"The first question," Ornn said, his voice dropping into a register that made the air on the deck feel thin. "Which sea are we in?"
The bald captain, formerly the terror of these waters, froze. A bead of sweat traced a path through the grime on his forehead. As a man who had scraped together enough loot to sail the Grand Line and survive, he knew the smell of true power when it stood over him. He realized, with a sickening jolt, that he hadn't just provoked a boy; he had provoked a calamity.
He had been so focused on the prestige of his bounty that he hadn't processed the implication: people who crossed the Calm Belt weren't just travelers. They were apex predators.
"This... this is the West Blue," the captain stammered, his bravado dissolving into a pathetic, fawning mess. "My lord, if you intend to stay, I can be of service. I grew up here. I know every island, every kingdom, every trade route. I have a cache of treasure—ten million Berries—and if you just spare my life, I'll be your dog for the rest of my days..."
Bang.
The hammer swung in a short, brutal arc.
Ornn didn't need a dog. He needed information, and the captain had already provided the only piece that mattered. The man's skull crumpled like an eggshell, his body collapsing into the splintered wood of the deck.
It was a cold, efficient execution. Ornn didn't relish the violence, but he didn't fear it either. In this world, mercy toward an opponent who would slit your throat the moment you turned your back was just a different form of suicide.
He tossed the body into the sea. The splash was the only eulogy the man received.
...
The deck remained deathly quiet.
Ornn turned his attention to the surviving crew. Most were cowering, but he pointed a calloused finger at a group of wretches near the mast—men who were gaunt, shackled, and wearing the unmistakable rags of forced labor.
"You lot," Ornn said, his tone shifting. "I assume you're the navigators or the ones who were forced into this service?"
The men collapsed to their knees, weeping and kowtowing until their foreheads bled. They had expected death; they had been granted liberation.
Yamato stood nearby, her brow furrowed in a deep, complicated scowl. She looked at the remaining pirates—the healthy, well-fed men who had tried to kill them moments ago.
She had been on the verge of pleading for them. She had felt a flicker of sympathy for the "underdog."
But then, two of the healthy pirates behind her made a mistake. They lunged, daggers drawn, eyes wide with the desperate, craven hope of blackmailing Ornn through her.
They didn't reach her.
A 'well' mark throbbed on Yamato's forehead. It wasn't just irritation; it was the sudden, freezing realization that the "scum" she had been ready to forgive were, in fact, exactly as Ornn had warned.
"Horse Phantom Blade!"
Her mace whistled through the air, imbued not with the fury of a wild animal, but with a piercing, crystalline cold. The frost swept across the deck in a concentrated wave, bypassing the freed laborers and slamming into the would-be assassins.
In a heartbeat, they were encased in solid, jagged ice.
Yamato kicked the sculptures off the deck. They hit the water with a dull, heavy thud.
She turned to Ornn, her expression a mix of shame and hardening resolve. "I wanted to plead for them. I thought... maybe they weren't all bad. But looking at them now? Every single one of them is the same. They're all just rot."
Ornn looked out at the horizon, his silhouette steady against the burning sun. "Pirates like Whitebeard and Roger are the exception, not the rule. Most of the men sailing these seas are no different from the men your father kept on the Ghost Island. They aren't seeking freedom; they're seeking a victim."
It was a harsh lesson, but one Yamato needed to internalize.
If they were going to reshape the world, they couldn't afford to be blind to the nature of the people inhabiting it.
"Then how do we distinguish them?" Yamato asked, her voice barely a whisper. "In the future... when we meet others, how do we know who is worth sparing?"
Ornn considered this for a long moment. He didn't have a map for morality, only a compass of his own conscience.
"Those who provoke us? They forfeit their right to exist. It's a clean equation," Ornn said. "As for the others—the ones who keep their distance—we judge them by their reputation, their deeds, and the blood on their hands. We are pirates now, Yamato. We don't get to pretend we're heroes. We just have to ensure that when we go to sleep, we have a clear conscience."
Yamato mulled that over. The sadness that had shadowed her face since Wano began to fade. A clear conscience. "That's enough," she murmured. "I went to sea to find freedom. I shouldn't be overthinking every life. I just need to be... happy. True to myself."
"That's the only way to sail," Ornn affirmed.
He looked at her, his eyes drifting to her hands, and then to the mace she held. A thought sparked—a technical, mechanical inspiration triggered by the frost she had just unleashed.
"Actually, speaking of your mace," Ornn said, his voice dropping into a contemplative, blacksmith's tone. "I think I've found a design for you."
Yamato's eyes lit up like the North Star. "A mace? A real weapon?"
"Not just a weapon," Ornn corrected, a faint, rare smile touching his lips. "Equipment. I'm going to forge you a gauntlet. But once you wear it, I think your mace will find a new form entirely."
"What does that mean?" Yamato asked, tilting her head. "How does a glove change a club?"
Ornn didn't answer immediately. He was already mentally cataloging the forge requirements. He wasn't explaining the logistics just yet—the process would be grueling, and the materials would be a nightmare to secure.
But he knew what he wanted. He wanted to forge the Frostfire Gauntlet.
...
That night, as the ship drifted through the West Blue, Ornn sat in the galley and opened the Creation Illustrated Book.
He had been looking for a mid-rank legendary creation, something that could provide both utility and scaling offense. He found it on page 412.
---
[Frostfire Gauntlets (Legendary - Mid-Rank)]
An artifact entwined with the primordial dualities of ice and fire. These gauntlets act as a conduit, projecting a field of "Sacrifice" and "Frostfire" that distorts the area around the user.
-[Sacrifice]: The wearer projects a field of frost and flame within a three-meter radius. Any enemy caught in this aura suffers constant, eroding magical damage and a significant reduction in movement speed.
-[Frostfire]: The gauntlet imbues the wearer's weapon with a lingering frost-field that lasts five seconds per strike. It forces enemies to crawl through the air, their speed sapped by the sheer cold of the impact.
-Forging Requirements: High-quality Heart Steel, Deep-Sea Cold Iron, Gorgeous Silk Gloves, and the Blood Essence of two Devil Fruit users (One Fire-attribute, one Ice-attribute).
---
Ornn leaned back, staring at the requirements.
It was a steep price. The West Blue was vast, and fruit users of those specific elements were rare, let alone finding two of them to harvest.
But as he looked at the design, he realized it was a smarter investment than a single, high-tier weapon. A legendary sword was just a sword. But a piece of gear that changed the very environment of the battlefield? That was a force multiplier.
He could see it now—Yamato standing in the center of a crowd, a radius of freezing fire around her, her mace shattering the ground and the speed of anyone foolish enough to get close.
It was a brutal, beautiful synergy.
He didn't need to be a god overnight. He just needed to be a better blacksmith than the world had ever seen. He had the materials, he had the time, and he had the ambition.
The forge in his mind was already heating up. The work was only just beginning.