Drum Island, Grand Line
"Be careful with it, you bastards!" A thunderous voice rolled across the bustling pier like cannon fire.
"If any of the goods are damaged, I swear I'll have all your hides tanned and hung on the mast!"
The man shouting was short and plump, draped in rich silks that struggled to contain his girth, but his voice carried the authority of a sea lord. Two trembling porters nearly dropped the heavy crate they were unloading, flinching under his glare.
His name was Gantz, a merchant whose life had taken a miraculous turn after a single, seemingly insignificant act of kindness—escorting a lost little girl years ago. He hadn't known who she was then. But that small girl had become his greatest blessing.
Afterward, a sealed scroll arrived at his modest outpost: a Donquixote Family Trade Permit, one of the rarest documents in the underground world. What once was a struggling operation of a battered galleon and two rusting barques had become a mercantile empire in just a few years. Over sixty ships now sailed under his banner, and his network stretched from the Four Blues to the deepest ports of the Grand Line.
While other merchants hesitated to fly pirate colors or deal with infamous underworld names, Gantz had embraced it—and prospered beyond imagination. Now, on the frozen docks of the Drum Kingdom, his fleet was unloading crate after crate under the watchful, disdainful eyes of the kingdom's royal guards.
The guards' contempt was barely concealed. Normally, shipments like these would be a feeding frenzy—"port taxes," "inspection fees," and other euphemisms for thinly-veiled extortion. But not today. Not with these ships. The vessels flew neutral merchant flags, but the royal soldiers knew the truth. These crates, this fleet, this entire operation… belonged to the Donquixote Family.
And the last time someone dared to shake down one of these ships, the Donquixote enforcers came calling.
The royal court had washed its hands of the incident. "A misunderstanding," they called it. "An unauthorized decision." But behind palace doors, fear ruled. Because those men who tried to skim profit off the Donquixote's trade routes had disappeared.
Or worse—their remains were returned in crates of their own.
The guards now stood still, arms folded, pretending not to care, but not one dared step forward to question the cargo or stall the process. Inside a nearby tavern overlooking the port, a young soldier-in-training stood by a frosted window, eyes wide with curiosity as the flurry of activity played out below.
"Sir," the youth asked hesitantly, "who are these men exactly? And where are all those goods being taken? If they're here to trade with our kingdom, shouldn't they be using the other docks?"
The grizzled Captain of the Royal Guard, a man built like stone and wrapped in a heavy wolf-fur cloak, didn't turn his gaze. His eyes remained fixed on the central galleon, its deck creaking beneath the weight of yet another massive crate being lowered to a waiting sled. The sled, led by frostbitten caribou, was already moving toward the towering mountain path—toward a place no one else dared go.
Toward the lonely cliffs where only one woman lived.
The shipments came like clockwork, once every three months, rain or snow. No one knew what the crates contained. No one asked. But the captain remembered clearly—the incident from years ago, when a few young fools thought to open one.
He spoke, low and firm.
"Listen, Dalton... don't let your eyes fool your judgment." He finally turned to the boy, his tone like ice.
"Those men outside might look like merchants. But what matters is who they serve. Be grateful they're only here to deliver goods. And be even more grateful that none of their masters are here in person."
Dalton stiffened but nodded slowly, taking the warning to heart. The captain gave a rare chuckle—dry and cautionary.
"Let them do what they came to do. They'll be gone before sunset. Just pray that's all they do."
Outside, Gantz roared again as another porter fumbled, and the sleds continued their steady climb toward the mountain peak—toward her. And though no words were spoken, every soul in Drum Kingdom knew one truth: When the Donquixote Family sends gifts to the Witch of the Mountain… you don't ask questions. You just stay out of the way.
"Young man..."
The voice came like a quiet warning rumbling beneath a storm.
"If I were you, I wouldn't try and tag along with that convoy. Yes, they're headed toward the witch doctor's home—but they don't take kindly to being followed… or disturbed."
The Captain of the Royal Guard, eyes still fixed on the snowfall outside, didn't bother turning. His broad frame was hunched beneath a heavy black bear-hide cloak, hands wrapped around a steaming mug, knuckles scarred from decades of duty.
He knew the faces of nearly every native in the Drum Kingdom, and the one by the door—Bellet—was not one of them.
A foreigner. A stranger. The kind that always chased myths.
The captain had kept an eye on him ever since he arrived months ago. Quiet, reclusive, but with fire behind his eyes. Several mountain hunters had returned bruised and shivering after trying to escort him up the peaks. Word was the Lapahns—the hulking, hyper-territorial snow rabbits—chased them all off.
Or maybe hunted them off. No one blamed the Lapahns. On Bellet's first attempt up the mountain, he'd used explosives—and killed a dozen of them.
Lapahns never forget. Now, the mountain itself rejected him.
Even with hired guides, no one had managed to get him anywhere near the summit—not with him around. So Bellet waited. Watched. Hoping the doctor would descend one day, as she sometimes did, appearing like a ghost to treat the dying at the base of the kingdom. But her comings and goings were like mist—unpredictable and untraceable.
Bellet, draped in thick furs and snow boots, paused at the captain's words. Then he sneered.
"They're just merchants. I'm not going to bother them. I just want to see how they manage to get past those damned Lapahns."
His tone carried the bitterness of repeated failure. At that moment, the tavern door creaked open.
Outside, the convoy was preparing for its slow, winding ascent up the cliffs. But stepping inside now was Gratz, the plump merchant whose booming voice had filled the harbor earlier. This time, however, he entered with his head bowed, shoulders hunched in a rare display of humility.
Behind him came three figures, cloaked head to toe in snow-dappled wool. Their steps were measured, and despite their modest height, there was an unmistakable aura of command radiating from them.
Even the fire seemed to dim as they entered. Gratz glanced about, his expression tense, then gestured toward a table in the back corner—four seats, one of which he left conspicuously empty.
"The climb will take a few hours," he said carefully. "It's best we fill our bellies before we move."
He guided the trio to their seats, moving with the nervous precision of a man handling royalty. Despite having shared drinks with nobles, pirates, and cutthroats alike, Gratz did not sit. Instead, he bustled off to arrange refreshments himself.
The Captain observed in silence, his mug now forgotten. These were no ordinary guests.
Bellet, curious and emboldened by frustration, stepped forward. He moved slowly across the tavern, boots crunching against the old wood floor, drawn toward the trio like a moth to fire. Whoever they were, Gratz clearly answered to them.
Just as Bellet opened his mouth to speak, the smallest figure at the table calmly reached up and pulled back his hood.
A boy, no older than ten, stared back at him. His features were sharp—cold grey eyes that held none of a child's softness, a thin jaw clenched with quiet fury. Beneath a black cap, raven-black hair framed a pale face marked with old bruises and fading scars.
His eyes burned with a silent storm, as if he'd witnessed too much pain for someone so young.
Before Bellet could process the sight, the second figure removed his hood. A young man, probably around Bellet's own age—or maybe even younger. White hair cropped short, a scar just under his left eye.
He reached into his coat pocket and casually pulled out a thick cigar, placing it between his lips. With a flick of a match, he lit it, inhaled once, and exhaled a slow plume of smoke without looking at Bellet.
The air seemed to grow heavier. There was defiance in his posture. Not cocky, not brash—certain. Like a man who had walked through fire and found comfort in the burn, and the smoke that curled around his face was warning enough.
Finally, the third figure—seated between the two—reached up and lowered her hood. Bellet's breath caught.
She was in her early teens, perhaps thirteen or fourteen at most. Long, deep golden blonde hair fell across her shoulders like a silk veil. Her amber-gold eyes glowed against her porcelain skin, and even in the worn simplicity of her cloak, there was an almost ethereal beauty about her—delicate and sharp, like a rose grown in snow.
Her expression was calm, composed… indifferent. She didn't acknowledge Bellet. She didn't need to. Bellet stood frozen.
Something inside him—twisted, unspoken, shameful—stirred. His fascination with the girl wasn't rooted in love or admiration, but an ugly hunger for something beautiful and untouchable, something that made him feel powerful by mere association.
He didn't even know her name, but he craved her presence like a man dying of thirst craved saltwater. And yet...
As her gaze lifted for just a second, those golden eyes met his with a cold finality that stripped him bare. Not frightened. Not threatened. Just utterly unimpressed. As if he were nothing more than another snowflake on the wind.
And for the first time in months, Bellet stepped back.
What none of the tavern's occupants noticed was the man seated quietly in the farthest corner—face half-obscured by shadows, posture relaxed yet alert. While the others drank and conversed, he watched.
And he recognized.
Beneath the hood, the man's eyes sharpened when he saw Smoker—the distinct white hair, the unmistakable scar, and that ever-present trail of smoke curling around him like a halo of fire. Even under a heavy traveling cloak, there was no mistaking a man with a 330 million Belly bounty.
He sipped his ale slowly, but his thoughts were racing. This was the break he'd waited for.
Cipher Pol agent Codename: Cassius, stationed permanently in Drum Kingdom under deep cover. His mission, initiated years ago, was simple: observe and report. Ever since confirmation came that the Donquixote Family had been sending regular, highly guarded shipments to the reclusive witch doctor atop Drum Mountain, Cipher Pol had deployed him to investigate.
The nature of the deliveries remained unknown—but what was known was that any Donquixote presence outside of Dressrosa, especially to such a remote and volatile location, warranted constant surveillance. Until now, no high-ranking family members had shown up.
Until now.
Cassius also recognized another face: Prince Bellet—or rather, former prince, though the young man likely didn't know that yet. He had no love for the fool, but his presence here had always been suspicious. Why would a royal from a minor kingdom camp out at the foot of a mountain? What was he waiting for?
Cassius glanced back at the cloaked trio seated at the far table. He didn't recognize the teenage girl or the small boy, but if they were traveling with Smoker, their identities had to be significant. He needed to contact HQ immediately. With subtlety and efficiency.
He drained his mug, dropped a few coins on the table, and vanished into the swirling snow outside without a sound.
Meanwhile, inside the tavern... The warmth of the hearth clashed with the cold tension hanging in the air. Smoker finally turned his steely gaze toward Bellet, who stood frozen—his lecherous eyes glued to the figure of young Robin.
Only it wasn't Robin's true form.
She had once again called upon her Devil Fruit powers, weaving a flawless illusion around herself. No matter how many times Smoker had seen her transformations, they were always perfect. Seamless. Breathtaking. Robin didn't just imitate—she became. In this moment, she was every inch the youthful maiden she pretended to be. A trap baited and waiting.
Smoker let out a low, irritated growl.
"Oy... want me to pluck your eyes out, bastard?"
The words were casual, but his voice carried the weight of gunpowder before the spark. Still, he didn't move from his spot. He knew Robin didn't need his protection—certainly not from a pathetic whelp like this one. She was more than capable of turning a creep like Bellet into dust, both metaphorically and literally.
Law, however, showed no such restraint.
With a dull thunk, he placed a custom-forged flintlock rifle on the table. The barrel gleamed faintly in the firelight—short, precise, made for men who didn't bluff.
The message was unmistakable.
Law hadn't come to Drum Island alone. He was accompanied by three others—close allies from the Donquixote Family. Now that they were older, stronger, the time had come to stretch their wings and taste the world beyond Dressrosa's warm confines. Smoker and Gladius, in particular, had grown restless—like wolves pacing behind locked gates. Smoker had joined Law's journey to the harsh snows of Drum Island, while Gladius had gone with little Reiju to meet the Revolutionaries.
Robin had her own reasons for coming. Dr. Kureha's name alone was enough. A woman who had lived for over a century—she was a walking monument to history, and Robin, ever the seeker of forgotten truths, couldn't resist such a living legend.
Prince Bellet, still ignorant of the danger around him, scoffed at the hostility. He straightened his coat with mock dignity, the smirk of arrogance returning to his face. His royal blood had made him believe he was untouchable.
"I assure you... if you knew who I am, you would be vying for my favor."
He barely finished his sentence when a calm voice cut through the tavern, sharp as a dagger's edge.
"We know exactly who you are," Robin said, not even bothering to look at him. "Prince Bellet—or rather... former prince."
The entire tavern stilled. Her voice was calm, but it carried the weight of a sealed verdict.
"Are you even aware?" she continued, blowing into her gloved hands before slipping them off and warming her fingers by the fire. "Your family has already been ousted. A new monarchy rules in your stead, with full blessing from the World Government."
The color drained from Bellet's face. His lips parted, but no words came. Surely she was lying. Wasn't he here to fix the crisis his father created? He was risking his life for a throne that still existed… wasn't he? But Robin's voice hadn't faltered. Her knowledge was too precise.
How did she know?
He stepped forward, questions burning behind his eyes—but was cut short.
A lit cigar hurtled through the air and struck him squarely on the temple with a crack. He toppled, stunned—not just from the blow, but from the cold dismissal in Smoker's expression.
The young Donquixote member didn't even stand. He just reached into his coat, drew out a fresh cigar, and lit it with a flick of his thumb.
"Get out of here," Smoker said coolly, blowing a stream of smoke into the tavern's stale air. "Before I change my mind."
The message was clear.
Bellet remained on the floor, the last flickers of defiance dying in his eyes. The truth hit him harder than the cigar had. His kingdom was gone. His title—worthless. If the World Government had turned their backs on his family, there was nothing left to salvage.
In a daze, he rose, no longer the prince he once imagined himself to be.
Without another word, he stumbled out of the tavern, his steps picking up speed as he rushed toward the docks. There was no time to lose. He had to find a ship—any ship—that would take him back home. Perhaps it wasn't too late.
Perhaps.
The tavern doors swung shut behind him. Inside, silence returned—thick, heavy, and unforgiving. The fire crackled. Law gently pushed the rifle aside and reached for his sake.
Robin smiled faintly, her true form beginning to shimmer back into view as the illusion melted away. Smoker exhaled smoke through his nose like a dragon bored of mortals.
"Idiot," he muttered.
****
At the edge of the village, near the windswept port... Where the houses thinned and the snow no longer felt softened by warmth or company, a lone figure walked with steady purpose. The distant sea whispered behind him, but Cassius paid it no mind. The icy wind that tore through the cliffs didn't bother him either. It was familiar.
He reached a modest wooden house—unassuming, weather-beaten, like every other sailor's dwelling in the outer rim of Drum Kingdom. It was a home he'd occupied for years. Here, he drank with the locals, laughed like a fool at their tavern tales, and played the harmless drunkard. No one suspected otherwise.
As the door creaked shut behind him, the man they knew disappeared. Gone was the slurring sailor with a heart of gold.
In his place stood something far colder—Cassius, Cipher Pol agent trained in the arts of infiltration, deception, and precise violence. His eyes, once bleary with staged intoxication, now shone sharp and calculating. The sway in his gait vanished. His posture straightened. Every step he took now had the lethal certainty of a man raised in the shadows of the World Government.
Without hesitation, he moved toward the bedroom, navigating through the dark with ghostlike precision. Not a single piece of furniture was disturbed, not a sound betrayed his presence. The room had no windows, no mirrors—only silence.
He stopped at the wooden bed, aged and creaking but light in weight. With a single push, he slid it aside, revealing the floor beneath—ordinary to the eye, but not to him.
Cassius crouched, his fingers finding the subtle grooves in the floorboards. He plucked each one out, revealing a hidden compartment beneath. The craftsmanship was impeccable—hidden even from the trained eye.
Inside lay the truth of who he really was.
A small, sleek Cipher Pol badge embedded with a micro-sigil that responded only to his touch. A palm-sized dart gun loaded with paralytic toxin strong enough to drop a Sea King. Thin coils of steel wire, nearly invisible, used for strangulation or climbing. A black notebook filled with dead-drop codes and mission logs written in cipher. And next to them… an empty velvet slot—where his Den Den Mushi should have been.
Cassius froze. The compartment was untouched—no signs of forced entry. Yet the most vital item, the encrypted Den Den Mushi used for direct contact with his Cipher Pol superior, was missing.
His mind sharpened instantly. That device wasn't just a communication tool—it was a lifeline. A link to headquarters. To orders. To exfiltration. Without it, he was cut off. He scanned the shadows.
And then— "Looking for this...?"
A voice, young and cold, echoed from the far corner of the room. Cassius didn't blink. In a blur, he grabbed one of the knives from the cache and flung it toward the voice with brutal efficiency. It cut through the air, a whisper of death.
THUNK.
It struck wood. A figure stepped forward from the darkness, calm as the grave. They held something cradled in one hand—the Den Den Mushi, its receiver twitching slightly as it emitted a soft, confused sound.
"I'll admit," the intruder said with a faint smirk, "I expected you to be sloppy. You're sharper than you look, Agent Cassius."
The lantern they carried lit part of their face—young, perhaps too young, with eyes that studied him like a puzzle being solved. The Mushi chirped softly in their hand. Cassius rose slowly, his face blank, body taut with restrained violence as he recognized the intruder.
"How did you get in?" he asked flatly.
The figure turned the Mushi over between their fingers, then smiled.
"You left the window unlocked. Or maybe I let myself in through the front door. Either way... That doesn't matter."
"What are the young cadres of the Donquixote Family doing here on Drum Island...?"
Cassius's voice was low, calm—an attempt to pry information from the teenage predator now standing across the room. He had seen Smoker earlier, yes, but this one—this boy—was different.
More dangerous. More precise.
He hadn't heard him enter. He hadn't even sensed the shift in the room's air. And now, the missing Den Den Mushi—his only link to Cipher Pol command—was in the boy's hands, taunting him with its faint, oblivious chirping.
The teenager's gaze said nothing, yet everything. Cold. Measured. Unshaken. Cassius didn't wait for an answer. His years of training screamed one truth: he was outmatched. The gap in strength was too wide, the threat too real. There was only one option.
Escape.
He spun on his heel, body twisting as he aimed for the boarded window. If he could break through and vanish into the mountains, he could survive long enough to warn headquarters. A coded drop. A relay through a civilian. Something.
But he didn't make it. Pain, sharp and savage, exploded through his ankle.
CRACK!
He screamed as he fell, crashing hard onto the floor. His leg twisted unnaturally. Embedded in his ankle—was his own knife. The one he had thrown only moments ago. Somehow, the boy had retrieved it and turned it back on him mid-movement.
Cassius choked on the agony.
"It seems you're eager to die..." the boy said, voice devoid of emotion. He began walking forward, each step deliberate, predatory. "Let me grant your wish."
Cassius barely had time to see him move. Lucci blurred. In the space of a heartbeat, he was upon the downed agent, a ghost wrapped in sinew and steel. Cassius, Cipher Pol's man in the shadows, never stood a chance.
Moments later... The door creaked open, and Lucci stepped out into the snow-drenched night, his fingers stained with blood, his expression untouched by the violence he had just committed.
Waiting for him in the shadows of the house stood a man—plain clothes, forgettable face, the kind that blended into crowds and disappeared behind doors. But there was nothing ordinary about him. He had been watching from the beginning.
A member of the Donquixote Family's Intelligence Division—a network of shadow agents so deep, so clandestine, that even Cipher Pol's upper branches had only whispered rumors of their existence. Where Cipher Pol reported to the World Government, the Donquixote Family manipulated it from within, slipping between the cracks with invisible hands and false faces.
The man gave a small nod and bowed.
"Orders?" he asked quietly.
Lucci didn't stop walking. He simply dropped a bloodied rag into the man's calloused hands.
"Make sure Cassius stays alive," he said coldly. "Send regular reports. Keep the World Government thinking their agent is still on task."
The man accepted the cloth without flinching. He would burn it—along with the last trace of the real Cassius. From now on, he would be Cassius.
His mannerisms, his habits, his voice—he had studied them for years. This wasn't improvisation. This was infiltration by mastery. A performance so flawless it would fool Cipher Pol itself. After all, this man had shadowed Cassius since his first deployment. He knew what foods he preferred. How he coughed when he lied. How often he scratched behind his ear when nervous. The transformation would be seamless.
Lucci didn't offer any more instructions. He didn't need to.
Those selected for the Donquixote Family's Inner Web were trained not in brute force, but in the art of deception, subversion, and puppeteering. They were ghosts among phantoms—masters of the masquerade.
Lucci vanished into the dark, his presence swallowed by the snowstorm curling over the cliffs.
Behind him, the man once known as no one turned and stepped back inside.
Now, he was Cassius. And as far as the World Government was concerned, as long as no one personally came to inspect… Their loyal agent was alive and well—still dutifully working in the shadows monitoring Drum Island.