Chapter 1

When the sea breeze scattered the last trace of sunset, the ship stopped in the island's shadow.

The canvas gave a dull rasp as the ropes tugged at it, like some great beast panting.

Nights in the North Blue were never truly peaceful. Huge shadows prowled beneath the water, so the anchor had been lowered into the shallows early, its chain clattering in the darkness.

Someone shook his shoulder.

His eyelids felt as heavy as if stones weighed them down.

When he opened them, he saw only a few strands of light leaking through gaps in the wood overhead, dust swirling within them.

The air was salty and sour, mingled with the smells of rust and mildew.

The planks beneath him rose and fell to some rhythm, once, then again.

"Here."

A hand reached over from beside him, holding something.

Its outline was blurred, but its smell found its way into his nose-it was food.

His stomach suddenly cramped, as though two icy hands were wringing it from within, trying to squeeze out the last bit of air.

Empty. It was completely empty.

He sprang upright so quickly that he surprised himself.

He snatched the thing, his fingertips meeting its uneven skin.

Before he could look, his teeth had already sunk into it.

-An indescribable taste exploded on his tongue.

It was like rotten seaweed mixed with iron slag, or swallowing damp wood.

A voice in his head screamed at him to spit it out.

But he did not stop.

Chew, swallow, chew again.

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed everything, skin and core included.

At last, warmth rose from his belly and slowly spread.

He let out a long, trembling breath.

"...Thanks."

Where was this? He turned his head.

The one who had handed him the food was a boy, perhaps ten or so.

His blond hair clung messily to his forehead.

The little suit he wore was so layered with stains that its original color was impossible to make out.

Strangely, even down in this dim hold, he wore sunglasses perched on his nose.

Their lenses reflected the faint light leaking from above, like two stubborn stars.

It was a ship's hold.

That realization suddenly surfaced in his mind, for no reason at all.

"You..."

He opened his mouth.

"You don't remember?"

The boy in sunglasses furrowed his brow.

For an instant, the air seemed to freeze, something sharp spreading through the gloom.

But soon, the boy's shoulders relaxed a little, and he shook his head.

The damp chill seeped into the marrow, and the planks of the hold groaned with every jolt.

The blond child beside me had his eyes closed, but a steady rumbling came from his belly, like the stifled panting of a trapped beast.

His brow had already taken on sharp contours, and even in the dim light, he bore the unmistakable beginnings of a predator.

I lowered my head and looked at these far too thin hands of mine, a child's hands.

Fragments of memories that were not mine forced their way into my mind, carrying the smells of rust and burning.

Those people wearing transparent helmets, their faces twisted in fury.

A man's calm voice echoed: "We were human to begin with."

What those words drew was hatred that seemed ready to tear the sky apart.

Then came endless flight, some cold, gloomy northern country, and finally... a hunt.

Burning torches, ** spittle, hurled stones, and the sizzling sound and scorched smell of a branding iron approaching flesh.

As despair rose like a tide to the throat, an invisible force erupted, and the frenzied crowd fell in swathes.

"It's your fault!"

In the memory, the blond boy pressed something sharp against another man's neck, his voice hoarse, every word steeped in poison and fire. "I'll trade you for everything we lost!"

The images shattered.

I swallowed the strange, cloying sweetness and numbness the fruit had left in my throat.

Beside me, the boy who called himself Doflamingo seemed to have fallen asleep, or perhaps he was merely enduring his hunger.

He was one of the "Celestial Dragons," self-proclaimed descendants of gods.

He was the future shadow ruler of a certain island.

He was also... the older brother of this body's original owner.

And I had now become Donquixote Rossi.

A brother destined for betrayal and death.

Outside the hold, the waves sounded monotonous and immense.

The heart in this small body beat heavily at an unfamiliar rhythm.

This was no manga, no distant story.

The feel of rough planks beneath my fingertips, the salty, rotten air in my nose, the discomfort churning in my stomach, and the faint clicks of the child's joints as he unconsciously curled up beside me-everything screamed that it was real.

The North Blue was still far away.

The family had yet to be founded.

Doflamingo's stomach was still growling with hunger.

I slowly leaned back, letting the damp planks support my spine.

The course of the future was like an iceberg in the dark, revealing only one menacing corner.

The Navy, an undercover agent, a gun muzzle, an ending in a pool of blood... those images flashed coldly.

But now, in this swaying hold that reeked of mildew and despair, what came before all grand narratives was one child's hungry stomach and the calculations for survival growing wildly in another child's mind.

Waves slapped against the hull.

The night stretched without end.

Another soul now occupied this body, and the once-destined course naturally broke apart and faded.

I had to sort things out first-

Since the "family" had yet to take shape, did that mean there were still more than twenty years before the "story"

began?

The Great Pirate Era had not yet arrived, and whether Roger had reached Laugh Tale remained a mystery.

A sigh rose from his chest.

This body's new owner-or rather, the present Rossi-was chewing over the unfamiliar memories flooding his mind, a rusty astringency rising in his throat.

His fingertips brushed his ragged clothes. Beneath the fabric, his skin was ridged with crisscrossing marks of varying depths,

old scars and fresh wounds, all bestowed by those civilians who shouted "justice"

at the top of their lungs.

He suddenly recalled a line he had heard somewhere: if you had walked the road I had, you might not have kept even a fraction more kindness than I had.

After what Doffy and "he" had experienced, it would have been unreasonable not to grow up pouring hatred upon the world.

At least Rossi had no intention of forgiving anyone who had hurt him.

"Still not closing your eyes?"

A glance came from beside him.

Doffy turned his face, his sunglasses hiding his eyes.

"There's no food left.

I hid that fruit while I was doing odd jobs ashore today."

Grrr-

Another hollow rumble rose from his belly.

The boy in sunglasses gritted his teeth and viciously tightened the rag serving as his belt.

"Don't look at me. I've eaten."

"Sorry."

Rossi, who had just swallowed the fruit, apologized quietly.

The brows behind the sunglasses immediately drew together.

The apology was not only for eating all their remaining food, but also for the fact that he had taken the place of the boy's blood relative.

"...Doffy, has it gotten dark?"

"Yeah."

By the time the reply came, the two sets of memories had finished merging in Rossi's mind.

Their situation became as clear as if carved by a knife.

Half a year ago, Doffy had taken their "father's"

head to the Holy Land, only to be driven out by the Celestial Dragons.

The boy, caught between anger and helplessness, could only take his younger brother aboard a ship and flee toward the North Blue-having accidentally glimpsed a secret concerning the "Celestial Dragons" in the Holy Land, they were being pursued.

Rumor had it that the "Vinsmoke Family" held sway in the North Blue, a sea where the World **'s control was relatively weak.

For two helpless children to board this ship, a price had to be paid: the older Doffy worked from dawn until late at night every day in exchange for a piece of bread covered in green mold.

Rossi spent most of his time curled up in the cargo hold.

It was both to conserve his strength and to guard their last means of protection-the Flintlock Pistol.

Without that weapon, the two children would already have been sold to slave traders.

Faced with the boy's readiness to "take everyone down with him," the captain had generously offered to "give them a ride," provided they could survive until they reached the North Blue.

Rossi stood up, the low ceiling of the hold almost brushing the hair over his forehead.

The burning emptiness in his stomach was still spreading, and his throat was dry from repeated swallowing.

He looked at his brother sitting on a pile of clutter. The sunglasses hid most of the other boy's face, but his taut jawline betrayed his emotions.

"The food problem," he said, "I'll handle it."

Doflamingo raised his head, one corner of his mouth twitching. "You-" His voice abruptly stopped.

It had not been interrupted. It had vanished completely.

The clamor of waves slapping against the hull, the groaning creak of the planks, even the sound of air moving with their breathing-all sound was instantly erased, as though by an invisible hand.

Doflamingo's mouth hung open. His eyes behind the sunglasses must have widened.

He raised a hand to touch his throat, then pointed at his ears, his movements showing rare bewilderment.

Rossi pointed at himself, then at the fruit core beside the other boy's feet.

The shriveled, spiral-patterned peel still retained its eerie color. "That thing you gave me,"

he mouthed, though doing so seemed unnecessary in the absolute silence, "was a Devil Fruit."

Doflamingo froze for two seconds, then abruptly snatched up the core.

He turned it over and over, digging his nails into those twisted patterns.

As someone who had once lived in the Holy Land of Mary Geoise, he naturally knew what such things were.

A billion Beli? To the Celestial Dragons, it was merely a toy to toss to a slave.

He remembered the way slaves who had been force-fed the fruits writhed and rolled, remembered the spectators' piercing laughter.

But he had never imagined he would find one aboard a battered ship while fleeing, much less that he would inadvertently let Rossi eat it.

"The Calm-Calm Fruit."

Rossi continued explaining with his lips.

He spread his palm and made an "enclosing" gesture. "Its power is just like its name.

It can make an area... completely silent."

Doflamingo put down the core, clenching and unclenching his hands on his knees.

He stared at Rossi, seemingly assessing, waiting.

Rumor said those fruits could let people breathe fire, become lightning, turn into beasts, granting ordinary people the power to fight armies.

Any scrap of power was a lifeline in their current situation, hiding in the gaps of a cargo hold and surviving on moldy breadcrumbs.

But Rossi shook his head.

He pointed at his ears, then toward the deck overhead-from there came faint, rhythmic heavy footfalls, the footsteps of the sailor on night watch.

Within the silent domain, that sound was cut off too, but Doflamingo could understand what he meant: this power could not let someone fly, conjure swords, or make fists stronger.

It merely... made sound disappear.

Doflamingo's shoulders slumped a little.

He turned his face away, his sunglasses reflecting the dim yellow light of the hold's only oil lamp.

But Rossi patted his shoulder.

He pointed into the darkness outside the hold's door and made a "sneaking" gesture, then mimed turning a key and unlocking a door.

Finally, he pointed at his mouth, mimed chewing, and gave a wry smile.

-Perhaps it was just right for stealing things.

The cramping in his stomach became a constant dull ache, like a hand slowly tightening its grip inside.

Rossi swallowed another surge of sour fluid, bitterness coating the back of his tongue.

He looked across at Doflamingo, who was scratching something into the wooden board with his fingernail. It was a habit they had developed over these past days: exchanging information without a sound.

"Kitchen." Doflamingo scratched out this word first, then paused and carved "hammock quarters" beside it.

That was where the ordinary sailors slept, dozens of hammocks crammed together, the smell of sweat and the sound of snoring lingering all year round.

Getting through there took skill, and even more luck.

Next came "boatswain's room."

He carved these words deep, curling up wood shavings.

The boatswain and the head cook shared that room. The two were said to be old shipmates who had once served aboard the same ship, and both slept with one eye open.

The key was with one of them, possibly beneath a pillow, possibly in a pocket close to his body.

Doflamingo scratched an X last.

He raised his head, his gaze settling on Rossi's face from behind his sunglasses, and slowly shook his head.

Too dangerous.

That was what his body language said.