"Crunch…!" The sound was grotesque. Bone splintered between teeth with a wet, grinding crack—followed by the tearing of flesh as if something feral had been unleashed upon a feast. On the cold stone floor of the chamber, shackled in heavy chains of Kairoseki, sat a monster.
Douglas Bullet. His massive frame was hunched forward, legs crossed despite the restraints binding his ankles and wrists together, the chains clinking harshly with every movement. The sea stone suppressed his strength—but it did nothing to diminish the sheer presence he exuded.
He was still clad in the tattered uniform of Impel Down. Level 6. The lowest hell. The place where names were erased and legends were buried. Years. Years of confinement. Years of starvation—not by intent, but by neglect. In that abyss, sustenance was an afterthought. Survival itself was punishment.
And now—before him—lay a mountain. Platters upon platters of meat, entire roasted beasts, slabs of Sea King flesh stacked high, glistening with grease and blood. Barrels of wine lay cracked open, their contents spilling freely across the stone. A king's feast. And he devoured it like a beast starved beyond reason.
His right hand gripped a massive slab of Sea King meat, fingers digging into it as he tore through it with savage force, ripping away chunks with his teeth, chewing with an almost violent urgency. There was no elegance. No restraint. Only hunger. Raw. Unrelenting.
Where his left arm should have been, there was nothing. An empty sleeve hung loosely, swaying slightly with his movements, a stark reminder of battles long past. But even that absence did not slow him. He leaned forward, biting through bone, cracking it open to suck the marrow within, his jaw working relentlessly as if afraid the food might disappear if he slowed even for a moment.
"Glug… Glug…!" He grabbed a large flagon of wine with his teeth and hand, tipping it back without hesitation, the liquid spilling down his chin and soaking into the already stained prison uniform. In seconds, it was empty. He tossed it aside carelessly. It shattered against the stone.
And without pause, he reached for more. Across the chamber, seated at a small table elevated slightly above the floor, watched a woman whose presence stood in stark contrast to the chaos below. Calm. Composed. Unshaken. Tsuru. The Marine Chief of Staff.
Her sharp eyes followed every movement of the man below, her expression one of clear distaste, though not surprise. She had seen monsters before. But Douglas Bullet was something else entirely. A monster from an era that had refused to die. She rested her chin lightly against her hand, observing him as one might observe a caged beast—dangerous, unpredictable, and utterly devoid of civility.
"…Disgusting," she muttered quietly, though her tone remained even. Bullet didn't respond. Didn't even acknowledge her presence. Another bone snapped between his teeth. Another chunk of meat vanished. Because right now, nothing else existed for him. Not the chains. Not the Marines. Not even the reason he was here. Only food. Only the instinct to consume.
Admiral Sakazuki had not lasted long in the room. The moment he had witnessed the pirate's smug, animalistic indulgence—something in him had snapped. The tension in his posture had been unmistakable, his fist tightening as magma itself seemed ready to boil beneath his skin. He had left. Not out of duty.
But because he knew—if he stayed any longer—he would kill him. Chains or not. Orders or not. So now he oversaw the security outside, ensuring that not even the faintest possibility of escape existed. Because even restrained—Douglas Bullet was not a man one took chances with. Tsuru's gaze flickered briefly toward the door, then back to the prisoner.
"…You certainly know how to make an impression," she said coolly. No response. Only the wet tearing of flesh. But she hadn't expected one. Because she knew why he was here. And more importantly, who had agreed to see him. The Gorosei. That alone was enough to shift the balance of this entire situation. A pirate. A relic from Roger's era.
Had been granted an audience after a single message from Douglas Bullet. He was not executed. Not silenced. But he had been granted his meeting. Because of a message. A short one. Simple.
Yet dangerous enough that even the rulers of the world could not ignore it. Tsuru's eyes narrowed slightly as she watched him continue his feast. If what he claims is true… her fingers tapped lightly against the table. …then this monster may very well become the most valuable asset the World Government has ever acquired.
Below, Bullet finally paused. Just for a second. His breathing heavy. His eyes—wild, bloodshot, and yet...lucid. Aware. A slow grin spread across his face, stained with blood and grease. Not the grin of a man. But of something far more dangerous. Because he wasn't just feeding his hunger. He was waiting. And whatever he had come to offer was enough…to make even the gods listen.
"More wine…!" The roar tore through the chamber, raw and commanding, echoing off the stone walls like the bellow of a caged beast. Douglas Bullet raised his head at last, his jaw slick with grease and blood, his wild eyes locking onto the figure seated above him. Tsuru. He grinned. A slow, mocking curl of the lips.
"Be a good little Marine dog and fetch me more wine, would you?" he said, his tone dripping with contempt. "And not this cheap swill you've been feeding me…" He tossed aside the stripped carcass in his hand, bones clattering across the floor. "…bring me the kind reserved for your precious world nobles."
A low chuckle rumbled from his chest. It wasn't just mockery. It was deliberate. Provocation. Above him, Tsuru did not move. Did not flinch. Her posture remained composed, fingers lightly resting against the table, her sharp gaze fixed on the chained monster below.
Only her lips pressed together slightly, forming the faintest hint of a wry smile. The kind that spoke not of amusement but of patience wearing thin.
"What…?" Bullet tilted his head, the grin widening, baring teeth still stained from his feast. "Did you not hear me…?" His voice dropped, turning sharper. More venomous.
"You Marine bitch… I said get me some wine." Without warning, he hurled the empty cask. It tore through the air with violent force, aimed directly at her. But—Tsuru raised her hand. A simple motion. Effortless. The empty barrel was swatted aside mid-flight, deflected as though it were nothing more than a stray pebble. It crashed against the far wall, splintering into fragments.
She didn't even shift from her seat. Didn't even blink. Only then did she allow herself a faint sneer. Cold. Dismissive. Making it abundantly clear—she would not indulge him. Not even a step. The air grew heavier. The chains around Bullet clinked softly as his grin twitched.
"…I wonder," he said slowly, his voice lowering into something more dangerous, "what the Gorosei would say…" A pause. "…if they learned I changed my mind." His eyes narrowed. "All because you refused to serve me a little wine."
There it was. The real move. Not hunger. Not arrogance. Leverage. He leaned forward slightly, the chains tightening around his limbs, his presence pressing outward despite the Kairoseki suppressing his strength. He knew his worth. Knew exactly why he was here. And he intended to use it.
But Tsuru did not waver. Not even slightly. "I'll take my chances," she replied calmly. No hesitation. No fear. Just quiet certainty. For a brief moment, something flickered in Bullet's eyes. Not anger. Not yet. But surprise. Because that was not the response he had expected. Most would bend. Most would hesitate. Most would calculate.
But not her. Tsuru's gaze remained steady, dissecting him, reading him with unsettling clarity. Because she understood. Every word. Every gesture. Every calculated insult. He wasn't asking for wine. He was testing boundaries. Testing her. Pushing—probing—for weakness.
Trying to seize control of the situation before he ever stepped into the presence of the Gorosei. A dangerous game. But one she had seen countless times before. To her, Douglas Bullet was not an enigma. Not a legend. Not even a monster. Just another man attempting to claw for advantage. And compared to the lives she had lived, he was painfully transparent.
"Tch…" The sound clicked from Bullet's tongue as he leaned back slightly, irritation finally seeping through the cracks of his confidence. He had struck iron. Not flesh. Not pride. Iron. Unyielding. His gaze lingered on her, narrowing slightly. Wrong opponent.
He could already tell. That hot-headed Admiral from earlier—now that would have been fun. Easy. Predictable. Provokable. Bullet was certain he could have dragged Sakazuki into losing control. Even in chains, even suppressed—if the admiral had struck him, it would have shifted the balance. Given him leverage.
But this woman… she didn't bite. Didn't rise. Didn't react. She simply watched. Observed. Like a hawk circling above prey that had yet to realize it was already exposed. And that annoyed him. More than outright resistance ever could. The grin faded slightly from his face, replaced by something colder. Sharper. Because now he understood. This wasn't his battlefield. Not yet.
And the one sitting across from him was not someone he could dominate through brute force or provocation. So instead—he returned to his feast. Grabbing another slab of meat, tearing into it with renewed force, as though venting his frustration through sheer consumption.
The tension in the chamber shifted—subtly at first. Then—violently.
"Clank…" The heavy metal doors groaned as they began to open, their reinforced hinges protesting with a deep, grinding echo that cut through the room. Even Douglas Bullet paused mid-bite. Not out of obedience—but instinct. Because something had just entered.
Something… different. The doors parted fully. And from the threshold, a figure stepped in. Tall, composed. Ancient. His presence was not loud. Not overwhelming in the way brute strength demanded attention. No—it was quiet. Absolute. The kind of presence that did not need to announce itself… Because everything else acknowledged it anyway.
A man of advanced age, his pale grayish complexion almost ghostlike under the dim lighting. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, each one carved by time itself. A sharp, hooked nose gave his profile an austere edge, while thin brows rested above calm, unreadable eyes, framed by round, metal Windsor-style glasses.
Bald. Completely. Neither his head nor face bore a trace of hair. And yet there was nothing frail about him. He wore no suit like the others among his peers. No symbol of political authority. Instead, a white keikogi draped his form, loose yet deliberate, bound at the waist by a golden obi. The fabric hung open just enough to reveal a torso that, despite age, still carried the hardened definition of a warrior.
Weathered. Tempered. Unbroken. At his side—No. Not even at his side. In his hand. A katana. Sheathed. Resting lightly within his grip. A Supreme Grade blade. Those truly knowledgeable about meito would have recognized the first-generation Kitetsu. Not worn as decoration. Not sheathed in ceremony. But held—as if it belonged there. As if it had never once left his grasp.
"Clack… Clack…" The soft, rhythmic sound of wooden geta sandals striking stone echoed through the chamber. Measured. Unhurried. Each step deliberate. Each step heavy with unseen weight. Behind him followed power. Admiral Sakazuki entered, his presence like a smoldering volcano barely contained, molten fury simmering beneath his skin. His gaze flicked briefly toward Bullet, irritation flashing for just a fraction of a second before discipline forced it down.
Two figures moved silently behind them. Aegis Division. CP0. Masked. Faceless. Their very presence turned the air colder. Sharper. Deadlier. By the side, Tsuru rose to her feet at once. No hesitation. No delay. Respect—not forced, but understood—guided her movements as she acknowledged the arrival.
One of the CP0 agents moved swiftly, retrieving a chair from the table. Without ceremony, without even glancing at Bullet, he placed it directly in front of where the chained pirate sat. Positioned. Measured. Deliberate. As if setting the stage for something inevitable.
The Elder—Saint Ethanbaron Nusjuro—came to a stop. Right before Douglas Bullet. The distance between them was minimal. Uncomfortably so. For a moment, silence reigned. The kind of silence that pressed against the ears. Heavy. Oppressive. Bullet slowly raised his head. Their eyes met.
The grin on his face faltered. Not gone. But… thinner. Because the man standing before him was not like the others in the chamber. Not like Marines. Not like the cold, lifeless CP0 agents. This was something else. Something older. Something that did not need chains to command power.
Nusjuro said nothing at first. His gaze, calm and piercing, swept over Bullet—not hurried, not curious, but assessing. As one would examine a weapon. Or a threat. Or both. The katana in his hand remained still. Yet its presence alone was suffocating. Because it did not feel like an ornament.
Nusjuro lowered himself into the chair with unhurried grace, the wooden legs scraping faintly against the stone as he settled. The katana never left his hand. It rested lightly across his lap—casually. Yet unmistakably present. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet. Measured. But it filled the chamber effortlessly.
"Douglas Bullet…" A brief pause. "You requested an audience with the Gorosei." His gaze remained fixed, unwavering. "And here I am." No ceremony. No wasted words.
"Now tell me—"His tone sharpened ever so slightly. "—is the message you sent us… true?" The air grew heavy. Because there was no mistaking it. This was not curiosity. This was anticipation—barely restrained. Below him, Bullet let out a low, rumbling laugh.
"Kahahaha…!" He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing blood and grease across his cheek as his grin stretched wide. "I like your style…" he said, eyes gleaming. "Straight to the point. No nonsense."
Then—his gaze shifted. Past Nusjuro. To the figures standing behind him. Sakazuki. CP0. Tsuru. The grin sharpened.
"But tell me…" he continued, voice dripping with mockery, "are you sure you want to discuss something this sensitive…" His eyes locked onto Sakazuki. "…with your mutts standing around?" The insult hung in the air like poison. Sakazuki's jaw tightened instantly.
His fists clenched, knuckles whitening as rage surged beneath the surface. The temperature in the room seemed to rise, the faintest hint of heat distortion flickering around him. His teeth ground together.
But before that fury could erupt— "Clear the room." Nusjuro's command cut through everything. Calm. Absolute. Unquestionable. There was no hesitation from the others. Tsuru turned immediately, already moving. The CP0 agents followed without a word, their silent steps blending into one as they made for the exit.
Only Sakazuki remained. For a moment. His eyes burned into Bullet, the pirate's mocking stare meeting his own without fear. A challenge. Blatant. Provocative.
"Admiral Akainu." Tsuru's voice was sharp. A warning. A reminder. Duty over pride. Sakazuki exhaled harshly through his nose, the tension in his frame coiling tighter before finally snapping into control. With one last glare, he turned and strode toward the door, his heavy steps echoing with restrained fury. The doors slammed shut behind them.
Boom. Silence. Just the two of them now. Monster and sovereign.
"Are you not afraid…" Bullet began, leaning forward slightly, chains rattling softly, "that I might just kill you?" He barely finished the sentence—before steel sang. A flash. Too fast to follow. Even for him. For the briefest instant—nothing. Then, a thin line of red appeared along his neck. Right beside his jugular. Blood welled instantly, trailing down his skin. Bullet's grin froze.
Not from fear—but from realization. He hadn't seen it. Not even a hint. Nusjuro's blade rested lightly against his throat now, as if it had always been there.
"Next time," Nusjuro said calmly, his voice devoid of emotion, "the strike won't be so shallow." The pressure increased—just slightly. Enough to remind. Enough to warn. "So choose your words carefully."
A pause. Then, again—"Now…answer my question." His gaze hardened. "Was the information you passed to us true?" For the first time—a flicker of genuine anticipation slipped through.
"Do you truly have a way… to reach the Final Island?" The name itself carried weight. Legend. Myth. Truth. Laugh Tale. The very end of the Grand Line. The place that had eluded the world for centuries. Bullet didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Instead, he let the blood run freely, a slow grin creeping back onto his face.
"If you're about to tell me…" Nusjuro continued, pressing the blade just a fraction closer, "that the path lies within the Poneglyphs…" His tone turned colder. "…then I will cut you down where you sit and spare us both the wasted time."
Because that was nothing new. Nothing valuable. The secret of the Road Poneglyphs was known to those who truly sought the truth. If this was all Bullet had—he wasn't worth the effort. But Bullet only chuckled. Low. Amused.
"Haven't you heard the saying…" he murmured, tilting his head slightly despite the blade at his throat, "haste makes waste?" His eyes gleamed. "And do I look like an idiot…?" The chains clinked as he shifted slightly, completely unfazed by the deadly edge pressed against his skin. "…to call for a meeting with the rulers of this world without something substantial?"
Nusjuro's gaze narrowed. "I have no time for riddles, Bullet." His tone sharpened. "I know for a fact you were not among those who reached the Final Island with Roger." A pause. "So if you intend to build your claim on lies—"
"Then what if I told you..." Bullet cut in, his voice dropping, the grin turning sharper—more dangerous. "…that Roger and his crew didn't just find answers on that island…"
Silence fell again. Even Nusjuro did not interrupt. Because something had shifted. "…they found something else." Bullet's eyes gleamed with a dangerous light.
"A treasure." A pause. "A very special one." The chains rattled softly as he leaned forward just enough to feel the blade press deeper, uncaring as more blood trickled down. "And to this day…"
His voice lowered further. "…the remnants of Roger's crew have been guarding it."
Nusjuro's grip on the blade tightened—just slightly. Barely noticeable. But real. "…an item," Bullet continued, each word deliberate, "capable of flipping the very status quo of these seas."
The implication was clear. Power. Absolute. World-altering. And then—he smiled wider. Because he knew. He had their attention.
"Because from what I've heard…" he added, almost lazily, as if commenting on something trivial, "from my little cage in Impel Down to here…" His eyes locked onto Nusjuro's. Sharp. Piercing. "…it seems the World Government's grip…" A pause. "…is starting to slip."
Silence followed. Heavy. Dangerous. Because if what he said was true, then this was no longer just about reaching the Final Island. This was about control. About power. About a weapon—that could decide the fate of the world itself.
"Cut to the chase, Bullet." Nusjuro's voice cut through the tension like a blade. "What kind of treasure?" he continued, his tone sharp, unyielding. "And does it have anything to do with reaching the Final Island?"
Slowly—deliberately—he drew the katana away from Bullet's throat, the steel whispering softly as it left skin. A thin trail of blood followed its path, but Nusjuro no longer pressed the attack. Not yet.
"Unless you tell me what it is," he added, his gaze narrowing behind those round lenses, "I cannot determine the value of your information." Bullet scoffed. A low, amused sound.
"Impatient…!" he muttered, rolling his shoulder slightly despite the chains. "But fine." He leaned back, chains clinking faintly, his grin returning—wider now. "Yes… the treasure is real." A pause. "And yes…" His eyes gleamed. "…it is what allows one to reach Raftel."
The name alone shifted the air.
"It's a Log Pose…" Bullet continued, his tone dropping into something almost reverent, "…one that has adapted itself to the magnetic currents of the Final Island." Nusjuro's eyes sharpened.
"…an Eternal Log Pose…" Bullet's grin widened further. "…that points directly to the One Piece." For the first time, Nusjuro moved. Not calmly. Not measured. He stood abruptly, the chair scraping harshly against the stone as he rose, stepping forward without regard for the mess beneath his feet—crushed bones, spilled wine, half-eaten carcasses. None of it mattered.
"Impossible." The word came sharp. Immediate. "Absolutely impossible!" His voice, though still controlled, carried a rare edge. "There has never been any record—any mention—of such a device!" His grip on the katana tightened. "If such a thing existed…" A step forward. "…we would not have spent centuries searching."
Because he knew. Better than most. There had been a time—long ago—when even he had walked the seas himself, tracing currents, mapping routes, pushing deeper into the New World where logic broke and navigation became madness. Log Poses became erratic. Useless. The deeper one went, the less the seas obeyed any known rule.
"If it were possible to chart a stable path beyond that chaos," he continued, voice lowering, "the World Government would have mapped the end of the world long ago." His eyes hardened. "What you're claiming…" A pause. "…should not exist."
"Kahahaha…!" Bullet laughed. Loud. Unrestrained. "Just because it was impossible for you…" His grin turned sharp. "…doesn't mean it was impossible for others." A pause. "The Poneglyphs are a fine example, aren't they?"
That struck. Clean. Precise. "Eight centuries," Bullet continued, voice dripping with mockery, "and you still haven't found a way to erase them completely."
Silence. For the first time, Nusjuro faltered. Just slightly. But it was there. Because that was truth. An inconvenient one.
"Wait…" Nusjuro said slowly, his voice tightening, anticipation creeping in despite himself. "Are you telling me…" His eyes locked onto Bullet's. "…that you have this Eternal Log Pose in your possession?"
Bullet shrugged. Casual. Almost dismissive. "Well…" A smirk. "To be honest…I don't." The shift was immediate. Nusjuro's expression darkened. A flicker of irritation—no, anger—crossed his otherwise composed face.
"Then you have no value to us," he said coldly. "All you offer is a claim." A step forward. "Even if such an item exists… there is no telling where it could be." His grip on the blade tightened again. "You expect us to gamble on your words alone?"
Bullet's grin didn't fade. If anything—it deepened. "What if I told you…" He leaned forward slightly, chains rattling. "…that I know exactly where it is?"
That did it. "Where…?" Nusjuro demanded instantly. No restraint. No hesitation. "Tell me."
Because this—this changed everything. If true—it bypassed the Poneglyphs. Bypassed centuries of failure. Bypassed the very system that governed the Grand Line. It would mean direct access—to the Final Island. To the truth that they have always wanted to erase forever from this world.
"Now, now…" Bullet drawled, shaking his head slowly. "You're being greedy, Elder." His eyes gleamed with cold calculation. "You expect me to hand over my only lifeline…" A pause. "…for nothing?"
The smile that followed was cruel. Because this—this was the real negotiation. He had planned this. Every word. Every reveal. Carefully. Because this was his escape. His one and only way out of hell. Years in Level 6 had taught him one thing—strength alone wasn't enough when you were chained.
But information? That was power. And right now—he held it. Whether he would honor any deal afterward… was a different matter entirely. Nusjuro understood that. Of course he did. But this was not an opportunity he could ignore. Not even for a moment.
"…What do you want?" he asked finally. Direct. Controlled. Dangerous.
Bullet's grin widened. "First…" He glanced at the empty casks around him. "…some proper wine."
A pause. "And second…" His eyes sharpened. "…these chains come off." The Kairoseki rattled softly as he shifted. "And third…"
Now his voice dropped. Deliberate. Calculated. "Grant me the title of Shichibukai." Silence.
Heavy. Unmoving. Even Nusjuro paused. For the first time since entering the room, something close to puzzlement flickered across his face.
"…You wish to become a government dog?" he said slowly. Because that was what it meant. Submission. Control. Service. And Douglas Bullet was not a man who bowed. Bullet's grin turned razor-sharp.
"Call it whatever you want…" His eyes gleamed with something dangerous. "…but I prefer to think of it as…" A slight tilt of his head. "…a mutually beneficial arrangement."
Because in his mind, this wasn't submission. It was leverage. A temporary alliance. And once he was free, the world itself would have to deal with him again. Unchained. Unleashed. And far more dangerous than before.