Tropical Island
The New Windbreaker raced across the sea, its sails billowing under a sudden, unnatural hurricane. On deck, Nami—drenched in sweat—held her hands aloft, straining to maintain the wind's force.
She was a natural fit for the Weather Fruit. Within hours of eating it, she'd already mastered basic wind manipulation.
At the helm, the old man wiped cold sweat from his brow, eyes locked on the course ahead.
Behind him, Yang Ning—still wrapped in bandages—sat on the deck, meticulously cleaning Kotetsu. The old man's psychological torment was palpable; he couldn't look away from either the sea or the pirate captain.
Thanks to their combined urgency, less than three hours passed before a lush green island appeared on the horizon.
The old man exhaled in relief, glancing at his pocket watch. Perfect timing.
Yang Ning, seeing the island, also relaxed slightly. He stood, pulled on his coat, and called for the crew to bring Sylvester out of the cabin.
But as they drew closer, his brow furrowed.
He'd expected a high-tech sanctuary—something like Bullet Island. Instead, he saw only a weathered wooden dock, a rustic shipyard with a tribal aesthetic, and a cluster of crumbling huts nestled among palm trees.
"This place can really save people?"
He turned to the old man, tone sharp with doubt.
The man puffed his chest. "I guarantee it, sir. Don't let the primitive appearance fool you—they have special abilities."
Devil Fruit powers, Yang Ning realized. Of course. In this world, such things were miracles.
Once the ship docked, Yang Ning led his group ashore quickly.
For safety, he left Esdeath—who was still emotionally volatile—on board to guard the ship. He and Willie carried Sylvester between them.
Nami, now armed with combat ability from her Devil Fruit, escorted the old man and took point.
The old man seemed unfamiliar with the terrain. After scanning the area, he hesitantly pointed inland.
Yang Ning found him untrustworthy—but had no better option. He followed.
They hadn't gone far when they encountered locals.
The natives matched Yang Ning's expectations: dressed in minimal, tribal-style garments, clearly from a secluded island culture.
But their reaction was unexpected.
Upon seeing the old man, they dropped to their knees and kowtowed deeply.
"Greetings, Divine Envoy!"
"Divine Envoy?" Yang Ning glanced sideways at the old man.
The man waved it off with a forced smile. "Just World Government theatrics. Don't take it seriously. You promised to let me live—I won't betray that."
Yang Ning ignored the explanation. "No time for this. Where's the doctor who can save him?"
The old man stepped forward. "Take us to the temple."
The natives exchanged nervous glances, still kneeling. One finally spoke up, voice trembling:
"Please, Your Excellency… go to the village first. Only the village chief may enter the temple. Commoners like us… we're forbidden."
The old man kicked the man to the ground. "Are you all brainless?! We're going in—not you! Just lead the way! I'll deal with your chief myself!"
But the natives refused to move, even under kicks and shouts.
Yang Ning had enough. He yanked the old man aside.
"This isn't working. We need to reason with them."
The old man blinked, impressed. As expected of someone with Conqueror's Haki—so magnanimous!
That thought lasted half a second.
Clang.
Yang Ning drew Kotetsu and strode to the lead native, planting the blade's tip in the earth.
"You know what this is, right? This sword is 1.35 meters long. It can split a hair in two. Five hours ago, it killed over three hundred people."
He jerked his chin toward the old man.
"People just like him."
"I'll count to three. If you don't lead us to the temple, I'll reason with you—permanently."
The old man's face fell. This is reasoning?!
"One!"
The natives trembled. They could smell the blood on the blade—old, thick, undeniable.
"Two!"
The leader bowed his head, clinging to hope.
"Three."
Swish.
A flash of white. The leader's head rolled away.
But the two remaining natives didn't flinch. They stayed kneeling, faces to the ground.
Yang Ning's brow knit so tightly it could trap flies. He hadn't expected such fanaticism.
He looked back at Sylvester—breathing weaker by the second. He couldn't wait.
He grabbed one native, yanked him upright, and pressed the cold steel to his neck.
"Think of your family waiting for you. Don't die here for nothing. I only need you to take us to the outer edge of the temple. That won't break your rules!"
His voice mixed logic and threat—the clearest plea he could manage.
The man wept, wailing:
"Kill me! I'm the only one who won't lead you to your deaths! If I do, Lord Death will slaughter my whole family!"
Lord Death?
Yang Ning paused—then snorted.
Of course. Another Devil Fruit user playing god. Probably the healer the old man mentioned.
A familiar pattern: a controlled tribe, a tyrant claiming divinity. He'd seen it in the East Blue. Now here, in the Grand Line.
Is this really how extraordinary power corrupts everywhere?
For a moment, he missed his old world—where power had limits.
But sentiment wouldn't save Sylvester.
Sizzle.
The blade cut deep and clean. The native's wish was granted.
Yang Ning turned to the last man—kneeling, shaking—and raised his sword again, voice hollow.
"And you? Death… or lead the way?"
He'd already resigned himself to butchering through the village to flush out the so-called god.
He wasn't a monster—but his crew's lives outweighed strangers' superstitions.
Just as he prepared to strike, the final native trembled… then raised a hand.
"I'm willing… to lead the way!"
Relief flooded Yang Ning's chest.