Chapter 264

Drift Mark Island, Grand Line

The anguished howl of a puppy echoed through the ruins, a mournful sound that pierced the silence of the devastated town. The once-bustling streets were now little more than heaps of rubble, entire buildings reduced to crumbled stone and twisted steel.

Even the Marine base, the symbol of authority and order, lay in ruins, a monument to the destruction that had consumed the island.

Among the wreckage, a man, his clothes soaked in blood, pushed aside chunks of debris, his eyes scanning the devastation. His movements were mechanical, devoid of any urgency, as though he were merely going through the motions.

He dug deeper, lifting massive slabs of concrete and steel with brutal strength, his hands raw and bleeding from the effort. Soon, beneath the twisted remains of a building, he uncovered the source of the cries—a small, trembling puppy, miraculously alive amidst the chaos.

The man crouched down, extending a hand toward the pup. His fingers, caked in blood and dust, brushed its fur, and for a brief moment, his eyes softened. But before he could lift the animal free, a weak, rasping voice called out from beneath the rubble.

"Help... please... help me."

The man froze, his expression hardening once more. He shifted his gaze slightly and spotted another figure trapped beneath the debris—an injured man who had shielded the pup with his body, sparing the creature from the worst of the collapse. Blood streamed down his face, his eyes wide with fear and desperation.

The puppy let out a soft whine, licking at the man's hand, as if pleading for its owner's life. The trapped man looked up, hope flickering in his pain-filled eyes. "Please... help us. Save... my dog."

The blood-stained man straightened up, his cold eyes narrowing as he regarded the pitiful scene before him. "You're alive," he muttered, his voice low and devoid of emotion. But there was no warmth in his tone, no relief in finding survivors. His gaze flickered to the injured man, then back to the puppy, now squirming at his feet.

The man knelt, freeing the small creature from the wreckage with a surprising gentleness. He cradled it in his arms for a moment, running a hand along its back as it whimpered, confused and frightened. But his attention quickly returned to the man pinned beneath the rubble.

"You sinned the moment you were born," the blood-stained man said, his voice suddenly hard and cold, his eyes filled with something far more sinister. "You sinned by being human."

The injured man's face twisted in confusion and terror. "W-What...?"

Before the man could process the words, before he could beg for his life, the blood-stained figure stepped forward, planting his boot squarely on the trapped man's head. There was no hesitation, no pause to consider mercy.

With a sickening crunch, the sound of bone shattering echoed through the ruins. The man's pleas died instantly, his skull crushed beneath the weight of a twisted mind.

The puppy barked and whined in confusion, nipping at the man's leg as if trying to defend the owner who had just been brutally murdered. But the man, now standing over the body, looked down at the small animal and chuckled—a low, dark sound that held no humor, only malice.

"Humans don't deserve your loyalty, little one," he murmured, his voice soft but full of venom. He shook his leg lightly, brushing off the pup's bite without care. "Go. Live your life without them. Without their cruelty."

He turned his back on the whimpering dog, the town's smoldering remains stretching out before him. The devastation was complete—nothing but ash and ruin as far as the eye could see. The man walked away slowly, his every step deliberate, each one a testament to the destruction he had wrought.

This island, once vibrant, had been wiped from the map. No one would survive this—he had made sure of that. He was the storm that had swallowed the town whole, leaving no one alive to tell the tale. His twisted sense of justice demanded it.

The world, in his eyes, was diseased—corrupted by humanity, poisoned by the sins of the very people who had wronged him.

As he walked, his mind replayed the horrors of his past, the loss, the pain that had shaped him into this vengeful monster. Once, he had been just like them—like the man he had just killed. But the world had taken everything from him, left him with nothing but a burning hatred and the desire to see it all end.

Now, his only purpose was destruction. To cleanse the earth of the stain that was humanity, to ensure no one else would suffer as he had. And as he left the ruined town behind, the puppy's cries fading into the distance, a grim smile curled at the edges of his lips.

"They'll all pay," he muttered to himself, his voice barely audible over the crackling of distant flames. "Every last one of them."

He disappeared into the horizon, a ghost leaving behind nothing but ashes, and a world he sought to destroy piece by piece.

A few hours later, a small galleon steadily sailed toward Driftmark Island, cutting through the calm waves under a cloudy sky. The jubilant atmosphere on deck was palpable as Benn Beckmann, ever calm and composed, checked the Log Pose strapped to his wrist. "The Log Pose is steady," he muttered, eyes flicking between the crude hand-drawn map in his other hand. "We must be close to the next island."

Buggy, leaning over Beckmann's shoulder, squinted at the "map." Calling it a map was an insult. It was more like a child's doodle, hastily scrawled from Shanks' vague recollections. "How the hell can you even read that?" Buggy grumbled, scratching his head, while Beckmann just shrugged with a smirk.

Suddenly, a shift in the atmosphere. Lucky Roux, who had been cheerfully gnawing on a massive turkey leg, stopped mid-bite. His jovial demeanor evaporated as his nose twitched. He set down his tankard, a rare show of seriousness crossing his face, which immediately drew the attention of the entire crew.

"What's wrong, Roux?" Shanks asked, sensing the change in the air. Yassop, standing nearby, instinctively raised his rifle scope, scanning the horizon.

Roux's face was grim as he sniffed the air again. "You guys don't smell it?" His voice was low, almost a growl, as if he could already sense something foul. The rest of the crew exchanged confused glances, still unaware of the growing tension.

"What are you talking about?" Shanks pressed, now fully alert.

Roux took another deep breath, and his face darkened. "It's burnt flesh... and not just a few bodies—hundreds, maybe thousands." The words hung heavy in the air, sending a chill down everyone's spine.

Without hesitation, Yassop sprinted toward the crow's nest, moving with inhuman speed, his spyglass in hand. He climbed the mast with practiced ease, perching high above the deck. As he peered through the spyglass, his expression changed—his usual calm demeanor replaced with urgency.

"Shanks..." Yassop's voice wavered slightly, unusual for the seasoned sniper. "You need to come see this."

The crew tensed as Shanks made his way up, snatching the spyglass from Yassop's outstretched hand. As he trained his gaze on the island in the distance, his eyes widened. Even from dozens of miles away, it was clear—the entire island was engulfed in flames.

Thick black smoke spiraled into the sky, and the orange glow of fire illuminated the horizon. The stench Roux had detected was now undeniable, even without getting closer.

"Looks like the whole island's on fire," Shanks muttered, passing the spyglass back to Yassop, his tone grim. "Whatever happened here... it wasn't natural."

The galleon drew closer, the winds carrying the nauseating stench of burning flesh and blood. The crew, seasoned as they were, couldn't ignore the overwhelming smell. Some clutched their noses, faces pale with sickness. Others, less fortunate, stumbled toward the railings, retching violently as the mix of smoke and death assaulted their senses.

"It's a massacre," Beckmann said quietly, his sharp eyes narrowing as they neared the shoreline. The flames flickered, casting ominous shadows over what remained of Driftmark Island. Bodies littered the coast, charred beyond recognition, and the once-bustling settlement was now a graveyard consumed by fire.

Shanks clenched his fists, his knuckles white as his gaze swept over the destruction. "Prepare to dock," he ordered, his voice steely with resolve. Whatever had caused this... they had to find out.

"Those who can't handle this, stay on the ship. Benn, stay with the others and guard the vessel—don't let your guard down for a second," Shanks commanded firmly. With a glance over his shoulder, he locked eyes with his first mate, Benn Beckman, who gave a brief nod in understanding.

Shanks, followed closely by Buggy and Roux, leapt off the ship and landed on the rocky shore. The wind whipped through their cloaks as they moved forward with purpose, the weight of the coming battle heavy in the air. Behind them, Beckmann and Yassop stayed aboard, both seasoned enough to know the importance of keeping watch.

Shanks' crew, still largely made up of young pirates, most of them barely out of their teens, huddled together on deck. Their faces were a mix of awe and unease, a far cry from the hardened expressions of men who had faced the brutal realities of the sea for years.

Beckmann, the oldest and most experienced among them, could see the fear in their eyes—the fear that comes when one hasn't yet fully grasped the cruelty of the world outside their ship.

********

Hachinosu, New World

The dimly lit cellar was thick with tension, the air heavy and still. Yamato, barely seven years old, sat slumped against the cold stone wall, her small body marred by countless wounds. Blood seeped from deep cuts, some of which had begun to fester.

The Sea-Prism Stone shackles around her wrists suppressed the power of her mythical Zoan fruit, robbing her of her ability to heal. But despite the pain and her fragile state, her eyes blazed with defiance.

Kaido's towering figure filled the room, casting a dark shadow over her. His deep voice rumbled through the cellar like distant thunder, filled with a barely contained fury. "So... you still haven't learned your lesson, have you?" His words came out slowly, dripping with condescension.

He gazed down at his daughter, the thought of ending her suffering momentarily crossing his mind. It would be so easy—one swift motion, and she'd be free. But then the sharp sting of humiliation struck him, igniting his rage once more. No, he couldn't allow it. His own heir—his blood—admiring the man who had humiliated him not once, but twice.

Yamato, though barely able to move, forced herself to meet his gaze. Her voice was hoarse but unwavering. "Rosinante... he defeated you twice. He took Wano from you. You can't change that, no matter how much you deny it."

Kaido's eyes narrowed, the fury flaring in his chest. "Defeated me?" His voice was a low growl, as if daring her to repeat it. "No one has ever defeated me. That man—Rosinante—is nothing but a nuisance who got lucky. Twice."

But Yamato didn't back down. Her mind flashed back to the moment she'd witnessed—Rosinante standing tall against her father in Wano, a single devastating attack bringing Kaido to his knees, shaking the island to its core.

She had never seen anything like it, the sheer awe and power of that moment seared into her memory. It was that strength, that resolve, which had inspired her ever since.

"You're lying," Yamato spat, her voice gaining strength despite the agony wracking her body. "I saw it. I saw how you fell to your knees when he struck you in Wano. Everyone saw it! Rosinante is stronger than you, and that's why you hate him. That's why you can't stand that I admire him."

Kaido's face twisted with rage, but beneath it all, there was something else—something he would never admit. A flicker of doubt. For a brief moment, he recalled the battle in Wano, the earth-shattering power Rosinante had unleashed, the humiliation of being brought to his knees by a single blow.

And then again, on Punk Hazard—his rage, his strength, his will had not been enough to defeat the man who stood in his way. But that wasn't the story Kaido told himself. No one was stronger than him. Not Rosinante. Not anyone.

He slammed his fist against the wall, the force causing the entire room to tremble. "You don't know what you're talking about, boy," he growled, his voice low and dangerous. "Rosinante stole Wano from me, yes, but it wasn't strength that did it. It was trickery. Underhanded tactics. A real warrior fights face to face, not like that pathetic coward."

But Yamato wasn't listening. In her mind, Rosinante stood like a giant, a beacon of what true strength and honor looked like. He wasn't just a warrior—he was a hero, someone who fought for something more than just power or conquest. Someone who stood up to monsters, even when they seemed unbeatable. And no matter what Kaido said, he couldn't erase the truth she had seen with her own eyes.

"I'd rather die than ever become like you," Yamato whispered, her voice filled with venom.

"Rosinante fights for people, for something greater than himself. You... you only fight to break things, to conquer. That's not strength. That's cowardice."

Kaido's nostrils flared, his rage boiling over. In one swift motion, he grabbed Yamato by the front of her tattered clothes, lifting her off the ground effortlessly. Her small body dangled in the air, but her eyes never left his—burning with the same defiance that had kindled inside her the moment she'd witnessed Rosinante's strength.

"You think that is strength?!" Kaido roared, his voice shaking the walls. "Admiring a man who humiliated me—your own father?! Idolizing the very enemy who stripped me of Wano? You think that makes you strong?"

But as he held her there, something flickered deep within him. His grip tightened, but for a moment, he hesitated. Yamato's defiance, her resolve—it reminded him of something. Himself. No. He pushed the thought away. This wasn't strength; it was rebellion. And rebellion had to be crushed.

Kaido snarled and threw Yamato to the ground with brutal force. She hit the floor hard, coughing and gasping for air, but even as her body convulsed with pain, her spirit remained unyielding.

She pushed herself up, her voice barely a whisper but filled with conviction. "Rosinante beat you. Twice. And you can't stand it. That's why you're afraid of him... and why you're afraid of me."

Kaido turned, his back now to her, fists clenched at his sides. He didn't deny it. How could he? He had spent years trying to convince himself that it had been luck, that Rosinante's victories were flukes, that he wasn't truly defeated. But every time he heard the name, every time he thought of Wano, the sting of those defeats burned deep.

Suddenly Kaido's laughter erupted like thunder in the dim cellar, his deep, mocking voice reverberating off the stone walls.

"Wororororo! So, you think he fights for the people?" He sneered, shaking his head as if he'd just heard the most ridiculous joke in the world.

"That's the greatest lie I've ever heard!" He reached into his cloak and tossed a crumpled, bloodstained bounty poster at Yamato's feet. It was a poster of Rosinante—stabbed dozens of times, torn at the edges, a testament to Kaido's unrelenting hatred.

"If you believe he's some kind of hero, then you're the biggest fool of all," Kaido scoffed, his eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction. "Rosinante is a pirate, just like me—maybe even worse. He doesn't fight for the people, Yamato. He's no savior. He's a killer, just like the rest of us."

Yamato stared at the poster, her hands trembling as she reached out to touch the worn paper. Even through the mockery, she couldn't help but see the man she had admired, the man who had stood against Kaido and toppled him.

The image of Rosinante towering over her father in Wano, defeating him with a single, awe-inspiring strike, was seared into her mind. To her, he wasn't just a pirate—he was something more. He was the symbol of everything Kaido could never be. And that's what mattered.

Yamato clenched her fists, her breath ragged but steady. "So what?" she spat, her voice shaking with emotion. She lifted her head, her eyes locking onto Kaido's with a fire that couldn't be extinguished.

"Maybe he is a pirate. Maybe he's not perfect. But whatever he does, he does it for his family. He fights for the people he cares about."

Her voice cracked, but the hatred in her words grew colder. "He's not you. And that's all that matters to me."

Kaido's sneer faltered, his expression hardening as Yamato's next words hit like a dagger to his pride.

"Someday," she whispered, tears streaming down her face, "I will have your head for what you did to my mother." Her voice, though filled with the raw pain of a child, carried a chilling tone far too dark for someone so young.

"Don't think that just because she's dead, I don't know what happened to her. I know everything."

Kaido's smug expression vanished, replaced by a shadow of something far more dangerous. He stared at Yamato, his massive frame tense, as if her words had pierced through something deeper than he'd expected. For a moment, he didn't speak, just stood there, his eyes burning with fury.

"You better kill me now, Kaido," Yamato growled, her voice trembling with a hatred far too deep for a seven-year-old.

"Because if you don't, I'll find a way out of here. And when I do, I'll kill you."

Her words hung in the air like a curse, each one dripping with venom. It wasn't just a threat—it was a vow, born from years of torment and the unspeakable cruelty she had endured at her father's hands. Her hatred for Kaido wasn't just deep; it was all-consuming.

Kaido's eyes darkened, and for a moment, his breath caught. "So... you knew." His voice was barely above a whisper, the weight of Yamato's words sinking in. He didn't turn to face her, but his hands clenched into fists at his sides. "In that case," he said, his voice cold and detached, "this place will be your grave."

Without another word, he stormed out of the cellar, slamming the iron door behind him with such force that the sound echoed through the dark, suffocating silence that followed. Yamato lay on the cold stone floor, her small body bruised, battered, and broken, but her spirit was far from defeated. She wiped away her tears with bloodstained hands, her resolve unshaken.

As the darkness of the cellar swallowed her, Yamato's heart burned with the memory of her mother and the hatred she harbored for Kaido. Someday, she would be free. And when that day came, she would fulfill her promise.

Kaido's reign would end at her hands. She would make sure of it.

*****

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