Newspapers whipped across the seas like white flags of surrender.
Headlines screamed in bold ink:
"Emperors of the Sea Converge on Whispering Dunes!"
"Cross Guild & Straw Hat Alliance? Sand Island Fruit Draws All Eyes!"
"One Billion Berry Devil Fruit Navy Mobilizes!"
On Marine Headquarters' highest deck, Fujitora stood blindfolded, staff planted firm against the wind. Sakazuki's voice crackled through the Den Den Mushi like gravel underfoot.
"Retrieve the Suke Suke no Mi at all costs, Issho. Awakened, it threatens the very concept of surveillance. No Emperor must claim it. No pirate. No one. Burn the island if you must."
Fujitora's lips curved faintly. "Understood, Fleet Admiral. Gravity will decide."
The line went dead.
The world held its breath.
Back in the temple depths, Toku still wearing Sanji's face like a perfect mask stepped into a circular arena of black sand and obsidian pillars. The air tasted of iron and blood. Torches ignited in a ring around him, casting long shadows that danced like accusations.
A voice deep, layered, ancient rolled from the walls.
"The first test was desire. You surrendered to it without hesitation.
The second test is loyalty.
Kill the one who stands against your path. Prove where your allegiance truly lies."
The sand at the far end churned. It rose, coalescing into a perfect replica of Roronoa Zoro three swords at his hip, green hair wild, one eye scarred shut, the other burning with familiar grumpiness. The copy drew Wado Ichimonji first, slow and deliberate.
Toku's cigarette fell from his lips. "You've gotta be kidding me."
The copy smirked Zoro's smirk. "Tch. You gonna stand there gawking, cook? Or are you finally gonna fight like you mean it?"
Toku's blood ran cold, then hot. The voice inside him snarled. Kill him. Take the fruit. No one stands in the way.
He kicked off Diable Jambe igniting in a crimson flare. "You're not him. You're sand wearing his face."
The copy met him mid-air. "Onigiri."
Three blades flashed. Toku twisted, leg snapping out in a blazing arc. Flame met steel sparks flew, black Haki coating the copy's edges just enough to clash evenly. The impact sent Toku skidding back across the sand, boots carving furrows.
He wiped blood from his split lip. "Same moves… but rougher. Unpolished. You're a fake."
The copy snorted. "Fake or not, I'm strong enough to end you, curly-brow."
They collided again kicks against swords, fire against Haki-infused steel. Toku fought with Sanji's elegance and fury: spinning heel strikes, rapid barrages, Diable Jambe turning the air into a furnace. But the copy parried with Zoro's raw power Santoryu flowing into Toro Samon, blades biting deep enough to draw blood across Toku's ribs.
Every block hurt. Every dodge cost breath. The copy was relentless, mirroring Zoro's unyielding style but lacking the final polish of true mastery.
Toku staggered after a brutal clash, ribs cracked, one arm hanging limp. Blood dripped from his mouth. The copy stood tall, sand reforming any damage instantly.
"You're done," the copy growled. "You can't beat me. You never could."
Toku laughed low, ragged, bloody. "That's where you're wrong."
He remembered.
Sanji's genes. Germa heritage. The exoskeleton that had slept inside this body since the raid suit experiments. Toku had always fought the activation hated the cold science of it, the reminder he wasn't truly Sanji. But now?
Now the fruit waited. Now loyalty meant nothing but survival.
He closed his eyes. Let the rage in.
"Activate."
A pulse rippled through his body. Bones hardened. Skin toughened into invisible armor. Muscles knit. Cracked ribs fused with sickening cracks. Blood flow accelerated recovery surging like fire through veins.
When Toku opened his eyes again, they glowed faint blue. The exoskeleton shimmered under his skin, subtle but unbreakable.
The copy's smirk faltered for the first time.
Toku cracked his neck. "Time to end this."
He launched faster now, stronger, legs a blur of flame and steel. The copy met him with everything blades coated in black Haki, Santoryu roaring.
But Toku was no longer holding back.
A single, blazing kick Ifrit Jinbe amplified by Germa durability slammed into the copy's guard. Swords bent. Sand cracked. The copy staggered.
Toku pressed. Kick after kick. Flame after flame. Each strike landed harder, deeper, until the copy's form began to flake sand sloughing off in golden drifts.
The copy snarled, swinging one final, desperate Onigiri.
Toku caught the central blade Wado bare-handed. Exoskeleton held. He twisted. The sword snapped.
The copy's eyes widened.
Toku drove his flaming heel straight through the chest.
Sand exploded outward in a violent bloom. The copy dissolved face frozen in Zoro's stubborn glare until only a pile of inert grains remained.
The arena fell silent.
Toku stood panting, bloodied but unbroken. Bones mending. Exoskeleton fading back under skin. The torches dimmed.
The ancient voice returned, soft now, approving.
"You have passed the test of loyalty.
Not to a man.
Not to a crew.
To your hunger.
The path to the fruit is open."
A hidden archway ground open ahead blue light pulsing brighter, closer.
Toku lit a fresh cigarette with trembling fingers. Smoke curled upward.
He smiled Sanji's smile, but colder.
The fruit was his.
And no copy, no Emperor, no Marine would stop him now.