Emerald Isles, Grand Line
Isla Paradiso — a name once whispered by navigators like a blessing. Nestled in the calmer stretch of the first half of the Grand Line, it was a jewel of untouched beauty—white sand beaches that shimmered under a golden sun, dense groves of emerald palms swaying in the ocean breeze, and waterfalls that spilled from lush cliffs like veins of crystal into turquoise lagoons.
The island was sparsely populated, home to a peaceful fishing community of just under a hundred thousand souls. They lived quiet, simple lives—offering prayers to the sea and bartering fish for rice and rum. At a glance, it was paradise. But beneath the idyllic veneer, something darker thrived.
Perched on the northern coast was a Marine outpost, constructed of dark stone and steel, an ugly scar on the face of Eden. The fort overlooked the coast like a beast guarding its hoard. Over a thousand Marines were stationed here, supposedly to "protect" the trade routes that intersected around the island. In truth, they operated more like a private cartel, exacting tolls from every ship that passed—merchants, fishermen, even supply vessels bound for other islands. Refusal meant fines. Resistance meant destruction.
And now, something rare—something priceless—had fallen into their hands.
Inside the fortress, the air was thick with anticipation. A secluded chamber in the upper quarters had been sealed off, guarded by two gruff Marines in their uniform. At the center of the room, resting atop a velvet-lined chest, sat a peculiar fruit—a swirling orb of deep violet with golden spirals dancing across its skin. A Devil Fruit. Its power unknown. Its value? Immeasurable.
Within the captain's office, a Marine ensign, barely out of training, stood near the door, shifting nervously. "Captain... shouldn't we report it to HQ?" he asked, his voice thin. "According to protocol, any discovered Devil Fruit must be—"
The Captain barked a laugh, cutting him off mid-sentence.
"Protocol?" he sneered, turning from the balcony where he'd been watching the sun dip toward the ocean. Captain Forlen Vosk, a large, burly man with a permanently smug expression and gold-threaded epaulets too extravagant for his rank, grinned down at the trembling Marine. "What do you think we'll get if we hand it over, huh? A commendation? A pat on the back?"
He turned to face the room, spreading his arms like a preacher in a house of gold. "This fruit is our ticket out of this rotting, thankless uniform. We can earn hundreds of millions by selling it. We'll live like kings while the HQ bureaucrats scratch their asses over forms and 'worthy candidates.'"
Around him, several of his most loyal subordinates laughed. Men who had long since traded ideals for greed. They weren't Marines—they were thugs in uniform, iron-badged bandits who operated with impunity under the name of justice.
The nervous Marine's face paled. "But the soldier who found it... he said it should be reported. He was clear—"
Captain Vosk's grin widened, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"Was clear," he said ominously. "He got insistent. Too insistent. Shame, really. Poor lad had a little too much to drink and decided to take a swim in the dead of night. A real tragedy." The room laughed again, this time quieter. Even among them, fear lingered beneath the mirth.
The Captain turned back toward the balcony, staring at the incoming tide. "I've already sent word through the channels. Didn't even need to reveal the exact type. Just a description of the pattern and aura was enough. The Underworld swarmed. We've got at least four major bidders en route. One even offered a shipload of gold. Another hinted they'd pay in rare weapons from Wano."
His voice dropped to a murmur, thick with greed. "And one… well, one offered a Logia-type fruit in exchange. Imagine that. A trade... of powers."
Vosk raised his glass of spiced rum and sipped. "Gentlemen, this is why we wear the uniform—not for justice, but for privilege. Out here, who's going to stop us? The HQ doesn't care what happens in these backwaters. We control the patrols. We control the taxes. Even the local governor dances to our tune."
He motioned toward the window where the island's harbor stretched out peacefully, small fishing boats rocking in the breeze. "This entire island is ours. Every toll, every tribute, every ship that passes. Do you really think some admiral is going to come knocking for a missing fruit?"
One of the trusted Marines, a smirking man with a scar down his face, nodded in agreement. "Even the World Nobles don't bother with islands like this. Not enough prestige. It's the perfect place to make a deal."
Just then, a signal flare burst into the sky—red and gold.
The Captain smiled. "Our first buyer's arrived."
The room shifted, excitement brewing like a stormcloud. Outside, a sleek black ship bearing no flag approached the harbor with eerie silence. From its deck, cloaked figures watched the island like vultures circling carrion.
"Open the vault. Let's bring out the prize," Captain Vosk ordered, his voice practically dripping with excitement. He turned to his two most trusted subordinates, men with eyes as cold as steel and loyalty rooted in greed rather than honor. "Go. Retrieve the Devil Fruit. I want it displayed on the pedestal for all the bidders to see. Let them witness what they're fighting for."
He chuckled darkly, sipping from a jeweled flask of rum. "Nothing stirs desperation like desire. Once they see it, they'll bleed each other dry to claim it."
One of the junior officers, a nervous ensign barely in his twenties, hesitated before speaking, voice uncertain. "Captain… isn't it dangerous to summon multiple buyers to the same deal? Most underworld transactions are done with a single party to avoid… hostilities. If one of them fails to secure the fruit, they might retaliate—"
Vosk cut him off with a booming laugh. "Let them. If they want the fruit, they'll need to earn it. Outbid, outplay, outlast." He stepped forward, towering over the ensign, a manic gleam in his eye.
"And if they don't like it… tough luck. Who do you think we are, boy?"
He threw out his arms as if proclaiming to the heavens. "We're Marines! This island, this outpost—it's ours. We command the sea here. Who would dare challenge our authority?"
But fate has a cruel sense of irony.
Before he could utter another word, the chamber doors burst open with a thunderous slam. A Marine soldier stumbled in, wild-eyed, face as pale as parchment, mouth trembling as if he'd seen death itself.
"C-Captain… the Devil Frui—" He never finished as broken steel and stone consumed him.
BOOOOM!!!
The fortress shook as a deafening explosion rocked the eastern wall, tearing through stone and steel like paper. Smoke and fire spewed inward as bricks crumbled and screams erupted from below. The shockwave sent several officers crashing to the ground. The windows shattered. Dust and debris filled the air.
Alarms blared as red warning lights began flashing through the halls.
"What in the hell is happening?!" Vosk roared, scrambling to his feet. Another BOOM! echoed through the skies, followed by a third and fourth. The eastern watchtower collapsed in a plume of smoke as cannonballs slammed into its base.
Outside, the tranquil paradise of Isla Paradiso was being turned into a battlefield. From the shoreline, hidden under the guise of legitimate buyer ships, an entire pirate fleet had revealed its true colors. Black flags with snarling skulls and serpents whipped in the salty wind. At least a dozen heavily armed ships had moved into position during the last few hours under the illusion of peaceful negotiations. But now—now the deception was over.
Now the raid had begun.
"Return fire! RETURN FIRE!" One of the lieutenants screamed into a den-den mushi as the command center fell into chaos.
"Where did they come from?! How did they breach the security perimeter?!" the ensign yelled, ducking as a cannonball shattered the outer parapet.
"They must've been here the whole time!" another Marine shouted, gripping a rifle. "The buyers… they were the fleet!"
Vosk's eyes widened in disbelief as he staggered to the window, the smoke parting just enough for him to see the horror below. Flames licked at the outer buildings. Barracks were collapsing under the barrage. Ships in the harbor were already burning. The once-pristine white sands were now stained black with soot and red with blood.
He slammed his fist into the railing. "That bastard! They planned this all along! They never intended to bid… they came to take!" A communication snail on the table crackled to life.
"Captain! They've landed! Armed pirates have breached the east dock and are advancing toward the main tower! We're being overrun—AAAGHH—"
The transmission cut to static. Vosk turned back to his men, face twisted with rage and panic. "Secure the Devil Fruit! If they get their hands on it—"
Another explosion ripped through the floor below, causing the building to lurch. The lights flickered. Screams echoed from the lower levels.
"Sir!" one of the subordinates yelled, dragging himself from the rubble. "The vault's been hit! The Devil Fruit—it's gone!"
Time stopped. Vosk stared at him, stunned. "What do you mean it's gone?"
"I-it was taken. In the confusion. Someone got there first—we don't know who—"
Rage twisted the captain's face into something monstrous.
"FIND IT!" he bellowed. "I want every Marine mobilized! No one leaves this island! Lock down the docks, shut every route—KILL ANYONE WHO TRIES TO ESCAPE!"
"Captain! We have wounded and fires across every level! The pirates are spreading into the city—we can't hold them off!"
"They're after the fruit!" Vosk growled. "But I'll burn this whole damn island to ash before I let some lawless filth walk away with our future!"
Outside, the chaos escalated as pirate crews, each from a different flag and faction, clashed with Marine forces. Some were former Warlord affiliates, others were mercenaries of the Underworld, and a few flew banners linked to infamous crime syndicates. Smoke blotted the sky as Isla Paradiso descended into hell.
And somewhere amid the carnage—hidden by blood, fire, and deception—the Devil Fruit had vanished. Was it in the hands of a rogue pirate? A turncoat Marine? Or something far worse?
Meanwhile, chaos reigned on the shores of Isla Paradiso. The pristine coastline—once quiet, dotted with swaying palm trees and golden sand—was now ablaze with cannon fire and smoke. Explosions sent geysers of water high into the sky as pirate ships, once anchored under the guise of legitimate buyers, unleashed their full arsenal. The serene paradise had become a warzone.
And at the heart of this onslaught stood their leader.
From the deck of the largest warship—its black sails etched with the symbol of a howling banshee wreathed in flame—a towering figure loomed over her crew. She stood more than six meters tall, her frame casting a monstrous silhouette against the burning horizon. Muscles like braided steel, cloaked in a tattered admiral's coat looted from some unfortunate foe, flexed as she stepped to the prow of her ship, boots cracking the wood beneath her sheer weight.
Her name was Captain Delara "Hellhowl" Vayne, one of the most feared pirate captains of the Underworld. With long, wild crimson hair that lashed in the wind like a banner of war, and eyes glowing with molten fury, she was a woman born of carnage, built for conquest.
The scar that ran down the left side of her face glimmered beneath the sun's blood-red hue—etched into her flesh by a former Warlord she'd slain in single combat.
Her voice rang out like thunder, shaking the planks beneath her feet and making even the wind hesitate. "I want that Devil Fruit. No matter what. Burn this island to the roots if you must—but bring it to me."
The ship trembled as her words rolled across the deck. Every pirate under her command—more than four hundred strong—froze and saluted in unison.
Her vice-captain, a slender, shadow-eyed man named Vorin, stepped forward. Though barely half her height, he moved with the calm assurance of someone long accustomed to the storm that was Delara Vayne.
He didn't flinch at her fury. Instead, he bowed slightly and adjusted the twin cutlasses on his back. "Understood, Captain. I'll lead the First Fang directly to the Marine base. If the fruit's on this island, it won't stay in their hands for long."
Vayne's lips curled into a feral grin. "Good. And if anyone gets in your way—Marine or pirate—"
Vorin finished her sentence with a cold smirk. "—we'll feed them to the sea."
He snapped his fingers.
Behind him, nearly a hundred of the most elite warriors in Vayne's crew began to move. Clad in mismatched outfits, armed with strange weapons looted from across the Grand Line, and radiating bloodlust, The First Fang surged toward the shore. They leapt from boats and grappling hooks, storming the docks like a tidal wave of destruction.
The moment their boots hit the sand, the carnage began. Marine defensive lines broke like glass beneath the first charge. Gunfire and cannon blasts exploded through the air, but the pirates pressed forward with inhuman ferocity. Some wielded devil fruit abilities—conjuring flame, shadow, or steel—while others simply tore through the enemy with brute strength and savage weapons.
The sound of clashing steel and screaming men echoed through the smoking jungle as the pirate vanguard carved their way inland toward the base. Back on the ship, Delara Vayne stood watching the devastation unfold, arms folded, her massive cutlass strapped across her back like a monument of war. She could already see the smoke rising from the outpost's central tower.
She grinned. "Let the other crews scramble and beg for their prize… they still think this is a negotiation." Her voice was low now, meant only for herself. "But we are pirates. And we're here to take what the world would never give."
"Gihahaha… You all call yourselves pirates these days?"
The voice descended like a winter gale—calm, mocking, yet laced with a disdain so sharp it could cut steel.
"Tsk, tsk… such unrefined creatures."
Every pirate aboard the flagship froze, their blood congealing in their veins. Even Delara Vayne—the monstrous woman towering over six meters tall, infamous for crushing ships with her bare hands—slowly turned her gaze upward. It wasn't the voice that drew her. It was something deeper.
Presence. Two figures stood atop the flagship's mast, unmoving, unshaken, like executioners awaiting the signal. They hadn't climbed. They hadn't flown. They had appeared—as if they had been there all along, hidden in the silence between heartbeats.
The first was a young man, no older than his early twenties. He wore no armor or finery, only a high-collared, dark coat with subtle gold lining. His eyes glowed faintly crimson, pupils sharp like a hawk's. Etched subtly over his chest was a sigil few had ever seen.
Saint Figarland Shamrock, a newly appointed God's Knight, and descendant of the Figarland lineage—a Celestial Dragon bloodline only whispered of behind gilded curtains. He was a prodigy, forged in silence, raised in shadow, and released into the world as a weapon of divine wrath.
He didn't address the pirates. He spoke over them, addressing the fellow God's knightt.
"All this… chaos, for a single fruit."
Beside him stood a stark contrast—a man with the gravity of age etched deep in every wrinkle. Saint Shepherd Sommers, a broad, elderly giant with shaggy body hair, a crucifix-shaped beard, and long hair bound into pigtails. His tunic was fastened by pale cords, adorned with medals of valor, and a single red rose pinned to his chest. His left arm bore an elaborate tattoo—old, ceremonial, and ominous in its meaning.
A veteran God's Knight. A man who had served Imu-sama since the days before the current age even began. He carried no sword nor rank insignia—he was the insignia. His mere presence declared authority.
"Pirates. Marines. Merchants. You all worship the same god," Sommers murmured lazily, his voice somehow carrying across the entire ship. "Greed."
Delara's eyes narrowed. She didn't recognize them. No bounties. No wanted posters. No known affiliations. The sigil on the younger one's chest? Foreign. And yet, something primal in her bones screamed—these were not men to be fought.
Not pirates. Not Warlords. Not Cipher Pol. Something else. Something worse.
"Who… are you?" she growled, her voice steady but her gut twisting in ways she hadn't felt since she first faced death on the Grand Line. But the strangers gave her no answer. Because to them—she didn't matter.
They weren't here for her. They weren't here to fight. They were here on divine mandate—to retrieve a Devil Fruit with no name, no origin, no entry in the Devil Fruit Encyclopedia. A God Fruit.
Not born of evolution… but of design. A relic of the lost world. A power once reserved for gods—now drifting into mortal hands. Sommers glanced toward the Marine outpost in the distance, now engulfed in smoke and cannonfire.
"The seller… a Marine captain. How quaint."
Shamrock smirked. "So even the World Government's dogs have started gnawing on their master's bones." The picture was clear. Their bait—an offer of a Logia Fruit—had done its job. The Marine captain, too greedy to report the find, had delayed delivery in hopes of stirring up a bidding war.
And now, like vultures to carrion, the pirates had come. Not to buy. To steal.
"We retrieve the fruit," Sommers said flatly, yawning as if the conversation itself bored him. Without effort, he began descending the mast—not by rope, not by force, but by walking down the air itself, each step as calm as a god descending from the heavens. "No survivors. This is your first mission… Go on, clean up the trash. I'm too tired to deal with rats."
"Finally," Shamrock muttered, rolling his neck. Purple sparks flickered along his fingertips, warping the air with their heat. "I was getting bored anyway." Then, without warning—the sky cracked like glass. And before anyone could react, Delara's head flew into the air with a single swing of Shamrock's blade.
****
Amidst the smoke and ruin of the besieged island, a lone figure stood cloaked in shadow, perched silently atop a jagged, windswept outcrop overlooking the unfolding nightmare.
The night sky above was veiled in a blanket of black smoke, pierced only by the flickering orange glow of firelight and the occasional cannon blast that shook the very bones of the earth. Beneath the shadow of her hood, her face was hidden, yet her eyes were unblinking—cold, calculating, and ancient.
The heavy fabric of her cloak danced around her as the acrid wind howled like a mourning spirit, but she remained unmoved, a statue carved from silence and purpose.
"Troublesome..." she muttered under her breath, the words barely audible beneath the distant echoes of carnage. "I thought I could acquire the fruit quietly... without drawing attention. But fate always complicates things."
Her voice was emotionless—neither frustrated nor alarmed, merely observant. Inevitable. She had seen chaos before. This was nothing new. Below her, the island had become a living nightmare.
The pirate fleet had descended upon it like a swarm of ravenous beasts, no longer pretending to be merchants or buyers. The ruse was over. Cannonballs tore through homes, blasting apart stone and timber, sending debris flying like shrapnel across narrow alleyways. Once-proud buildings collapsed in on themselves, consumed by fire and rage, reduced to nothing but rubble and ash.
Children screamed. Women wailed. Men fought and died. The air was a symphony of suffering—shrill, discordant, and endless. In the streets, death walked freely. Pirates, their eyes wild and bloodshot, stormed through the town in a tide of steel and flame.
They dragged civilians from their hiding spots—under carts, in cellars, behind barricades hastily constructed from furniture—and slaughtered them like animals. Some fought back, armed with kitchen knives, farming tools, or bare fists—but resistance only prolonged the agony.
In the town square, a display of horror unfolded like a grotesque play. A dozen villagers knelt in the mud, sobbing, trembling. A pirate captain—his skin stitched with scars, one eye replaced by a jagged shard of glass—paced before them, grinning wide enough to show every yellowed tooth in his mouth.
"You thought you could hide from us?" he cackled, then raised his hand.
His crew descended. Blades cleaved through necks and chests, spraying blood like fountains. The thud of bodies hitting the ground was sickeningly rhythmic, like drums in a funeral march. The survivors—what few remained—were dragged away, kicking and screaming, to a fate no less cruel.
Elsewhere, the slaughter intensified. A young mother, barefoot and bleeding, darted down a narrow alley, clutching her infant against her chest. Her breath came in ragged sobs, tears streaking down her soot-covered face.
"Please… please, let us go!" she begged, her voice breaking.
Behind her, a pirate lumbered after her, dragging a jagged axe that screeched across the cobblestone. He laughed, a low, wet chuckle that dripped with cruelty. She stumbled. She fell. The baby cried. He didn't hesitate. The axe fell—twice.
A heartbeat later, silence returned to that alley, broken only by the crackle of distant fire. The marketplace was worse. The smell of charred flesh hung heavy in the air. Tents and stalls had been overturned and reduced to smoldering heaps. Bodies lay sprawled between barrels and crates, eyes wide in disbelief, mouths frozen in a final scream.
A group of pirates had gathered there, setting fire to a towering pile of corpses. One of them danced around the flames, howling gleefully, his hands dripping blood, eyes rolled back as though in rapture.
And all the while, more pirates arrived from the ships, laughing and bellowing, eager to join the feast of violence. Yet above it all, the cloaked woman remained utterly unmoved.
She watched with the silence of a grave. Her attention wasn't on the dead. Or the dying. Or the chaos. Her eyes were locked on the Marine compound—its iron gates shuddering under the assault of Delara Vayne's elite troops.
The whispers had spoken of a Devil Fruit. One unknown. One unlisted. One... Divine. A "God Fruit."
She had not come here by chance. She had followed trails of blood and betrayal across the Grand Line—rumors buried under layers of secrecy and death. It was the Marines themselves, desperate for power and profit, who had chosen to sell what they could not comprehend.
And now, the chaos they had unleashed was devouring them. The cloaked figure's gloved hand reached beneath her robe, fingertips brushing the smooth hilt of the blade strapped to her back. Ancient. Impossibly sharp. Etched with a symbol long erased from history.
She closed her eyes and opened her Haki. Her observation expanded like a pulse—flowing outward, blanketing the town like a net. Every movement, every breath, every heartbeat was revealed to her.
She felt the fear of those hiding in the rubble. The predatory intent of the pirates cutting down survivors. The labored gasps of dying Marines. The subtle shift of steel as someone she couldn't yet see carved through a dozen men in silence within the base.
Her eyes snapped open. "Is it really true that these fruits have a will of their own…? Where are you hiding..." A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips. Not joy. Not satisfaction. Merely... certainty.
The pirates were fools—blinded by their own bloodlust, lost in the ecstasy of chaos. The Marines, broken and scattered, had retreated into their fortress like rats abandoning a sinking ship, desperate to salvage what little control they had left. The God's Knights were preoccupied elsewhere, cutting through the pirate fleet with divine precision—while those caught in their path struggled to comprehend just how utterly insignificant they truly were.
Most would not recognize the God's Knights, let alone understand what they were. But she did.
How could she not? She was no stranger to them. No outsider peering in. She had been born and raised within the very walls of Pangaea Castle—where silence was law, bloodline was scripture, and shadows whispered secrets that could never be spoken aloud.
She knew what walked beneath the surface of the world.
None of them would reach the fruit in time. But she would. She stepped forward. The ledge crumbled beneath her feet—and she vanished.
One instant she stood above the battlefield. The next, she was gone, a blur lost in the smoke, a shadow weaving between flame and ruin. Her passage left no trail. No sound. No witnesses.