One Piece: Undying Dream

9:05 - Entering The Ring

The fighters around him were quick to raise their fists, eager for the first blood. Roku remained still, observing. The rules of this "tournament" were simple: fight until you stand, or you die trying. But it wasn't just the other fighters he had to worry about. It was the rich men watching, the ones who owned him the moment he stepped foot in this ring.

Dust kicked up from the arena floor as the six other fighters began to circle. The tall, muscular man that was arguing with Roku made the first move, charging at two smaller fighters with wild abandon. The crowd roared its approval at the violence.

Roku took three steps back, positioning himself near the arena wall. He watched as chaos erupted—another two fighters had already engaged in a brutal exchange of blows.

That left one unaccounted for.

A whistling sound cut through the air. Roku ducked instinctively as a fist crashed into the wall where his head had been moments before. The attacker—a wiry man with a crazed gleam in his eyes—had tried to catch him off guard.

Roku pivoted, his bare foot scraping against the rough sand. He didn't counter immediately. Instead, he slipped further to the side, forcing his opponent to overextend. When the man lunged again, Roku was ready. He caught the extended arm, twisted his body to redirect the momentum, and delivered a precise strike to the inside of the elbow.

A sickening crack echoed above the crowd's roar. The man howled in pain as his arm bent at an unnatural angle.

Roku gave him no time to recover. Two quick steps forward, and he drove his knee into the man's solar plexus. As his opponent doubled over, gasping for air, Roku clasped his hands together and brought them down hard on the back of the man's neck. The fighter collapsed, unconscious or dead—Roku didn't check.

"The little rat draws first blood!" someone shouted from the stands.

Across the arena, two fighters had already fallen. The tall scarred man stood triumphant, his hands slick with blood. He locked eyes with Roku and smiled—a predator recognizing another. "Save your strength, little boy," the scarred man called out, his voice carrying across the bloodstained sand. "I want to savor breaking every bone in your body personally." He spat on one of the fallen fighters at his feet. Roku didn't respond. Didn't even blink. Reaction was weakness in the pit, and weakness meant death. 

Between them, the remaining two fighters were still engaged in their own battle, circling ever closer to where Roku stood. He recognized the threat immediately. If he stayed put, he would get caught between three opponents.

Roku darted forward, directly toward the ongoing fight. The unexpected movement caught both fighters by surprise. Just as they turned to face this new threat, Roku dropped into a slide, kicking up sand into their eyes. One cursed and staggered back, temporarily blinded. The other recovered quickly, trying to stamp down on Roku's prone form.

Roku rolled, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow, then sprang up directly into the fighter's guard. They were chest to chest now—too close for the larger man to use his reach advantage. Roku struck three times in rapid succession: throat, kidney, knee. Each blow precise, each target vulnerable.

The fighter crumpled, gagging and clutching at his neck.

A sharp pain exploded across Roku's back as the previously blinded opponent managed to land a heavy blow. Roku stumbled forward but used the momentum to roll away, creating distance. His back burned, but nothing felt broken.

The crowd was getting louder. The scarred man was now advancing toward Roku, arms spread wide in a theatrical display for the audience.

"Look at you, little rat," the scarred man called out, playing to the crowd. "Scurrying around, hiding in corners. Is that how you've survived so long? Come, let me show these fine people what happens when you face a real fighter!" He gestured to the spectators, soaking in their cheers, before turning back to Roku with a patronizing smile. "I'll even give you the first hit. Go on, I insist." repeating Roku's words earlier. "Never seen someone talk so much in a fight." Roku's response voice carried clearly across the sand, silencing a portion of the crowd. "You're putting on quite a show. Is that to hide how much of a coward you really are?"

That is when the flanking fighter attacked first, hoping to drive Roku into the scarred man's grasp. Instead of retreating, Roku charged forward to meet him, surprising his attacker. He ducked under a wild swing and drove his shoulder into the man's sternum, using his smaller size and the man's own momentum against him.

As they fell, Roku twisted to land on top, delivering two sharp blows to the man's temple. The fighter went limp beneath him.

Roku rolled off immediately, barely avoiding the scarred man's kick that would have caught him in the ribs. He was on his feet again in an instant, facing his final opponent.

The scarred man was bigger, stronger, and clearly experienced. But Roku had been watching him. The man favored his right side. His left knee had a slight hitch when he stepped—an old injury, perhaps.

"They say you're good," the scarred man said, circling. "That you've been fighting since you were just a runt." He lunged suddenly, fists flying.

Roku weaved through the barrage, taking a glancing blow to the shoulder but avoiding anything solid. He didn't waste energy on his own attacks yet—he was measuring the man, learning his rhythm.

A feint to the left, and the scarred man overextended. There it was—the slight hesitation on that left knee. Roku struck a vicious kick to the side of the joint.

The man grunted but didn't go down. He caught Roku with a backhanded blow that sent him sprawling across the sand. The taste of blood filled Roku's mouth as he scrambled back to his feet.

The crowd was frenzied now, sensing the climax. Rich men in fine clothes leaned forward in their seats, eyes gleaming with the thrill of watching children and men kill each other for sport.

Roku spat blood onto the sand. The scarred man was approaching more cautiously now, favoring his injured knee. Roku knew he wouldn't get another free shot at it.

They clashed again, a brutal exchange of blows. Roku absorbed a punch to his ribs to get inside the man's guard, then struck at the throat and eyes—the great equalizers. The scarred man roared in fury, grabbing Roku by the shoulder and hurling him toward the arena wall.

Roku twisted in mid-air, using the wall to absorb some of the impact. He pushed off it immediately, launching himself back at his opponent with double the speed. His fist connected with the man's nose, shattering cartilage.

Blood cascaded down the scarred face, but the man only laughed, the sound wet and gurgling. He caught Roku with a massive blow to the side of the head. The world tilted as Roku hit the ground hard, his vision blurring.

The crowd's roar seemed distant now. Roku could see the scarred man approaching, confident in his victory. He was saying something, but Roku couldn't make out the words over the ringing in his ears.

One chance. He'd have one chance.

Roku lay still, letting his body go limp. Playing dead—or close to it. The scarred man reached down to grab him, to finish the job or perhaps to hold him up for the crowd's approval.

Time hitched.

For a fraction of a second, the world staggered, as if caught between one breath and the next. Roku saw everything—the fight unfolding before him, like a story already written.

His gaze locked onto a single point—the base of the scarred man's neck, glowing in his vision like a beacon.

As those thick fingers closed around his throat, Roku struck.

Now.

He drove his thumb deep into the man's already injured eye, pushing with every ounce of strength he had left. His other hand dug mercilessly into the pressure point at the man's neck.

The scarred man screamed, more in shock than pain, his grip loosening as he instinctively recoiled. But Roku didn't let go. He wrapped his legs around the man's torso, clinging like a parasite. 

Roku then put the man into a chokehold as they crashed to the ground, rolling through dirt and blood, but Roku never loosened his grip. The man bucked and slammed Roku but he held firm, tightening the choke as his opponent's struggles grew weaker, slower.

Then—a final, desperate twist. The scarred man thrashed once, twice—then stilled.

Silence.

The only sound was Roku's own ragged breathing. He released his grip slowly, waiting, ready for a final trick.

But there was none.

The scarred man lay motionless.

Roku rose to his feet, swaying slightly. Blood ran from a cut above his eye, and every breath sent pain shooting through his ribs. But he was standing. He was alive.

The bell rang again, signaling the end of the match. Roku looked up at the slavers and rich men watching from their comfortable seats. Their expressions were a mixture of surprise, delight, and cold calculation as they reassessed the value of their property.

Roku didn't acknowledge them. He simply turned and limped toward the gate, ready to be ushered back to his cell until they needed him to kill again.

Behind him, slaves were already entering the arena to drag away the bodies and clean up the blood. Some would be tossed into the Forgotten Shore. Others, who had merely been rendered unconscious, would wake up in pain, grateful for the chance to fight another day.

Just another morning in the pits.