamed under the dim light. The sheer speed of his punch cracked the sound barrier, sending a deafening sonic boom across the battlefield.

The force of the blow landed squarely on Chinjao's face, the power behind it merciless. His skull rattled, his body hurled backward, carving out a trench in the earth as he skidded across the ground, leaving nothing but destruction in his wake.

Chinjao's entire body screamed in agony as he came to a stop, half-buried in the shattered earth. Was this truly happening? His mind raced. This was supposed to be a fight—a real battle. Yet, here he was, helpless, unable to land a single blow that mattered.

Every time he struck, Lucci either blocked with ease or let the attack wash over his body, his crimson scales absorbing the damage like a shield forged from nightmares. No matter how fierce Chinjao's Haki-infused fists were, they couldn't penetrate those scales.

Chinjao groaned, wiping blood from his mouth as he tried to rise once more, his legs shaking beneath him. No... He couldn't accept it. He was Don Chinjao, the man who once split continents with his strength, a terror in his prime.

But now, every ounce of his might, every furious punch, felt like a child's tantrum against an immovable force. He had faced many adversaries, but the horror that gnawed at him now was different. He was outclassed.

Desperation clawed at his chest as he gathered the last remnants of his strength, his arm trembling as it crackled with Haki once more. "Hasshoken...!"

With a roar of fury, Chinjao unleashed a furious barrage of blows, each punch imbued with the full power of his Hasshoken technique. His fists vibrated with destructive energy, sending shockwaves that tore through the air, but none of them touched their mark. Lucci's movements were fluid, almost mocking in their elegance as he weaved through the attacks with ease.

Then, with blinding speed, Lucci countered.

"BAM…!" A kick, as hard as steel, collided with Chinjao's gut. The force of it caved in his chest, sending blood splattering from his mouth as he doubled over in pain.

"CRACK…!" Another hit, this time to his side. Chinjao's ribs snapped like dry twigs, his body spinning from the impact.

"Crimson Meteor…!" Lucci's cold voice pierced the air as he reappeared in front of the broken man, his crimson-armored fist raised high.

The blow that followed was merciless—Lucci's fist, coated in blackened Haki, crashed down like a hammer of the gods, slamming into Chinjao's skull. The ground beneath them shattered under the sheer force of the attack, creating a deep crater that rippled outward, splitting the earth as if the heavens themselves had smote the battlefield.

On the far side of the battlefield, the chaos was evident as seasoned veterans and high-ranking Marines watched, their eyes fixed in disbelief on the scene unfolding before them. Chinjao—once a feared warrior with a bounty of over half a billion—was now being ruthlessly beaten by a mere child.

The shockwaves from each blow Lucci delivered sent tremors through the ground, and the experienced soldiers, both Marine and pirate alike, could only stare, mouths agape.

Many among them, hardened by years of combat, quickly arrived at the same conclusion: the boy had to have consumed a rare and powerful Devil Fruit, possibly one of the fabled Mythical Zoans.

But what left them even more shaken wasn't just the fruit—many had fought Devil Fruit users before—but the sheer talent this child possessed. His movements were far beyond his years, a lethal combination of Haki mastery and overwhelming physical power.

Even Vice Admiral Momonga, who had been familiar with young Rosinante under Garp's tutelage, couldn't help but compare. Rosinante, in his youth, was monstrously powerful, but this... this was something else entirely. This was another monster in the making.

"Rosinante wasn't anywhere near this terrifying when he was that young," Momonga thought, sweat dripping down his brow as he parried a rogue attack from the battlefield.

And it wasn't just Lucci. The realization that another child—Smoker, the boy with the Smoke-Logia—had earlier held his ground against the formidable Chinjao filled them all with dread.

Smoker had lost, but even in his defeat, there was the undeniable potential for him to become a powerhouse in the years to come. Given a decade or two, and these two children could reshape the entire world.

The Donquixote Pirates, a crew that already struck fear into the hearts of the Marines, had now revealed the terrifying depth of their strength. The Whitebeard Pirates and even the Beast Pirates who now held the status of Emperor crews, were dangerous, but their threat was well documented.

The Donquixote Pirates, however, were an enigma. Their strength, their network, their influence—all of it shrouded in mystery, making them the most dangerous crew on the seas. And now, with such young monsters emerging from their ranks, that danger was only magnified.

"This can't be allowed to continue," Vice Admiral Onigumo snarled, his frustration bleeding into his voice as he swung his blade, coated in Armament Haki, to parry an incoming strike from the samurai Miyamoto.

"If those kids are allowed to grow, the balance of power in the world will be shattered."

He wasn't alone in his thoughts. The battlefield was thick with the murderous intent of the Marines, all aimed squarely at Lucci and Smoker. But their hands were tied. Miyamoto, the samurai who fought with a calm, deadly precision, was holding them all at bay. His blade flashed through the air like lightning, keeping five Vice Admirals, two CP0 agents, and several more elite Marines locked in a desperate struggle just to defend themselves.

Despite the combined strength of these battle-hardened officers, Miyamoto seemed unfazed, barely exerting himself as he effortlessly countered their attacks. Rosinante's Conqueror's Haki rolled over the battlefield like an oppressive storm, causing even veteran warriors to falter.

The sheer weight of it had already taken out most of the lower-ranked Marines, leaving their bodies littered across the battlefield, unconscious.

Vice Admiral Onigumo, gritting his teeth as he deflected another of Miyamoto's strikes, barked, "We need to get rid of those kids, now! Before they become something we can't handle."

But deep down, even he knew how unlikely that was. Smoker, though wounded and bruised, was already back on his feet, moving through the battlefield with renewed vigor. He wasn't at full strength, but the boy's will was unbreakable, his Haki growing sharper with every step he took. Meanwhile, Lucci continued his brutal dismantling of Chinjao, each strike more devastating than the last.

Miyamoto, sensing the mounting desperation in the Marines, smirked slightly. "You're wasting your time," he said, his voice low but carrying over the battlefield. "Even if you wanted to harm them, it wouldn't matter. As long as Rosinante is here, none of you could touch them."

That statement hung in the air like a death sentence.

The Marines knew it to be true. This wasn't just a battle anymore. It was a showcase, a proving ground for the next generation of monsters. Rosinante had orchestrated this, allowing the children to gain real battlefield experience, to grow through the fire of combat.

And with every passing second, with every clash, they were getting stronger, their Haki sharpening, their instincts growing more lethal.

Momonga, breathing heavily, looked around at his comrades. Vice Admiral Onigumo, CP0 agents, the elite of the elite, and yet here they were, on the back foot against a single samurai. And the worst part was they hadn't even faced Rosinante yet. Admiral Agan was trying her utmost to keep him check but was failing miserably.

The battlefield was drenched in chaos, the air thick with dust, smoke, and the oppressive weight of Rosinante's immense Conqueror's Haki. As the two CP0 agents and their Marine allies fought desperately against the samurai Miyamoto, they could feel their strength draining, not from physical exhaustion, but from the sheer force of will bearing down on them.

They were elite agents, trained under the brutal Cipher Pol regime, conditioned to withstand fear and pain—but Rosinante's Haki was unlike anything they had ever faced.

It was suffocating.

Each time they tried to mount an attack, their bodies hesitated, their strikes faltering. Rosinante's pressure wasn't just a wave crashing over them—it was a crushing tide that threatened to drown them.

Under normal circumstances, they would be on par with pseudo-Admirals in strength, but here, amidst the Haki suppression, they barely had half of that power left. If not for their iron-willed discipline, forged through years of merciless training, they would have already collapsed like the weaker soldiers littering the battlefield.

But there was another anomaly. Miyamoto, the samurai standing before them, was unaffected by the oppressive aura. He moved with deadly precision, every swing of his katana a flash of brilliance, cutting through the air with lethal intent.

Normally, even allies would feel some of the strain from such overwhelming Haki, but Rosinante's mastery over it was so absolute that he seemed to spare Miyamoto from its influence. Such control was unheard of.

One of the CP0 agents, blood trickling down his face from the effort of resisting, turned to his colleague, and with a subtle gesture, they made a decision. A desperate gambit.

Miyamoto's katana glinted in the fading light as he lunged forward, aiming to pierce through his opponents like he had done countless times before. But instead of dodging, the CP0 agent rushed forward, directly into the blade.

The katana pierced his chest, sinking deep, but the agent twisted his body, angling the wound in such a way that it wasn't immediately fatal.

The move caught Miyamoto off guard.

For a split second, his focus wavered. The other CP0 agent and two Marine Vice Admirals—seized the opportunity and slipped past Miyamoto's line of defense. They didn't have time to exchange words, only a shared understanding: kill the children.

Rosinante's young prodigies, Smoker and Lucci, were their true targets. If they couldn't strike down Lucci—who was decimating Chinjao—then Smoker, already worn from battle, would be easier prey. With Miyamoto momentarily occupied, they surged forward, their forms blurring as they used Soru, the rokushiki movement technique, to close the distance.

Blood spilled from the mouth of the impaled CP0 agent, but he held firm, locking Miyamoto in place. Vice Admirals Momonga, Onigumo, and Doberman surrounded the samurai, their eyes cold, determined. "Hold him back," Onigumo growled, gripping his sword tighter. "We only need a few seconds."

It was enough.

They moved like lightning, the gap between them and Smoker closing rapidly. The boy was still recovering, barely on his feet, vulnerable. A flash of murderous intent flickered in their eyes as they prepared to strike him down—

But then, before they could react, a streak of black light cut through the air.

"Sling—"

The piercing scream of steel slicing through the wind echoed across the battlefield. In an instant, three heads flew into the air. The CP0 agent and the two Vice Admirals barely had time to register what had happened before their bodies stumbled before them, headless.

Blood sprayed in thick arcs as the decapitated corpses stumbled forward, propelled by the momentum of their last steps, before crumpling to the ground with heavy thuds.

It was so sudden, so violent, that even the air seemed to pause in shock.

For a second or two, their bodies kept running—headless, driven by pure inertia—before collapsing in lifeless heaps. Dust settled over the scene, mixing with the blood-soaked earth, and an eerie silence fell over that part of the battlefield.

Miyamoto, still engaged with the CP0 agent, glanced over his shoulder, a smirk playing on his lips. His eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "Told you so…" he mocked, his voice dripping with arrogance as he ripped out the Katana, tearing through the CP0 agent's chest, who was momentarily distracted.

The agent still recovering from the earlier shock of that blade strike looked on in horror, blood gushing from his chest. His plan, his final act of desperation, had been shattered in an instant. Now, he too would fall.

The entire battlefield seemed to freeze, as if the sheer brutality of what had just transpired had stunned everyone into silence. The Marines, the pirates, the CP agents, even the seasoned Vice Admirals—it was clear they had severely underestimated the monsters they were facing.

Lucci, who had barely even glanced in the direction of the skirmish, was still systematically dismantling Chinjao. Each blow he landed reverberated with terrifying force, and now, seeing the utter annihilation of his pursuers, Chinjao's already bruised and bloodied face drained of what little color remained. He could scarcely believe what he had just witnessed.

Three high-ranking officers—slain in an instant.

This was beyond comprehension. The reality of the situation finally began to sink in for Chinjao: he wasn't just losing to a talented child. He was facing a nightmare—an unstoppable force, part of a crew that was far more dangerous than he had ever imagined.

Miyamoto, now free from the CP0 agent's hold, swung his katana, flicking the blood from its edge. He looked down at the dying agent, whose life was fading fast, and without a word, ended him with a swift slash.

The battlefield was once again his.

All around him, the remaining Marines could feel it—the suffocating dread that gnawed at the edges of their minds. This wasn't just a battle anymore. It was a slaughter, a demonstration of overwhelming dominance. And there was a demon called Rosinante hovering over them.

******

Dressrosa, New World

Queen Otohime stood at the edge of Coral Port, her breath caught in her throat as tears welled up in her eyes. Was this really possible? She had always dreamed of a world where fishmen and humans lived together in harmony, but to finally see it with her own eyes—here, in the bustling heart of Dressrosa—was overwhelming. The vibrant port town stretched out before her, alive with activity and bathed in the golden glow of the afternoon sun.

Fishmen and merfolk walked openly among humans, their faces filled with joy as they moved about their daily routines. Children laughed and played together in the streets, their scales gleaming under the sunlight, while humans watched over them, exchanging friendly words.

Café terraces were full, not just with locals but with tourists from all over the world. They enjoyed steaming cups of coffee and plates of freshly caught seafood, while fishmen baristas and waiters darted between tables, serving with smiles as warm as the sun itself.

Otohime's heart swelled as she watched the scene unfold. It wasn't just the peaceful coexistence that took her by surprise—it was the depth of the harmony. It felt natural, not forced. Humans and fishmen worked side by side, their interactions seamless and without hesitation. It was as if the prejudices that plagued the world outside had simply vanished within Coral Port's boundaries.

"More than 80% of the establishments here are managed by fishmen and merfolk," Shakuyaku, the former Empress of the Kuja Pirates, said casually, her voice smooth as she exhaled a puff of smoke from the cigarette she held.

"The rest are run by humans, but the Donquixote family has the final say on any matters concerning the town." She offered another cigarette to Senor Pink, who politely declined, though Arnold—a bull shark fishman standing nearby—grinned widely, taking the cigarette with a comically delicate touch and lighting it.

"Ahh," Arnold sighed, exhaling the smoke, his massive body relaxing as the thin cigarette seemed almost ridiculous in his large hand. The sight made Queen Otohime laugh lightly, her earlier emotions momentarily tempered by the humor of the moment.

The group moved through the town, led by Senor Pink, who guided Queen Otohime through the heart of Coral Port. Lavish cafés and bars lined the cobbled streets, their colorful awnings fluttering in the breeze. Above them, banners displaying symbols of both the Donquixote family and the Ryugu Kingdom were interwoven, a testament to the alliance that had begun to form.

Tourists—humans, merfolk, and fishmen alike—wandered the streets, marveling at the sights. The scent of freshly baked bread mixed with the salt of the sea, and the sound of distant waves crashing against the shore added to the atmosphere of calm.

It wasn't chaotic, despite the seemingly endless stream of visitors. Everyone seemed to know their place, moving with a sense of purpose and order. Part of this was due to the unspoken understanding of Dressrosa's strict laws.

Trouble, here, was dealt with swiftly, and everyone knew how harshly the Donquixote family punished those who sought to disturb the peace. But it was more than that—the people, both fishmen and humans, respected one another.

"Look at them," Queen Otohime whispered, her voice full of wonder. "They're so... free."

Even the Ryugu Kingdom's skeptical minister, who had originally joined the entourage with the intent of discrediting the alliance with the Donquixote family, was struck speechless. His resolve to argue against the idea of developing Punk Hazard as a home for fishmen seemed to evaporate as he witnessed the scene before him.

How could he argue against this? This town—this utopia—was a testament to what could be achieved with mutual respect and trust.

But the true genius of the town's order lay beneath the surface. The Tontatta tribe, the tiny but incredibly diligent race of Dressrosa, worked in secret. They moved unseen through the streets, keeping a watchful eye on everything that transpired.

Acting as the eyes and ears of the Donquixote family, the Tontatta kept careful track of incidents, ensuring that peace was maintained without the need for overt intervention.

And then there was Shyarly, the young mermaid who had grown up under Rosinante's protection. Her true powers unknown to most of the world, she too played a key role; her devil fruit powers made it so that she could monitor everything unnoticed as she observed the town's happenings, feeding information back to the Donquixote family with the same effortless grace as the Tontatta. Few even realized that they were being monitored, but that subtle vigilance allowed the town to thrive in a way no other place could.

Senor Pink, now standing beside Queen Otohime, gestured toward the horizon, where the town spilled out into the harbor. "Coral Port isn't just a place—it's a symbol," he said, his voice carrying an undercurrent of pride. "It shows what can happen when the right people make the right choices."

Otohime nodded, still overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. "This is more than I ever dreamed," she admitted, tears brimming once again. Her dreams of unity between fishmen and humans felt closer than ever.

"Well," Shakuyaku chuckled, her cigarette now just a smoldering stub, "dreams don't come true on their own, Queen Otohime. But when you've got the right people watching over them," she nodded toward the unseen Tontatta, "sometimes those dreams can be made real."

Otohime smiled through her tears. For the first time, the future of her people—above the sea—felt possible. And here, in Dressrosa's Coral Port, that dream was already alive.

*****

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