Chapter 115: Meet Sabo Again
The Corrida Colosseum — Reference Room
The colosseum's administrative corridors were a maze of stone and shadow, designed to keep contestants contained and staff isolated. Itachi moved through them without sound, his black cloak swallowing the dim torchlight, his cat-face mask turning him into something between a ghost and a warning.
The reference room door was unlocked. Careless.
Inside, a single clerk sat hunched over a mountain of paperwork—contestant registrations, tournament brackets, medical clearances, death certificates. The bureaucracy of blood sport. He looked up at the sound of the door opening, his face shifting from annoyance to confusion as he took in the masked figure before him.
"Who are you? This area is off-limits to contestants. Didn't they explain the rules at orientation? If you have a complaint about your bracket placement, you need to file Form 7-C with the arena master's office, not—"
Their eyes met.
The clerk's voice died in his throat. His pupils dilated. His jaw went slack.
Itachi's Sharingan spun slowly behind the cat-face mask, the tomoe rotating in a hypnotic spiral that caught the clerk's consciousness like a fish in a net. The genjutsu was gentle—not the soul-crushing torture of Tsukuyomi, but a simple suggestion layered over the man's perception. You are speaking with a tournament official. Everything is normal. Cooperate fully.
"I need the contestant records," Itachi said. "All of them."
"Of course, sir. Right away."
The clerk moved with the dreamlike compliance of the deeply hypnotized, pulling ledgers from shelves and spreading them across his desk. Itachi's eyes swept across the pages, absorbing information at a speed no normal human could match.
The tournament structure was straightforward. Four blocks—A, B, C, and D. Dozens of contestants per block. A battle royale format where only the last fighter standing in each block would advance to the finals.
Blocks A, B, and C had already concluded.
Block A's victor: "Champion" Burgess. The name registered immediately—Burgess was one of Blackbeard's original crew, the helmsman of the Blackbeard Pirates, a man whose physical strength was legendary even among the New World's monsters. Itachi had seen him in the chaos of Rilke Callander, though they hadn't crossed blades directly.
The Blackbeard Pirates are here too. First Rilke Callander, now Dressrosa.
Are they operating independently from their captain?
Block B's victor: Bartolomeo. The No. 1 supernova of the "New Evil Generation," whatever that meant in this world's constantly shifting hierarchy of threats. His file noted a Devil Fruit ability related to barriers—defensive applications, primarily.
Block C's victor: Lucy.
Itachi paused. The name meant nothing. But the face in the accompanying photograph—blurred though it was, clearly taken without the subject's cooperation—was unmistakable.
Luffy.
Of course he'd use an alias. "Lucy."
The clerk had helpfully noted that "Lucy" had advanced to the finals after defeating multiple opponents, including a warrior named Don Chinjao whose bounty had once exceeded five hundred million berries. The match had apparently involved a clash between Chinjao's legendary drill-head and Luffy's Gear Third—a clash that had ended with Chinjao's head restored to its original shape and the old pirate weeping with gratitude.
Only Luffy could turn an enemy into an ally by punching him in the head.
Itachi filed the information and continued scanning.
Block D was still in progress. The names blurred past—Suleiman the Beheader, Cavendish the White Horse, fighters from a dozen different crews and kingdoms. And among them, listed near the bottom of the rankings with odds so long they were practically a joke:
Rebecca. The Undefeated Woman. Zero wins by violence. Every victory achieved through ring-outs and evasions. The crowd hated her. The bookmakers dismissed her. The other fighters called her coward, weakling, disgrace.
Itachi studied her photograph—the same pink hair, the same determined eyes as the picture the toy soldier had given him. But younger here. Softer. Before whatever had happened to her family had carved those hard lines around her mouth.
She's in D block. The battle is still ongoing.
He memorized the arena's internal layout—the access corridors, the spectator galleries, the maintenance passages that connected the administrative areas to the fighting pits. Then he closed the ledgers.
"Forget this conversation," he told the clerk. "Continue your work."
The clerk blinked. When his eyes opened, the masked figure was gone. He looked around the empty reference room, shrugged, and returned to his paperwork.
The Corridor Outside
Itachi pushed through the reference room door—and his hand moved instinctively to the Wind-Forest Fire's hilt.
Someone was in the corridor.
A man stood with his back turned, facing the wall, engaged in what appeared to be—
"What are you looking at?" The man didn't turn around. "Never seen someone take a piss before?"
Itachi's Sharingan catalogued the figure. Tall. Green hair styled in an elaborate mohawk. Facial piercings. A jacket covered in elaborate patterns. The posture of someone who considered himself far more intimidating than he actually was.
Bartolomeo.
The Block B victor. The barrier user. And, apparently, a man with no sense of appropriate timing or location.
Bartolomeo finished his business with a satisfied sigh, still not bothering to look over his shoulder. "A woman rejected by an entire country. A hateful royal family. Bunch of weird nonsense if you ask me." He adjusted his belt. "I don't care about any of that political garbage. What I want to know is whether that bastard Cavendish is going to lose already so I can fight someone interesting."
He turned around.
The corridor was empty.
"...What the hell?"
Bartolomeo scratched his mohawk, his pierced brow furrowing. He could have sworn someone had been standing behind him. The guy with the weird mask and the black cloak. He'd definitely seen him in the reference room just now—had been about to ask what someone like that was doing snooping around the administrative offices.
But there was no one there.
"Whatever."
He shrugged. He had more important things to think about. Like the incredible, once-in-a-lifetime event he had witnessed just minutes ago.
Luffy. Senior Luffy. In the flesh. And not just Senior Luffy—but Senior Luffy's brother. The two of them had clasped hands right in front of him, had traded identities like characters in a legend, had—
"This is too meaningful! I have to see how he fights! Senior Luffy's brother, carrying on the great Straw Hat legacy!"
He sprinted toward the spectator galleries, his earlier confusion completely forgotten.
Arena D — The Fighting Pit
The crowd roared.
"KILL HER! KILL THE BITCH!"
"RIP HER APART, SULEIMAN!"
"SHE'S NOTHING! THE RIKU FAMILY IS NOTHING!"
Rebecca stumbled backward, her gladius nearly torn from her grip by Suleiman's last strike. The beheader's blade whistled past her ear, close enough to shear off a lock of pink hair. She twisted away, pivoting on her back foot, using the momentum to create distance.
The crowd booed.
"RUNNING AGAIN! COWARD!"
"FIGHT LIKE A REAL GLADIATOR!"
"HOW MANY TIMES DO WE HAVE TO WATCH THIS DISGRACE?!"
Suleiman advanced. His blade—a curved executioner's sword as long as Rebecca's arm—gleamed under the arena lights. Behind him, the scattered bodies of defeated fighters marked the path of his rampage through D block. He had cut down veteran warriors, rookie hopefuls, and everything in between.
Rebecca was the last one standing in his way.
"The people really do despise you." Suleiman's voice was calm, almost conversational. "I've fought in arenas across the Grand Line. I've never seen a crowd turn on a fighter like this. Usually, there's at least a few supporters. A few underdogs who bet on the long shot."
He swung.
Rebecca danced backward, the blade missing her stomach by inches.
"But you? Everyone wants you dead. Every single person in this arena." He shook his head slowly. "What did you do? What crime did you commit?"
Rebecca didn't answer. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Her arms ached from blocking strikes that were never meant to be blocked by someone her size. Her Observation Haki—the one skill she had cultivated through years of desperate survival—screamed warnings from every direction at once.
I can't keep this up.
I can't—
Suleiman lunged.
She tried to dodge. Her legs wouldn't move fast enough. The blade descended—
And a massive body crashed into her from the side, shoving her out of the strike's path.
Angelia.
The tall, powerfully-built female gladiator who had fought beside Rebecca in the early stages of the melee. They had made no pact, sworn no alliance. But Angelia had watched Rebecca fight—had seen her refuse to harm anyone, had seen her win through deflection and evasion and sheer stubborn refusal to draw blood—and something in that had moved her.
"Get back!" Angelia roared, raising her own blade to meet Suleiman's. "I'll hold him—"
Suleiman's executioner sword carved through Angelia's guard like paper.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Angelia crumpled.
The crowd erupted.
"YES! BLOOD! FINALLY!"
"THAT'S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU HELP THE RIKU WHORE!"
"FINISH HER, SULEIMAN! FINISH REBECCA!"
Suleiman stepped over Angelia's motionless body. His blade dripped crimson onto the sand.
"Your head." He raised the executioner sword. "Is mine."
The Spectator Gallery — Shadowed Corner
Itachi watched from the darkness.
He had slipped into the viewing area through a maintenance access point, positioning himself in a corner where the torchlight didn't reach. The cat-face mask made him invisible to the crowd's notice—every eye was fixed on the arena below, on the drama of the hated princess about to meet her end.
Rebecca.
The girl in the photograph. The one the toy soldier had begged him to save. She was young—younger than he had expected. Her face, beneath the gladiator helmet, still held traces of childhood. But her eyes were old. The eyes of someone who had been hated for a very long time and had learned to survive anyway.
The toy soldier cares about her deeply. Enough to risk compromising the mission.
Why?
The question could wait.
Right now, Suleiman was about to execute her.
Itachi's hand moved toward the Wind-Forest Fire's hilt. A single shuriken could deflect the killing blow. A genjutsu could freeze Suleiman mid-swing. There were a dozen ways to intervene without revealing himself—
"Senior Luffy's elder brother! Who do you think's gonna win in D block?"
Itachi's head turned.
A few rows below his position, two figures stood at the railing, watching the battle unfold. One was the green-haired man from the corridor—Bartolomeo, his earlier confusion apparently forgotten, his attention now fixed on the arena. The other wore a simple gladiator's helm and a fake mustache that did almost nothing to conceal his face.
Sabo.
"It's hard to say." Sabo's voice was thoughtful, analytical. "Anything can happen in a battle royale. I've seen fighters come back from worse positions."
He adjusted the fake mustache, grimacing.
"Also, don't call me that awkward name. It's uncomfortable."
"Yosh! Then I'll call you... Old Man!"
"...Fine. Whatever." Sabo turned away, shaking his head with the resigned patience of someone who had long ago stopped trying to control the uncontrollable.
"Sabo."
The whisper came from directly behind him.
Sabo spun, his body dropping into a combat stance, his hand reaching for the pipe at his back—
And found himself staring at a white cat-face mask and a pair of spinning crimson eyes.
"You—!"
What are you doing here?! How did you—"
Itachi raised a finger to where his lips would be behind the mask.
Sabo's mouth closed. With a final glance at the arena—where Suleiman was still advancing on Rebecca, where time was running out—he slipped away from the railing and joined Itachi in the shadows.
"Luffy's crewmate. Uchiha Itachi." Sabo's voice was low, urgent. "Why are you in the colosseum? I thought you were with the ship."
"I could ask you the same question." Itachi's voice was calm. Unhurried. "Before I left Rilke Callander, you said we would meet again in Dressrosa. But I didn't expect to find you here."
His Sharingan studied Sabo's face—the fake mustache, the gladiator helm, the number pinned to his chest.
"You're competing in the tournament."
"And you've seen Luffy."
"Oh! That's..." Sabo's expression shifted—surprise, then understanding, then something warmer. "Of course. You're looking for him."
He leaned closer, dropping his voice.
"I came to Dressrosa for the Mera-Mera Fruit. As for why I'm in the arena..." He gestured at his borrowed helmet, his borrowed number. "I'm using Luffy's identity as 'Lucy.' He transferred it to me before he left."
"Left for where?"
"More important things. That's what he said." Sabo smiled—the helpless, affectionate smile of an older brother who had long ago accepted that his younger sibling would always be a handful. "He's off to save your ally. Trafalgar Law. And to deal with Doflamingo."
Itachi went very still.
"He left the arena."
"Yeah. Through a passage the Revolutionary Army set up months ago. Zoro and the samurai went with him."
"He left the arena."
"...Are you okay?"
Itachi closed his eyes behind the mask. When he opened them, his expression—what little was visible—remained perfectly neutral.
"Fine."
I infiltrated the colosseum through a Marine siege, neutralized seven officers, studied the complete tournament records and architectural layout, and was approximately three minutes behind his escape route.
Fine.
"Are you really okay? You're making a face."
"I'm wearing a mask."
"I can tell anyway. It's the same face Dragon makes when he finds out another supply depot has been 'mysteriously relocated.'"
Itachi did not dignify this with a response.
While Sabo was speaking, Bartolomeo had drifted over, his curiosity finally overcoming his earlier distraction. He circled Itachi like a shark inspecting a strange new fish, his pierced face scrunched in concentration.
"Wait a minute... long hair... black cloak... creepy mask..."
He reached toward the cat-face.
Itachi caught his wrist, twisted it behind his back, and pinned him against the railing in a single fluid motion.
"OW! OW! THAT HURTS! LET GO!"
"Who is he." Itachi's voice was flat. "Your ally?"
"Him?" Sabo chuckled. "Not exactly."
He waved a hand dismissively.
"He's not my companion. But he's not a bad guy either—not to Luffy, anyway. He seems to like Luffy quite a lot."
"'LIKE'?! I WORSHIP HIM! I HAVE A SHRINE! I HAVE MERCHANDISE! I—OW, OW, OW!"
"I don't like people touching my mask."
"OKAY! OKAY! I WON'T TOUCH THE MASK! JUST LET GO!"
Itachi released him.
Bartolomeo stumbled away, clutching his wrist, his expression oscillating between indignation and something that looked suspiciously like respect. "Who IS this guy? He's got the same scary vibe as Senior Zoro but with extra... creepiness..."
"You haven't introduced yourselves?" Sabo's smile turned sly. "Bartolomeo, this is Uchiha Itachi. The Tenth Straw Hat. Bounty: six hundred million berries."
Bartolomeo's jaw dropped.
"HIM?! The one who fought Admiral Kizaru?! The one with the black fire and the giant skeleton warrior?! The one whose bounty is HIGHER than Senior Luffy's?!"
"The same."
"AND HE JUST... AND I... AND HE..."
Bartolomeo's eyes rolled back in his head.
He collapsed to the ground, apparently having achieved some form of transcendent fangirl ecstasy.
Sabo watched him fall with the expression of a man who had seen exactly this reaction coming. "He does that sometimes. You get used to it."
Itachi looked down at the unconscious Bartolomeo. Then at Sabo. Then toward the arena below, where Suleiman's blade was still raised, where Rebecca was still about to die.
"I need to retrieve someone from the arena," he said. "After that, I'm going after Luffy."
"You know where he's heading?"
"The palace. To rescue Law."
Sabo nodded slowly. "Then our paths split here. I have to stay for the tournament—I made a promise to Luffy about the Mera-Mera Fruit."
"I know. He told me about Ace."
Something flickered in Sabo's eyes. Pain, old and familiar. Love, stubborn and enduring. "Then you understand why I can't leave."
Itachi nodded once.
"Sabo. When you see Luffy again..." He paused. "Tell him to carry a Den Den Mushi. Always."
Sabo laughed—a bright, genuine sound that seemed out of place in the shadowed gallery above the blood-soaked arena. "I've been telling him that for years. He never listens."
"I know. Tell him anyway."
"Deal."
They clasped hands—briefly, firmly, the grip of warriors who had fought on the same side and would do so again.
"Take care of my little brother, Uchiha Itachi."
"I will."
Itachi turned toward the arena. Below, Suleiman's blade began its final descent. Rebecca's eyes closed.
And a shadow with crimson eyes fell toward the fighting pit.
End of Chapter
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