Charles was still breathing heavily. Being almost at death's door was not a pleasant experience. He thought she'd spared him out of mercy. That maybe somewhere, deep beneath the cruelty, she still had a thread of conscience. But now he realized the truth:
He wasn't saved.
He was kept.
A guest does not walk past mounted heads.
A prisoner does. The servants who bowed in Zenka's presence did not smile.
The silence in the manor was reverent, yes — but laced with dread. He could feel it now. "How do you like my collection?" Zenka smirked.
"...uhh," he stammered, nearly vomiting. "Mongrel. Don't make me regret sparing you."
They descended into the manor's vault. There, shackled and missing three fingers, awaited Byrnndi World.
"Now you see," Zenka said, unsheathing Soul Edge, "I want to try something."
She turned to the guards and agents. "Make sure this maggot doesn't bite."
Approaching World's ear, she whispered, "This will be a nice experiment, 'World Destroyer.' I see potential in you... don't die too soon like the rest."
Soul Edge pulsed. A whisper only Zenka could hear scraped through her mind. Feed me. The blade shimmered. Its eye blinked. Zenka didn't flinch.
"Greedy thing," she murmured. "You'll have your share." The blade shimmered again. From its edge, a shard of red, crystalline energy formed. She broke it off with two fingers.
"Open his mouth." The agents obeyed, holding World steady.
"Swallow," Zenka said.
The shard moved inside him. Crawled like a second heart, pumping wrongness through his veins. World began to twitch. His mouth foamed. The energy radiating off his skin turned the air thick, metallic.
The symbols carved into the stone glowed faintly — reacting to the ritual. Zenka watched as his past flickered behind his eyes. His victims. His ships. His failures. All of it burning in reverse as Soul Edge consumed. World convulsed violently. His remaining arm thrashed. A guttural scream shook the chamber. Zenka didn't blink. The shard rooted deeper. The room's light bent slightly, as if the vault itself recoiled.
Finally, World went still. Zenka observed. "Interesting. He survived. Now let's see if he remains... compliant."
She turned to Charles. "Well, Charles? What do you think? Impressed?"
He couldn't speak. "Don't worry," she whispered. "You're not for the blade. You're for the truth."
She gestured. "Unshackle him." The guards hesitated — but obeyed. "World... kill every guard here. Leave no witnesses."
He obeyed without thought. Brutal. Fast. Efficient. The guards barely screamed. One by one, they fell — throats crushed, skulls shattered. Within seconds, the basement was silent again, painted in red.
Charles gagged. "Don't worry, little Charles," Zenka cooed. "You have a different role than this brute."
"..."
"Prepare yourself, musician. We are going to war." Her eyes shimmered crimson. And Soul Edge blinked. Zenka stayed behind, staring into Soul Edge's red eye — whispering something no one heard
The sky above Pangaea Castle was cloudless, but the air in the Room of Judgment felt heavier than storm-tide.
The Five Elders sat beneath the seal of the World Government, draped in shadow and caution.
A stack of silent reports rested between them.
Saint Topman Valkyrie broke the silence first. "The blade moved."
"The guards didn't," murmured Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro.
"They're dead." Saturn's voice was colder still. "And World is gone."
"Rewritten," corrected Shepherd Ju Peter. "Or... repurposed."
Warcury exhaled through his nose. "She requested no reinforcements." Topman opened a smaller folder. "She asked for only two things. A recording Den Den Mushi. And one for audio."
"Of course," Saturn muttered. "She wants the world to hear." Ju Peter frowned. "Broadcasting a slaughter? It will only unravel our brutality."
"Or remind the world what happens when gods are defied," Warcury countered. Topman interjected. "Let them hear. Fear is a tool, not a weakness." There was no fear among them. No urgency. Just restraint.
Topman said it plainly: "She cannot die due to her devil fruit." Warcury nodded. "She has died one hundred forty-four times. Ninety percent at her own hand. Or her sword's."
"And she always returns," Saturn added. "But what returns is not always... intact."
They voted with nods alone.
"Let her go to Hachinosu," Topman said."If she razes it, she cleans our ledger."
"And if she burns herself," Warcury muttered, "we lose nothing we can't replace."
"Prepare the Marines," Saturn added.
"If her strike lands deep, we send the sword." Topman narrowed his eyes. "Zephyr and Sengoku are in position. Tell them to wait for the signal. If Rocks stumbles—we finish him."
Saturn lingered a moment longer. Looking nowhere. Thinking further. Zenka read the mission brief while swirling tea she never drank. Her chambers in the upper sanctum of the Holy Land were unnervingly still. "No escort. No fleet. No formal pretext," she murmured.
Charles sat nearby, his violin resting on his lap, untouched. His eyes were hollow, movements mechanical — a shadow of the man who once played for saints. She looked toward him. "Two snails. Recording and broadcast. That's all I asked for." He did not speak. Only nodded. Zenka smiled faintly, almost to herself. "Good. I knew you'd understand." She stood and walked past him toward the vault door, where Soul Edge rested. "Byrnndi World is... acclimating. Slowly. But he listens."
Charles didn't look up. "It's not a mission," she said to the silence. "It's a measurement." The door shut behind her with a soft metallic hum.
A few weeks later, aboard the ship bound for Hachinosu, fog clung like breath against glass.
Cipher Pol agents whispered along the halls. "She brought only one sword and a corpse." "Not even a full crew." "Just that... thing. The one that used to be Byrnndi World."
A commanding voice cut through their hushed tones.
"Discipline, agents," snapped a senior officer from the shadows, stepping into view.
His coat bore a higher insignia. "You observe and report. Not speculate. Not gossip."
The two agents straightened. "Yes, sir. Understood."
World remained in the ship's vault. Shackled. Silent. His body unmoving, his mind eaten away. Even in his stillness, the air near him felt wrong. Charles avoided the lower floors entirely now. Just the memory of what happened there was enough to chill him. He heard Zenka before he saw her, murmuring to Soul Edge in a tongue not even the oldest agents recognized.
She turned. "You're writing something." Charles froze. Then nodded. "A song. Maybe." "Good," she said. "Songs are memories with blood."
Hachinosu was unaware. No scouts warned them. No signals caught the fog-drifting ship. Within its jagged stronghold, pirates brawled and feasted. Kaido wrestled a cannon. Shiki ranted about wind currents. Whitebeard hadn't even bothered to open his eyes. But Rocks sat at the head of the chamber. Still. Watching nothing. He spoke only once. "Someone's coming." A few laughed.
He didn't.
"What's that?" a pirate squinted from a half-rotted watchtower at the northern edge of Hachinosu.
"Just fog, idiot," the other grunted, tipping back a jug of stale rum. But the shape in the haze didn't drift like mist.
It cut through it.
Slow.
Precise.
There was no flag. No color. No sound. Just silence — and something moving toward shore.
On a jagged cliff of an unnamed island near Hachinosu, a mysteriously cloaked figure stood alone. A platinum mask concealed their face, catching the faint glint of sunlight breaking through the mist. They held a strange device to their mouth — not a Den Den Mushi, but something older, stranger.
"Seems like they moved against Rocks," the figure muttered.
Elsewhere, the gears of the Navy turned. Fleet Admiral Kong stood before a wall of Den Den Mushi screens, barking orders with military precision. "Sengoku, hold your position. Do not engage unless we receive visual confirmation of destabilization. This is still observation — not intervention." Admiral Sengoku sat calmly aboard a command ship, binoculars in hand.
"Copy that. Holding until further instruction."
On another deck, Vice-Admiral Zephyr reviewed fleet formations and combat readiness reports. His jaw was set tight. "Keep the ships staggered — if we're ordered in, I want zero room for retreat."