The Holy Land of Mariejois stood high above the Red Line, gleaming like paradise to the world below. But beneath its polished floors and gold-draped halls, buried deep in its belly, was the truth:
Hell.
They called it the Slave Hall—a name far too clean for the nightmare it housed. The stench of sweat, blood, and rotting flesh hung thick in the air. Chains clinked with every shiver. Rats scurried between the iron bars, bold enough to nibble at sleeping fingers. No one fought them off anymore.
The cages were packed—rows of rusted steel, stacked atop one another like crates of meat. Inside, the slaves barely moved. Their skin clung to bone. Eyes glazed over with hopelessness. Some prayed. Some whispered to ghosts. Most simply stared.
Above, thunder cracked.
Rain tapped faintly on the ceiling, but the storm outside was distant—unreachable, like freedom.
Then, the silence broke.
The thick iron door at the end of the corridor let out a deep metallic groan as it slowly opened. The sound echoed like a death bell.
Heavy footsteps followed. The sharp click of polished boots. The dull thump of dragging chains.
A Celestial Dragon waddled into the room—morbidly obese, draped in royal silk, and sealed behind the grotesque bubble of his helmet. His robe was embroidered with golden World Government crests and stained with wine and spit.
But the worst part? He wasn't walking.
He was riding—perched like a king atop the back of a Murloc slave, who crawled on all fours, his wrists and ankles cuffed in Sea Prism Stone shackles. Blood trickled from his gills. His eyes were swollen shut. Yet he moved, inch by inch, carrying the weight of his master.
Behind them walked a thin, rat-like man—the slave broker—holding a whip, a cigar, and a black book bound in leather.
The Celestial Dragon's voice oozed through his speaker tube, distorted and venomous.
"I want something new. Something exotic. The last one died too quickly."
The broker chuckled, flipping through his ledger. " Respected Saint Gremos. We have a few rare breeds in stock—Fishman, Dwarf, Giants even a hybrid Buccaneer. Strong blood. Defiant. Very... entertaining."
They walked past cages of trembling children, broken pirates, fallen kings. None looked up. None dared.
The Celestial Dragon came to a stop in front of a cage set apart from the others—thicker bars, heavier chains, and more guards.
Inside, slumped against the cold stone wall, was a figure cloaked in shadow. His arms were chained at the elbows and wrists. Ankles cuffed, neck collared. A muzzle once used for Sea Kings clamped over his mouth. Every part of him screamed danger.
But he didn't move.
He just sat.
The Celestial Dragon's lips curled into a twisted grin beneath his fogged helmet. His tongue slid across his teeth like a starving man seeing a feast.
"Is this the one?" he asked, voice thick and muffled by arrogance.
The rat-faced slave seller beamed, shuffling forward like a rodent offering scraps to a snake.
"Yes, Saint Gremos. This is the one I told you about—our crown jewel."
He tapped the cage with his stick, the sound echoing through the stone corridor.
"Half-Fishman, half-Buccaneer. Strong enough to bend Sea Prism Stone. He escaped Mariejois once before, helped by Fisher Tiger's remnants. Slaughtered Two Vice-Admirals during the breakout."
He leaned closer, lowering his voice with mock reverence.
"But he was finally brought down by Dracule Mihawk himself. Even then… Mihawk didn't kill him. He said—'This one's not done yet.'"
The Dragon's eyes widened.
"Five hundred million?"
"A bargain," the seller grinned.
Saint Gremos cackled and licked his lips.
"Pack. Him. Up."
Without warning, the Dragon reached into his robes and pulled out a Devil Fruit—deep violet, covered in sharp spirals, pulsing faintly like it was alive. He tossed it into the cell without ceremony.
The fruit rolled across the cold floor, coming to rest near the chained figure's feet.
The seller bowed so low his forehead touched the ground.
"As you command, my lord."
The Dragon waddled away, already dreaming of blood.
Once he was gone, the seller stood again and crouched near the bars, eyeing the prisoner with greedy curiosity.
"You hear that?" he said with a smirk. "You're fighting tomorrow. The Grand Arena. You win? Maybe you keep eating. Maybe you get another day."
He nodded toward the Devil Fruit.
"The Saint gave you a gift. Says you're worth investing in."
Still, the prisoner didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even glance at the fruit.
He simply sat—silent, still, eyes half-lidded, like a beast in a cage dreaming of slaughter.
The seller's smile faded a little. Something about the silence… unsettled him.
"Tch. Whatever. Just try not to die too fast."
He turned and left, whistling, cash in hand.
The door slammed shut.
The hall went dark.
Thunder cracked overhead—closer this time.
And in the cell, for the first time…Thor's eyes opened.
They glowed faintly.
Like lightning in a storm.
Silence ruled the Slave Hall again.
Chains creaked. Somewhere, a rat scurried. Thunder rolled across the distant skies like a war drum calling to something buried deep.
In the cell, the Devil Fruit lay untouched—coiled and pulsing like something alive, hungry, waiting to be claimed.
For a moment, Thor didn't move.
Then his eyes opened—slow, cold, and ancient.
He stared at the fruit, and something strange happened.
A pulse ran through his skull.
As if the fruit spoke to him without words, its truth poured into his mind like black fire.
Mythical Zoan: Titan-Titan Fruit — Model: Leviathan.
The World Serpent. Devourer of Kings. Breaker of Seas.
Thor raised his bound hand. Nails like claws scraped a chunk from the fruit's flesh. He placed it in his mouth, chewed slowly, and swallowed.
No dramatic burst of power.
No transformation.
Nothing.
He was still shackled, still muzzled, still drenched in Sea Prism Stone.
But he smirked.
For the first time in days, he spoke.
Voice low. Calm. Cold.
"Fools…"
His chains clinked softly as he leaned forward.
"They've brought their own demise."
His eyes flickered—not with light.
With depth.
Like the ocean before it swallows entire cities.
And far above, in the skies of the Holy Land, the clouds gathered into a spiral.
The storm had found its name.