One Piece: Undying Dream

South Blue – 1480.06.16 

Unnamed Island

11:33 - Abandoned Shed

Six months.

Roku stared at the small mark he'd etched into the wall of the abandoned storage shed he'd claimed as his own. One hundred and eighty-three tally marks. Six months since the day he'd brought down Hector the Mountain with the Renewal Triple Kick.

Six months of hell.

The memory of his most recent fight flashed through Roku's mind—three opponents at once, all armed with crude weapons while he had nothing but his fists. Lucien had been watching from his private box, sipping wine as if observing a mildly interesting game rather than a fight to the death.

"Let's see how our little prodigy handles this," Lucien had said, just loud enough for Roku to hear.

The first attacker had swung a rusty chain. Roku had ducked under it, feeling the metal whisper past his ear. The second had come at him with a sharpened piece of metal. The third wielded a wooden club studded with nails.

Something had changed at that moment. As Roku pivoted to face the man with the club, he'd felt a strange sensation—like a whisper against his skin from behind. Without understanding why, he'd sidestepped just as the chain-wielding fighter had tried to blindside him.

"Too slow," Roku had muttered, confused by his own certainty but trusting the feeling.

What followed was a brutal dance. Roku had moved with precision, his body seeming to react before his mind could process the threats. He finished the fight with a variation of his spinning kick—this time launching from a crouch and targeting the legs of his final opponent, sweeping him off his feet before delivering a knockout blow.

The fight had earned him a deep gash across his shoulder and the unsettling interest of all three warlords.

Roku winced as he stretched his arm, feeling the fresh scab pull across his shoulder. Three fights yesterday. Two more scheduled for tonight. Since defeating Hector, the warlords had taken a special interest in him. Particularly Dagon, who seemed to take personal pleasure in testing Roku's limits.

"More fights, less rest," Roku muttered to himself, examining the bruises that mapped his torso like a sick constellation. "Happy birthday to me."

Today marked fifteen years of existence. Not life—existence. Roku didn't consider this living. The old man had told him, back when Roku was seven, barely understanding what it meant to be a slave.

"You were the sixth child born that month," the old man had wheezed, his lungs permanently damaged from years in the mines. "That's why they called you Roku. Just a number to them. But a name's a name, boy. Don't forget it."

The old man had died the next day, but Roku had never forgotten. He'd tracked the days since then, counting each year that passed. Not celebrating—just acknowledging. One more year survived.

Roku slumped against the wall, suddenly exhausted by more than just physical pain.

"Maybe the old man was the one who got out lucky" Roku sighed

"Roku! You in there?"

The hushed voice at his door made Roku tense. Jiro. Again.

"Go away," Roku said, but without much conviction. He already knew it was pointless.

The door creaked open and Jiro slipped inside. At eighteen, he was taller than Roku by a head, but much thinner. Three months ago, Jiro had been cornered by a group of desperate slaves looking to steal his rations. Roku had intervened—not out of kindness, but because the commotion had been attracting guards. Since then, the older boy had attached himself to Roku like a shadow.

"Brought you something," Jiro said, producing a small wrapped package from inside his ragged shirt. "For luck. Heard you've got a big fight tonight."

Roku eyed the package suspiciously. "Where'd you get that?"

"Nicked it from the kitchen when they had me scrubbing pots." Jiro grinned, revealing a missing front tooth—courtesy of a guard's fist. "It's your birthday, isn't it? The old man used to keep track for all the kids."

Roku accepted the package wordlessly. Inside was a piece of dried meat—actual meat, not the gruel they usually fed fighters. His stomach growled at the sight.

"Why do you care?" Roku asked, even as he took a small bite, savoring the unfamiliar flavor.

Jiro shrugged, settling on the floor across from him. "Because you didn't have to help me. But you did."

"They're pushing you harder than anyone I've ever seen," Jiro observed. "Even the veterans are talking about it. They say Salazar's been asking questions about your recovery time."

Roku's jaw tightened. "They can push all they want. I'm still standing."

"Yeah, but for how much longer?" Jiro's voice dropped even lower. "I overheard the guards. The warlords were arguing about you yesterday."

This caught Roku's attention. "What did they say?"

"Dagon wants to pit you against his personal champion—some monster they keep chained up below the east wing. Lucien thinks you're more valuable in regular matches where people can bet on you. And Salazar..." Jiro shuddered. "Salazar just wants to know why you haven't broken yet."

Outside, they could hear the everyday sounds of the slave island—whips cracking, orders being shouted, the distant clang of the arena bell. Two months ago, a crew of pirates had attempted to raid the island, thinking it an easy target. They hadn't known about the three warlords and their crews. The battle had lasted less than an hour. The pirates who weren't killed were added to the slave pens.

"Maybe this is it," he whispered, more to himself than to Jiro. "Maybe this is all there is."

For the first time in years, he felt the dangerous pull of surrender. What was the point of fighting? Of surviving one more day, one more year? The ocean he dreamed of reaching might as well be on the moon.

Get up.

The voice in his head was sharp, uncompromising.

"Why?" Roku asked aloud.

Jiro looked at him strangely. "Didn't say anything..."

Because you're not dead yet. And as long as you're not dead, there's a chance.

"A chance for what? More beatings? More fights?"

A chance to be free. You think the sea cares how many scars you have? How many bones you've broken? The sea is still waiting.

Roku closed his eyes, feeling the familiar war between hope and despair rage inside him. Fifteen years old. Half his life spent in the fighting pits. How much longer could he last?

As long as you need to.

"You talking to yourself again?" Jiro asked, concern evident in his voice. "You've been doing that more lately."

Roku opened his eyes. "Just thinking out loud."

"Well, think quieter. If the guards hear you talking to yourself, they'll tell Salazar. You know what happens to slaves who start losing their minds."

Yes, Roku knew. The Forgotten Shore.

They were about to respond to his inner voice when a sound cut through his thoughts—unusual shouting, different from the normal command-and-obey rhythms of the island. There was panic in those voices.

"What the hell is that?" Jiro jumped to his feet, moving to the door.