"Jigoku Tabi…!"(Hell Journey)
Issho's roar cracked across the battlefield like thunder. His blade slammed into its sheath with a ringing finality, and the island beneath them buckled under an overwhelming ripple of gravity. The force surged outward in concentric waves, bending trees, shattering boulders, and splintering the fractured shoreline.
The blind swordsman was a wreck—but a wreck that moved with absolute composure. His yukata hung in scorched tatters, its deep indigo torn in places where bone-white flesh showed through. A jagged scorch mark marred his left chest, caved inward from the force of a devastating blow, and faint trails of blood seeped into the cloth around his ribs. Yet his breathing was steady, his posture unbroken.
Every movement spoke of a man who, after years of relentless training, now stood on the same ground as the monsters of the New World—an Emperor-level combatant in truth and in presence.
This was no sparring match in the reinforced training halls of Dressrosa. Doflamingo had insisted on this fight taking place here, on a remote and nameless island far from prying eyes, with no shackles on their power.
"Aaaaaah…!"
Doflamingo's roar split the air as Issho's shikomizue clicked home in its sheath. The moment it locked, gravity multiplied like a living thing. The force hammered down upon Doflamingo's entire body, his bones groaning, muscles screaming.
Even the purple flames wreathing him—alive and defiant—were pressed downward, warping toward the ground as if forced to bow to an unseen god. The crater beneath him deepened, widening as the weight increased, the island's fractured crust caving inward beneath the pressure.
"Fufufu… you're taking this seriously, Issho…" Doflamingo strained his head upward against the crushing force. His eyes caught the sky—darkened now, blotted out by the silhouette of a world-ending meteor.
One of Issho's most fearsome techniques.
Even among the world's greatest warriors, there were few who would face it head-on. This was not a mere attack—it was an act of nature's wrath, the very heavens weaponized. Gravity itself bent to Issho's will, dragging the massive rock into the atmosphere at a velocity that promised nothing short of annihilation. The shattered island beneath them would vanish upon impact, reduced to molten fragments sinking into the sea.
Doflamingo's Conqueror's Haki erupted in answer, a roaring torrent that cracked the air and sent black and purple lightning arcing violently. He strained to stand, to force himself upward against the oppressive gravity. Blood streamed down from a deep, ugly slash that ran diagonally across his chest, carved by Issho's blade earlier in the battle. The wound had cut deep enough to bare glimpses of bone, and his torso was slick with sweat and blood.
But Issho's own will was no weaker. His supreme Haki lashed outward, colliding with Doflamingo's aura in a storm of clashing domains—gravity against flame, weight against heat. The sky itself seemed to fracture as red and violet lightning devoured each other, fighting for supremacy in the air between them.
"HIKEN…!"
Blood flecked Doflamingo's lips as his flaming fist slammed into the earth. The impact detonated through the island's core, ripping it apart, collapsing entire sections into the sea. The shockwave was meant to disrupt Issho's control over the descending meteor, but Issho's Observation Haki had already read the intent.
With a simple shift of his foot, he elevated the landmass beneath him, lifting it free from the collapsing crust to float above the destruction. Gravity bent to his every whim, and the meteor continued to fall—faster, harder, more merciless than before.
"That's it! That's it, Issho—push me further!"
Doflamingo's laughter was raw, almost manic. He slipped free of the gravity well, his body surging upward in defiance. The meteor was still screaming toward him, its flaming surface like the hand of a god reaching down to crush him. He made no move to evade.
If Kaido could withstand such an assault… so could he.
The awakened Mera Mera no Mi roared to life around him, his purple flames devouring the air. They bled outward in all directions, transforming the world into a sea of fire. The ocean surrounding the island ignited, waves turning into writhing walls of flame. The sky above boiled with heat distortion, and the fractured earth itself became molten.
This was beyond awakening—an attempt to break through the final wall.
Doflamingo knew awakening wasn't the end of a Logia's evolution. There were whispers—legends—of a level beyond it. A state so rare it was considered myth. Shiki with his Fuwa Fuwa no Mi had achieved it. Scarlett with her Jiki Jiki no Mi had touched it. Issho himself was clawing toward that summit. But the paths for Paramecia and Logia differed.
His path was harder.
He had already felt the limits of the Mera Mera no Mi's power pressing against him. But he also knew—knew with the certainty of obsession—that he could be the first to push a Logia into uncharted territory.
The key… was will. That was the only hint Shiki had left him before departing Dressrosa, after restoring his limb.
Doflamingo grinned through the blood and the pain, his ambition burning hotter than the flames around him. He poured his malice, his rage, his dreams, and his hunger into the inferno. The flames answered. For the first time, the demonic purple fire began to shift—threaded now with a faint, wicked black.
Issho felt the change immediately. The air thickened, the flames pressing outward like the force of a will made tangible. Every particle of heat carried Doflamingo's intent, his challenge to the world itself. But the meteor still fell. And Issho's grip on it had not wavered.
The blind swordsman adjusted his stance, his fingers tightening on the hilt of his shikomizue. The meteor's descent grew fiercer still, gravity accelerating its approach until the very air screamed around it. The heat of reentry lit the heavens ablaze, and for a heartbeat, the entire sky was fire and stone.
The meteor was no longer a rock—it was an apocalypse given form. It screamed through the upper atmosphere, shattering clouds in its wake, trailing a burning tail that split the sky from horizon to horizon. The air trembled under its passage, the pressure wave rolling ahead like the herald of an inevitable end.
The sea fled from the island's shores, pulled outward by the sheer force of displacement, leaving jagged coral and steaming mud in its place. Everything in the meteor's shadow was already doomed—everything except the man who stood, laughing, in the heart of the inferno.
Doflamingo's purple flames rose like a tidal wave, his Conqueror's Haki twisting the fire into a monstrous crown that seemed to loom over the world. The threads of black now curling within the flames deepened, feeding on his will, his hunger, his boundless ambition.
The heat was indescribable. It was not merely temperature—it was intent given form. Issho's face tilted slightly, as if he could feel the horizon itself shudder beneath what was coming. His grip on the meteor did not falter, but his mind marked the moment. This… was no longer a test. This was history in the making.
Doflamingo planted one foot forward, his bleeding chest rising and falling in deep, savage breaths. The roar of the meteor filled the world, but his voice cut through it like a blade:
"ENDEAVOR!"
The word detonated from his throat like the toll of a war drum. The flames surged upward, not merely expanding, but blooming—petals of fire opening like a hellish lotus, curling skyward to meet the descending cataclysm. The ocean for miles turned to vapor in a single breath, the air twisting into cyclones of incandescent heat.
And then—impact. The meteor plunged into the heart of the inferno. The collision was not sound—it was silence first, the impossible stillness when two unstoppable forces collide. And then the world screamed.
The explosion ripped the sky apart. Columns of flame and molten stone shot upward like spears, punching through the atmosphere. The blast wave rolled across the sea in all directions, an expanding wall of superheated wind that could have scoured the skin from bone. Entire clouds ignited, set ablaze by the sheer ferocity of the heat.
Inside that world-consuming storm, Doflamingo's silhouette remained—half-obscured by writhing curtains of purple-black fire. He had not simply blocked the meteor. He had burned through it, tearing it apart from within, reducing a mountain of stone to vapor and ash in seconds.
Chunks of molten debris rained into the ocean like miniature suns, each impact raising tsunamis that raced away from the island. The sea itself burned where the flames touched it, hissing and roaring in protest.
From miles away, sailors and pirates alike would swear the world had grown a second sun that day, one that bloomed from the sea in a burst of unnatural color. Some would claim the sky itself had been set ablaze. Others would whisper of the man who stood in the heart of it, his laughter carrying through the shockwaves like the hymn of a devil.
The inferno narrowed, twisting upward in a final, violent spiral before detonating into a dome of fire that stretched across the horizon. When the light finally began to fade, the island was gone. In its place, only a smoldering scar remained—a caldera where the sea still boiled, the air shimmering with heat, and the scent of scorched stone drifting on the wind.
At the center, standing on a solitary slab of molten island, Doflamingo straightened, blood still dripping from the slash across his chest, his clothes tattered, his grin wider than ever.
"Well, that was unexpected… tell me, Doffy," Issho rasped, "was that… enough?"
The blind swordsman stepped forward from his own drifting platform of stone, the remains of his meteor nothing but dust carried away by the wind. His expression was unreadable, but the faint curl of his lips was enough to show that he was more than impressed at Doffy's counter.
Doflamingo's breath came in ragged, heated bursts, each exhale shimmering in the superheated air. The vast sea of purple-black fire that had consumed the horizon slowly receded, its wrath curling inward until it clung to him like a living cloak. Only then did he allow Issho to approach, the flames bending away just enough to let the blind swordsman close the distance.
"Not yet…" Doffy's voice was low, but thick with unshakable conviction. His smirk widened, revealing teeth bloodied from the battle. "Not yet, Issho… but soon. Sooner or later, I will cross that final threshold and claim the true power of my Devil Fruit… no—its ultimate form."
Issho's blind gaze tilted toward the heavens, his expression unchanging except for the faintest curl at the corner of his lips—a rare, private smirk he only offered to those he called family.
"So…" he drawled, his voice carrying that dry, knowing tone, "are we going to continue?"
Doflamingo raised one eyebrow, sensing the tease. The answer came not in words, but in the slow dispersal of the dust and smoke above. And then—he understood.
Far overhead, the sky was not empty. The fragments of the shattered meteor, along with entire slabs of the island they had annihilated, hung suspended in the air as if the heavens themselves refused to let them fall. Massive hunks of molten rock, glowing with ember veins, hovered like a thousand executioner's blades poised above the sea. Some were the size of fortresses; others dwarfed mountains. Each one was capable of flattening a nation.
The realization drew a low, amused chuckle from Doflamingo's throat. "Fufufufu… It seems you're just as eager as I am to break that wall, Issho. I don't mind… in fact, I'd love another push."
He swept his gaze upward, calculating, gauging the scale of the carnage waiting to be unleashed. If Issho let those fall, the result would not be a battle—it would be a cataclysm. The sea for hundreds of miles would boil. The scars might outlast centuries.
The flames at Doflamingo's feet flared again, curling upward, licking the edges of the floating debris field as if preparing for round two. But Issho didn't move to strike. Instead, his head turned, his expression cooling, his stance relaxing ever so slightly. His Observation Haki—so sharp it felt like the world whispered its secrets directly to him—was fixed far beyond the island's smoldering remains.
"It seems…" he murmured, "…Senor's patience is wearing thin."
In Doflamingo's mind's eye, the faint tug of a string ability brushing into range confirmed Issho's words. Senor Pink had crossed into their Haki perception, no doubt bringing some matter that couldn't wait.
Issho exhaled deeply, the gravitational field loosening just enough for the debris overhead to remain suspended harmlessly. "Perhaps we should save the rest for another day," he said with a wry tilt of his head.
Doflamingo's grin returned in full. "Fufufufu… another day then, old friend. But next time—no interruptions."
Above them, the hovering continent of shattered rock and meteor fragments slowly began to drift down, their trajectories altered by Issho's will so that they sank harmlessly into the sea. The boiling ocean hissed in protest, steam and foam erupting skyward as the titanic debris vanished beneath the waves.
The battlefield fell silent, save for the distant crash of water and the crackle of lingering flames. Two monsters had tested the edges of their limits—and both knew, without speaking it aloud, that their next meeting might finally tear the world open.
****
The deep was silent. Not the kind of silence one might find in an empty room, or in the still of a windless night. This was the silence of the eternal grave—thick, crushing, absolute. Here, ten thousand feet below the sunlit skin of the world, sound was a fugitive, hunted and swallowed whole by the abyss.
Pressure ruled here. It pressed upon the water with the weight of mountains, crushing anything unfit to live in the black. The light of the surface had never touched this place. Even the brightest moon was just a forgotten rumor down here, and the warmth of the sun belonged to another universe entirely.
The only life that moved through this endless cold was alien. Pale, blind creatures slithered between the jagged valleys of the ocean floor, their bodies molded by centuries of adapting to the crushing darkness. Some glowed faintly—blue, green, and violet sparks against the void—only to wink out the moment something large stirred in the distance.
At first, it was nothing more than a tremor in the water. A faint current that had no business existing this far below. The silt on the ocean bed began to drift lazily into the water, stirred by a slow but steady movement. A shadow approached—vast, yet somehow ghostlike—shifting the darkness as if it owned it.
And then, from that black eternity, it came. A ship. A corpse of a vessel, yet still moving with purpose.
Its timbers groaned under some ancient, impossible strain, the sound dull and muffled in the pressurized water. Barnacles and moss clung to every surface like parasites feasting on a body long dead. Through its open wounds—holes torn into the hull centuries ago—seawater flowed freely in and out, the ship carrying the ocean within itself like a coffin that had given up on keeping the dead inside.
The mast was not a simple pillar of wood, but an ornate, skeletal structure, shaped to resemble a clock tower frozen in eternal midnight. Its rusted hands had not moved in centuries, and yet, sometimes, when the currents shifted, the corroded bell would toll softly—its sound traveling only inches before being devoured by the abyss.
The sails were tattered shrouds, torn and frayed, their edges curling like the burnt pages of a book. The bottom sail bore a name in faded black lettering:
FLYING DUTCHMAN
Above it, the top sail carried a Jolly Roger unlike any other—a fanged skull with cutlasses crossed downward in place of traditional bones. The same murderous grin was carved into the ship's figurehead, glaring ahead with sockets that seemed almost aware, almost eager. It did not ride the wind. It did not cut the waves.
The Flying Dutchman crawled across the graveyard of the sea, its course unbending and its purpose eternal. It had been cursed by the wrath of a god—condemned to never touch the surface, never make port on any land above the sea again.
Its crew, all fish-men, had no need for the life-giving air of the surface world. They breathed the crushing black as naturally as others breathed the sky. For them, the resin coat of the ships above was a useless trinket. The Dutchman, riddled with holes, had no need to fear the deep's pressure—the ocean flowed in and out freely, equalizing the crushing weight inside and outside its hull.
Only one place aboard was protected: The captain's quarters. A single room, coated in layers of hardened resin, kept the crushing waters at bay. Within it burned the faint flicker of light—a small, swaying lamp whose glow barely held against the hungry dark.
And there, on a bed that looked more like a funeral slab, lay the captain.
He was a bullhead shark fish-man, his skin a pale, weathered gray mottled with the scars of both battle and time. His body, once massive and commanding, had withered beneath the weight of years. His breaths came slow and labored, the sound rasping like an anchor being dragged across stone. Even now, as his strength faded to embers, his eyes burned—not with fear, not with sadness, but with obsession.
This was the sixth-generation descendant of the original Vander Decken. A name whispered in half-forgotten legends, dismissed by most as nothing more than sailor's superstition. But myths have a habit of being born from truth.
His truth was this: the blood of Vander Decken had been cursed, tied by fate to an obsession that spanned centuries. And now, that burden was about to pass on again.
Kneeling at his bedside was a boy—a late-teenaged fish-man, lean but strong, his eyes wide with worry and defiance. He shared the old man's sharp jaw and predatory eyes, though youth had yet to sharpen them into the blade they would one day become. His hands were wrapped tightly around the elder's, as if by sheer force he could anchor the man's soul in his body.
This was Vander Decken IX. The old man's voice was gravel scraped against gravel. "Decken…"
The teen's head snapped up instantly. "Grandpa—"
The elder raised a trembling hand, silencing him.
"I… am not long for this world. The tide is going out for me, boy, and no strength of yours will pull it back." His voice was weak, but every word was deliberate. "Once I am gone… you will be the master of this ship."
The boy swallowed hard, his grip tightening. "I'm not ready—"
"None of us ever are," the old man cut in sharply, his gills flaring with the effort. "Do you think your great-grandfather was ready when the curse took his father? Or his father before him? We are born with this fate wrapped around our throats like an anchor chain. And we will either drag it… or drown beneath it."
His breathing grew heavier, but the fire in his gaze burned hotter, the kind that refused to die even as the body betrayed it. "I had hoped… to have more time. To shape you. To teach you. To be at your side the day we finally break free from these shackles the gods bound us with. The day we rise from the deep and rule this sea as we were meant to."
The boy's lips trembled, but before he could speak, the elder's voice dropped to a near-whisper—though the intensity only grew.
"She is coming."
The teen frowned. "…Who?"
"I can feel it in my bones. In the pull of the currents. In the dreams that plague me every night. She will be born again into this world… Poseidon, the Sea Goddess." His gnarled hand tightened suddenly, with a strength that belied his frailty, pulling the boy closer until they were nose to nose.
"Promise me, Decken… Promise me you will make her yours. That you will claim her power—command her—to fulfill the vow our ancestor left us. The vow that has burned through every drop of blood in our line. Promise me you will take her, and with her, the oceans themselves will kneel."
The boy's heart pounded in his chest. The lamp flickered, casting shadows across his grandfather's sunken face, and for an instant, he swore the elder's eyes were not just burning—they were drowning him, pulling him into the same abyss that had claimed every Vander Decken before him.
"I… I promise," he whispered.
The elder's grip loosened, his body sinking back into the bed, though his gaze never wavered.
"Good… good… The sea will soon remember the name Vander Decken once more. It will tremble at it."
"When my heart stills, boy… cast me into the black, so that Davy Jones himself may drag my bones to the locker where all Dutchmen rest."
For a heartbeat, the young Vander Decken could not breathe. The ocean around them seemed to darken, as though the god of the abyss himself leaned close to hear the pledge.
The old man smiled then—a cold, knowing smile, the same that haunted the legends of their line—and closed his eyes, surrendering himself to the tide that would take him.
A faint toll echoed from somewhere deep within the ship—slow, hollow, and mournful. The teen glanced toward the door, but when he turned back, his grandfather's eyes were closed.
But the expression on his face… was not peace. It was hunger. Even in death, the obsession had not left him. Outside, the Flying Dutchman sailed on, its tattered sails unfurling like funeral shrouds in the cold currents. Somewhere far above, the surface world went about its bright, ignorant life—unaware of the cursed vessel that crawled beneath it, carrying a promise born of madness.
The curse had claimed another Vander Decken. And in his place, a new one had risen.