Inside the floating prison of Skypiea, rows of notorious captives sat in silence.
Among them were Moonlight Moria, the Invisible Man Absalom, the Blazing Admiral Don Achino, the Leopard Man Rob Lucci, the Werewolf Jabra, the Doorman Blueno, the Bomber Kibakun, the Spring Man Bellamy, and the Dissolver Bark.
Their situation was grim. Trafalgar Law had already ripped their hearts from their chests, leaving them bound to his control. Worse still, Jewelry Bonney was using them as test subjects to practice the abilities of her Age-Age Fruit.
And then there were the scientists. Dr. Vegapunk's relentless team drew their blood day after day—extracting lineage factors to create artificial Zoan fruits from animal-type users, and artificial "Green Blood" from Paramecia users. These became stored abilities, strategic reserves meant to power future generations of Pacifista Seraphim.
Caesar Clown fared no better. When he wasn't crafting elemental Devil Fruit weapons or more artificial Zoans, Souta Kiryuu would beat him bloody as a sparring partner. Caesar's Logia abilities made him perfect for training the others in Armament Haki, but every day left him swollen and bruised.
Only Wapol, the Munch-Munch Man, and Foxy, the Slow-Slow Man, lived with relative comfort. Wapol was assigned a strict seven-hour "workday," devouring raw materials to produce alloys and memory-shape metals. Foxy, meanwhile, had been commandeered as Vegapunk's laboratory assistant. With his fruit's thirty-second slowdown, experiments that once required impossible speed could now be layered, stacked, and performed with uncanny precision.
Both of their abilities had already been cataloged into the Green Blood archive. Were it not for the fact that Green Blood only functioned within the extraordinary Lunarian physiology of the Seraphim, Vegapunk himself might have cloned his own bodies with those powers.
The first batch of seven Seraphim had already been claimed by Souta Kiryuu. Vegapunk could only push forward, desperately cultivating Lunarian cells, hoping to grow more hosts for his next round of Seraphim. If only a living Lunarian could be found, the progress would leap forward. But with the Lunarians nearly extinct, not a shadow of their kind had been seen for years.
Souta Kiryuu, having just finished another fierce battle with Bartholomew Kuma, strode into the Sky Prison. His gaze swept over the rows of captured pirates and agents.
"I gave you chances," he said coldly, his voice echoing through the chamber. "Now, I'll use my own method to make you obedient."
By now, their Devil Fruit abilities had already been duplicated and stored. For Souta, their value as test subjects was gone. The only thing left was to repurpose them, to bend their strength to his cause.
His eyes settled on Moonlight Moria. The words were aimed primarily at him. The others—like Lucci and Kibakun—were too loyal to their own factions to bend so easily.
Souta moved first, seizing Kibakun the Bomber, Bellamy the Spring Man, and Bark the Dissolver. He dragged them away without hesitation, wiping their memories clean. When they returned, they were no longer men, but tools—mindless warriors to be reforged.
"Doctor," Souta ordered, turning to Vegapunk, "the first batch of memory-metal combat suits—add a demon mask design. I'll forge them into a Ghost-Masked Corps."
Vegapunk frowned. "I'd prefer you reserve memory wiping for criminals only… as a path toward reform. Strip away too much, and you create soldiers without will. You risk becoming a tyrant."
"These men are criminals," Souta replied with an easy smile. "You know that, Doctor. And I too desire peace. This is simply a different road to it."
With Kuma's help, Souta erased the trio's memories. Clad in battle suits and horned masks, the Ghost-Masked Corps was born.
"Kuma," Souta said, "they're yours to train. From now on, they're our combat squad."
"Understood," Kuma answered calmly. Pirates and CP agents alike—they were all enemies of order. He bore no guilt in remolding them.
Souta pointed to the masked Bomber. "This one will follow Capone Bege. With his fruit, collecting supplies will be faster."
"Noted." Kuma nodded once more.
When Souta returned, he ordered that Don Achino, Rob Lucci, Jabra, and Blueno be taken next. Step by step, he was tightening the noose around Moria, cornering him through fear.
This time, Souta called Perona to witness.
"Lord Moria, please! I don't want you to die!" Perona's eyes brimmed with tears as she clung to him. Even Absalom's eyes showed naked fear. Neither of them knew what horrors befell those taken away. Were they dissected? Tortured? Erased?
The thought gnawed at them until Absalom's voice cracked with panic. Perona's desperate pleas only sharpened the tension.
"Are you serious about striking Kaido within three years?" Moria's voice broke as his façade of pride crumbled. His will was pierced by the fear in his subordinates' eyes.
"Yes," Souta said simply, his lips curving into a thin smile. "Care to join us in bringing him down?"
Moria clenched his jaw. Souta's words cut deep into his old wound—the memory of Kaido crushing his dreams, slaughtering his crew. Revenge had festered in him for decades.
"Fine! But remember what you've promised! Take off these damn Seastone cuffs!"
Souta's grin widened, his sharp white teeth flashing. With a wave, his soldiers removed the cuffs from Moria and Absalom.
"Welcome to my crew, Moonlight Moria."
Moria flexed his fingers as his strength returned, scowling. "And my heart? When do I get it back?"
"In a few days," Souta answered lightly. "First, I want you to see my domain. Witness our strength. Then you'll know we're ready for Kaido."
Perona squealed in delight. "Moria-sama, I'll show you around Skypiea!" Her joy was palpable—finally, they could all live, side by side again, without separation or death.
From the back of the cell, Don Achino broke. His voice was hoarse, his pride in tatters. "Captain Souta! Take me too! I'll join you—I don't want to die!"
The once-feared patriarch of the Achino Family could no longer hold on. For the sake of his life—and the chance to see his children again—he bent the knee.