-Real World-
The Sky Screen's revelations had created many victims across the world. Kozuki Momonosuke faced exposure and pursuit. Buggy the Clown endured worldwide scrutiny and conspiracy theories. The Hyūga and Uchiha Clans had their forgotten histories dragged into public consciousness.
But only one person had to endure immediate, unrelenting physical agony from the moment the broadcast concluded.
Douglas Bullet. The ungrateful brother who'd kept secrets from his former captain. The stubborn fool who refused to surrender information everyone wanted.
And now he was paying the price.
-Real World - Impel Down, Level Six - Eternal Hell-
The world's largest prison possessed six levels of descending horror. Each floor housed progressively more dangerous criminals in increasingly brutal conditions. But Level Six—Eternal Hell—existed in a category beyond mere cruelty.
This was where monsters lived. Pirates so dangerous their very existence was erased from public record. Criminals whose bounties exceeded the GDP of small nations. Legends who'd terrorized the seas before their capture.
And currently, Level Six was hosting entertainment.
The vast chamber, which normally existed in absolute darkness and suffocating silence—sensory deprivation that slowly drove even the strongest minds toward madness—had been illuminated for a special occasion. Torches blazed in wall sconces, casting dancing shadows across stone walls slick with centuries of accumulated moisture.
The prisoners, confined in individual cells separated by thick walls, couldn't see each other under normal circumstances. But they could hear. Gods, they could hear everything.
And right now, what they heard was a torture show.
Douglas Bullet hung suspended in the center of the level's main corridor, his massive body displayed like a warning to others. Seastone chains bound his wrists and ankles—each shackle draining his Devil Fruit powers and most of his physical strength. Additional iron chains wrapped around his waist, supporting his weight and preventing his feet from touching the ground.
The position was deliberately chosen. Denying him solid footing meant denying rest. His muscles had to remain constantly engaged just to prevent the chains from cutting deeper into his flesh. Even someone with Bullet's superhuman endurance would eventually collapse from exhaustion.
But exhaustion wasn't the immediate concern.
Blood pooled beneath him—dark, viscous, spreading slowly across stone that had absorbed centuries of similar stains. Bullet's body bore multiple transparent holes, each roughly an inch in diameter, where a blade had pierced completely through. Shoulder. Thigh. Lower abdomen. Upper chest. Each wound leaked steadily, painting his skin crimson and dripping with monotonous regularity.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
The sound echoed across Level Six with hypnotic rhythm.
"Don't you want to speak, Bullet?" A voice carried equal parts amusement and menace. "Because I'm starting to think you want to die. Is that it? Have you given up already?"
Shiryu of the Rain stood before the suspended prisoner, a lit cigar dangling from his lips. The Head Jailer had been dismissed by Magellan for excessive cruelty—killing prisoners when he was only supposed to interrogate them. As punishment, he'd been imprisoned in Level Six alongside the monsters he once guarded.
But the Sky Screen's revelations had changed everything. Suddenly, Shiryu's sadistic talents were needed. His unique abilities were valuable. He'd been released from his cell and given free rein to extract information through whatever methods he deemed appropriate.
Like the master, like the sword, the old saying went. And Shiryu's blade—the demon sword Raiu—thirsted for blood with almost sentient hunger.
The weapon gleamed in the torchlight, its edge stained red. Raiu possessed unusual properties beyond its exceptional sharpness. Wounds it inflicted didn't heal properly. Blood flow couldn't be stanched. Even someone with Bullet's legendary recovery abilities remained vulnerable to its effects.
Shiryu took a long drag on his cigar, savoring both the tobacco and the moment. Then he drove Raiu forward again, piercing Bullet's right shoulder. The blade slid through muscle and bone with minimal resistance, emerging from the back in a spray of blood.
Bullet's jaw clenched. A grunt escaped through gritted teeth. But he didn't scream.
Never scream. Never give them that satisfaction.
"Stubborn," Shiryu observed, twisting the blade slightly before withdrawing it. Fresh blood gushed from the new wound, adding to the growing pool. "I respect that, actually. Most people break within the first hour. But you? It's been three days, and you're still defiant."
The former Head Jailer's expression was one of genuine appreciation, as if admiring a particularly well-crafted piece of art.
"Makes the process so much more enjoyable."
Around them, the prisoners of Level Six listened. Some with glee. Some with disgust. Some with clinical detachment. But all of them listened.
"Go on! Don't give those government dogs anything!" A woman's voice rang out from a nearby cell—sharp, eager, delighted by the chaos. "Make them work for it, Bullet! Every day you resist is a day they suffer!"
Catarina Devon—the Crescent Moon Hunter—pressed against the bars of her cell, her fox-like features twisted into a vicious grin. She'd always enjoyed watching suffering, especially when it embarrassed the World Government.
"The permanent pointer belongs to pirates! Roger's legacy belongs to us! Don't let these Celestial Dragon lapdogs claim it!"
Her sentiment represented a significant faction among Level Six's population: the die-hards. Pirates who'd rather die than assist the World Government. Who viewed cooperation as the ultimate betrayal. Who took vicious pleasure in any act of defiance, no matter how futile.
But not all prisoners shared that perspective.
"Bullet, be reasonable!" A different voice called out—thick, slurred, desperate. "Ask them for some wine! Good wine! Tell them you'll talk if they bring you a barrel of decent alcohol. We can negotiate! We can work something out!"
Vasco Shot—known as Heavy Drinker—couldn't see the torture from his cell, but his imagination filled in the gaps. More importantly, his addiction demanded satisfaction. It had been years since he'd tasted quality liquor. The withdrawal was a torture of its own.
If knowing where the Eternal Pose was hidden meant he could negotiate for alcohol, Vasco would have traded that information instantly. Loyalty to dead pirates meant nothing compared to the burning need in his throat.
"Just cooperate a little!" Vasco continued, his tone becoming wheedling. "Nobody benefits from you dying! Tell them something—anything—and get yourself better treatment! Get us all better treatment!"
He represented the compromisers. Prisoners who'd accepted their confinement and sought to make it more comfortable through cooperation. Who viewed ideology as a luxury they couldn't afford. Who'd trade anything for small improvements to their existence.
These two groups—die-hards and compromisers—had been arguing for three days straight, their debate providing background noise to Bullet's ongoing torture.
But a third group remained notably silent.
Patrick Redfield—the Red Earl, also called Red the Aloof—sat in his cell with eyes closed, apparently meditating. But his mind worked furiously, analyzing every detail the Sky Screen had revealed.
The underwater prison will be breached. Prisoners will escape. The world will descend into chaos.
After decades of captivity in this lightless hell, he'd finally seen hope. Not rescue, but opportunity. When Buggy the Clown tore through Impel Down's defenses, when the carefully maintained order collapsed, Redfield would seize his chance.
I refuse to die here, he thought with quiet intensity. I refuse to be forgotten. I am the Red Earl. My name once commanded fear across these seas. It will do so again.
The prospect of death in captivity—of fading into obscurity, of having his legend erased from history like so many other Level Six prisoners—was intolerable. Better to die fighting than rot in darkness.
He listened to Bullet's continued defiance with something approaching respect. That stubbornness might buy us all time. Keep the guards focused on one prisoner while the rest of us prepare for inevitable escape.
Byrnndi World—the World Destroyer—harbored similar thoughts. His Moa Moa no Mi (More-More Fruit) could multiply the size and speed of any object he touched. In his prime, he'd terrorized the seas by accelerating cannonballs to supersonic speeds and enlarging bullets to building-crushing sizes.
If I weren't bound by these damned seastone chains, World thought bitterly, I'd blow this prison to bedrock. Reduce it to rubble so thoroughly that rebuilding would be impossible.
He didn't particularly care about ONEPIECE or Roger's legacy. His goals were simpler: escape, find his brother, reunite with surviving crew members, and perhaps settle scores with those who'd betrayed him.
The fight for the legendary treasure could wait until after freedom was secured.
This small group of strategic thinkers—prisoners who planned rather than reacted—watched events unfold with calculating eyes. They understood that chaos created opportunity. That Bullet's suffering, while unfortunate, served a purpose by keeping authorities focused elsewhere.
None of us truly care about him as a person, Redfield acknowledged with brutal honesty. But his stubbornness benefits us all. So resist, Douglas Bullet. Resist as long as you can.
The irony wasn't lost on anyone: the Marine, who were supposed to be Bullet's enemies, now cared more about keeping him alive than his fellow prisoners did. Because a dead man couldn't provide information. A corpse was worthless for interrogation purposes.
Deputy Director Hannibal watched the torture session with growing alarm. Shiryu had been at this for hours—far longer than any human body should endure. Even someone as monstrous as Bullet had limits. The amount of blood pooled beneath him suggested those limits were approaching rapidly.
"Shiryu!" Hannibal's voice cracked slightly, betraying his fear. "Stop this immediately! Director Magellan's orders were explicit—extract information, not kill the prisoner! If you continue, he'll die!"
It was a lie, of course. Magellan hadn't given specific orders one way or another. But invoking the Director's authority was Hannibal's only leverage against the sadistic former Head Jailer.
Please let that work, Hannibal prayed internally. Please don't let him call my bluff.
Because if Shiryu decided to test that claim—if he ignored the warning and continued until Bullet's heart stopped—there would be hell to pay from the World Government. And Hannibal, as the officer present during the prisoner's death, would bear responsibility.
Shiryu pulled Raiu from Bullet's shoulder with a wet sound, like meat being separated from bone. He didn't sheath the blade immediately. Instead, he held it up, admiring how blood ran down its length in rivulets, how the demon sword seemed to glow with satisfaction after feeding.
Then his gaze shifted—cold, calculating, mildly annoyed—toward Hannibal.
The Deputy Director flinched despite himself.
But before Shiryu could respond, another voice interjected. Calm. Professional. Utterly devoid of emotion.
"Physical torture has proven inadequate." The speaker wore CP0's distinctive white suit and full-face mask, rendering them anonymous and somehow more threatening for it. "The prisoner's pain tolerance exceeds conventional interrogation methods. We must transition to technological solutions."
The CP0 agent stepped forward, consulting a document held in gloved hands. "Saint Jaygarcia Saturn has authorized alternative procedures. If traditional means cannot open this prisoner's mouth, he'll be transferred from Impel Down to a secure facility controlled by the Holy Knights. There, more... advanced techniques can be applied without bureaucratic oversight."
The implication was clear: We're going to do things to him that even Impel Down won't permit on their premises.
Shiryu's expression darkened. Not from sympathy for the prisoner, but from professional irritation. Being told his methods were insufficient insulted his craftsmanship. He was an artist of suffering, and this governmental bureaucrat had just criticized his work.
"I could make him talk," Shiryu said, his voice carrying an edge. "Given enough time. Everyone breaks eventually."
"We don't have 'enough time,'" the CP0 agent replied flatly. "The Sky Screen revealed futures we must prevent. Strategic decisions require immediate intelligence. Douglas Bullet's stubbornness, while admirable, is unacceptable from an operational standpoint."
The agent turned toward Bullet's suspended form, head tilting slightly as if examining a particularly interesting specimen.
"Technological interrogation bypasses willpower entirely. Chemical compounds that force truth regardless of mental resistance. Surgical procedures that extract information directly from neurological tissue. Dr. Vegapunk's research has advanced considerably in this field."
Hannibal felt his stomach turn. He'd signed up to guard criminals, not participate in... whatever the World Government was planning. But orders were orders, and refusing would mean his own imprisonment.
Bullet, hanging in his chains with blood still flowing from multiple wounds, finally spoke. His voice was hoarse, damaged from hours of screaming he'd suppressed, but the words carried undeniable venom.
"Bah." He spat toward Shiryu's feet—a globule of blood-tinged saliva that landed with a wet splat. "I won't die even if you die first, you Celestial Dragon lapdog. You think you're going to get ONEPIECE? Go home and fucking dream about it."
His lips, pale from blood loss, pulled back in a defiant grin that showed red-stained teeth.
"I'll never surrender that information. Not to torture. Not to drugs. Not even if you cut my head off and read my dying thoughts. The Eternal Pose is beyond your reach, and nothing you do will change that."
The declaration hung in the blood-scented air.
If you fear death, you're not the Devil's Heir. If you yield to threats, you're not Douglas Bullet.
He'd built his entire identity on this principle: strength was everything. The strong commanded. The weak obeyed. And the only way to prove superiority was through direct, overwhelming violence.
That's why he'd followed Roger—because the Pirate King had beaten him so decisively that submission felt natural. That's why he now served Buggy—because the Clown had demonstrated power Bullet couldn't match.
But these interrogators? They hadn't earned his respect. They restrained him with seastone, stabbed him while he was bound, tortured him while he was helpless. There was no honor in this. No test of strength. Just cruelty inflicted by the weak upon the temporarily disabled.
I'll die before I give them satisfaction, Bullet thought with crystalline certainty. Let them try their drugs and surgeries. My mind is my own until my heart stops.
Catarina Devon's laughter echoed from her cell, sharp and delighted. "That's the spirit! Make them suffer for it! Every failure brings them closer to irrelevance!"
Vasco Shot groaned in frustration. "You're all insane! This isn't about pride—it's about survival! Just cooperate already!"
Patrick Redfield remained silent, but allowed himself the ghost of a smile. Yes. Keep resisting. Buy us time. When chaos comes, we'll make our move.
The CP0 agent made a notation on their document, apparently unmoved by Bullet's defiance. "Transportation arrangements will be finalized within forty-eight hours. Ensure the prisoner survives until transfer."
With that, the agent departed, footsteps echoing away into darkness.
Shiryu looked down at Raiu, then back at Bullet's bleeding form. Part of him wanted to continue—to push the prisoner past breaking point just to prove he could. But orders were orders, and even sadists understood chain of command.
"You have two more days," Shiryu said conversationally, sheathing his demon sword. "Enjoy them. Because whatever they're planning for you in that 'secure facility' will make my work look merciful."
He turned and walked away, leaving Bullet suspended in his chains. The torches continued burning. The blood continued dripping. The prisoners continued their divided chorus of encouragement and condemnation.
And Douglas Bullet, the Devil's Heir, continued refusing to break.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Writing takes time, coffee, and a lot of love.If you'd like to support my work, join me at [email protected]/GoldenGaruda
You'll get early access to over 50 chapters, selection on new series, and the satisfaction of knowing your support directly fuels more stories.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~