Ringo, Wanokuni
"Hai… why are we even here in this damn graveyard?" One of the Beast Pirates members muttered as he stabbed his spade into the earth of Ringo's frozen burial mounds. Skeletal trees clawed at the sky, and the morning mist hung low like the breath of the dead.
"Isn't the Daimyō of this wasteland already rotting in the prison mines of Udon? Why not just raid the treasury and be done with it?"
Around him, a handful of his comrades were desecrating graves without care or reverence—kicking over headstones, cracking open coffins, disturbing the ancient warriors of Wano who had long been laid to rest in this sacred land of blades.
"Tch… What treasury?" another scoffed, lighting a crude cigarette. "That bastard had nothing but dust and regret. But these graves? They might still hold something worth our time."
He spat on the open remains of a once-proud samurai, now reduced to bone and silk.
"A few of them were buried with their swords. And if we're lucky… maybe we dig up a named Meitō. That's worth more than any pile of gold."
The others nodded, greed flashing in their eyes as they dug deeper, laughing cruelly. But one among them shifted uncomfortably.
"Oi… hush a moment." A younger pirate whispered, glancing over his shoulder. "You lot ever hear the stories about this place?" His voice lowered. "They say a ghost roams Ringo. A vengeful spirit guarding these graves…"
Laughter erupted.
"Seriously?" someone jeered. "You still believe in bedtime stories? We're Beast Pirates, not scared brats. We serve under a Yonko! And here you are, trembling over shadows and whispers?"
The bravest of them all—a tall brute with jagged teeth and a wolf's pelt on his back—scoffed and slammed his shovel into the earth.
"I'll show you a ghost—watch this."
He began digging another grave, smirking at the thought of uncovering a prize beneath the frozen soil. But then... Silence. No laughter. No jeers. Just... stillness.
He frowned. The silence was too sudden. Too unnatural. Slowly, he lifted his head—and found every one of his crewmates standing still, frozen mid-breath, their eyes wide, staring not at him… but behind him.
A chill slid down his spine.
The grave robber turned, sweat trickling down his temple, hands tightening around the shovel like a sword. The air behind him felt thick. Heavy. Wrong. And then he saw it.
A figure, tall and still, cloaked in black rags that clung to its body like wet seaweed. No face was visible beneath the shadowed hood. Just silence… and presence.
His heart seized.
With a startled cry, he stumbled backward, falling directly into the open grave he'd just unearthed. He crashed into the brittle corpse below, the bones cracking under him as dust and rot filled his mouth.
"AAAHHH! GET ME OUT!!" he screamed, clawing at the edge of the pit, mind unraveling in panic.
"HAHAHAHA!!"
Laughter exploded around the graveyard again. One of the cloaked figures threw off his hood—just another Beast Pirate, grinning like a madman.
"Some fearless pirate you are!" he howled, tears in his eyes. "You were ready to wet yourself!"
The rest joined in, pointing and jeering at the panicked man still tangled in the bones of a samurai.
Red-faced and humiliated, the fallen pirate growled.
"You bastards… I'm going to kill every last—"
But then—splatter. A warm liquid struck his face. His hand went up instinctively. It was thick. Wet. Red.
He looked up—just in time to see the true figure still standing above the grave. Not the prankster.
This one held a gleaming polearm—long, curved, and ancient. With a single stroke, it had pierced the prankster's ribs, the weapon now slicing clean through his chest with surgical precision.
The pirate coughed blood, eyes bulging as the blade exited through his back, ribs cracking apart like dry wood. He slumped forward, dead before he hit the earth.
Silence fell.
The Beast Pirates stared, paralyzed, as the real cloaked figure pulled the weapon free with a wet hiss. The air grew colder. The mist thickened around him like a living thing. No one saw him arrive. No one had sensed him move.
But now he was there—and death followed him. The corpse-stained pirate scrambled to his feet in the pit, eyes wide with horror. The others drew their weapons in panic, their jeers turned to gasps.
"YOU BASTARD…!!" someone shouted. But no one moved. The figure stood still, cloak fluttering like smoke, blade dripping crimson in the moonlit fog. He didn't speak. He didn't posture. He didn't need to.
His very presence whispered a terrible truth: these graves were not unguarded. Not anymore.
The tension in the graveyard snapped like a bowstring.
"Who... Who are you?!" one of the Beast Pirates snarled, sweat beading on his brow as he tried to mask the tremble in his voice. "Do you even know who we are?! Are you with those rebel dogs?!"
Slowly, as if moving through time itself, the cloaked figure said nothing. His presence alone choked the air. The mist crept tighter around the graves, as though the spirits themselves were watching.
The pirate shifted, keeping his fear hidden behind bravado. He reached stealthily beneath his coat, fingers brushing the cold steel of his flintlock rifle. With a snap, he raised it, finger on the trigger.
"Bang!"
The shot echoed through the graveyard, shattering the silence like a thunderclap. A spark of fire, a trace of smoke—and the bullet flew. But the cloaked figure merely turned.
In a single, fluid motion, he swung the polearm—a curved, massive glaive with a blade that sang through the air. The bullet met steel mid-flight, deflected harmlessly to the side with a screeching ping that ricocheted off a nearby gravestone.
Before the pirates could register what had happened, he was already upon them. Steel met flesh. The glaive carved through the first man like parchment, severing him from shoulder to hip. Blood sprayed in an arc, splattering across a weathered tombstone as the man collapsed, gurgling in disbelief.
"MOVE! MOVE!!" another pirate screamed, drawing a cutlass. But it was too late.
The cloaked warrior spun. The weight of the polearm followed with him, cleaving through a second pirate at the waist, severing his torso from his legs. Entrails spilled across the frost-covered ground.
A third pirate tried to raise his musket, but a precise jab from the back end of the polearm shattered his nose, the force sending his body flying back into an open grave. The mist thickened, swallowing the sounds of their screams.
Gunshots rang out—four in quick succession. Muzzle flashes briefly illuminated the scene, but the figure was already a blur, dashing through the fog like a ghost. He weaved through bullets with an almost inhuman grace, each shot missing its mark. One pirate cried out, only to be silenced as the glaive tore through his neck. His head spun into the mist, vanishing before it hit the ground.
"Y-YOU MONSTER!!" one of them screamed.
Another pirate, larger than the rest, roared as his body bulked and twisted. Bones cracked and muscle tore as he activated his Devil Fruit—a Zoan-type.
His form exploded in size. Fur burst from his skin, horns curled from his forehead, and his feet clattered against the earth as he transformed into a towering goat-like hybrid beast. Muscles rippled beneath his hide, steam rolling off him as rage boiled.
"I'LL RIP YOU IN HALF!"
He charged, hooves pounding the frozen ground, his curved horns aimed directly at the cloaked killer. But the figure didn't retreat.
He planted his polearm into the dirt, launching himself forward, spinning in midair as he used the weapon as a pivot. He soared toward the charging Zoan, landing squarely on the beast's back. With one fluid motion, he yanked the glaive free and drove it down with impossible strength.
Steel plunged into flesh.
The blade burst out of the beast's chest, pinning him to the ground with a crack of shattered ribs. The Zoan shrieked in agony, clawing at the weapon that had skewered him like a hunted boar. Blood bubbled from his snout as his beast form faded.
"Helbeck is down! RUN!" someone cried.
But there was no escape. The cloaked figure was death incarnate, wading through the mist and blood like a grim reaper born of steel and silence. Every step he took left a new corpse in his wake.
Two pirates swung at him simultaneously, one with a machete, the other with a pair of jagged knives. He ducked the machete, kicked the knife-wielder in the knee, and as the first blade whooshed overhead, he rose up, glaive in hand, severing both their heads in one elegant sweep.
A rifle cracked from behind a gravestone. The figure twisted, allowing the bullet to graze his cloak—just before his weapon flew like a spear. The glaive spun through the air and struck the shooter square in the chest, impaling him against a tree.
He walked forward, reclaimed his weapon, and continued. Soon, only screams remained. The ground was slick with blood. Crimson ran through the cracks in the stone graves like rivers of death. Severed limbs twitched. Eyeless corpses lay frozen in expressions of terror. The mist carried a coppery tang.
One pirate crawled backward, face pale, guts spilling from a stomach wound.
"W-Who the hell... are you?!" he choked.
The figure said nothing. Instead, he raised his polearm, and in one final, merciful stroke, silenced the last survivor. Now, only the wind spoke. The graveyard was still once more.
The cloaked figure stood amid the carnage, breathing slow and even. The polearm, stained with blood, dripped softly onto the snow-covered earth. The mist receded slightly, allowing the moonlight to touch the battlefield—revealing the scale of the massacre.
Twelve men had come. None remained.
The warrior reached up and adjusted the hood of his cloak. From beneath, a few strands of long, dark hair swayed in the cold air. He turned, gaze falling upon the desecrated graves. With reverence, he walked among them, kneeling before one.
He picked up a shattered headstone and gently placed it back upon the mound of disturbed earth, whispering a prayer that only the dead could hear.
The figure turned toward the scattered corpses of the Beast Pirates, then shifted its gaze to the large chest nearby—filled with weapons looted from the sacred graves that surrounded the area.
Without a word, Onimaru, now in his imposing hybrid form, began gathering the scattered blades with quiet reverence. One by one, he returned them to the chest—each sword a symbol of the samurai whose honor had been defiled.
Once the chest was full, he hefted the massive trunk effortlessly onto his broad shoulders. With deliberate steps, he turned away from the carnage, disappearing into the creeping mist. Behind him, the corpses lay broken and cold—a feast for the wolves, and a warning to all who would dare desecrate the graves of Ringo.
****
Water 7, Grand Line
The colossal Judicial Ship loomed like a floating fortress over the calm blue waters of Water 7's port, its obsidian-black hull casting a long shadow over the harbor. The ship's design was unmistakable—an ironclad behemoth bearing the proud insignia of the World Government, flanked by smaller but no less intimidating Cipher Pol escort ships, their white sails emblazoned with the emblem of justice.
From its reinforced decks, rows of marines and agents stood at attention, their uniforms pristine, their gazes sharp. Mounted ballistae, steel cannons, and Den Den Mushi surveillance arrays made it clear—this was not a diplomatic visit.
Almost all of Water 7's renowned shipwrights had gathered near Dock One, lining the upper balconies and scaffolding like anxious spectators. There was no cheering, no casual chatter. Only silence—thick and electric—as the city's greatest minds waited to witness an event that might very well decide the fate of their home.
In recent years, the city had suffered deeply. Veteran shipwrights had vanished without a trace. Pirate activity surged as rumors flooded the black market: Water 7 held ancient secrets, perhaps even ties to the legendary weapons of old.
But today, none of those pirates dared to show their faces. The arrival of the Judicial Ship had sent a message across every dock and alley: Order had returned, and it came armed.
Near the edge of the test track—a gleaming, reinforced steel railway stretching from Water 7 to the sea horizon—Tom stood quietly, his massive arms crossed, his fishman frame casting a long shadow under the morning sun.
Behind him, the masterwork of his life bobbed slightly in the waves: the prototype Sea Train, gleaming with promise. Years of toil, genius, and obsession had gone into its creation. And now, the moment of truth had arrived.
A few paces ahead stood Judge Jorge, clad in ornate judicial robes that billowed slightly in the breeze. He did not look at Tom, instead keeping his gaze on the shining rails stretching over the waves like a promise to the future. He was the one who had granted Tom a stay of execution—a delay of death—to see whether this dream of a sea-traversing locomotive could truly change the world.
"I hope," Jorge said, his voice deep and deliberate, "that the years I delayed your punishment have not been in vain. If this… invention of yours can truly connect the islands—eliminate the perils of open seas—it may be more than redemption. It may be salvation."
Tom's lips curled into a small smile. Not of arrogance—but of quiet pride.
"All I ever wanted," he said, his voice calm and steady, "was to give the world something that would outlast hate. Something to connect, not divide."
Among the gathered spectators, hidden in the crowd near the lower docks, Iceburg stood nervously, watching his mentor with wide, anxious eyes. He clutched a wrench to his chest like a talisman, his heart pounding with both hope and dread.
"Kyros… Is Tom-san going to be alright?" he whispered.
Beside him, the tall, silent figure of Kyros scanned the surroundings with a soldier's focus. He wore plain clothes, blending into the crowd—but beneath the cloak hung a concealed blade, and every muscle in his body was tensed like a coiled spring.
"We'll be ready," Kyros said, his voice low and resolute. "Master Doffy's orders were clear. If anything goes wrong—if they try to take Tom or you—I'll get you both out of here. No matter what."
His hand subtly brushed the hilt beneath his coat.
"Master Doflamingo values both of you," he continued. "And I don't intend to fail him." Iceberg said nothing, but his fingers tightened around the wrench.
On the island just by the edge of dock 1, steam hissed as Kokoro and Cutty Flam made the final preparations as a few Cipher Pol agents watched their every move carefully. The Sea Train's engine roared to life, its mechanical heart thumping like a titan awakening from slumber. The massive iron wheels ground against the track as smoke plumed from the stack. The test run was about to begin.
Every shipwright held their breath. The future of Water 7—of the man called Tom—balanced on those rails.
And up above, from the high decks of the Judicial Ship, Cipher Pol agents watched in silence, their faces hidden behind black sunglasses and emotionless expressions. One of them leaned slightly forward, speaking into a Den Den Mushi.
The signal flare shot into the sky—red streaks hissing through the morning air like fire in flight.
A long whistle echoed across the harbor, low and melodic, shaking the steel rails and vibrating through the hulls of nearby ships. The crowd collectively held its breath.
The Sea Train lurched forward.
Its massive steel wheels spun against the rails, steam erupting from its smokestack in thick white plumes. The train was no mere machine—it was a mechanical beast, breathing steam and steel, gliding forward not over land, but across the sea. Every bolt and beam crafted with precision, every inch of rail laid by hands hardened through years of labor. This was Water 7's dream—alive and moving.
Tom's chest swelled as he watched it. He didn't blink, didn't speak. Just stood silently, the corners of his lips twitching beneath his thick mustache.
On the nearby platform, Judge Jorge's eyes narrowed, not out of skepticism—but scrutiny. The train glided over the waves, the first leg of its journey unfolding with uncanny grace. The iron track swayed ever so slightly under the rhythm of the sea, but the train's massive frame moved as if it were gliding across solid ground.
"Incredible," whispered one of the veteran shipwrights behind him.
"It's working," another muttered, almost in disbelief. Still, no one cheered. Not yet.
Onboard the Sea Train, a selected team of trusted and veteran shipwrights worked in synchronized harmony, checking every pressure gauge and every throttle valve, while Kokoro and Cutty Flam worked as the loco pilots. Tom's blueprints had come to life in every hiss and hum.
"Speed at 18 knots, stable steam pressure. No drag," one of the shipwrights shouted.
"All mechanical systems holding," another replied.
The train picked up speed as it approached the midpoint of the test track—a long stretch where the sea swelled harder, where tidal currents usually battered even the best ships. The crowd leaned forward in unison, eyes wide, hearts drumming against their ribs. Even Cipher Pol agents shifted slightly, their arms still crossed but heads now tilted forward with piqued interest.
Tom didn't flinch. The Sea Train surged forward into the rougher waves. Winds howled against the iron beast, and seawater splashed across the track. But the train's frame held firm, its wheels grinding with purpose. Stabilizers kicked in, seamlessly adjusting balance. Pistons pumped harder, steam pressure regulating through the reinforced boiler.
It did not slow. It did not sway. It did not stop.
The train thundered onward like a promise carved in metal. And then, at last—it reached the far checkpoint, the distant island terminal shimmering like a jewel on the horizon. The signal flare on the far end shot up—green this time.
Success.
The first cheer came from a small boy perched on his father's shoulders.
"It made it!" he screamed.
And then the dam broke. A roar exploded from the crowd as every dock, balcony, rooftop, and bridge around Water 7 erupted in celebration. Children danced, shipwrights whooped, hats were tossed into the air. Cannons fired confetti from nearby buildings, sending bursts of color raining down on the people below.
Veteran shipwrights clapped each other on the back, some too stunned to speak. Apprentices cried. Even grizzled, calloused builders wept openly, tears streaking through oil-stained cheeks. They had witnessed history.
Amid the chaos, Iceburg stood frozen in place, hands shaking.
"He did it," he whispered. "Master Tom really did it."
Kyros placed a firm hand on the young man's shoulder. "He didn't just build a train," Kyros said, smiling softly. "He built a future."
As the Sea Train sped up and began its journey towards the nearby island steadily, whistles and horns blasted in celebratory harmony. Seagulls scattered from the noise, the harbor alive with cheers and clanging bells.
Tom stood like an iron pillar at the platform's edge, smiling now—fully, proudly. His massive hand clenched into a tight fist, raised above his head for the world to see.
"THIS… is the power of SHIPWRIGHTS. We build everything with a DON!!" he bellowed.
The crowd answered with deafening applause.
Judge Jorge remained still for a long moment, his eyes never leaving the train as it steadily moved further away from Water 7, steadying its speed to a perfect rhythm. The train let out one final whistle, steam venting skyward like a dragon exhaling after a long slumber.
Judge Jorge stepped forward, cloak brushing the wooden boards as the crowd quieted instinctively at his presence. He looked at Tom, his gaze lingering for a long moment—not with disdain, but something much more difficult to place. Admiration, perhaps. Or the weight of a decision yet to be made.
"Tom…" he said, voice carrying authority but tinged with caution, "You've done the unthinkable today. You've proven that the impossible can move across the sea." He turned toward the Sea Train, eyes narrowing as he observed the metal beast now gleaming in the sun far in the horizon.
"You were sentenced to death for building the Oro Jackson. That sentence was stayed because you claimed you could build something that would redeem you in the eyes of the world. What I've seen today…" he paused, "…it may be just that."
The crowd collectively held their breath.
"However," he continued, turning back to Tom, "I do not possess the authority to erase your crimes with a smile. That is a matter for Enies Lobby and the higher echelons of the World Government. My duty is to report what I've seen—and I will report this."
Tom said nothing. He simply nodded once, solemnly, as if he already knew this would be the outcome. Jorge tucked the scroll of Tom's suspended sentence back into his coat.
"In the meantime, I am authorizing an extension to your reprieve. Your new directive is clear: complete the Sea Train line to the nearby islands. Ensure its reliability. Make it undeniable. By the time I return, I expect to see not just a miracle on the water—but a miracle that works across the sea, rain or storm."
Then, with a glance toward the Cipher Pol agents silently observing in the background, Jorge added quietly:
"You will soon have your pardon. I can promise you that much, Tom… But I suggest don't just change Water 7. Change the world." The crowd erupted in cheers again—not from pardon, but from purpose. From possibility. From the promise of what was to come.
Tom finally smiled, placing one thick hand over his chest and bowing slightly.
"Understood, Judge. The Sea Train… will become the heartbeat of the seas."