The next day passed in the usual rhythm of chains and sweat. We were herded to one of the construction sites, handed tools, and set to work like mules. The sun dragged itself across the sky, and by late afternoon, when it hung just over the horizon, I heard someone call my name.
"Vincent, follow me!"
Jamie's voice carried across the site, loud enough to make a few slaves pause and look his way—until the guards' stern glares reminded them to keep their heads down and hands moving.
I wiped my brow, then trudged toward him, trying not to draw too much attention. When I reached him, I asked, "Is my work time over already? Sun's still up. Thought I had more digging left in me."
"Yeah," Jamie said, voice low once I was close enough. "But the Cap'n needs to see you. Says it's about your… side work."
My gut twisted. Figures. Hiding a packet of powder wasn't the kind of job that ended after one day.
I tilted my head, testing him. "By the way… what's the Captain's name?"
I asked casually, but my mind was already running ahead. If he gave me the real name, I could check the man's stat sheet later. If not, then two possibilities: either Jamie and his Captain were hiding something together… or the captain is one of the people who wore a mask.
"You don't know your boss's name?" Jamie asked, brows furrowed like I'd just asked him if water was wet.
I only shrugged. If I knew, I wouldn't be asking, bro.
"It's Oliver," he finally said. "Captain Oliver Stone."
…Oliver. Jamie and Oliver. Haiyaa. My imaginary nephew somewhere in my head is already disappointed with these names, lah. Couldn't they pick something better? Something with weight, with fire, with oomph? Look at the King of Pirates—Roger. That's a fuiyooh name for a fuiyooh man, lah. Not Jamie. Not Oliver. Haiyaa. Even a cat named John-Kid sounds more legendary than this.
My inner uncle slips again—Jamie and Oliver… with names like that, I bet they can't even cook rice properly. Haiyaa.
"Why do you look at me like that?" Jamie suddenly asked, narrowing his eyes at me.
"Like what?" I lifted one brow in genuine confusion.
"Dunno… disappointed?" He rubbed his chin like he was trying to read me.
"I am," I replied without a second thought, my voice flat, deadpan.
That threw him off. "Why?"
"Let's go," I said, brushing it off and starting to walk.
"Wait, what? Why?!" He scrambled after me, completely lost, while I just kept my poker face, letting him stew in his own confusion.
I keep walking while Jamie still don't know from where the disappointed look I give comes from but we reached the same tent as yesterday, then without Jamie following me I walked inside alone.
Still the same room as yesterday but this time his head is on the table and he is snoring, I don't know what to do. But then suddenly he jerk his head up and yawning then look around a bit before his eyes landed at me.
"you're here, what was your name again."
"Vincent sir."
Then I see his stat sheet.
[Oliver Stone – Age: 47 | Male]
Strength: A
Speed: B+
Stamina: B+
Devil Fruit: C
Armament Haki: C
Observation Haki: S
Conqueror's Haki: N/A
Intelligence: A
Charisma: B
Leadership: B+
Combat Skill: A
Oh, it's the first time I've seen a stat sheet with a Devil Fruit listed. Even though Boa Hancock ate one not long ago, I still never she her face-to-face after I got the wire stitches from the celestial dragon.
Looking at this guy's stats though… not bad, but nothing absurd like Hancock's or even her sister's. The only stat in the S is his Observation Haki. So that explains it—why he snapped awake the moment I stepped into his room. His haki is basically a built-in alarm system.
"Same as yesterday. Take this and hide it somewhere." His voice was the same lazy, no-nonsense drawl as before. He slid another small packet across the table. I picked it up—this time it wasn't white powder, but blue. So he's dealing in more than one flavor of poison. Great.
And since I can see his stat sheet, that means he's not hiding his name. Maybe he is just a regular captain-ranked guard here… captain-ranked guard dumb enough to break the rules of this place.
And if he really is just some dumb idiot who thinks a slave is enough to take the fall for him, then I'm in troublesome hands.
"Yes, sir." I gave the barest nod, spun on my heel, and stepped out to meet Jamie.
"You done." He was lounging on a crate like yesterday, same spot, same pose, even the same cigarette dangling between his fingers.
"Yeah, let's go get my food." I answered. He flicked the cigarette to the ground, crushed it under his boot, and rose without a word.
Then came the routine, same as before—getting my food, which was still too much for me, sneaking part of it to the sisters' cell, then heading back to mine. I buried the new package in my little hiding spot before eating, then got on with some self-training.
The only real downside was that my training with Darius got cut short. I couldn't do the afternoon sessions with him anymore. Still, he'd already drilled enough into me, even left me with exercises I could do on my own.
--
And that became my new routine, at least for now—until the end of the week, when arena day rolled around again.
When we arrived, the noise hit me first. The crowd's roar was like thunder, rising and falling with every strike, every splash of blood. I could feel the vibrations under my feet, as if the arena itself demanded violence.
While I waited for my own name to be called, I watched the current fight. In the ring stood a macho man, but his height was probably just 190 cm, not like Edgard the whitebeard wannabe, his hair so long and white he could've been Jiraiya's macho older brother. He even had red tattoos across his face, though instead of cool sage markings, they looked like some Viking runes.
His opponent? A woman in her mid twenties. Her body was cut from muscle and sun, skin bronzed from a lifetime of hard battles and chains on both of her arms around a meter. Her black hair bled into purple at the tips, whipping around as she moved with sharp precision.
The fight began with a crash. The man lunged, swinging a hammer-sized fist that created a cloud of sand when it missed her by an inch. The crowd went wild, half cheering his power, half laughing at his aim.
The woman flowed around him, ducking low, striking fast—sharp elbows and knees digging into his ribs whenever she slipped inside his guard. It was like watching a panther dance around a bull. For every hit she landed, though, the man countered with sheer force, his fists tearing through the air, one wild swing close enough to make her hair whip across her face.
But she didn't falter. Instead, she baited him—let him think he had her cornered. He charged, roaring, swinging both fists down in a double hammer blow meant to turn her into paste. She rolled aside at the last second, chain flashing as it wrapped around his forearm. She yanked hard, dragging his balance just enough to slam her knee into his jaw with a crack that echoed through the arena.
The crowd howled.
The big man stumbled, spit flying from his mouth, but he didn't go down. Instead, fury burned in his eyes. With a roar, he ripped free of the chain, grabbed her by the waist, and hurled her across the arena like she weighed nothing. She hit the ground hard, rolled twice, but pushed herself back up, blood trickling from her lip.
That just made the audience louder.
He charged again, each step shaking the floor, while she circled, keeping her distance. Then, as he swung once more, she slipped under his guard and snapped the chain around his neck. The man thrashed, swinging his arms like clubs, but she clung to his back, legs locked around his torso.
He slammed his back and in turn her against the walls, once, twice, three times, the sound of flesh against stone sickening. Still, she held on, tightening the chain, her teeth bared in effort. His face started to turn red, veins bulging.
The man staggered, fell to his knees, one hand clawing at the chain. The other swung backward wildly, trying to crush her, but his movements slowed. The crowd, sensing the end, roared louder, a storm of voices demanding blood.
Finally, with one last strangled gasp, his eyes rolled back. He toppled forward like a collapsing statue, dragging her down with him. She landed on his back, chain still clenched tight, until the commentator shouted the end of the fight.
The arena erupted in cheers.
The woman walked toward the exit, her body swaying with every step, legs trembling, blood still fresh at the corner of her mouth. Yet her eyes—burning, unyielding—made it clear she wasn't beaten, not truly. She vanished into the shadows of the corridor, then slumping her back against the wall, sliding down until she sat there with her eyes closed, chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm.
I wanted to move toward her, maybe say something—hell, even a sarcastic "Nice job, panther lady." But before I could, a guard's voice barked my name.
My turn.
With a little hesitation, I stepped into the arena. The air hit me differently once I was inside—hot with the stench of sweat and blood. Across from me stood a man carved out of scars. Not the cool kind you brag about, but the raw, uneven kind that scream torture and survival. Battle had left its mark on him, but so had pain. The kind of man who lived too long in hell and decided to bring it with him.
Dangerous. Very dangerous.
And me? I wasn't exactly a blank slate anymore either. The thin line along my cheek, the raw burns on my forearms from last week's fight—they were proof I was starting to belong here. Proof I was becoming part of this nightmare.
We took our positions. The commentator shouted, "START!" and the crowd's roar swallowed the word whole.
We both charged.
His hook came fast, a brutal swing meant to smash my skull in one go. But thanks to Darius' relentless drills, my body moved almost on its own. A side-step, smooth, easy. I could practically hear my old man of a teacher grunting in approval.
I planned a quick jab to his torso, a nice little counterstrike—except his leg lashed out first. A sharp kick to mine. My balance snapped like a rope.
The world tilted. His fist came in a heartbeat later.
CRACK.
White pain exploded across my face. I hit the dirt hard, my cheek screaming, blood sharp in my mouth. Instinct screamed louder. My hand clawed at the sand, fingers curling around it, and without hesitation I flung it at him.
A dirty trick. One of Darius' favorites.
But the bastard just raised an arm, shielding his eyes like he'd been waiting for it. Like he knew.
"Shit," I hissed under my breath, scrambling as his shadow loomed. His foot lifted, ready to stomp me flat.
I rolled—hard, scraping my arms against the sand. The stomp landed where my head had been a moment ago, the sound like a drumbeat of death.
When I looked up, he wasn't pressing the attack. He just stood there, calm, steady, scars twitching as his lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
He was giving me a chance. A chance to get up.
And that scared me more than if he'd tried to kill me
Then, when I finally rose to my feet, he charged again. His stride was steady, not particularly fast, but heavy—like each step carried intent. When he reached me, his fist shot out toward my head, a sloppy overhand swing. At least, that's what it looked like. I recognized the feint too late—the real attack was his leg sweeping low, aiming to take my balance again.
But this time I was ready. I jumped my foot back and dodged it, countering with a quick jab at his ribs. He twisted away, smooth, like he'd done this dance countless times before. My fist cut through the air, and then his came at me again.
We exchanged blows, back and forth, our fists cracking against arms, shoulders, and flesh. Yet something gnawed at me. His aim. His intent. Every strike he threw seemed… off. He never aimed at my head aside from the first time. Never at my throat, never at my heart. Only the safe zones—arms, torso, legs. The kind of blows that could hurt, but never kill.
In the colosseum, that was suicide. Everyone here knew a weak fighter was meat for the dogs. Yet here he was, pulling himself back. Holding back.
It was strange enough that my instincts screamed at me to stop, to question it. But then his eyes met mine for just a moment—calm, almost resigned.
That was when my fist connected with his face. A solid hit, loud enough for the front rows to hear. He staggered, and I didn't waste the chance—I slammed into him, pinning him down on the sand.
My rational side whispered that he was letting me win. That he wanted this. That he'd decided tonight wasn't his night. But my fists kept moving anyway, hammering into his face until the commentator's booming voice cut through the bloodlust, declaring the match over.
The crowd roared—not out of awe, but out of disappointment. The fight had fizzled, and they wanted blood, not this sloppy match.
I stood up, chest heaving, sweat dripping. And just as I turned to leave, I heard it.
"...Thanks, man."
His voice. Weak, almost swallowed by the thunder of the crowd.
For a moment I froze, unsure if I'd imagined it. Then the guards dragged him away, his body limp but not broken, and I was left alone in the sand with the echo of those words ringing in my ears.