Candy arrows rained down from the upper balconies, shattering against the stone floorboards of the Live Stage.
Swinging a massive, spiked kanabo, Yamato deflected the incoming barrage. The heavy iron club smashed the hardened sugar into harmless dust, clearing a path through the chaotic crowd. Refusing to let the eldest son of the Big Mom Pirates establish a defensive perimeter, Kaido's rebellious offspring charged toward the candy manipulator.
Standing atop a jagged wall of pink sugar, Perospero looked down at the charging warrior.
"Licking your wounds won't save you!" the lanky pirate laughed, twirling his long candy cane staff. "Candy Maiden!"
A massive, iron-maiden construct made entirely of hardened syrup rose from the floorboards, its spiked interior snapping shut around the advancing attacker.
The sugary prison held for barely a second.
Cracking violently from the inside, the pink construct exploded outward. Yamato stepped through the shattered candy, a fierce, determined glare fixed on the enemy commander. Coating the iron club in dense Armament Haki, the weapon turned pitch black, humming with spiritual pressure.
Closing the final distance, a sweeping horizontal strike aimed to crush the candy wall entirely.
Perospero leaped backward, abandoning his defensive structure just as the heavy club pulverized the sugar into fine powder. Landing lightly on the ruined floor, the long-tongued pirate frowned, realizing the raw physical strength of his opponent required a more cautious approach.
While the heavy hitters clashed near the center of the cavern, a different kind of salvation arrived at the ruined banquet tables.
A loud, mechanical hiss echoed above the din of combat.
Standing on top of a makeshift barricade, Chopper hoisted a heavy, customized cannon onto his furry shoulder. The reindeer doctor had spent the last desperate minutes synthesizing, mixing, and loading the mass cure into the delivery mechanism.
"Everyone, breathe deeply!" the doctor yelled, pulling the heavy trigger.
A massive, expanding cloud of pale pink mist erupted from the cannon barrel. The Chopperphage Nebulizer shot the gaseous cure across the Live Floor, utilizing the cavern's own drafty air currents to spread the medicine rapidly through the fighting crowd.
The mist washed over the infected Ice Onis.
The reaction occurred instantly. The jagged, demonic frost coating the victims' skin began to melt, turning into harmless water. The freezing, agonizing cold vanished, replaced by a soothing, profound warmth that penetrated deep into their weary muscles. The demonic horns receded, and the mindless, violent rage evaporated from their eyes.
Dropping their weapons, hundreds of Beast Pirates collapsed to their knees, gasping for clean air.
Tears streamed down the faces of the cured Waiters and Pleasures. The terrifying realization of their own mortality, coupled with the cruel betrayal of their commanders, washed over the grunts. Queen had casually infected them, treating their lives as disposable tools for a minor tactical advantage.
An enemy pirate had just saved their lives.
A low, angry murmur began to ripple through the recovering crowd, quickly building into a deafening roar of absolute fury.
"Queen betrayed us!" a burly Gifter shouted, pointing a sword toward the upper balconies. "He threw away the antidote! He wanted us to die!"
"The Straw Hats cured us!" another Pleasure wept, clutching his restored hands. "We owe them our lives!"
The shifting loyalty fractured the Beast Pirate army from the inside out. Turning their weapons against their former comrades, the cured grunts formed a protective wall around the medical station.
Watching the mutiny unfold, a proud smile crossed Chopper's face before exhaustion finally forced him to sit down heavily on the stone floor.
Support arrived moments later.
Dropping from the upper walkways, four familiar figures landed in the center of the Live Stage.
Usopp adjusted his goggles, taking a position behind a broken stone pillar. The sniper smoothly shifted his multi-weapon into a repeating crossbow, covering the upper angles of the cavern. Beside him, Nami twirled her Clima-Tact, sending bursts of wind to knock back advancing enemies without causing lethal harm.
"Keep the center clear!" the navigator instructed, directing the flow of the allied forces.
Stepping forward to create a vanguard, Franky flexed his metallic arms. Opening small ports on his shoulders, the cyborg unleashed a barrage of energy blasts. The impacts sent clusters of loyalist Beast Pirates flying backward, creating breathing room for the exhausted samurai.
Drifting through the frontline, Brook drew his cane sword.
The musician released a sweeping wave of freezing air, locking the boots of charging enemies to the floorboards.
"We are here to assist!" Brook announced politely, tipping his top hat to the cheering samurai.
With the Straw Hat crew anchoring the center and the cured mutineers bolstering their numbers, the fragile samurai forces finally found the momentum they needed. Pushing back against the chaos, the alliance began to secure the lower levels of the fortress, turning the tide of the ground war.
Far away from the deafening roar of the Live Stage, a heavy, suffocating silence filled the abandoned corridors of the right-wing towers.
Walking slowly down the dusty hallway, Kin'emon held his katana tightly.
The leader of the Scabbards had separated from the rest of the retainers. While Denjiro, Kawamatsu, and the others hurried to secure the young lord, Kin'emon had taken on a much darker, far more personal burden.
Raising his left hand, the samurai inspected a small, glowing bead resting in his palm.
The magician had provided the tracker during the quiet days of preparation before the raid. Ben had placed a tracker into Kanjuro's body weeks ago. The bead pulsed with a faint blue light, growing brighter and warmer with every step down the corridor.
The light reached its peak, glowing steadily in front of a pair of heavy, painted sliding doors.
Slipping the bead into his kimono, Kin'emon took a deep breath. The pain of his wounds faded into the background, eclipsed by the heavy, agonizing sorrow weighing on his chest.
Pushing the wooden doors apart, the samurai stepped into the room.
The space appeared to be an old, unused theater storage room. Broken masks, dusty props, and ruined tapestries littered the floor. Sitting cross-legged on a wooden stage at the back of the room, holding an oversized calligraphy brush, Kanjuro hummed a quiet, traditional Wano tune.
The traitor looked up, a theatrical, sorrowful smile stretching across his face.
"Kin'emon," Kanjuro greeted, his voice dripping with dramatic flair. "I wondered who would find me first. I assumed it would be you. The loyal hound, tracking the scent of the stray."
Stepping fully into the room, Kin'emon did not sheath his sword.
"It is over, Kanjuro," the leader of the Scabbards stated, his voice hollow. "The illusion is broken. The raid is succeeding. Your master is dead."
A flicker of surprise crossed the actor's face, quickly hidden behind his practiced smile.
"Orochi is dead?" Kanjuro mused, dipping his massive brush into a pot of dark ink. "What a tragedy. The final act arrives sooner than expected. But the play must continue until the curtain falls, my old friend."
"We are not friends," Kin'emon replied softly.
"We never were," Kanjuro agreed cheerfully. "I have always been an actor on a stage, playing the role of the loyal retainer. A Kurozumi born to die in the mud, given a singular, beautiful purpose by Lord Orochi. Every laugh, every tear we shared... it was all part of the performance. Until the magician came." Kanjuro face turned grim as he said the last sentence.
Rising to his feet, the traitor dragged the wet brush across the wooden floorboards.
"And now, for my final masterpiece," Kanjuro announced.
The ink on the floor bubbled and twisted. Rising from the wooden planks, dozens of faceless, armed ink soldiers materialized in the dim light. The constructs raised drawn swords, stepping off the stage to surround the solitary samurai.
Kin'emon did not flinch.
Taking a low, wide stance, the samurai focused his breathing. The Foxfire style required concentration, channeling his willpower into the steel of his blade.
Flames erupted along the edge of the katana.
"I will end this performance," Kin'emon promised.
The ink soldiers charged simultaneously, swinging their dark blades.
Moving with grace, Kin'emon stepped into the assault. Swinging the flaming sword in a wide, sweeping arc, the intense heat instantly vaporized the first wave of constructs. The ink boiled and hissed, evaporating into thick, foul-smelling smoke before their weapons could connect.
Pivoting on his heel, the samurai thrust his blade forward, piercing the chest of another construct and incinerating it from the inside out.
Watching his soldiers burn, Kanjuro did not stop moving.
Swinging the massive brush through the air, the traitor painted a flock of dark, jagged arrows. The ink hardened instantly, transforming into lethal projectiles.
Evening Shower!
The deadly rain of ink shot across the room, tearing through the smoke toward the samurai.
Sensing the incoming barrage, Kin'emon raised his blade, attempting to deflect the volley. The flaming katana swatted dozens of arrows aside, turning them back into harmless liquid. However, the volume of the attack, combined with his existing exhaustion from the rooftop battle, slowed his reflexes by a fraction of a second.
Three ink arrows bypassed the defense.
One grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood. The second buried itself deep into his left thigh, causing the samurai's leg to buckle slightly. The third pierced his left shoulder, sinking deep into the muscle.
A sharp grunt of pain escaped his lips.
"You are slowing down, Kin," Kanjuro mocked, painting a long, winding serpent on the wall. The ink snake slithered off the wood, bearing its fangs and lunging across the floorboards. "Age and fatigue are catching up to the great leader."
Ignoring the burning pain in his shoulder, Kin'emon gripped his sword with both hands.
Foxfire Style: Flame Rend!
Bringing the blade down in a devastating vertical chop, a wave of intense fire shot across the floor. The flames caught the ink serpent head-on, slicing the construct neatly in half and burning the remains to ash.
Using the momentum of the strike, Kin'emon pushed off his uninjured leg, launching himself toward the stage.
Closing the distance rapidly, the samurai aimed a horizontal slash at the traitor's neck.
Anticipating the charge, Kanjuro raised the thick, wooden handle of his massive brush, blocking the katana. Sparks flew as the steel bit into the hardened wood. The two former comrades locked weapons, standing inches apart in the flickering lantern light.
"Why?" Kin'emon whispered, the sorrow finally breaking through his stoic facade. "We ate from the same pot. We bled on the same dirt. How could you throw all of it away for a man who cares nothing for you?"
Kanjuro's smile did not waver. The manic, empty look in his eyes deepened.
"Because I am nothing, Kin'emon," the traitor answered, pushing back against the blade. "I have no heart. I have no soul. I only have the role I was given. To die as a Kurozumi ghost."
Twisting the handle of his brush, a hidden mechanism clicked.
A sharp, concealed dagger sprang from the base of the brush handle. Moving with unexpected speed, Kanjuro thrust the hidden blade forward, aiming for the samurai's chest.
Reacting on instinct, Kin'emon twisted his torso violently to the side.
The dagger missed his heart, but sliced deeply across his ribs. Blood soaked into his torn kimono, adding another grievous wound to his battered body.
Stumbling backward, Kin'emon dropped to one knee, gasping for air. The blood loss began to take its toll, blurring his vision and sapping the strength from his limbs.
Standing triumphantly on the stage, Kanjuro raised his brush high into the air.
"This is the end, my friend," the actor declared, preparing to paint a final, execution-style strike. "Die knowing your rebellion was a failure."
Looking up at the smiling face of his oldest friend, Kin'emon felt the memories wash over him.
He remembered the young, reckless Oden charging through the capital. He remembered the cold nights huddling around a fire in Kuri, dreaming of a free Wano. He remembered the tears they shed together when they realized they had traveled twenty years into a ruined future.
The fire returning to his eyes, Kin'emon gripped the hilt of his katana tighter.
He could not die here. He had a promise to keep. A young lord to protect. A country to liberate.
Forcing himself up from the floorboards, the samurai ignored the screaming pain in his thigh and ribs. Channeling every remaining ounce of his willpower, his Haki, and his soul into the blade, the flames erupting from the steel turned a blinding, pure white.
"I am Kin'emon of the Foxfire," the samurai stated, his voice steady, echoing with unyielding resolve. "And I will not fall until the dawn arrives."
Kanjuro swung the brush downward, painting a heavy, descending arc of hardened ink.
Meeting the strike head-on, Kin'emon did not attempt to block.
Foxfire Style: Oden Two-Sword Style - Togen Totsuka!
Drawing his secondary blade from his waist in a fluid, desperate motion, Kin'emon crossed the two swords. Pouring his entire being into the technique inherited from his master, he lunged forward, moving faster than his injured body should have allowed.
The crossed blades cleaved through the descending ink construct effortlessly.
Passing directly through the traitor's guard, the blazing steel struck true. A massive, cross-shaped slash opened across Kanjuro's chest.
The wooden brush clattered to the floor, snapping in two.
Standing frozen on the stage, the manic smile finally faded from the actor's face. The shock of the mortal wound registered slowly, his eyes widening as he looked down at the fatal strike.
Kin'emon stood still behind his former friend, slowly sheathing his flaming swords.
"The curtain falls," Kin'emon whispered, closing his eyes.
Collapsing forward, Kanjuro hit the wooden stage with a heavy, hollow thud. A pool of blood quickly spread across the floorboards, mixing with the spilled ink. The traitor did not move again.
The battle was over.
Leaning heavily against a dusty wooden prop, Kin'emon allowed a single, ragged breath to escape his lungs. The adrenaline faded, leaving only agonizing pain and exhaustion. His vision swam, and his legs trembled under his own weight.
He had won the duel, but the cost was severe. The wounds in his shoulder, thigh, and ribs bled sluggishly.
Tearing a strip of fabric from his ruined kimono, the samurai hastily bound the worst of the cuts, tying the cloth tight to slow the bleeding. It was a temporary measure, barely enough to keep him conscious.
Picking up his katana, Kin'emon used the scabbard as a makeshift cane.
He could not rest. Momonosuke was still somewhere in the fortress. Dragging his injured leg, the samurai slowly limped toward the broken sliding doors, leaving the silent, dusty theater room behind.
Every step required a monumental effort of will. Blood trailed behind him on the wooden floorboards.
Behind the departing samurai, the room remained still for a minute.
Then, a faint, gurgling sound echoed from the wooden stage.
Lying in the growing pool of his own blood, Kanjuro's fingers twitched. The traitor was dying, his life fading rapidly with every heartbeat. Yet, a twisted, macabre laugh bubbled weakly from his lips.
"Not... not yet," Kanjuro gasped, coughing up blood. "The Kurozumi... always have... an encore."
Reaching out with a trembling, bloodstained hand, the actor did not reach for his broken brush.
Dipping his fingers directly into the dark mixture of spilled ink and his own lifeblood, Kanjuro began to draw on the floorboards right next to his face. The movements were erratic, driven by the absolute, final dregs of his fading life force and his all-consuming hatred for the country that had rejected him.
He poured the last of his Devil Fruit powers, his resentment, and his soul into the drawing.
"Burn it all," Kanjuro whispered, his eyes rolling back into his head as his final breath rattled in his chest. "Burn Wano to the ground."
The bloody ink on the floor began to hiss and boil.
It did not form a soldier, an animal, or a weapon. Rising from the floorboards, a massive, shapeless blob of dark, smoldering fluid materialized in the dim light.
The construct grew rapidly, absorbing the broken props and shattered wood around it. As it expanded, the dark ink ignited.
A terrifying, ethereal fire consumed the blob. The flames were not natural; they burned with a strange, dark intensity, radiating immense, suffocating heat that instantly melted the stone walls and incinerated the wooden stage.
The Kazenbo—the fire demon of the Kurozumi clan's hatred—had been born.
Taking the vague, shifting shape of a massive, burning specter, the entity possessed no mind, no allegiance, and no purpose other than absolute, total destruction. Emitting a low, mournful wail that sounded like burning wood, the fire demon drifted slowly out of the theater room.
Passing through solid walls, the entity set everything it touched ablaze.
The dry, wooden architecture of the right-wing towers caught fire instantly. Thick, black smoke began to fill the corridors. The temperature in the upper floors spiked drastically, creating a new, catastrophic threat for everyone trapped inside the skull dome.
Unaware of the creeping inferno slowly spreading behind him, Kin'emon continued his agonizing, slow limp through the quiet hallways.
Gripping his katana tightly, the samurai focused entirely on putting one foot in front of the other. The sounds of distant combat faded into a dull ringing in his ears. He needed to reach the young lord. He needed to fulfill his duty, even if it cost him his final breath.
The fortress of Onigashima burned around them, the final act of the raid steadily marching toward its fiery conclusion.