Beyond the erratic currents and screaming skies of the New World lay a sea region sailors spoke of only in whispers—a place even veteran pirates marked with trembling hands on their charts, if they marked it at all. They called it The Abyssal Shroud.
Unlike the Florian Triangle of Paradise, which hid its horrors behind rolling fog and ghostly silhouettes, the Abyssal Shroud was openly hostile—an expanse of ocean that seemed to resent the very idea of being crossed. Here, the sea was never still. The waters churned endlessly, black and heavy, as though something vast and unseen was constantly moving beneath the surface, stirring the depths in its sleep.
A permanent veil of storm clouds hung low over the region, so dense that daylight was reduced to a sickly twilight. Thunder rolled without pause, not in sudden cracks but in deep, continuous growls that reverberated through hulls and bone alike. Lightning struck with terrifying frequency, not random but almost deliberate, lancing down toward masts as if drawn to them. Compasses spun uselessly, log poses shattered or froze in place, and even Den Den Mushi fell silent, refusing to relay signals through the oppressive atmosphere.
Fog existed here too—but it was no ordinary mist. It was thick, oily, and cold, clinging to ships like a living thing. Sailors claimed it whispered, that if one listened too closely they could hear voices calling their names, promising safe passage or long-lost treasures. Those who followed the voices were never seen again. When the fog parted, it often revealed nothing but empty sea… or the broken remains of vessels that had vanished decades earlier, their hulls drifting upright as if still crewed.
The currents of the Abyssal Shroud were infamous. They twisted and folded upon themselves, forming massive whirlpools without warning—some stretching for miles, dragging entire fleets into their throats. Other currents ran vertically, plunging downward like underwater rivers, capable of pulling ships beneath the surface in seconds. Even Sea Kings avoided the region, and when they did appear, they were grotesquely large, scarred, and maddened, as if shaped by the sea's cruelty.
Then there were the Shadows Below. Many crews reported seeing enormous silhouettes moving beneath their ships—too vast to be Sea Kings, too deliberate to be natural phenomena. Sometimes the shadows rose close enough for the water to bulge upward, as if the sea itself were holding its breath. No attacks followed. No roars. Just the silent reminder that something was watching.
Islands within the Abyssal Shroud were rare and worse than the sea itself. Jagged masses of black stone pierced the ocean like broken fangs, their shores lined with shipwrecks fused to the rock by corrosion and barnacles. No vegetation grew there, only strange, pale growths that recoiled from torchlight. Those who landed reported unbearable pressure, as if the air itself were crushing them, and an overwhelming sense of being unwelcome.
The World Government had long since erased the Abyssal Shroud from official maps, declaring the area "geographically unstable and non-navigable." But the truth was simpler—and far more terrifying. The sea there was not broken. It was guarded.
Only the most desperate, the most damned, or the most powerful ever attempted passage through the Abyssal Shroud—and fewer still emerged on the other side. Those who did were changed, their ships scarred beyond reason, their eyes hollow, their voices hushed.
In the New World, where the strong ruled and the weak were crushed, the Abyssal Shroud stood as a reminder: There were still places even monsters feared to tread.
I gazed across the horizon, now utterly consumed by the Shroud. In every direction, the world ended in churning darkness—an endless expanse of roiling black waters and bruised skies that swallowed distance itself. I was still dozens of miles from truly entering its domain, yet the change was already unmistakable.
The air grew heavier with each breath, thick enough to press against my chest, and the sea beneath my vessel moved with a slow, hostile intent, as though I were trespassing upon sacred, forbidden ground.
This was a sea meant to turn back the unworthy. And yet, the more I took in its dreadful majesty, the more certain I became. If a mythical beast like Bonbori existed anywhere in this world, it would be beneath these waters—coiled in the abyss, wrapped in storm and shadow, far beyond the reach of ordinary men. The Shroud did not repel me. It beckoned.
My gaze dropped to the square scrap of paper resting in my palm—the only thing still capable of guiding me forward. The Vivre Card quivered faintly, its edges curling and uncurling like something alive, tugging insistently toward the darkness ahead. Compasses had long since spun themselves into madness.
Log Poses lay useless, their needles frozen or shattered under the sea's influence. Even the transponder snails had gone eerily silent, their shells dulled, their eyes shut tight as if refusing to witness what lay ahead. But the card still burned with purpose.
The reaction was subtle, yet unmistakable. Whoever—or whatever—I sought was close. Not days away. Not even hours. Miles.
A slow breath escaped me as I closed my fingers around the paper. Then I opened my senses. My Observation Haki unfurled from me like an invisible tide, bleeding outward into the Shroud. It pushed through the suffocating fog, pierced the thunder-choked air, and sank into the depths below the surface. The sea resisted—layers of pressure and malice pressing back against my awareness—but I forced my will through it, spreading wider, deeper.
Shapes stirred in the darkness. Not all were alive. Some were the lingering echoes of ships long lost, their final moments etched into the sea itself. Others were vast, ancient presences that slept uneasily, their sheer size distorting the waters around them. The farther my haki reached, the more oppressive the sensation became, like standing at the edge of an endless abyss and realizing it was staring back.
And then— Something answered.
A presence so immense it dwarfed everything else, so old it felt carved into the bones of the sea itself. It did not move toward me. It did not flee. It simply was—a colossal, coiled existence far below, its awareness brushing against mine for the briefest instant.
The water trembled. I felt it then, deep in my gut, a quiet certainty that sent a chill down my spine and set my blood alight all at once. Bonbori was here. I tightened my grip on the rail, the storm clouds above growling in response as if the sky itself had taken notice. Ahead of me lay the heart of the Shroud—uncharted, unforgiving, and lethal.
On an island pushed deep into the Shroud—so close to its very edge that the sea and sky seemed to bleed into one another—sat a man the world had long since forgotten.
He crouched upon black, jagged stone, hunched like a carrion bird guarding its last scrap of meat. His clothes hung from him in tattered ribbons, once-fine fabric now reduced to salt-stiffened rags barely clinging to his skeletal frame. Wind clawed through his unkempt hair, long and matted, streaked with gray and white, while an overgrown beard obscured most of his face. What little skin could be seen was drawn tight over bone, weathered and scarred, marked by old cuts that never truly healed.
He was frail—so thin it was a wonder he still breathed at all. All skin and bones. Yet his eyes… His eyes did not belong to a dying man. Sunken deep within their sockets, they burned with a cold, unyielding fury—an ember of vengeance that even death itself had failed to smother. They stared unblinking into the shrouded sea, tracking the restless fog as if daring it to blink first.
Madness whispered in the way his lips moved soundlessly, muttering names and fragments of memories long since worn smooth by repetition. He had forgotten his own name years ago.
Once, he had been renowned—spoken of in hushed tones among pirates and merchants alike. A master salvager, one of the greatest to ever dare the cursed waters of this side of the New World. Where others saw graveyards of ships, he saw opportunity. Where others fled storms and abyssal depths, he descended willingly, prying treasures from the jaws of death itself.
Then the monster came. Bonbori.
It had taken everything from him—his crew, his fortune, his friend—leaving behind nothing but wreckage and screams swallowed by the sea. From that day onward, the man had ceased to live. He existed only to endure. Revenge was his sustenance. Obsession his anchor.
It was the only thing keeping his shattered mind from dissolving entirely. Behind him, half-dragged onto the shore, rested a boat so small and battered it bordered on the miraculous that it still floated at all. Its hull was a patchwork of mismatched planks, nailed together with scavenged iron and stubborn will. Cracks webbed its sides, hastily sealed with pitch and cloth. One strong wave—just one—would be enough to tear it apart and send it to the depths.
And yet, it had carried him here. Through storms that screamed like dying gods. Through waters that crushed lesser vessels like paper toys. He had dragged it ashore with shaking hands days ago and had not moved since. He simply sat there, staring.
Waiting. The Shroud rolled endlessly before him, its fog churning and folding in on itself, concealing horrors and secrets alike. To anyone else, it was madness to linger here. To him, it was certainty. He could feel it in his bones, deep and aching, like an old wound flaring before a storm.
Bonbori was here. Close. Closer than it had ever been in all these years of searching. And he was not alone in this hunt.
Somewhere out there, cutting through the darkness and defying the sea itself, was the young master of the Donquixote family. Rosinante. The young teen who had listened when no one else would. The only one who had believed him when the world laughed and called him a madman. They had made a pact. He would find the beast and swear servitude to the family. Rosinante would help slay it.
A promise forged not in hope, but in shared goal. The man's fingers dug into the stone beneath him, knuckles white, as the fog ahead seemed to ripple—just for a moment—like something vast shifting beneath the surface. His muttering ceased, replaced by a thin, broken smile that split his beard.
After years of wandering. After years of struggle and ridicule. The day was finally approaching. A myth was about to bleed. And his vengeance was finally going to be fulfilled.
The man rocked gently where he sat, shoulders trembling as his lips moved in a constant, broken rhythm.
Names spilled from him in a hoarse whisper—some spoken clearly, others slurred beyond recognition. Old crewmates. Lost friends. Perhaps even family. A litany of the dead, recited like a prayer he no longer expected to be answered. He did not notice me standing beside him and did not sense my presence even as the wind shifted and my shadow fell across the stone at his feet.
He was far gone. I had long since forgotten his name too.
Yet the sight of him—reduced to this hollow shell, sustained by nothing but obsession—struck something deep within my chest. It was like staring into a reflection of a path I might have walked myself. Had Doffy died all those years ago in Mary Geoise, crushed beneath the boots of the Celestial Dragons while they tortured him… this is what I would have become.
A man held together only by hatred. A ghost dragging himself forward on vengeance alone. Originally, this meeting had been nothing more than an exchange. Information for effort. A means for me to track down Pure Gold, nothing more. But standing here, watching this broken soul mutter to the sea as though it might answer him, I realized the truth.
This was no longer just business. If I walked away after using him, I would be no better than the monsters I claimed to despise. So I stepped closer and gently placed my hand on his shoulder.
The contact startled him—not with fear, but with confusion. His body barely reacted, muscles too wasted to even flinch properly. Slowly, painfully, he turned his head toward me. His eyes struggled to focus, blinking as though the world itself had become unfamiliar.
It took him several long moments to recognize me. After all, the last time he had seen me, I had still been a boy in my late teens—angry, reckless, carrying the weight of the entire family on my shoulders. Now, I stood before him as a grown man, hardened by the sea and time alike. His breath caught.
"I-it's you…" he rasped, disbelief cracking his voice. "It's you…"
His hands shook as he reached out, fingers trembling as if afraid I might vanish like a mirage. Tears welled in his eyes—not the tears of relief, but of unbearable pressure finally finding a crack to escape through.
"I found him…" he whispered, voice breaking. "I found him… just like I promised you I would…"
His knees buckled slightly, and I caught him before he could collapse entirely. He clutched at my coat with what little strength he had left, nails digging in desperately, as though anchoring himself to reality itself.
"Now please…" His words came out in a sob. "Please… I beg of you…" His gaze locked onto mine, raw and naked, stripped of pride, sanity, and fear alike. "Kill him. Kill him for me."
There was no malice in his plea—only exhaustion. A man who had given everything he was to a single purpose, now standing at the edge with nothing left to offer but his pain. I tightened my grip on his shoulder, steady and firm, grounding him. I did not look away. I did not pretend to be unmoved.
"I'm here," I said quietly, my voice low but resolute, cutting through the howling wind and the distant roar of the Shroud. "You kept your promise. I won't abandon mine."
Soon, I was seated cross-legged before a small firepit I had built near the shoreline, its flames crackling softly against the constant sigh of the shrouded sea. A fresh slab of Sea King meat roasted over the fire, fat sizzling as it dripped onto the embers, filling the air with a rich, smoky aroma. It was part of the rations I'd brought aboard my small boat, which now lay anchored just off the shore—an unassuming thing, rocking gently, as if unaware of the nightmare sea it had carried me through.
I carved off a well-done slice for myself, then turned my attention to a pot simmering beside the fire. The broth inside had been prepared carefully—bones boiled down for hours, seasoned just enough to restore strength rather than indulge appetite. I poured it into a chipped metal cup and handed it to the man sitting opposite me.
He accepted it without complaint. That alone told me enough. I wasn't sure when he'd last eaten. Likely the day he'd reached out to me through the transponder snail, his voice already sounding like it belonged more to the dead than the living.
We ate in silence for a while, the firelight dancing across his hollow face. I watched him carefully as he drank. His hands trembled at first, but the warmth seemed to sink into him, color slowly returning to his cheeks. He wiped his lips with the tattered sleeve of his coat, a faint rosiness blooming where there had only been gray before—the first proper nourishment his body had known in more than a week.
Eventually, I broke the quiet. "So… what should I call you?" I asked, scratching the back of my head. "I seem to have forgotten your name."
It was said lightly, almost sheepishly—but I watched his reaction closely. He didn't look offended.
He didn't look surprised either.
"I don't remember anymore," he replied after a pause.
But I knew better. He remembered. He simply chose not to carry it anymore. Maybe it was guilt—survivor's guilt, heavy enough to crush a man. Maybe he believed that the one spared had no right to keep a name when everyone else had lost theirs. Or perhaps he was waiting—waiting until this was over, until vengeance was finally paid, before deciding whether he deserved to exist as a person again. I nodded slowly.
"Fine then," I said. "I'll call you Megallan."
The name came from a distant memory, from another life—one of the greatest explorers of the old world. A sailor who dared to cross seas no one else would. For a navigator and salvager of his caliber, it felt right.
He didn't protest. He simply accepted it, as if the name were no more than a coat offered against the cold.
"Eat up," I added, gesturing toward the fire. "You'll need the strength… to deal the final blow."
That earned a faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. After another moment, I spoke again.
"Have you seen Bonbori surface while you've been here?" He took another sip of broth before answering, eyes drifting back toward the sea, where the shroud rolled endlessly like a living thing.
"I haven't seen him with my own eyes," Megallan said slowly. "But I'm absolutely certain he's here. I can feel it. I don't know how or why… I just do."
I exhaled quietly. "I know," I said. "I can feel him too."
I closed my eyes for a brief moment, recalling the sensation—vast, oppressive, ancient. A presence like a continent moving beneath the waves.
"Earlier, I could sense him clearly," I continued. "But now that I'm closer… he's retreated. Dived deeper. It's like he knows we're here." I opened my eyes and looked back at Megallan.
"Do you have any idea how deep the waters are in this region?"
He fell silent, the question stirring something old within him. When he spoke again, there was a faint spark—proof that, obsession or not, the master salvager still lived inside him.
"Back in my old days," he began, "I heard about this place more than once. Sailors called it the Abyss Sea. There were times I even thought of challenging it—of diving into its depths and uncovering whatever treasures lay buried beneath."
He gave a weak, humorless chuckle.
"But the risks were too high. We had almost no reliable charts, no real knowledge of this part of the New World. In the end, my crew and I abandoned the idea." His gaze hardened.
"From the old records and rumors we gathered back then… the depth here should be at least twice that of Fish-Man Island, on average."
I went still. Fish-Man Island lay ten thousand meters beneath the surface. That meant this sea plunged to twenty thousand meters—and that was only an estimate. Even my Observation Haki wouldn't reach that far. Not through that much water. Not through something that deep. I clenched my jaw, staring into the fire as the implications settled in.
"This is going to be troublesome," I muttered. "We only get one shot at this. If he stays in the depths, cornering him will be nearly impossible." The flames crackled loudly, as if agreeing.
"And besides…" I added quietly, eyes reflecting the firelight, "we're not planning to kill Bonbori right away."
The moment I said we weren't killing Bonbori right away, I saw it. The flicker. Life—raw, desperate, trembling—ignited behind Megallan's hollow eyes. It wasn't hope in the pure sense. It was fear masquerading as it, the kind born when a man realizes the single pillar holding him upright might crack.
Because Megallan knew the truth, even buried beneath years of obsession and madness. I was his only hope.
He understood that even if fate granted him a hundred lifetimes, even if he sharpened his hatred until it could cut steel, he would never grow strong enough to kill Bonbori on his own. The beast was beyond him—beyond reason, beyond human defiance. If I walked away, or if I chose a path that delayed vengeance indefinitely, then everything he had endured would have been meaningless.
I caught the change in his breathing immediately, the way his fingers tightened around the empty cup. I spoke before his fear could rot into despair.
"Bonbori will die," I said firmly. My voice carried no uncertainty, no hesitation. The fire cracked between us, embers rising into the dark like sparks of an oath.
"But not before I get what I came for," I continued. "And not before we carry out a rescue mission." Megallan blinked. "A… rescue mission?" he echoed, the words foreign on his tongue.
Confusion eclipsed his fear, and for a moment his obsession faltered, forced to make room for something else. He leaned forward slightly, ribs pressing against skin, eyes searching my face as if expecting to find mockery. There was none.
"Tell me, Megallan," I said quietly, meeting his gaze, "would you believe me if I told you there are people still alive inside that beast?"
His breath caught.
"People," I went on, my tone steady, deliberate, "who may have survived inside Bonbori's belly for more than a century."
The wind howled across the shore, whipping the shroud into restless waves, but Megallan didn't seem to notice. His eyes widened, pupils shaking as if trying to comprehend something that shattered every rule he had ever lived by.
"You're… you're serious," he whispered.
"There's no jest in my voice," I replied.
He recoiled slightly, disbelief spilling out of him in a rush, as though saying it aloud might force reality to correct itself.
"Is that… is that really possible?" he stammered. "Can someone truly remain alive inside that monster's belly? For centuries? That's absurd! No air, no light—no one could survive that long. Not even—"
"Pure Gold," I interrupted softly. The name fell between us like a stone dropped into deep water. Megallan froze. The disbelief didn't vanish—but something else crept in alongside it. Recognition. Half-forgotten rumors. Whispers exchanged over drinks in ports long since swallowed by time.
"Tell me," I continued, leaning closer to the fire, its glow carving my face in sharp relief, "what do you know about Pure Gold?" He swallowed, throat bobbing.
"I… I've heard stories," he said slowly. "Legends, mostly. A mythical substance. Said to halt aging. To preserve life. Most salvagers laughed it off as a fairy tale… including me." I nodded once.
"That myth is why I'm here." His gaze snapped back to mine, sharper now, the fog inside his mind thinning for the first time since I'd met him.
"Megallan," I said, my voice dropping, "now that you're truly stepping into my world—now that you'll be part of my family—I won't lie to you anymore."
The firelight reflected in my eyes as I spoke the truth. "The reason I'm hunting Bonbori isn't just the beast itself. It's what he swallowed. What he carries."
I let the words hang, heavy and undeniable.
"If Pure Gold exists anywhere in this sea," I continued, "it's inside him. And if there are people still alive in his belly, then that substance is the only reason they could have survived this long."
Megallan's hands began to shake—not with weakness, but with something far more dangerous. Hope. A hope twisted together with terror and awe. A hope that maybe, just maybe someone from his crew is alive within that beast's belly.