Impel Down did not howl. It pulsed. A heart too large and too deep to ever stop beating.
Saint Zenka arrived without escort. She did not ask permission. Her presence was not announced.
And yet, every floor prepared.
Guards straightened their postures. Some broke into cold sweats. Others prayed.
Chief Warden Bengal met her at the top of the descent platform. His uniform was flawless, his medals polished—but his hand trembled slightly as he saluted.
"Saint Zenka. We didn't expect—"
"I expect Level Six to be unlocked," she said.
Bengal swallowed. "Yes. Of course. Right away."
She didn't wait. Level Six was never quiet. But today, it held its breath.
The worst criminals in the world—monsters of war, collapsed lords, traitors to thrones—watched as Zenka moved between their cells with the elegance of royalty and the interest of a butcher selecting cuts.
"This one," she said, gesturing toward a blindfolded man in chains, "is too warm. Starve him of temperature. Then deny him memory. Alternate between screams and silence. He will break in four days."
"Yes, Saint Zenka," Bengal muttered beside her.
"You indulge them," she said, as if scolding a servant. "Hah..Compassion..... Make them forget they were ever dangerous."
The guard beside her—the young one—was silent. Watching. Eyes wide.
Zenka stopped in front of a cell that reeked of urine and madness.
"He killed three wardens," Bengal said nervously. "Bit the last one's throat open."
Zenka tilted her head. "Do you know why he bit instead of screamed?"
Bengal blinked. "I—I don't follow."
"Because he still believes he's human. Break the delusion. Shave him bald. Remove his teeth. Replace his name with a number. Let him rot with his legend erased."
"…Yes, Saint Zenka." They continued. Each cell brought new horrors—and new insights from her.
"Level Five's layout is inefficient," she said offhandedly. "Soundproofing bleeds into Four. It confuses the minds of newer inmates. Consider isolating the torture cadence."
Bengal's face had begun to pale.
She stopped again. This time, in front of an older prisoner. Quiet. Still.
"Do you remember me?" she asked.
The prisoner smiled faintly. "You were smaller. Eyes were colder then."
Zenka regarded him. "You told me pain was purification. That fear was your gospel."
"I was wrong," he said.
She stared a moment longer. Then turned to Bengal. "Cut out his tongue. He doesn't deserve poetry."
Bengal hesitated. Only for a second.
"Yes, Saint Zenka."
At the lift, Zenka paused.
A junior officer stood to the side, silent since she'd arrived.
Magellan. Young. Observant. Quiet. But more than that—curious. He hadn't blinked once during the entire descent. His gaze followed Zenka like a student watching a living equation. She disturbed him, but he couldn't look away. There was method beneath the malice, structure within the cruelty. And somewhere in it all, something almost… admirable.
She looked at him. "You can listen," she said.
He didn't speak. Didn't nod. But her words echoed in his mind.
She stepped into the lift.
Bengal turned away, bile rising. His vision blurred, his uniform collar suddenly too tight. He had managed wars, mass executions, riots in fire and blood. But this—this—was different. Zenka didn't command with force. She shaped the room. The prison bent itself around her presence.
And in that moment, Bengal understood: he was no longer the Warden here. Not in truth. He vomited into his gloves. By sunset, his resignation letter was filed.
Impel Down docks
Zenka boarded the vessel before dawn.
She stood alone at the prow, the ocean's wind teasing the ends of her cloak. Beneath her boots, the deck trembled faintly with each pulse of the engine. The sky was gray. The waters ahead darker still.
She watched the sea not with serenity, but calculation. Its patterns. Its endlessness. Its indifference. Once, long ago, she'd imagined drowning here—drowning, not dying. Floating endlessly under the weight of the world she could never serve. That was before the experiments. Before the blade. Before the sleep that lasted years.
Zenka closed her eyes. Not to remember. To forget just enough to function.
When Cipher Pol Officer Mikaels arrived, he didn't salute. He bowed.
"You sail early, Saint Zenka."
"I'm not known for waiting."
Mikaels was trained to maintain composure. He had stood before Gorosei, CP agents, dangerous assassins, even giants from Elbaf. But standing near her—the unnatural calm, the silence that stretched too long—he felt the air thin. Her profile was perfectly still, carved in grace, but her eyes... they didn't rest. They measured.
And he knew what she had been.
She had been kept in stasis for nearly six years after the Abyss Cell breach. Had torn through security measures that cost billions. The Gorosei had fought her once—actually fought her—and barely contained the outcome. Even now, drugs were cycled through her bloodstream to dull the worst of Soul Edge's whispers.
He handed her a sealed dossier, black with red trim. The contents weren't surprising.
"Your target: Byrnndi World. Fugitive. Active insurgent with a long record of defiance against World Government authority. Currently hiding in the fog belts of the Florian Triangle."
Zenka flipped the dossier open. Photographs. Maps. A brief psychological profile. World was aging, scarred, but not broken. Dangerous still.
"Alive?" she asked without looking up.
Mikaels hesitated. "The Gorosei were indifferent. Dead or broken—it's the message that matters."
Zenka smiled without warmth. "Then I'll keep him breathing. A message lasts longer when it can scream."
He paused. "Agents will observe the mission. Discreetly."
"I'd expect nothing less."
"Any... requests?" Zenka tucked the folder under one arm. "Just the fog. I want it thick."
By nightfall, they reached the edge of the Triangle.
The world dimmed. The sea lost color. Fog thickened like a blanket soaked in silence. The escort ship creaked with each passing swell. No birds. No stars. Just drifting wrecks and the hushed weight of stories long dead. Zenka stood motionless. Her crew—six men from a throwaway unit—were silent, as instructed. She hadn't spoken since leaving port. They didn't dare break the quiet. One of them spotted lights through the mist.
"Ship. Starboard. Small and fast."
Zenka didn't move. "Intercept. Quietly."
They closed in.
The enemy vessel was a sleek cutter, repurposed with makeshift armor and oars. A flare ignited mid-deck as the ships locked. It wasn't a signal. It was a challenge.
Byrnndi World stood at the bow. He was in his mid-thirties, weathered but far from worn down. His coat was ragged, his face a storm of scars earned from raids, betrayals, and stubborn survival. He wasn't an old pirate clinging to glory—he was a predator in his peak, smarter now than he'd been in his reckless youth. And his eyes—sharp, cruel, calculating—missed nothing.
"Well, well," he called, voice hoarse. "Didn't think the leash dogs would send a Dragon."
Zenka said nothing.
World grinned. "You gonna kill me? Or just scare me into pissing myself?"
She stepped onto his ship. The fight wasn't long. Two of World's men drew pistols.
One fired. Zenka blurred—Rokushiki techniques rippling like silk.
Bones broke. Blood sprayed. The rest didn't move. Byrnndi roared, stomping one foot down hard. A pulse erupted from his body, warping the air.
"I'm not dying here! MOA MOA POWER!" he bellowed.
A massive cannonball beside him tripled in size mid-air, coated in an invisible distortion field—the power of his Moa Moa no Mi. He launched it with a makeshift rail cannon built into the deck.
Zenka didn't flinch. As the projectile screamed toward her like a meteor, she analyzed its arc.
"Crude technique. No anchor points. Lacking focus."
Her right hand shot out, black with Armament Haki. The cannonball halted midair, shrieked under pressure—and collapsed into shards at her feet. World's grin faded. He tried to backpedal, hand slipping toward a secondary weapon— Zenka was already in front of him.
She grabbed him by the collar and slammed him to the deck. He looked up at her, coughing blood.
"You don't kill me?"
"No," she said. "But I'll make you wish I had." She bound him in silence. No ceremony. No speech. Then she stepped to the side, pulled a cloth from her inner coat, and calmly wiped his blood from her gloves—like brushing dust from silk.
From the shadows of the fog, two Cipher Pol agents watched through scopes. Neither spoke for some time.
"She didn't draw her sword," one whispered.
The other nodded slowly.
"She didn't need to."
Back aboard the escort, World was shackled, drugged, and stored in the brig. Zenka returned to the prow. Mikaels greeted her with a note of caution. "The observers confirmed success. Pleased."
"Then they should sleep well tonight." He paused.
"You didn't use the blade." Zenka's gaze didn't shift.
"You don't bring a guillotine to a rodent problem."
She let that linger a beat before adding, quieter: "If I'd drawn it, you wouldn't be reporting back."
Mikaels said nothing. He remembered the reports. What it took to put her down last time. The weeks the Gorosei needed to recover. He couldn't decide if her restraint was mercy or control—or if she was simply bored. Zenka stared into the mist, where even monsters lost their names.