As Ren had once said, he'd always carried the mindset of the weak. Taking another's life for no reason—that was never something he desired.
That was why he'd made preparations with the Saruyama Alliance.
Their numbers weren't small, and once the Marines appeared, several residents instinctively began to flee. On the Grand Line, where monsters gathered, destruction of buildings was practically routine. Only a few bold and capable souls dared approach to take a closer look—and it was those people the Saruyama Alliance helped evacuate.
The freezing storm brought by Kuzan's arrival delayed the chain of destruction caused by Pica's earlier blow. Because of that—though Mock Town had been reduced to a wasteland, civilian casualties were almost nonexistent.
Of course, it wasn't because Ren's methods were particularly brilliant. At best, he was a strategist who made the most of what little he had. "Perfect outcomes" simply didn't exist in reality.
It was merely that the people of this world—even ordinary civilians—possessed a vitality that defied belief. Especially here on the Grand Line, where only the strong endured.
"Tough as cockroaches…" Ren looked up. The storm clouds above still roared and boiled, streaked with writhing silver light that twisted like serpents. The thunderheads birthed new bolts every few seconds, ready to strike at any moment.
He thought for a moment, then casually hurled the Thunder Spear into the sky. Lightning arced upward as he leapt past ice sculptures that dotted the ruined landscape like frozen works of art. Under the thick layers of frost, human silhouettes could barely be made out. Had they been people from his previous life, they would have frozen to death long ago.
But here—it was different. His Observation Haki sensed flickers of life beneath that icy despair, faint yet vigorous.He shook his head and continued forward.
A Shikigami guided him, leading him through the silent ruin until two figures appeared ahead.
Not Nojiko and Vivi—but Monet and Pica.
How should one describe the scene before him?
Ahead, the massive stone giant cast by Pica loomed like a mountain beneath the storm, blotting out what little light remained. Shadows and frost devoured the earth. Even just gazing upon it could stir a despair that bit to the bone.
Above, gale and rain tore across the sky while distant thunder rumbled. The very air pressed down upon the soul like the weight of a collapsing mountain.
Below—his comrade lay dying. That once-bronze, powerful body was marred by seared lightning wounds, the flesh charred and hollowed through. A massive crater gaped through his abdomen where a lightning pillar had pierced him, leaving an unhealable ruin. Unless they could somehow return to Dressrosa and find the Tontatta princess—Pica would not live.
Monet, having tried everything, pressed her palm against his wound. Endless frost sealed the failing organs within. It wasn't healing—only delay. Her limit had already been reached.
The best option now was to run.
But—around them, translucent ghost-like beings drifted in the mist, cold eyes glinting from the shadows. They were the same color as the frost, silent wardens watching prisoners inside an unseen cage.
Then—from the gloom ahead came the sound of footsteps. Steady. Approaching.
A man with a blade emerged from the storm, his form blurring through the rain. A crushing pressure like a mountain's fall weighed down upon Monet's trembling heart.
"What… are you?" Her lips trembled, her crimson eyes filled with cold dread.
She remembered her mission—carry out the Young Master's command, earn praise, return home, and proudly tell her sister that she had been acknowledged. It should have been a joyful task.
So where had she gone wrong? How had it come to this?
She couldn't understand. She and Pica had walked right into the trap, blind and ignorant. Even the Young Master's foresight hadn't predicted this outcome. Pica had mocked her before—calling her a lucky newcomer from Paradise who happened to defeat Crocodile by chance.
Yet in Mock Town, the enemy had demonstrated unimaginable strength. Even now, Monet still didn't understand—how did this man know who they were? How had he anticipated everything?
Perhaps the Young Master was right—Mock Town might have been a deliberate lure.But how could a pirate who hadn't even entered the New World know the identity of a Donquixote Family officer? Information in the Grand Line did not travel easily. Their family's secrets never leaked.Anyone who dared oppose them was long dead.
And yet—this "rookie from Paradise" had seen through everything—her appearance, her powers, even Pica's fighting style—and had used that knowledge to craft the perfect counterattack.
Otherwise, Pica would never have fallen to this degree. Otherwise, she wouldn't be standing here, paralyzed, waiting for her fate.
As the footsteps stopped before her, the figure came into focus.
Monet finally spoke, her voice trembling. "What did you do to me?"
"I'm curious too," Ren replied.
He held the Cursed Blade: Thousand Edge, eyes glinting as he studied the disheveled yet alluring green-haired woman before him. "You should've run. But you didn't. That means the experiment worked."
"You can't treat me as an enemy, can you? Can't even flee. In fact, you probably feel… drawn to me, don't you? How should I describe it? A 'lover's attachment,' or perhaps the dependence on a pillar of support. Still, since you tried to save Pica, it means the effect isn't complete. You can still distinguish friend from foe—so the setting hasn't fully taken hold."
His gaze was invasive—not lecherous, but dissecting. It was the cold scrutiny of a scientist toward a specimen—curious, intrigued, utterly detached.
"What the hell did you do to me?!" Monet's eyes widened as fear curdled into rage. "What setting? What lover? What dependence?!"
Her whole body trembled. A familiar terror crept up her spine—the same she'd felt long ago when she'd been captured and sold as a slave. If not for the Young Master saving her and her sister, seeing their potential and giving them a home, she would never have escaped that nightmare.
And now—she was living it again. Only this time, the Young Master was far away, deep in the New World. No one could save her.
Every word this man spoke reeked of horror. He was playing with her mind.
"So?" Ren tilted his head, flicking a coin between his fingers. "Aren't you going to attack me?"
Gambler's Misfortune.
Monet flinched, her whole body seizing—but she didn't move to strike. Ren's eyes narrowed. "Looks like it worked… partially."
He smiled faintly. "Want to know what happened? Promise me one thing, and I'll tell you."
She said nothing.
Ren continued anyway.
"Give him to me."
He gestured toward the dying Pica. "That last strike nearly killed him. Even if you drag him along, he'll only suffer more. Let me end it."
He sounded righteous, but everyone knew who had inflicted those wounds.
Ren didn't care. He was merely testing the parameters of his "setting."
"No…" Monet's voice shook, trembling with refusal. Even the ruthless Donquixote Family did not abandon their own. Once you became an officer, you were family. That was the foundation of Doflamingo's empire—even if it was built on his delusion.
To hand Pica over would be the same as betraying that family. And yet—after a long moment of trembling, Monet did the unthinkable.
She stepped back. Leaving Pica behind.
Ren raised his sword. With a single smooth motion—slash!
Pica's head rolled onto the frozen ground.
Even the mightiest body was nothing without Haki's protection; flesh and bone alike could be cleaved clean.
Execution complete. Ren kicked the severed head aside.
Monet's pupils dilated. Her whole body shook, tears spilling as a raw scream tore from her throat. "What did you do to me!? Why am I like this!?"
Ren's tone was calm, detached.
"Explaining in detail would take too long. I'll summarize."
He wiped his blade clean as he spoke.
"That space—my domain—is under my absolute control. Think of it as a god's realm. Within it, I am the Creator. So I wondered—if I'm the Creator, shouldn't I be able to alter anything that enters my realm? Altering matter is difficult—but possible. So what about thought, emotion, even the soul? Those exist within the realm too, don't they?"
"Cognitive alteration. Memory rewriting. Thought modification. Whatever you want to call it. That's what I tested on you."
"My goal was simple—to make you my pawn against the Donquixote Family. But for that to work, you couldn't realize it afterward. So I needed a believable reason."
"For a woman, love is often stronger than logic. If I arranged things properly, perhaps you'd accept that false emotion and fabricated memory."
He sighed lightly.
"Unfortunately, judging from the results… I failed."
His voice remained calm, almost clinical—no malice, no pride. Just a statement of fact.
But to Monet—whose mind, memories, and fear had all been violated—it was nothing short of terror incarnate.
(End of Chapter)