When I opened my eyes—for the second time today, or maybe the second time this week, I couldn't tell—the world greeted me with darkness.
A damp, reeking room cloaked in shadow. Stone walls dripped with condensation, and strange tools hung from iron hooks like trophies, or threats. Everything about the place felt… wrong.
"You're awake."
That voice. Smooth, rotten, playful in a way that made my skin crawl. The Celestial Dragon.
I tried to turn my head, to see him—but nothing moved.
Thick leather straps pinned me down, tight and absolute. My head was locked in place, forced to stare straight up at the cracked ceiling. My arms, legs, chest—hell, even my hands and fingers—were bound individually, each held down like I was some specimen on a butcher's table.
I couldn't look. I couldn't fight. I couldn't even shake.
All I could do was listen—and wait.
Even when I tried to scream, I couldn't. My jaw was strapped shut, locked tightly against my skull—just like the rest of me. All I could manage was a muffled grunt, raw and helpless.
But something felt wrong.
My mouth—there was something off about it. My right lip felt swollen, stretched unnaturally. And my cheek... it burned. A deep, searing pain, like someone had pressed a brand-new needle straight from the forge against my flesh, still glowing red-hot, not even cooled by water. The heat pulsed, raw and angry, and just as I began to process it—
His voice returned, low and sickly sweet.
"Let my doctor stitch your little wound first."
The words landed like a curse.
Before I could brace myself, I felt it. A tug—sharp and unnatural—on the inside of my cheek. Not thread. No, this wasn't thread. It felt stiff. Metallic. Cold when it entered, but burning as it passed through. My skin jerked with each pull, each cruel pass of the needle.
I thrashed against the restraints as hard as my battered body would allow, grunting like an animal in a trap—but the leather didn't budge. The pain didn't fade. It just kept going, steady and mechanical. Whoever was stitching my face had no mercy. No hesitation. No humanity.
They weren't treating a wound.
They were fixing me—like a broken toy.
And I couldn't do a damn thing to stop it.
For what felt like forever, the torture continued until, finally, I felt the last pull. Then a rough snip. The thing—whatever they'd used—was cut off and tied in place.
I could barely breathe. My chest rose and fell like I'd just survived being slammed by a dozen-story-high wave, then dragged under until I almost drowned. Sweat clung to me in sheets.
Then came his voice again—oozing satisfaction.
"You know… your resilience is quite good. I've never had a slave endure wire stitching without blacking out."
Wire?
Wire?!
He sewed my face shut with wire?
What the actual hell is this place?
Before I could even finish that thought in my head, his voice slithered back into my ears.
"I really want to add you to my collection."
No. Please no. That would be a nightmare—worse than death. Being a trophy to a man like him? I'd rather die in the sandpit.
"But… you're still too weak right now."
For a second—just a second—those words let me breathe. A strange relief. Maybe he'd move on. Maybe I'd be forgotten. But then he continued, and the chill returned to my bones.
"How about this… every month, you'll face one of my slaves in a one-on-one match."
A pause.
Long enough for the dread to bloom in my chest.
"And if you win…" he chuckled, like a child unwrapping a gift, "you'll become my exclusive slave."
No. No no no—
"But if you lose…"
Another pause.
"…there will be punishment. Like today."
shushushushushu
That laugh.
That inhuman, spine-crawling giggle at the end.
It wasn't just his voice that unsettled me—it was his entire existence. This wasn't a man. He was something else.
And I was caught in his game.
No matter if I win or lose… I lose.
--
The guard dragged me back to my cell, the clink of his keys echoing through the dim corridor. My body swayed with every step, the lingering ache in my cheek throbbing with each heartbeat. I must have blacked out earlier that morning, but when my eyes fluttered open again, the world outside was already swallowed in darkness.
I never saw the bastard who stitched me. The moment the guard unbuckled the straps that bound me to that bed, the room was empty—just the scent of metal and something acrid lingering in the air. Whoever he was, he moved like a shadow, quick and deliberate. Still, his touch—if you could call it that—was burned into my memory. And I swear, one day, I will find him. I'll remember every detail, and I'll pay him back. Him… and that damn Celestial Dragon who put me here.
Then there's the Whitebeard wannabe. Edgard Doomgate. At least, that's what I've heard. But I doubt that's his real name. I've seen enough stat sheets to know when one's being hidden from me, and his was blank—nothing. Maybe "Edgard Doomgate" is just the title his master slapped on him, a label instead of a life. Because no matter what he's done to me, no matter how deep his cruelty runs, I can see it in the way he moves, the way his gaze flickers when his master speaks—he's still a slave. Bound, And if his master calls him Edgard, that's the name the world will know, even if it's not the one he keeps buried inside.
When we stopped in front of my cell, the guard fumbled with the keys, the clink of metal echoing down the damp corridor. From the cell to my left, a familiar face appeared between the bars—Boa Hancock, her expression lit faintly by the silver wash of moonlight spilling through the high, barred window.
She leaned forward, trying to get a better look at me, but thankfully, the angle hid the right side of my face. The stitched cheek throbbed under the wire like it was still being worked on. I didn't want her to see that—at least not tonight.
"Vincent!" she hissed, voice low but sharp with worry. "Are you all right? I was afraid something happened… Darius came back alone today, and he wouldn't tell me where you were."
Her tone was more than concern—it was the kind of worry that gnaws at you until you can't sleep. And judging from the way the moon hung high and round in the ink-black sky, it had to be well past midnight. She'd been waiting for me all this time, fighting the pull of exhaustion just to make sure I returned.
Behind her, Hancock's little sisters were curled together in their corner, breathing slow and even, deep in whatever peaceful world dreams had taken them to. Even in my cell, I could make out the vague outline of Darius sprawled on the floor, snoring with that same smug grin etched on his face, as if even his dreams were victories.
The corridor smelled faintly of mildew and rust, and the guard's grip on my arm was rough enough to remind me I was still just cargo being delivered back to storage. But in that brief exchange, with her eyes fixed on me through the bars, I felt the weight of her patience and fear.
The guard shoved me through the cell door with a grunt, the iron bars clanging shut behind me. I stumbled forward, catching myself just before hitting the damp stone floor. In the corner, Darius was sprawled out on the cold ground, snoring like he hadn't a care in the world, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
From the cell beside mine, Hancock's voice slipped through the darkness—soft, but laced with both curiosity and worry.
"Vincent… say something, please. What happened to you today? Why are you back so late?"
I hesitated, leaning my back against the cold wall. The truth clawed at my throat, but if I told her what really happened—about the wire, the stitching, the sadistic terms of that deal—it would only make her worry more. But if I didn't answer her, she might start looking for answers on her own, and that would be dangerous.
So I gave her something half-true, just enough to keep her from digging deeper.
"Nothing serious, Hancock. I just… got beaten by that Whitebeard wannabe from yesterday. Apparently, some people who didn't watch the fight were curious how a kid like me could beat him before. And this time, he closed all his openings and went all in. I couldn't keep up. Ended up getting worked over and spending the rest of the day in what you could call a… hospital."
Even speaking that much made my cheek throb. My words came out slurred and uneven, the wire pulling against torn flesh with every movement of my jaw. I wasn't sure if my mouth would ever move the same way again—or if I'd ever speak without that faint, metallic taste of blood.
"What's wrong with your voice? You sound… muffled. Are you sure you're okay?" Her tone sharpened with concern, and I could almost picture her brows knitting together in the dim moonlight.
So she'd picked up on it. I guess it was too obvious—every word I spoke was filtered through a swollen cheek and lips that refused to move the way they should.
"I just dislocated my jaw," I said, forcing the words out slowly, careful not to let the wire tug too much. "Nothing serious."
It was a clean excuse—plausible enough to explain my garbled speech without inviting too many questions. Certainly better than telling her the truth. Some lies were easier for both of us to live with.
"Hancock… sorry, but I can't tell you more tonight," I murmured, my words thick and sluggish. "My jaw still hurts, and I'm… exhausted."
Lowering myself to the ground felt like sinking into broken glass—every muscle screamed from the day's beating, and the dull burn in my jaw was a constant reminder of what had happened. A reminder I doubted I'd ever erase, no matter how many years passed.
"Yes, you should rest, Vi," she said softly.
Vi? Now that was a good nickname. Short, sharp, and with a certain edge to it—like something out of a League of Legends roster. Cool enough to almost make me forget the pain.
As I let my body relax, my thoughts drifted into the dark, and exhaustion finally claimed me. Sleep came quick—well earned after the kind of day that carves itself into your bones.
--
A rough tug at my shoulder yanked me back into the waking world. My eyes snapped open, still foggy from slumber, and the dim light filtering through the bars told me it was morning. The first thing I saw was Darius, crouched in front of me, his grizzled face shadowed with something I didn't expect from him—concern.
"Kid… what happened yesterday? And what's that on your cheek?" His voice wasn't laced with the usual dry sarcasm or condescension. It was steady, serious, almost… protective.
"This?" I lifted a hand to my right cheek, feeling the sting where the fresh wire stitches pulled at my skin. The metal was still cold from the damp air, each movement sending a sharp reminder through my jaw. "Let's just say… I lost. And this was the punishment." My tone made it clear I didn't want to dig deeper.
Darius's eyes narrowed. "Is that all there is to it?" There was suspicion in his voice now, a weight that told me he wasn't buying the half-truth I'd just fed him. And he wasn't wrong. I didn't want to tell anyone what had happened—but if anyone might know what to do, it was him.
I exhaled slowly. "Yesterday, I met one of the Celestial Dragons. Ended up fighting that Whitebeard wannabe again… and lost. " I tapped my stitched cheek lightly. "This is what he gave me as a souvenir. Then he told me I'll be fighting one of his slaves once a month. If I lose, I get another punishment. If I win… I become his exclusive slave." My eyes met his, searching for some kind of answer. "What do you think I should do, Darius?"
The cell was silent for a moment, save for the faint drip of water somewhere down the hall. Darius studied me, his gaze unreadable, as if weighing every word I'd said. I didn't know if he had an answer, but right now, I needed him to. Because whatever path I took from here… I doubted I'd survive it alone.