Chapter 3 – The Weight of the Promise
The sky over South Blue was shrouded in heavy clouds when Gokusei left behind the wreckage of the village destroyed by the Ironbeard Brothers' crew. He walked silently, eyes fixed on the horizon, as his massive war hammer, Shinpan, rested on his back like an unavoidable burden.
At 17, Gokusei already carried a history of battles and scars that would make any Marine recruit hesitate. But he wasn't a Marine. Not officially. He was just someone Sengoku had recognized as a weapon—or perhaps a weight—to be redeemed.
Since meeting Sengoku, Gokusei had undergone intense training, mastering the basics of Observation Haki and reinforcing his natural affinity with Armament Haki. Still, his true strength came from his unwavering belief in his own justice. A silent doctrine, where he himself was judge, jury, and executioner.
But he was still far from understanding the abyss he had stepped into.
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News spread quickly across the South Blue: rumors of a group of "saviors" eliminating entire villages in the name of redemption. Survivors spoke of a man dressed in white, with placid eyes and a gentle smile—followed by armed, fanatical followers.
The whispered name amidst the rubble was always the same: Hokushin.
— They were grateful... even while dying — said an elderly woman, her eyes empty. — He said pain was the first step to purification.
Gokusei heard those words with clenched fists. That name sounded like prophecy. Hokushin.
And for the first time, he felt rage. Not the explosive anger of the wronged, but something colder, deeper. A quiet indignation vibrating in his chest like a sacred truth.
He had to find him.
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Elsewhere, in a fortress beneath an abandoned temple, Hokushin meditated, surrounded by kneeling followers. The room was silent, save for the rhythmic breathing of his faithful.
— The world is unclean... — he murmured, eyes still closed. — But I shall be the tide that washes it clean.
He opened his right hand. In the center of his palm, his Devil Fruit pulsed softly, as if it had a will of its own. The power of the Kami Kami no Mi – Mythical Model: Miséricorde manifested through touch. But unlike the cold death of a Dementor, Hokushin removed suffering. And in doing so, took the victim's soul. A final kiss, sweet and silent.
The cult grew. And with it, the worship of a false god.
— Bring me the Judge — Hokushin said with a serene smile. — He deserves to know the peace I offer.
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Gokusei arrived on Arashi Island, following rumors about the devotees. But what he found was darker than expected: empty houses, children whispering prayers, men with seared symbols on their chests.
At the center of the village, a makeshift altar. Hanging above it, bodies labeled: "Purified."
Gokusei dropped to his knees—not from fear, but from helplessness.
— Where were you? — he whispered to the sky. — Where was everyone?
That night, he held judgment—not against Hokushin, but against himself. It was there that his doctrine hardened. The promise that he would never hesitate again. That he would never allow justice to be distorted again.
— I'm no god... — he said, rising to his feet. — But I am the hammer that will judge you.
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Days later, under a falling night, Gokusei faced the first armed followers. They emerged like shadows, chanting prayers and demanding he "surrender to the light."
— The only light you'll see — he replied — is the flash of my Haki.
The battle was brutal. But Gokusei was different now. Faster. Heavier. Each strike of Shinpan crushed not just bodies, but the faith of the fanatics.
That's when his Conqueror's Haki awakened for the first time.
Not with a roar. But with a silent presence that broke the will of his enemies. It was the reflection of a soul that accepted no submission, that stood tall even against heaven itself.
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Meanwhile, in Mariejois, the World Nobles observed in silence the reports from the South Blue.
— A hammer that destroys false judgments... — murmured one of the Elders. — And a prophet who believes himself divine.
— Let them fight. In the end, we eliminate what remains.
But Im, the hidden sovereign, stared silently at Hokushin's portrait.
— He is unlike the other exiled Celestials... — Im said. — There's something in him that resonates... as if he were a distorted mirror.
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Back at sea, Gokusei finally received word of Hokushin's whereabouts. A forgotten island, with only one structure still standing: an ancient temple once used for public executions.
He went there.
At the entrance, a single man awaited. Dressed in white. Empty-eyed.
— The master awaits — he said, extending his hand. — Are you ready to be purified?
Gokusei gave no answer. He walked past, his steps heavy as funeral bells.
Inside the temple, Hokushin knelt before an empty altar. When he turned, he opened his arms, like one welcoming a long-lost brother.
— I saw you in my dreams, Gokusei.
— I saw you in my nightmares.
— We are two sides of the same coin.
— You are the counterfeit — the Judge replied firmly.
Hokushin smiled.
— You don't understand yet. But you will.
The air trembled. The confrontation wouldn't begin that night. But something had been sealed: a silent pact that, someday, one of them would have to fall so the other could remain.
Gokusei left the temple without spilling blood. Not out of mercy. But because the judgment was not yet complete.
He now walked not just with the weight of justice, but with the burden of a promise.
A silent war had begun. And once again, the world became the battlefield for irreconcilable ideals.