The next morning came too fast—as always. The sun hadn't even yawned over the horizon when I heard the familiar clank of a cell door opening. Another day, another chain around the neck. A guard stepped in and jerked his head toward the hallway.
"Let's go. You and the old man."
Darius and I exchanged a look before shuffling to our feet. My body felt like it had been through a meat grinder.
"Hey bro," I muttered as we walked, rubbing my shoulder. "Can I get a break today? Y'know, maybe some pity? I did just fight a Whitebeard knockoff yesterday."
The guard didn't even look at me. "So what? You think slaves get sick days now?"
Yeah. About what I expected. Doesn't hurt to ask, though. Okay—hurts a little.
We reached one of the newer construction sites—half-finished towers, scaffolding everywhere, chains and dust in the air thick enough to choke on. I sighed, already mentally preparing to haul bricks or dig trenches or whatever torture they had in store.
But then the guard pointed straight at me.
"You," he said.
I blinked. "Me? What, don't tell me… you're finally giving me that vacation?"
He sneered. "Not quite. You're coming with him today."
In the direction he pointed stood a single man—dressed head-to-toe in pristine white. Suit, blazer, gloves, polished shoes. Normal height, maybe around 180 centimeters—not a giant, but to little ol' me, he still felt like a damn skyscraper. But it wasn't the outfit that caught the eye.
It was the mask.
Bone-white. Smooth. Blank, except for a single black mustache painted under where the nose should be. Elegant. Cartoonish. And deeply unsettling.
CP0.
Great. That's never good news.
"And what does this fine gentleman need from me?" I asked, not even trying to hide the sarcasm.
The agent didn't answer. He just spun on his heel like a damn wind-up toy and started walking.
"Cool. Rude and creepy," I muttered, jogging a little to catch up.
We'd been walking in silence for nearly ten minutes. Neither of us said a word—he clearly wasn't the chatty type, and I wasn't dumb enough to poke at whatever this guy was. The air between us was tense, not awkward, just… heavy.
But what really unsettled me was the direction we were heading.
We weren't going toward the usual work zones—no mines, no quarries, not even the filthy kitchens. Instead, we were walking straight into the heart of the Holy Land.
We go straight toward Pangaea Castle.
The streets here were too clean, the air too sterile. No shouting guards, no clanging tools. Just towering marble buildings and wide, polished roads made for the elite. I started to feel smaller with every step, like I was walking into a place I had no right to exist in.
And the worst part?
I still had no idea why.
The closer we got, the more anxious I became.
Pangaea Castle loomed like a sleeping god—massive, cold, eternal. Its towering walls blocked the sun, casting long shadows that swallowed everything beneath. The architecture was nothing short of divine, designed to remind everyone who was truly in charge of this world. It was the kind of place where kings bowed and gods whispered.
And I was a slave being marched right up to its doorstep.
My legs wanted to stop, to freeze, but I forced them forward. What the hell does a slave have to do in the castle where only Celestial Dragons and their dogs live?
But just as the gates of the castle came into full view—giant metal things engraved with the World Government's sigil, guarded by soldiers who looked like they ate nails for breakfast—the man in white veered off, turning down a side path that skirted the outer edge of the castle.
Not the castle, then. That made me exhale, though barely.
We walked in silence for another few minutes, me casting nervous glances at the golden domes and pristine towers disappearing behind us. Eventually, the narrow path opened into something unexpected—a stretch of land far too peaceful for the rest of the city. A private estate.
At the center of it stood a mansion.
Not just any mansion, either. This one was built from flawless white marble, polished to a mirror shine. Pillars lined its front like some kind of ancient temple. The windows were framed in gold, and even the damn roof tiles looked like they belonged in a museum. It wasn't as grand as Pangaea Castle—nothing was—but compared to everything else I'd seen, it was royalty made stone.
The air smelled like flowers and expensive soap. Even the grass was trimmed like it got paid to look good.
I expected to be taken inside, maybe into some dark room or elegant torture chamber. But the masked man didn't so much as glance at the front door. Instead, he led me around the side, toward the massive field behind the mansion.
A green field.
Wide. Quiet. Beautiful—but in that artificial, too-perfect way that made your skin crawl if you stared too long. It looked more like a noble's private garden than any kind of working space. The trimmed grass was endless, a flawless carpet of green stretching in every direction, with Pangaea Castle looming far in the distance like a god watching over ants.
The man in white stopped so abruptly I nearly bumped into him. We were standing in the middle of nothing—no benches, no trees, no shade, just the open field. I didn't ask questions. I knew better. Slaves weren't allowed confusion, let alone curiosity.
Then, after what felt like an awkward eternity, the mansion's back wall—a massive panel bigger than a garage door—began to rise with a smooth hiss.
And from the shadowed interior emerged a familiar monster.
He was crawling on all fours, head down, bruised and trembling. The same guy from the arena—the Whitebeard wannabe. Except now, he wasn't a warrior. He was a beast of burden.
Strapped to his back was a lavish carriage, the kind nobles used to parade their wealth like jewelry. Gold trim, velvet curtains, encrusted steps, the whole royal treatment. And perched atop his neck, like a coachman steering a particularly pathetic horse, sat a thin man in white holding reins—reins that ended in the giant's mouth.
The message was loud and clear:
No matter how big you are, there's always someone ready to ride your back.
Trailing behind the Whitebeard wannabe were three women—each dressed in ornate, exotic attire that seemed crafted to mesmerize. Their outfits were elegant yet revealing, designed not for battle, but for spectacle. Flowing fabric in rich colors clung to their forms, catching the sunlight with every step. Their tops were small and adorned with shimmering beads, coins, and tiny mirrors that danced with light. Their midriffs were bare, skin exposed without shame, while long, loose skirts or split-legged pants swayed with each motion. Delicate belts of silver and gold jingled softly around their hips, and their arms and ankles glittered with bracelets and anklets. Some wore translucent veils, which only made their eyes—dark, haunted, and quiet—stand out even more.
They looked beautiful. Regal, even. But their expressions betrayed the truth. Their lips smiled, but their eyes? Their eyes screamed.
Once the giant arrived in front of us, he halted and, with a low grunt, began lowering himself onto his stomach—arms spread wide, back bowed, as if submitting completely.
The three women followed close behind. Without hesitation, they moved to his side and transformed into a living staircase. One knelt and bowed, her body forming the base. Another prostrated beside her, flattening herself against the giant's side. The last laid fully prone, forming the bottom step with practiced grace. Not a word passed between them—it was all silent obedience.
Then the door of the carriage creaked open.
From inside emerged a man dressed in something that looked like a formal astronaut's suit—pure white, spotless, and eerie, full with a bubble-like head. The coachman—still perched on the giant's neck—offered a hand, helping the figure descend the human staircase with delicate ease, like stepping down marble instead of flesh.
"Well, well… look who we have here."
Before I could even get a good look at his face, the CP0 agent struck me hard between the shoulders, forcing me to collapse onto all fours. The hit wasn't meant to injure—just to humiliate. When I glanced sideways, the same agent was already kneeling, head bowed low like a loyal hound.
"I heard you beat my Edgard Doomgate, didn't you?"
Edgard Doomgate? What kind of bootleg Whitebeard name is that? How badly do you want to be Edward Newgate? Did he copy the mustache too?
But all jokes aside, the man speaking—the one in the pristine white, space-suit-looking outfit—wasn't just some eccentric. He was a Celestial Dragon. And the fact that he knew who I was… that he cared… was not good news.
"You know," he said casually, voice muffled slightly through his helmet, "I thought yesterday's match would be boring. That's why I didn't bother to watch. Figured I'd skip the show and enjoy these lovely new acquisitions instead." He gestured lazily toward the three women behind him—still bowed, still silent.
"But then I heard that some child—a new slave—defeated my precious Edgard? That caught my attention."
He stepped closer, boots clicking on the marble path like a countdown to something terrible.
"So how about this…" He leaned forward slightly, amusement thick in his voice. "You face him again. A rematch. Entertain me properly this time."
He paused.
"And if you lose… there will be punishment."
His words were simple, but they hung in the air like a blade—thin, sharp, and ready to cut.
A rematch? Now?
You've got to be kidding me.
There's no way in hell I'd win if we ran it back today. Yesterday's victory was 20% skill, 60% him underestimating me, and 20% pure dumb luck. The guy treated me like a mosquito, and I turned that arrogance into my only weapon. But now? He won't make that mistake twice.
Worse, this place isn't like the arena. No sand to blind him, no crowd to boost his arrogance. And judging by the way he's crouched, fists tightening, this time he wants to fight barehanded. No giant naginata. Just raw strength versus… whatever the hell I am.
I don't have a weapon. I don't have a plan.
And I'm damn sure I don't have a chance.
The grass felt too soft beneath my bare feet. Too clean. No mud, no dust, no blood—yet. The man in the astronaut suit waved lazily, like he was telling a dog to fetch a stick.
"Begin."
No bell. No crowd. Just that single word.
And then the giant moved.
Edgard Doomgate—yeah, I'm never saying that name out loud—charged me like a cargo train, the ground trembling under each stomp of his heel. I barely had time to react, let alone breathe.
I sidestepped—barely. His fist slammed into the ground where I'd been a second ago, the impact sending a shockwave through the air, rattling my bones. Dirt sprayed like shrapnel. My legs moved on instinct, darting in, trying to close the distance and aim for his eyes again.
Didn't work.
He raised his forearm and swatted me like a fly. My body twisted midair before crashing into the ground and skidding across the grass. Pain lit up my side—probably a cracked rib. Maybe two. Definitely bleeding inside my mouth.
Get up.
I pushed myself up on trembling arms, my vision swimming, eyes barely able to focus. Every breath burned. He wasn't rushing this time. He just stood there—towering, shirtless, a mountain of muscle and menace. A blood-spotted bandage was still wrapped around his stomach, probably from the hit I landed yesterday. But it didn't make him look weak.
It made him look worse.
Like a wounded beast that learned exactly how I fought—and couldn't wait to return the favor. He grinned, wide and slow, like someone savoring the moment before the kill.
"Not so lucky this time, little bug."
I spat blood and ran at him again. I couldn't match his strength, so I had to use speed, unpredictability. I ducked under a sweeping punch and rolled between his legs, grabbing a chunk of the earth beneath him and flinging it upward into his face.
He roared, staggered slightly—then kicked backward.
The blow landed on my chest like a cannonball. I flew. Again. Something cracked in my back this time. My lungs seized. I couldn't even scream.
I crawled.
I don't know how I still moved, but I did. I tried to stand, legs wobbling, breathing through the pain. I threw one last desperate punch at his knee, hoping to make him stumble, anything—
He caught me by the head.
Fingers closed around my skull like a vise. He lifted me off the ground with one hand, my legs dangling, twitching, struggling. My fists hit his arm. Weak. Ineffective.
"Over."
He slammed me into the earth.
Once.
Twice.
Everything flashed white. Then black. Then sound vanished.
I couldn't move. Couldn't feel.
My cheek was pressed into the grass, and all I could see were the hem of silk skirts and bare feet adorned with anklets… the three women from earlier. One of them turned her face away. She couldn't bear to watch.
I couldn't blame her.
The last thing I saw was Edgard standing tall, smug, victorious, as the CP0 agent walked over and dropped something beside me.
Chains.
Then came the voice of the Celestial Dragon. Smooth. Mocking. Rotten at the edges like spoiled meat dressed in perfume.
"Punishment time."
A shiver ran down my spine. Whatever he had in mind, I didn't want to know.
And just as the fear began to crawl deeper than the pain—darkness swallowed me whole.