Tequila Wolf, East Blue
Through the endless snow and biting wind, nestled beneath the crumbling scaffolds of steel and stone, sat Camp #17—one of the many makeshift worker camps hastily erected along the growing skeleton of Tequila Wolf's never-ending bridge.
The camp was less a shelter and more a graveyard with a heartbeat. Dozens of half-rotted wooden huts, no larger than coffins, were crammed side by side like tombs lined up for a mass burial.
Cracks in the warped walls let in snow, wind, and rodents. Each hut housed over twenty souls, huddled like discarded refuse on damp straw mats, many forced to share the same ragged blankets—when there were any.
But tonight, even those tattered shelters offered no reprieve. Most of the camp's occupants had been driven into the open, braving the blizzard's wrath. Their breath fogged the freezing air like ghostly smoke, rising into the darkness like the souls of the forgotten.
A jagged fence of rusted wire and salvaged scrap circled the perimeter. At each corner, World Government patrol towers loomed like sentinels, fashioned from old iron and resentment. Their spotlights swept across the suffering masses with the dispassion of executioners, watching over them not as people, but as property.
At the center of the camp flickered the only warmth: a dozen makeshift braziers fashioned from oil drums. Scraps of wood, cloth, and even bones fed their starving flames. But there were far too many people, and far too little fire.
Many gathered so close to the blaze their skin blistered, just for a moment of heat. Tonight, nearly everyone had converged around the flickering light, trembling and silent, desperately clinging to life.
The air reeked of smoke, piss, unwashed flesh, and despair. A scent that soaked into the skin. That never left.
Food came once a day—twice, if luck or a guard's forgetfulness allowed it. A watery, tasteless gruel, ladled without care, never enough to fill a bowl. People fought over crumbs. Some bartered. Others stole. Many killed. The weak starved quietly in the corners of huts, dying without ceremony. No one wept for them—they couldn't afford to.
At the edge of the camp stood the punishment post—a rusted iron stake driven deep into the frozen ground, ringed with blood-blackened snow. Anyone who disobeyed, who faltered, who looked a guard in the eye, was chained to it. Naked. Beaten. Left to freeze or bleed, whichever came first. The storm passed judgment with cold, final mercy.
And still, they built.
Every morning, even before dawn, a shriek split the air like a banshee's scream—"Work hour." The slaves marched in chains, dragging rusted tools, broken sleds, and crates of frozen timber. Their breath hissed through cracked lips, curling in the pale light like smoke from dying candles.
They worked until their hands bled, until their backs shattered beneath the weight of labor, until they collapsed. And when they did, they were either left to die or they were dragged back, patched up with bandages and pain, and thrown back into the hellscape the very next day.
There were no holidays. No birthdays. No end. No hope. Tequila Wolf devoured all.
"Huff… Huff…"
The little girl—barely five years old—trembled like a leaf caught in a storm, her thin chest heaving as clouds of warm breath escaped into the frigid air. She clutched a threadbare scrap of cloth around her malnourished body, its edges tattered and soaked with slush.
Her lips were cracked and purple. Her small hands, raw and blistered, barely responded anymore. Every breath seemed harder than the last, her body screaming for warmth that simply no longer existed.
Snow fell like a judgment from above, harsh and merciless. It painted everything white—but this was not the beauty of winter. It was death, soft and silent.
Her mother, gaunt and hollow-eyed, pressed the child tightly to her chest, wrapping her arms and shawl around her daughter like a last shield against the elements. Her body shook—not just from cold, but from fear. Her fingers massaged her daughter's back, trying to stir life back into her limbs, to stop her from closing her eyes for too long.
"It's okay... it's okay... Hold on, just hold on… don't fall asleep, baby. Please…"
Her voice cracked, the words a desperate plea whispered against frostbitten skin. She could feel how light her daughter had become, bones where there should be flesh. Hunger gnawed at both of them, but the child—so fragile—was nearing the edge.
If she fell asleep now, she might never wake up again. But they were not alone in their suffering.
Around them, stretching across the barren snow-covered plain of this godforsaken island, were thousands. Humans, minks, fishmen—races crushed under the same heel. All of them branded, shackled, enslaved. They sat or huddled beneath sheets of corrugated scrap and torn tarpaulin.
They tried to find warmth in the crooks of each other's limbs, curled around trash fires burning in rusted metal barrels. But there were only a dozen or so of these makeshift braziers, scattered far too thin among the multitude.
Desperation clung to the air like the snow itself. The mother tried to approach one of the flames, inching forward through the half-dead crowd. She pushed gently at first, then more forcefully. But a bony elbow shoved her back.
"Get lost," someone hissed, face hidden in a scarf of rags. "This is ours."
A hand lashed out, shoving her to the side. No one wanted to give up their spot near the fire—not when the difference between one meter and ten could mean life or death. The mother fell to her knees, shielding her daughter from the impact. She didn't even feel the bruises anymore. Only the freezing cold… and the helplessness.
Then—
Crack!
The unmistakable snap of a whip tore through the snowstorm. The very air seemed to flinch.
All movement stopped. The low murmurs of the suffering vanished like breath on glass. No one dared speak. No one even looked up. They had seen this scene too many times. They knew what came next.
From the distant outpost—a towering structure of iron and black stone—a small patrol of World Government agents trudged into view, clad in insulated winter coats and fur-lined boots. Each bore the symbol of the World Government elite on their shoulder. Their faces were hidden behind masks, but their intentions were clear from the gleam of their batons and whips.
One of them stepped forward, sneering at the sight of the huddled masses.
"Well, well… look at this."
His voice was like nails on ice.
"Are you relaxing… After ahearty meal, perhaps?"
The sarcasm cut sharper than any blade. Another guard chuckled, already raising his whip. "Guess it's time for a little motivation."
Crack!
The lash struck a man too slow to lower his gaze. He didn't scream—he had no strength left to.
Another slave nearby, an elderly fishman with frostbitten fins, collapsed just from the sudden rush of movement around him. The guards advanced, kicking snow into faces, overturning barrels of fire, and scattering the faint warmth that had taken hours to build. A child screamed as embers struck her leg. No one helped. No one dared.
The mother pulled her daughter close again, hiding her face in her chest. Her arms trembled. Her lips moved silently. as she prayed for safety in the midst of chaos.
"Please, just survive."
The snowstorm howled across the stone bridges of Tequila Wolf, the wind like a chorus of the damned. Amid the swirling blizzard, the crimson flag of the World Government flapped proudly over a mountain of misery.
The guard scowled beneath his fur-lined helm, the irritation on his face barely hidden. Every now and then, a child's sob or a mother's scream rang out—sharp and pitiful, gnawing at his nerves.
Vermin. That's what they were.
He looked around at the huddled masses—slaves, all of them—clinging to each other for warmth near the flickering makeshift braziers. How dare they rest? How dare they stop working, even for a second?
"This is why we need to keep them in line," he muttered under his breath, then turned to his men. "Looks like the rats forgot who's in charge."
The soldiers behind him didn't need further instruction. They raised their rifles in unison.
"Bang—Bang!"
Gunshots cracked like thunder across the storm. The sudden roar shattered what little calm had settled. Screams rose. Bodies jerked. Blood stained the white snow like ink spilled on parchment.
Panic exploded through the crowd. Slaves screamed and bolted—some trampled underfoot in the chaos. Feet slipped on blood-slick snow. Mothers clutched children. The wounded cried out, but no one stopped to help. No one ever did. Here, compassion was a luxury long dead.
And yet—none of this was new.
This was Tequila Wolf. For over 700 years, the World Government had been constructing a massive, unknown megastructure across the continent. It spanned beyond the horizon, a monstrous chain of endless scaffolding, bridges, and abandoned camps. All built not by hands of pride or hope, but by generations of slaves—born, raised, and fated to die beneath the whip.
The purpose of this project? No one knew. Perhaps not even the World Nobles themselves. It didn't matter. What mattered was obedience. What mattered was progress—no matter the corpses it was built upon. As the soldiers fired again, another volley of shots rang through the storm.
Crack—Bang—Bang!
Men fell face first into the ice. Women were shot in the back as they ran. Blood splattered across the unfinished stone pillars. It painted the megastructure with the truth of its foundation—suffering. To the officers, this wasn't brutality. It was discipline.
Farther back, hidden behind a stack of rotting crates and discarded wood near the fringe of the camp, a group of shadowed figures lay prone in the snow. Half a dozen in total, dressed in tattered slave garb to blend in—but the rifles they carried told another story.
They were members of the Revolutionary Army.
One of the youngest among them—barely a man—watched the massacre unfold through the scope of his rifle. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the stock, every instinct screaming at him to pull the trigger. He could feel the pain in every cry. Every shot felt like a nail driven into his spine.
"We have to do something…" he whispered, barely able to contain himself. "We can't just watch them die like this." A firm hand landed on his shoulder.
"Don't act on impulse," the captain said, voice low but ironclad. He was older, scarred, eyes sharp and cold. His gaze didn't flinch from the horror in front of him. "We're not here to save one or two. We're here to liberate them all."
The young revolutionary clenched his jaw. "But how can you watch this… and do nothing?"
The captain finally looked at him.
"You think I don't want to act?" he said, quietly. "Every fiber of me is screaming to pull the trigger. But anger without a plan is just another chain. We're not trying to start a fight. We're trying to end a system."
Another shot rang out. The boy flinched.
The captain turned his eyes back to the slaughter. "Let's say we rescue this group. Then what? There are thousands of slaves here—thousands—and this isn't the only camp. There are hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions, of slaves currently across the island. Where will we take them? What will we feed them? Do you think the World Government will just let them go?"
Silence. The snow fell heavier now, muffling the dying screams in the distance.
"If we rush in now, we die. They all die with us. But if we learn the layout, study the rotation of the guards, find their storage caches, and locate all the slave camps across the spine of this megastructure… then maybe—just maybe—we spark something real. We can send all this information back to HQ and when we are ready, we can free them all…"
The young revolutionary stared ahead, watching as another child was dragged by the arm away from a dead mother's body. He blinked hard, forcing back the tears that threatened to spill.
"This isn't just another mission," the captain continued. "This is Tequila Wolf. This is the heart of their machine. If we break the chains here, we send a message to the world."
More soldiers arrived. Laughing. Some began betting over who had the better shot. The stench of cruelty carried through the storm like smoke.
"Burn the name of this place into your memory," the captain said, coldly. "Because one day, when we do come back… we'll burn it down."
The wind picked up. The firelight from the barrels danced wildly. But amid the snow and blood, in the shadows of the forgotten, the seeds of revolution had already begun to take root.
"Why don't the Marines do something about this…?" the old man muttered, his voice hoarse with cold and disillusionment. "They're supposed to stand for justice. But there's no justice here. Not a shred."
His breath curled in the frigid air as he stared out past the jagged barbed wire toward the heart of Camp #17. His eyes, once sharp with purpose, were now dulled by years of regret. The snow fell heavier now, silent and cruel, blanketing corpses and memories alike.
He wasn't just another revolutionary. Once, long ago, he had stood proudly in the crisp blue uniform of the Marines. He had sworn an oath to protect the innocent, to uphold order, to serve justice. Now he could barely say the word without it tasting like blood.
What made it worse was the truth he could no longer deny—these weren't rogue agents of chaos wearing Marine coats that were guarding the perimeter. These were official soldiers.
Disciplined. Regimented. Obedient. Carrying out orders from the very top. And those orders were clear: Keep the slaves building. Keep the whip swinging. Silence everything else.
His fists clenched, fingers trembling—not from cold, but from the unbearable shame.
"I wore that uniform for forty years," he whispered, voice breaking. "And now I wish I never had."
The captain of the revolutionary scouting unit didn't speak right away. He simply turned, his silhouette sharp against the snow-covered crates they hid behind. His coat, dark and worn, fluttered in the wind as his eyes found their mark.
A few meters away, crouched beneath a threadbare tarp, was a young woman—focused, precise, and deadly calm. Her hands moved swiftly over a tattered notebook, sketching the full layout of Camp #17. Guard towers, patrol routes, fire pits, ammunition caches, surveillance zones—every inch of the camp was being drawn, recorded, remembered.
"Lia," the captain said quietly.
She nodded, not stopping her pencil. "Two sniper posts at the east wall. Rotation every six hours. Armored convoy route changes at dawn. One blind spot on the north scaffold—eight minutes before each patrol shift."
She didn't have to ask why he was asking. They were here for intel, not vengeance. Not yet. A misstep would doom thousands, not save them. The captain turned back to the old Marine.
"You want to save these people? Then help us do it right," he said, voice firm but not unkind. "The system you once served—it's not broken. It was always like this. But now you're on the right side of the fight."
The old man looked down, silent for a long time. Snow collected in his beard. In the distance, gunfire cracked again. Another scream echoed. Another soul lost beneath the scaffolding.
He closed his eyes, drawing a long, steady breath.
"Then tell me what to do, Captain," he said, voice low but resolute. "Because I can't bear that shame any longer."
****
"BOOM…!"
The land shook like a dying beast. Two cataclysmic beams tore through the island that had once been earmarked for the G‑12 Marine outpost. Once-pristine ground shattered under their force. The sea roared in agony, tremors rippling across the ocean for miles.
The Marine fleet, or what remained of it, had retreated to safety, its cannons silent. On the shoreline, Vice Admiral Vergo stood in his fearsome Orochi form—all eight serpent heads heaving with power—staving off the onslaught of the crimson dragon, its intent to raze the remaining G‑12 outpost evident in every monstrous roar.
High above, the dragon circled relentlessly. A deafening roar rolled through the sky as once-peaceful waters churned beneath its wings. In response, Vergo pressed forward, landing among the toxic swirl of dragon-ignited vapors with brutal precision. Each of his heads spat lances of searing energy, launching volleys that clashed ferociously with the crimson scales above.
Vergo, who had known exactly who he was up against, didn't hold back—not even for a moment. From the first clash of haki and flame, he fought with the full weight of his strength, honed over decades of brutal training.
He remembered vividly the words of his master, Donquixote Doflamingo—"That boy, Lucci… he's a monster in the making. One day, he might even stand on par with my little brother."
At the time, Vergo had scoffed inwardly. How could some upstart orphan from nowhere, barely out of his childhood, compare to the brilliance of the Donquixote Family's finest? But now, in the heart of battle, he realized those words were no exaggeration—they had been a warning.
Vergo was over a decade older than Lucci. He had started his journey into the secrets of Haki long before the young dragon had even mastered his claws. Trained under legends like Zephyr, Sengoku, and even Garp himself, Vergo had earned his reputation as the rising star of the Marines—a man many believed would one day stand at the top.
And yet, here he was. Pushed. Pressured. Outpaced.
Lucci, in his colossal crimson dragon form, hadn't reverted to his human form once. Not even when battered by Vergo's relentless strikes. Not even when his entire scales were scorched or when Vergo's serpentine heads closed in with deadly precision.
As a fellow Mythical Zoan user, Vergo understood the staggering endurance their fruits granted—but Lucci seemed to be transcending even those limits. His stamina was unnatural. His control, flawless especially for someone so young. His talent potentially unmatched..
With every clash, Vergo felt something crack—not in his body, but in his pride.
There was a fleeting moment, amidst the flames and thunder, where Vergo allowed himself a dangerous thought. If I had trained under the young master… under Rsoinante himself, instead of chasing Marine ideals—would I have become even stronger than I am now?
But the thought was fleeting. Strength, for Vergo, was never his own pursuit. It was a tool—an offering. Something to wield in service of his master. The stronger he became, the more useful he could be to Master Doffy. That was all that mattered. Glory meant nothing. Recognition was irrelevant. Only loyalty remained.
With a snarl, Vergo raised his voices in defiance and let the infernal clouds rain upon the dragon once more. Lances of purple flame stabbed into crimson sky, each burst lighting up the battle with incandescent fury.
*****
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