One Piece: Undying Dream

11:45 - In a room overlooking the pits

Three men sat in a lavish room, watching the scene from a distance.

Lucien Vael sipped his wine, eyes half-lidded as if bored. The World Government's official overseer of the island operation, he wore his authority like a perfectly tailored suit. Thin fingers tapped against the crystal glass in his hand, each movement precise and calculated. A former intelligence officer whose ambition had led him down darker paths, Lucien had built an empire on secrets and leverage.

"That boy again," Lucien muttered, swirling the crimson liquid in his glass. "He's becoming quite the spectacle. The betting pool on him has tripled since last month."

Dagon "The Butcher" Grimm leaned forward in his chair, thick forearms resting on his knees as he let out a huff of amusement. Once a notorious pirate captain whose brutality had earned him a 500 million berry bounty, he'd struck a deal with the World Government—his knowledge of pirate routes and safe havens in exchange for a pardon and position of power. His massive battleaxe hung at his side, the edge perpetually stained despite regular cleaning.

"Let him fight," Dagon grunted, eyes gleaming with bloodlust. "The crowd loves a survivor. And when he finally breaks, they'll love that even more." He clenched his massive fist, the sound of knuckles cracking like gunshots in the quiet room. "Though I wouldn't mind testing him myself someday. Maybe after we're done with our special project in the east wing."

Lucien's glass froze halfway to his lips. "Mind your tongue, Dagon," he hissed, eyes suddenly sharp. "The walls have ears."

Salazar Voss, who had been watching in eerie silence from the shadows, stepped forward. The slimmest of the three, Salazar's gaunt face betrayed no emotion as his pale eyes tracked Roku's movements with clinical detachment. A scientist tasked with the World Governments most heinous experiments. Rather than waste his talents in the Marines, they'd sent him here—where ethics were an afterthought and test subjects plentiful. The leather gloves on his hands concealed fingers stained permanently green from his toxic concoctions.

"Our... guest... is not a topic for casual conversation," Salazar said, his voice soft as a death rattle. "CP-0 was explicit about discretion. This outpost was chosen specifically because of its obscurity."

Dagon waved a dismissive hand. "Who's going to hear? The slaves?" He barked a laugh. "Besides, no one would believe that the World Government would hide a—"

"Enough!" Lucien slammed his glass down, wine sloshing over the rim. "The arrangement is delicate. If word reached certain parties about what we're keeping here, this island would be crawling with far worse than slaves and gamblers."

Salazar's thin lips curved into a barely perceptible smile. "Speaking of our fighter, his recovery rate is... anomalous," he said, deftly changing the subject. "The poison I administered in last week's water ration would have killed most men twice his size. Yet he shows no lingering effects." A thin smile stretched across his face. "Fascinating."

Lucien raised an eyebrow. "You're testing your concoctions on our prize fighter without permission? The World Government representatives are coming next month. They'll want to see the famous boy gladiator they've heard so much about."

"A small dose," Salazar replied with a dismissive wave. "Nothing that would permanently damage such a valuable... specimen. Merely curiosity."

"Your curiosity costs me money," Lucien said, but there was no real anger in his tone. He turned to the window overlooking the arena, where Roku was now limping toward the exit gates. "No. We let him believe he's free. Then, when the time comes... we remind him who holds the leash."

Dagon chuckled, a sound like stones grinding together. "He's got fire in his eyes. The kind that doesn't go out easily."

"Fire burns out eventually," Lucien responded, setting down his emptied glass. "Everything does."

Salazar's fingers twitched slightly, the only indication of his excitement. "Unless preserved properly. I've been developing a new paralytic that maintains consciousness. Perhaps when you're finished with him..."

"Patience," Lucien cautioned, though his smile matched Salazar's cruelty. "Our operation here has the World Government's blessing as long as we continue to provide what they need and —information on pirate movements, battle-tested soldiers for their black ops, and subjects for their more... questionable research."

The warlords weren't worried about Roku.

Because in their eyes, he was already dead.

Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. A nervous-looking attendant entered, bowing deeply.

"My lords, the Government vessel has arrived early. They request your presence at the north dock."

Lucien straightened his immaculate jacket. "Duty calls, gentlemen. Remember, our island may be built on blood and chains, but it stands on the World Government's gold." He flashed a diplomat's smile. "Let's not keep our benefactors waiting."

14:40 - The Pits(Holding Cells underneath)

Roku sat on the edge of a bloodstained stone arena, wiping the sweat from his face with a rag that smelled worse than death.

His lip was split open, his ribs ached, but he had won.

Again.

The crowd's roars had faded now, replaced by the shuffling of slaves and guards preparing for the next match. He had two more rounds to go before the day's trials were done. Roku dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the protest from his bruised body. In the holding pen adjacent to the arena, other fighters watched him with a mixture of respect and hunger in their eyes.

"Impressive work with Krag," muttered an older fighter, a man whose face was so scarred it barely resembled anything human anymore. "Thought for sure he'd snap your neck when he caught you."

Roku gave a noncommittal grunt. No point in making friends with someone who might be trying to kill him in an hour.

A bell rang, harsh and insistent. Second round. The guards began shoving fighters toward the entry gate.

"Good luck, boy," the scarred man called after him. "You'll need it. They're putting you in with the twins."

Roku had heard of them. A pair of brothers, sold together as a single fighting unit. They'd killed fourteen opponents in the last month alone.

The arena sand was still dark with blood when Roku stepped back into the killing grounds. Across from him, the entry gate opened to reveal two figures moving with perfect synchronicity. They were thin, wiry men with identical shaved heads and matching brands on their shoulders. Neither carried weapons—they didn't need to.

The crowd erupted at the sight of them, eager for what they knew would be a brutal spectacle.

The bell rang, and the twins moved like shadows, splitting to flank him from both sides.

He caught the first twin with a feint, drawing him in before driving an elbow into the man's throat. As the fighter staggered back, gasping, Roku was already spinning to confront the second brother. The man's eyes blazed with fury—true partners, then. Not just fighters paired together.

Roku used that rage against him, letting the twin expend his energy in wild, vengeful attacks. He took hits—a brutal strike to his already damaged ribs, a glancing blow that nearly dislocated his jaw—but he remained standing, weathering the assault. When the moment came, Roku struck with precision, driving his knee into the man's sternum and following with a vicious blow to the temple.

The twin dropped like a stone.

His brother recovered enough to breathe again, charged with a howl of anguish. Roku sidestepped, caught the man's arm, and used his own momentum to slam him face-first into the arena wall. The impact was enough to render him unconscious, his body crumpling beside his brother's.

Silence fell across the arena, then erupted into a frenzy. They loved an underdog, these bloodthirsty spectators. Especially one who could defeat their favorites.

18:40 - The Pits(Holding Cells underneath)

The break between the second and third rounds was shorter. Barely enough time for Roku to catch his breath and accept the waterskin a nervous-looking slave boy offered him. He drank sparingly, knowing too much water before fighting could make him sick.

"Third round's special," the slave boy whispered, not meeting Roku's eyes. "Master Dagon requested it personally." 

"Dogun huh" Roku muttered, his eyes narrowing slightly. He tightened the wraps around his knuckles, ignoring the fresh blood seeping through from split skin beneath. "What does that Dog bastard want with me?" The slave boy opened his mouth to respond, but

The final bell rang all too soon.

When one of the warlords took personal interest in a match, it never ended well for the fighters. 

Third round. The crowd had swelled, word spreading of the young fighter who had survived both his matches. Even some of the warlords' personal guests had wandered down from their luxury boxes to get a closer look. Roku tried not to think about what that meant for the challenge ahead.

The gate across the arena opened, and a collective gasp went up from the crowd. A man stepped forward, easily seven feet tall, with shoulders like barrels and arms thick as tree trunks. His head was completely hairless, making the intricate tattoos covering his scalp all the more visible. In his hand, he carried an iron club studded with brutal spikes.

The announcer's voice boomed across the arena: "For your final spectacle—Roku the Unbroken against Hector the Mountain!"

Whispers rippled through the crowd. This wasn't a standard match. This was punishment disguised as entertainment. Someone wanted Roku dead—or at least badly hurt.

The bell rang for the final time.

Hector moved with surprising speed for a man of his size, the club whistling through the air where Roku's head had been moments before. The ground trembled as the weapon struck stone instead, sending chips flying. Roku darted in, landed two quick blows to the giant's kidney, then retreated before the backswing could catch him.

It was like hitting solid rock. Hector barely seemed to notice the strikes.

For ten excruciating minutes, Roku evaded death by inches. His lungs burned, his muscles screamed for rest, but he kept moving. Waiting for the opening. Every fighter had one—even mountains would crumble if you found the right crack.

Hector's left knee. There was a slight hitch in his stride when he put weight on it. Roku feinted right, then drove his full weight into that vulnerable joint. The giant roared in pain, staggering for the first time. Before he could recover, Roku delivered another quick strike to his knee, dropping him onto one knee. 

Time seemed to slow as Roku saw his opening. The crowd's roar faded to a distant hum as he focused entirely on the exposed target before him. With practiced precision, Roku launched himself into the air, his body beginning to rotate.

"RENEWAL TRIPLE KICK!"

The name escaped his lips without thought – something he'd never done before in the arena. As Roku spun through the air, his right foot connected with Hector's chin in a powerful arc, snapping his head back. Continuing the rotation without touching the ground, his right foot struck again in the same spot with even greater force. Completing the full aerial spin, Roku delivered the third and final devastating blow with the same foot, each impact building on the momentum of his rotation, focusing all his power into a single point of impact.

The crowd fell silent for one breathless moment as Hector's massive frame swayed like a felled tree. Then, with an earth-shaking impact, the mountain collapsed.

The silence shattered into deafening cheers. Somewhere in the luxury boxes, Roku caught a glimpse of Salazar leaning forward, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

The crowd had cheered for him today, but they would forget him tomorrow.

That was how this island worked. Names meant nothing here.

21:26 - Western Shore

That night, Roku sat alone beneath the stars, the cold wind biting through his tattered clothes. His body was a map of fresh injuries layered over old scars. Tomorrow would bring more of the same—fighting, bleeding, surviving by whatever means necessary.

He didn't believe in dreams. Didn't believe in fate.

But he did believe in one thing—

This island would never be his grave.

Not today. Not ever.

The sea stretched before him, a vast darkness dotted with the reflection of stars. Beyond those waters lay places he'd only heard about in whispers among slaves: islands where people walked freely, cities where no one wore collars, lands where strength wasn't measured in how many opponents you could kill.

Somewhere out there, the sea was waiting for him.

He just had to survive long enough to reach it.

Tomorrow would bring more fights. More pain. More watching the warlords from the corner of his eye, trying to understand their games.

But tonight, under these stars, Roku allowed himself the one feeling he never permitted in the arena.

Hope.