The Odessy of the Bird Chicks

by MelodyRiceCake

Wendy Darling, adoptive mother to Ace, Sabo, and Luffy, gives them love like no other. But when her past as a phoenix of ancient lineage resurfaces, their world is thrown into chaos. Now, to save everyone, the three brothers, must confront an age-old enemy and embrace the transformative power of growing up.

25. Bound by Vow

More than 100 years ago.

The sun shone brightly in the spacious dormitory filled with children who were waking up to the sound of a bell.

"Thanks, Jones," said a four-year-old boy, expressing gratitude to Jonathan for helping him get dressed.

"Come on, kid! We still have things to do! And that goes for all of you lazybones! Get up and help me with the little ones!" Jonathan's shouts roused the older children who were still sleeping.

"Yes, sir!"

The Harbor of Hope Orphanage was overseen by nuns who cared for the children while seeking permanent homes for them. Among them, seven-year-old Jones Jonathan stood out: he often seemed more like an adult, helping the younger children and ensuring everyone followed the rules.

"Rule 457: No running in the hallways!" Jonathan declared, delivering a sharp whack to a twelve-year-old boy's head with his stick.

"You little brat! How dare you!" The older boy raised a hand to strike Jonathan, but another child quickly intervened, his face pale with fear. "Don't do it! You're new here, so you don't know—but no one breaks the rules when he's around!"

"Oh, please. He's just seven! What's he going to do, force me?" the boy scoffed—only to regret it moments later.

Jonathan swiftly delivered four more whacks with his stick, driving home the lesson that no one breaks the rules or acts foolishly when Jones Jonathan is present.

As everyone prepared for breakfast, Jonathan made sure the children were properly dressed and helped the younger ones wash their hands. He even tied a few shoelaces for those who couldn't manage on their own. Once they were ready, they gathered in the dining room for a meal of oatmeal and toast. Jonathan ensured everyone had a bowl and spoon before sitting down to eat.

"Listen up! We have a new boy joining us!" announced Sister Dalia, motioning for the newcomer to introduce himself.

"I'm Pan D. Prince, and I hate it here!" Prince declared with a laugh. Sister Dalia did not appreciate his attitude.

"Well, why don't you sit with the others?" she said, gesturing for him to join the children who were already eating.

Prince approached Jonathan's table, but Jonathan couldn't hide his disdain. As soon as he started eating, he paid no attention to his manners, splattering food everywhere.

Jonathan, making sure none of the nuns were watching, decided to provoke him. Confident there would be no consequences, he aimed his fork.

"Hey! You nearly got me!" Prince protested as Jonathan aggressively stabbed the table near his hand.

"Rule 23: Always maintain good table manners," Jonathan reminded him, elegantly dabbing his face with a napkin.

Prince stared at Jonathan as if he were insane, then took another messy bite.

"Rule 489: No eating with your mouth open," Jonathan reprimanded, snatching one of Prince's toasts.

Furious, Prince retaliated by grabbing one of Jonathan's toasts.

"Rule 632: No stealing others' food," Jonathan said, delivering a firm whack to Prince's head with his stick.

"You stole from me first!" Prince finally lost his temper and lunged at Jonathan.

As a result, Prince ended up in the infirmary, covered in bruises. No matter how many times he tried, he couldn't land a single hit on that insufferable boy. For the rest of the day, Jonathan didn't waste a single opportunity to scold him. The reasons grew increasingly absurd, pushing Prince to his limit.

"Give up. You can't even land a hit," Jonathan taunted, as if waiting for Prince to surrender.

That night, Prince snuck out of the orphanage and into Kensington Gardens across the street. The little blonde was determined to train—at the very least, he had to land one hit on Jonathan.

But his plans were interrupted when he spotted Jonathan practicing with a stick.

Prince couldn't help but marvel at the grace in Jonathan's movements. He had never seen someone wield a stick with such precision and elegance. Even without knowing much about swordsmanship, Prince could tell—Jonathan was a prodigy.

"Why are you outside? That's Rule 94: No going out without permission."

A sharp strike from Jonathan's stick snapped Prince out of his thoughts.

"But you're outside too!" Prince protested, his words laced with defiance.

Jonathan's face flushed with anger. "Because… because… I don't have to explain myself to you! And don't you dare tell anyone you saw me. Got it?!"

But Prince wasn't the type to back down. He smirked, eyes glinting with mischief.

"And what if I do?" he taunted.

Jonathan narrowed his eyes. "Are you fearless or just a fool? You can't even land a hit—do you really think it's wise to provoke me?"

For the first time, Jonathan found himself taken aback by Prince's audacity.

"But if you're so determined to fight me, then train by my side. At least then, you might put up a decent fight," Jonathan said, tossing Prince a spare stick.

Prince didn't hesitate. He caught the stick and grinned.

That night, they trained under the stars. For Prince, it was exhilarating—something entirely new. For Jonathan, it was simply nice to have someone to spar with.

The following days fell into a rhythm. Jonathan still didn't consider Prince a friend, but he tolerated him enough to let him train alongside him.

Jonathan had always found comfort in order—it was like a game only he understood. That's why he was carefully sorting branches by size and color when a sharp scream interrupted him.

His hands faltered, sending his neatly arranged piles tumbling as he whipped around toward the sound. When he arrived, he found Prince sprawled on the ground, covered in dirt and leaves.

"Hey, Jonathan, looks like I took an unexpected dive from the tree, haha," Prince chuckled—only to wince and rub his head.

Jonathan rolled his eyes and stepped forward to help him up. "What were you doing up there?"

Prince glanced upward, pointing at a bird's nest nestled among the branches.

"Why? I still don't get it." Jonathan asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Instead of answering, Prince motioned for him to follow, silently urging him to help climb another tree. Jonathan hesitated at first—but curiosity won out. Reaching the top, they perched among the branches, watching as a bird meticulously wove its nest together.

Jonathan was transfixed. The careful placement of twigs and grass, the precise way each piece fit—it reminded him of his own habit of arranging branches. It was as if the bird instinctively knew where everything belonged.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

Then, Prince broke the silence.

"Before I fell, I was watching them work," he murmured.

Later, Jonathan would come to understand that Prince found joy in the way birds did things, especially building nests.

"What are you doing?" Jonathan asked, watching as Prince struggled to craft something out of branches.

"I've been studying them, trying to understand how birds build their nests. I once saw a flute in a book, and I'm using the birds as a reference to make one," Prince explained, fumbling with the twigs in his hands.

Jonathan stepped closer, his sharp eyes scanning the uneven pieces. "Do you have a reference?"

Prince nodded and pulled out a worn drawing of a flute. "It's called a Pan flute," he added, pausing to glance at Jonathan.

Jonathan raised a brow. "Pan? Like your last name?"

"Seems like it," Prince replied with a teasing grin, just as another twig snapped in his hands.

Jonathan smirked. "Mind if I give it a try?"

Prince shrugged and handed over the materials. Within moments, Jonathan's fingers moved with effortless precision, weaving the branches together in a way that looked almost instinctual.

"How are you doing that?! It looks even better than the drawing!" Prince exclaimed, his jaw nearly hitting the ground.

Jonathan barely noticed his reaction, too focused on the task. "I'm just perceptive. See this stick?" He showed one that looked crooked, "Birds discard ones like this because they're too weak and break easily." His hands worked quickly, and before he realized it, he was smiling.

"I didn't know you could get so excited about something!" Prince said, eyes wide with amusement.

Jonathan paused, as if the realization just dawned on him. "Excited, me? I guess so," he admitted with a small smile.

Prince grinned and quickly gathered more branches, eager to help. Together, they worked to refine the flute, sorting sticks, cutting them down, and aligning them with care.

When they finally finished, Jonathan inspected their creation with a critical eye. "It could be better. Maybe I can borrow some tools to polish it," he said, running his fingers over the rough edges. "But for now, this will do."

He handed the flute to Prince, who accepted it with a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

"So, why did you want a flute like this in the first place?" Jonathan asked, curious.

Prince flashed a mischievous grin. "To imitate the sound birds make when they sing, obviously!" He stuck out his tongue before bringing the flute to his lips and blowing into it.

The rest of the day was spent attempting—rather poorly—to mimic the birds.

As the sun dipped lower, Jonathan suddenly stiffened, his eyes widening. "I can't believe I spent the whole day playing with you. Even more, I can't believe I skipped my schedule! I never do anything outside of it!" Normally, this realization would have left him feeling frustrated—irritated even. But strangely, it didn't.

After a beat of silence, he let out a quiet chuckle. "But you know what? I didn't have such a bad time..."

Prince burst out laughing. "Well, I guess you're right! I didn't have such a bad time either. What do you think about doing this more often?"

Neither of them rejected the idea.

From that day forward, they started spending more time together. Playing together turned into sharing lunch, which turned into doing homework side by side.

Before they even realized it, without needing to say it aloud, they had become friends.

"Jon, Jon!" Prince would call, and Jonathan would drop whatever he was doing to find him.

Apparently, Prince had decided Jonathan's full name was too long to say every day, so he shortened it to Jon Jon—a playful nickname from Jones Jonathan. For most people, a nickname might not have meant much. But Prince only started using it after Jonathan became his friend. And to Jonathan, that made all the difference.

One day, after spending so much time together, Jonathan and Prince decided it was time for their long-awaited final showdown.

"They're fighting outside!"

Excited shouts echoed through the orphanage as all the kids rushed out to witness the clash. Everyone expected Jonathan to wipe the floor with Prince—after all, he was unbeatable. But to their shock, Prince was holding his own against the invincible Jones.

"He did it! He landed a hit!"

The crowd gasped, eyes wide in disbelief. No one had ever managed to land a clean hit on Jonathan before.

"Not bad, but don't get cocky! This is far from over!" Jonathan shot back, launching a counterattack at full speed. Blow after blow, they traded hits, neither willing to back down.

The fight dragged on until both were too exhausted to continue, ending in a tie.

"That was the best fight I've ever had," Jonathan admitted, pressing his fingers against his bruised face. "No one's ever hit me this much in my entire life. It's… exciting." A wild grin spread across his lips. He felt like he could die from the thrill of it.

But his excitement vanished the moment he stepped back inside the orphanage.

Waiting for him was an angry Sister Dalia.

"Rule number one: no fighting." Her voice was cold, unwavering. "For years, I let it slide because no one could ever touch you. But now look at your face—covered in bruises. This is unacceptable. From now on, you are forbidden from fighting. That includes enforcing the rules."

She didn't even glance at him as she walked away.

Jonathan clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. For the first time in his life, he questioned her.

"What's so bad about it? The other kids fight and get bruises, and you never scold them like you do me! It's not fair!"

His frustration poured out, but when the words settled, he turned away and buried himself under his blanket. After all, Sister Dalia made all the rules. And rules weren't meant to be broken.

Jonathan lay on his bed, stewing in frustration. He hated feeling powerless. No matter how much he thought about it, he couldn't understand why he was treated differently.

A shadow flickered at the edge of his vision. Looking up, he found Prince standing in front of him.

Prince crossed his arms, frowning. "I heard everything."

Jonathan sighed. He should've known Prince would eavesdrop.

Prince tilted his head. "If the rules bother you so much, why do you follow them?"

"It's not like I have a choice," Jonathan muttered, rubbing his temples. "Sister Dalia's in charge. I don't want to get into more trouble, than I already have."

Prince scoffed. "Rules are stupid. I don't trust anything adults say. That's probably why I've been in so many different orphanages."

Jonathan blinked. "What?"

Prince shrugged. "I'm not from this island. I got kicked out of every single orphanage I ever went. Some places wouldn't even take me in. Miss Irvetta had to keep moving me around." His gaze drifted toward the window.

Jonathan stared at him. He had spent his entire life in the same orphanage. The idea of constantly being sent away was something he couldn't even imagine.

"And you're saying the rules are stupid?" Jonathan scoffed, pointing a finger at him.

Prince rolled his eyes. "You're an idiot for defending them."

"Rules exist to keep order. Without them, all you get is pain and guilt," Jonathan muttered, biting his lip as he stared at the ceiling.

Prince wrinkled his nose. "I didn't understand a single word of that. You sound like an old man."

And then, to Jonathan's horror, Prince picked his nose.

"Hey! What the hell?!" Jonathan yelped, grabbing the nearest pillow and smacking him in the face.

Prince was the kind of kid who never seemed to learn from his mistakes. Forgetful and impulsive, he always found himself in trouble. But everything began to change when Jonathan entered his life.

Jonathan managed to rein in Prince's chaotic tendencies, even getting him to apologize—though reluctantly. Their relationship quickly became more like that of a father and son rather than mere friends.

Even Sister Dalia had gotten used to yelling at Prince, calling him a brat so loudly that it made the other children laugh. After all, Prince was like a whirlwind, leaving disorder and chaos in his wake.

"Your eyebrows are weird," Prince remarked, scrutinizing Jonathan from head to toe.

"Says the kid with an eyepatch!" Jonathan shot back.

"Compared to those hook-shaped eyebrows of yours, my eyepatch looks awesome," Prince retorted, comparing Jonathan's eyebrows to hooks.

"At least I don't have freckles! You look like you've got chickenpox," Jonathan fired back, trying his best to come up with an insult.

"Says the strawberry cake!" Prince replied, calling Jonathan a strawberry cake because of his pink hair.

Jonathan couldn't remember the days before Prince, when his routine was filled with silence and dullness instead of laughter and bickering. It felt nice to have someone to argue with, to be himself with, rather than trying to fit into the mold that everyone else wanted for him. With Prince, there were no rules—just the two of them.

"Has anyone seen Prince?" Jonathan asked, his voice tinged with concern as he searched for his friend. Prince hadn't been seen since he went into town for who knows what.

"Jones, you'd better go find him. It's getting late," Thomas, one of the older kids at the orphanage, advised.

Jonathan made his way through the streets, well aware that they weren't allowed to go out unsupervised. But as always, Prince was breaking the rules—and dragging Jonathan along with him.

"Excuse me, ma'am, have you seen a blond boy with freckles?" Jonathan asked a kindly looking woman.

"Maybe it was that boy running toward the bay, but I'm not sure," she answered.

That was enough for Jonathan. He headed straight for the bay, where he found his friend locked in a cage, struggling to escape.

"Well, well, look what we've got here—a ticket to glory! The boss is going to be thrilled when he sees this!" one pirate said, excitement in his voice as he spoke to his companion.

"Indeed, this detour turned out to be quite profitable. We'll deliver the fruit and see if our costumer is interested in this fish," the other pirate replied, a sly grin spreading across his face.

Prince had ventured into town after hearing rumors about a mysterious woman with blue hair and emerald eyes. The description matched Miss Irvetta. The rumors claimed she was often seen near the bay, so he went there in hopes of finding her. He wanted to ask her about what she said before leaving him at Hope's Port. The words had faded from his memory, as they always did. He was so used to forgetting things.

Irvetta had been with him for as long as he could remember, always working at every orphanage he was sent to. She was a constant presence, and her sudden departure left him with more questions than answers. Despite the confusion, Prince wasn't angry with her. He'd never trusted any adult. They always claimed to love and care for him, only to turn their backs later.

Why did all adults hurt and hate him once they discovered he was half-Fishman?

It wasn't a joke.

Pirates had spotted his Fishman form, and that's why they were taking him away.

"Let me go!" he shouted, biting the bars of the cage with his sharp teeth in an attempt to break free.

"It's useless," the pirates taunted. "Those bars are made of metal."

He hated how he could barely bend the bars, but not enough to break them. His jaw just wasn't strong enough yet.

"Do as he says!" shouted a voice, causing the pirates to turn and face Jonathan's fiery gaze, filled with rage.

"It's just another brat. Don't bother," one pirate dismissed, completely ignoring Jonathan.

Seizing the opportunity, Jonathan grabbed a pipe from the ground and sprinted forward, building momentum before leaping high into the air to strike from above. "I said, do as he says!" he shouted again. The pirates were caught off guard by the sudden attack and tumbled to the ground.

The impact sent both Prince's cage and a chest containing the Devil Fruit crashing to the ground, freeing them from the pirates' grasp.

"Damn it! Andrew, call for reinforcements!" one pirate yelled, watching as Jonathan effortlessly took down his comrades.

As more pirates closed in, Jonathan fought back with all his strength, but the sheer number of enemies proved overwhelming. He was no match for so many seasoned men. A wave of despair crashed over him as he watched Prince, helpless, being dragged away in the cage.

Suddenly, a pirate called out, "Where's the fruit?" The pirates stopped their attack, now frantically searching for the Devil Fruit.

Jonathan spotted the chest nearby, its contents visible—a strange-looking fruit.

It clicked instantly.

It was a Devil Fruit.

He had heard of them before—fruits capable of granting supernatural abilities in exchange for the inability to swim.

"What the hell is that kid doing?!" the pirates screamed in horror as they watched Jonathan devour the fruit in a single gulp.

"Damn, that tasted awful!" Jonathan grimaced in disgust, feeling the taste linger on his tongue.

"Prince owes me for this," he thought to himself, fighting the urge to vomit. "I don't feel any different," he said, examining himself in confusion.

Suddenly, he began hearing voices—voices from nowhere.

"Welcome back, Erebus," one voice said.

"Or should we say, Master?" another added.

"Isn't it fate? Born from chaos, as always, my lord," a third voice chimed in.

"Grant us life," pleaded the first voice.

"We are waiting," said the second.

"Use the soulless shadows. Let the mindless beasts handle your enemies," suggested the third.

"I don't understand what you're saying!" Jonathan shouted as the voices multiplied, overwhelming him. It felt like his mind was about to explode.

"Don't you know, Master?" one voice asked, almost condescendingly.

Jonathan shook his head, refusing to believe what he was hearing.

"You have consumed a Mythical Zoan-type Devil Fruit, the fruit of the God Erebus," another voice explained.

"Erebus is the god born from chaos, wielding power over darkness and shadows," the third voice added.

"We are him, my lord. We are darkness; we are the shadows that wander the world," the voices continued, their words growing clearer in his mind. Jonathan understood one thing: he now had power over something.

"Please, save him." Jonathan's voice trembled as he begged, his eyes locked on the cage. His friend, no, his best friend was slipping away.

"Don't come near us again!" The orphanage children had always kept their distance. He was too much, they said. Always asking for too much. The only one who had ever truly cared was Sister Dalia.

Dalia had been there for as long as he could remember, guiding him with strict rules that came from a place of love. He followed them, desperate to make her proud. But solitude was dull, so he started imposing those rules on others, at least that way, he felt useful. Though he told himself he was fine alone, the loneliness gnawed at him.

Then came Prince—like a breath of fresh air. He had given Jonathan something he never had before, a friend.

Prince was, his only friend.

"As you wish, my lord," the voices murmured in unison. "We will guide you, as you are new to this. Pay close attention," one voice instructed.

The pirates froze as the ground trembled beneath them. From the shifting shadows, a monstrous form emerged—a beast woven from darkness itself. The massive creature tore through the earth, ripping through the ranks of pirates like paper.

A shadowed hand surged forward, snatching Prince's cage from the enemy's grasp. "Shadow Breaker!" Jonathan's voice rang with authority as the spectral hand crushed the cage, shattering it in one swift motion.

"Jon, Jon!" Prince called, scrambling toward him.

Jonathan tossed him a metal pipe. "Let's fight together," he said, determination burning in his eyes.

"Not so fast, brats!" A pirate, barely standing, lunged at them.

"Like we practiced!" Jonathan commanded.

Their training had been relentless, every movement drilled into their bones. They moved as one, instincts guiding them, their attacks synchronized with precision. One by one, the remaining pirates fell. At last, the battle was over. The bay was silent.

Prince grinned, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Looks like I really am a king of chaos."

Jonathan knelt beside him, eyes narrowing at the gash on his leg. "You're bleeding."

Prince waved him off. "It's nothing."

Jonathan ignored him, tearing his sleeve into strips. Carefully, he wrapped the wound. "Don't take it off," he ordered.

Prince smirked. "Says who?"

"Your friend," Jonathan replied, patting him on the back.

Prince chuckled.

Jonathan said, "You're definitely a prince."

Prince raised an eyebrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jonathan smirked. "Well, you're the one who keeps getting captured, and me the knight has to save you. Makes you more of a prince, don't you think?"

Prince scowled. "Hey, isn't it usually the princess who needs rescuing, not the prince?"

Jonathan shrugged. "Same thing to me."

Prince scoffed. "And since when are you a knight?"

Jonathan picked up a metal pipe and held it out. "If you want, you can make it official."

Prince hesitated. "What do you mean?"

Jonathan took a deep breath. "Before I met you, I had a dream. I worked hard for it. I dreamed of becoming a knight." His voice was quiet but resolute. "So make it happen. Make me your knight, my prince."

A slow grin spread across Prince's face.

He lifted the pipe, placing it lightly on Jonathan's head. "Sir Jonathan, do you vow to fight by my side, even when the end seems near?"

Jonathan didn't hesitate. "Always."

Prince extended a hand, pulling him to his feet. "Let's make another promise," he declared, spitting into his palm. He held out his hand, eyes gleaming with mischief and certainty. "From this day forward, I, Prince, vow to be your friend until death do us part."

Jonathan mirrored him, spitting into his own palm. "I vow to be your friend until death do us part, my prince." They clasped hands, sealing their oath.

They returned to the orphanage, only to be scolded for breaking the rules again.

The next morning, Jonathan did a double take. "Is that my piece of cloth on your head?"

Prince smirked, adjusting the tattered strip tied around his forehead. "Of course. You told me not to take it off." He stuck out his tongue. Then, with dramatic flair, he pointed at Jonathan and declared, "From now on, it's my treasure!"

And he meant it. The headband became one of his most prized possessions. He would sooner die than let anything happen to it.

Life continued as usual.

They were blissfully unaware that their friendship, and that promise, was about to face its first great trial.

"We came in the name of King Peter."

When the king learned that his only daughter had died trying to save her pathetic husband, his face turned red with rage. The plan had been to marry her to a real man, someone worthy, someone who could provide a strong heir—not that abomination she dared to call her son.

His plans had been ruined, by the incompetence of his own subjects.

When he discovered that the boy had survived, he launched an exhaustive search. The child was the only heir left to him, the last trace of his useless daughter.

And when he finally found the boy, he sent his most efficient men to bring him back.

"I don't want to go!" Prince thrashed against the iron grip of the soldier holding him. "Please, at least let me talk to Jon. Jon!" His desperate pleas fell on deaf ears.

"His Majesty shouldn't mingle with scum," one of the guards sneered.

Prince froze, then turned on him with a glare so sharp it could cut steel. "What did you just say?!" The fury in his eyes was unmistakable—no one insulted his friends.

"I said, maybe you should start cooperating and stop making the king wait."

Prince fought harder, but he wasn't strong enough. Not yet.

Where was Jonathan while his only friend was being taken away?

Jonathan had tried to reach him. He had fought, struggled, screamed his name, until Sister Dalia knocked him unconscious.

The last thing he remembered saying was, "Don't separate us." Unbeknownst to him, someone had heard his plea. And they granted his wish.

Just not in the way he had hoped.

Dalia worried about Jonathan. She knew how much Prince meant to him. Ever since the boy was taken, Jonathan had barely eaten. That's why she was on her way to him now, a bowl of soup in hand. As she walked, her mind drifted to the day Prince had been entrusted to her care.

Her sister, Irvetta, had returned after years of living in another kingdom. She had come with a request.

Prince was special, she had explained. He had to be moved from place to place—not just because people wanted to hurt him for being half-fishman, but because his grandfather, a very powerful man, was searching for him.

Irvetta had been close to Prince's mother. She had promised to protect him. She had begged Dalia to take him in.

But Irvetta couldn't stay. They had already discovered she was hiding him. Maybe, she had reasoned, if she left, they would follow her instead. Maybe Prince would finally be safe.

Dalia had agreed.

Now, the bitter truth weighed heavy in her chest. Her sister's sacrifice had been in vain.

That day, when Prince was taken, she had held onto Jonathan's hand like a lifeline. She had feared losing him too.

She still did.

Jonathan deserved to know that she was here. That she cared. "Jon, I brought you something..." she started to say, but the words died in her throat.

Jonathan's shadow was moving.

It wasn't just shifting with the candlelight.

It was playing with him.

"Sister Dalia, look! He's alive!" Jonathan beamed, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten.

He had been devastated. His only joy, his only friend, had been stolen from him. But now, his shadow moved, danced, played at his feet. At first, he had been startled. Then, slowly, he had come to a realization.

It had to be his Devil Fruit power.

But it wasn't a replacement for Prince.

No, his shadow was something else entirely.

His little brother.

Jonathan had always dreamed of becoming a knight—not for admiration, not to fill the loneliness in his heart, but to protect those he cherished most.

Now, with his best friend taken from him, he had a mission: grow stronger and bring him back. But for the time being, he had a little brother—his shadow—who kept him company, someone else to protect alongside Sister Dalia.

In the days that followed, he continued helping around the orphanage as always. But now, his routine had a new addition: after chores, he played with his shadow.

One afternoon, nine-year-old Jonathan was playing hide-and-seek with his brother when he suddenly crashed into someone in the hallway. Stumbling backward, he blinked up at the unfamiliar adult.

"Ah—sorry about that, haha… my glasses… I can't see a thing!" The man fumbled blindly, patting his clothes as if they might still be on him. Jonathan spotted the glasses on the floor, picked them up, and handed them over.

The moment the man put them on, his face brightened. "Ah, much better! Thanks, kid. Name's Smith Sam. I'm looking for the main office—know where it is?"

He spoke casually, politely. But Jonathan didn't answer. He was frozen in place, staring at the man.

They weren't identical, but the similarities were undeniable—especially the most obvious one. Pink hair.

His mind raced, drawing comparisons, trying to make sense of it.

"Uh… are you okay? Are you paralyzed?! Is it serious?! Wait—what do I do?!"

The stranger's sudden panic startled Jonathan out of his daze.

"I—I'm fine," he muttered, still unsure why his chest felt so tight. "I can take you to the office if you want."

As they walked, the man didn't waste time making conversation.

"So, kid, what's it like living here? The sisters treat you all right?"

Jonathan frowned. That wasn't a typical question from someone looking to adopt.

"I guess so. Sister Dalia can seem strict, but it's just to keep order. Sister Regina makes the best food in the world. And Sister Lucia teaches us everything we need to know." Without realizing it, he got caught up in his explanations, even hoping for a reply.

"I'm glad to hear that," Sam said, sounding genuinely relieved.

Jonathan hesitated before asking, "Why do you care so much?"

Sam chuckled, scratching the back of his head. "Well, wouldn't anyone want to know if the place their kid's been living is good?"

Jonathan stopped walking.

His breath caught in his throat.

Sam had already reached the office door and turned back with a grin.

"Well, goodbye, kid. Nice meeting you."

He left without another word, leaving Jonathan standing there, stunned.

Sam, on the other hand, could hardly contain his excitement. He understood why they had left him here, why they hadn't come sooner. Their reasons weren't exactly moral, but none of that mattered to him. He was here now.

He barged through the office door without waiting.

"Mr. Smith, it's a pleasure to have you here," Dalia greeted, motioning for him to sit. "Please, take a seat."

He muttered a quick thanks, barely listening as he took his place. The conversation was long, but in the end, the arrangements were made.

Everything was set, he was finally taking his son home. "Just to be sure, Miss Dalia," Sam asked for what felt like the hundredth time, "he's in perfect condition, right?"

"Yes, sir," Dalia reassured him. "We've implemented additional rules to ensure his well-being."

She was referring to the contract.

Unlike most children entrusted to the orphanage, this boy's parents had not abandoned him entirely. They had signed a contract with strict conditions: their son was to remain in perfect health, or they would have the right to demand consequences. More importantly, they could reclaim him at any time.

Even if he had been adopted, even if years had passed, the orphanage would have no choice but to return him. Not that they would dare refuse. That contract had been nothing more than a polite warning.

After all, these people had the power to erase an entire island—and no one would stop them.

Especially the wife.

A World Noble.

Regardless of what anyone said, their word was law.

"If you'd like complete assurance, we can meet him right now." Dalia said, though the words left a bitter taste in her mouth.

She had always known this day would come—whether through his parents' return or an unexpected adoption. But knowing didn't make it any easier. Among all the children in the orphanage, he was the one she had come to love as her own.

She had been there for him, not just because of some cold, binding contract, but because she simply couldn't help it. He understood her like no one else, and in so many ways, they were alike. Perhaps the saying was true: You inherit your personality from your parents.

Yet in everything but name, she was his mother. Not those nobles who had abandoned him only to return after nine years.

"Really?" Sam exclaimed. "Of course! That's why I came! But wait—did you give him the name I asked for? Did you add the additional name?" His voice was laced with urgency, as if this was the most important question of all.

Dalia confirmed they had honored his request, and Sam nearly collapsed with relief. "Then what are we waiting for?!" he cried, grabbing the startled nun by the arm and practically dragging her through the halls in search of his son.

They questioned the other nuns and children, asking for the whereabouts of a certain boy.

It didn't take long to find him. Under the shade of a large tree, Jonathan lay on the grass, staring up at the sky.

The moment Sam spotted him, his excitement became uncontrollable. He waved his arms wildly, attempting to catch the boy's attention.

Jonathan blinked.

It was him again—the man from before.

His curiosity only deepened.

The orphanage had seen its fair share of parents returning for the children they once abandoned, but rarely after so many years. Jonathan had never been given the chance to prove himself worth keeping.

Not once.

A part of him felt… jealous.

But more than that, a strange thought lingered in his mind—one he tried to push away. "It couldn't be… could it?" There was no way. His parents wouldn't have waited this long to reconsider. Would they?

"Hey!" The man kept shouting, making it impossible for Jonathan to ignore him.

Reluctantly, he got up and walked over.

That's when he saw her.

Sister Dalia stood beside the man.

His stomach dropped.

"It couldn't be…"

"Jonathan, good afternoon," Dalia greeted softly. "I'd like to introduce you to Mr. Smith."

Jonathan nodded, saying nothing.

"As I was saying, years ago, we signed a contract stipulating—"

Before she could finish, Sam scooped Jonathan into the air. "Ah! It's you! How did I not see it before? You've got my hair and your mother's eyes!" Sam exclaimed.

Jonathan's mind went…

Completely.

Utterly.

Blank.

"Mr. Smith!" Dalia gasped. "That's too abrupt! Look at him—he looks like a fish out of the water!"

Sam's face paled. "Oh no! What do I do?! If he dies, his mother will kill me! You're not dying, are you?! Stay with me, son!"

"Mr. Sam, please stop! If you keep this up, you will l scare him to death!" The moment she said it, she regretted it.

"Don't die!" Sam wailed even louder.

Dalia buried her face in her hands.

Once Sam finally calmed down and Jonathan's mind caught up with reality, they took a quieter, gentler approach to explaining everything.

Then, without much ceremony, Jonathan was told to pack his things. He would be leaving that very day.

"Sister Dalia."

Jonathan's small voice was muffled against her habit as he melted into her embrace. She held him tightly, feeling the warmth of his little body pressed against hers. Every instinct screamed at her to keep holding on—to never let go.

But she had to.

She had to let him leave.

Leave with the man who had never once been there for him.

When Jonathan pulled away, a sharp pain shot through her chest. She looked down at him, at those large, innocent eyes gazing up at her, searching for reassurance she wasn't sure she could give.

Tears blurred her vision.

"Thank you, Sister Dalia, for taking care of me."

The dam broke.

She nodded, her body trembling as silent tears spilled down her cheeks. Then, unable to help herself, she pulled him into one last embrace—holding him as if she could etch the moment into her memory forever. "Be good, Jonathan. I'll miss you," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

A lump formed in her throat, a heavy mix of sorrow, pride, and love weighing her down. She watched as he took slow, hesitant steps toward his father, and though she knew this was the right thing, it didn't make it any easier. As the distance between them grew, Sister Dalia remained at the orphanage's entrance, watching until Jonathan and his father disappeared from view.

He was going home.

Home—to the family he had always longed for.

And yet, a part of her couldn't shake the feeling that she had lost something irreplaceable.

She wiped away her tears, inhaling deeply to steady herself. There were still other children who needed her, who relied on her to be strong. But just for a moment, she allowed herself to grieve—because letting go of him meant letting go of a piece of her heart. Jonathan would always hold a special place within her, no matter how far he went or who he became. She would always be there for him, even if only in silent prayers and unspoken wishes.

Turning back toward the orphanage, she hesitated for one last glance in the direction he had gone. "Okay,"she murmured, though the word felt hollow.

---

Jonathan's journey to his parents' island was nothing short of extravagant.

The ship was unlike anything he had ever seen—lavish rooms, endless luxury, servants catering to his every whim. He lost count of how many times he felt out of place.

But the strangest part wasn't the wealth.

It wasn't the grand halls, the gourmet meals, or the thousands of attendants.

It was having a father.

"Are we almost there?" Jonathan asked, his voice laced with hope.

"Don't worry, we'll arrive by morning," Sam reassured him, ruffling his hair.

Jonathan hesitated before asking, "What's she like?"

"Who?"

"My mom."

Sam smiled at that. "She's... eccentric. The kind of person you only meet once in a lifetime. Actually, you remind me more of her—except for the hair."

Jonathan's curiosity only grew.

The next morning, Jonathan woke up in an unfamiliar room, confusion settling over him. Before he could fully process it, the door creaked open.

"Good morning, young master," a maid announced. "Breakfast is being served in the main hall. I'll be waiting outside to guide you. Take your time."

The door shut, leaving Jonathan alone.

As he sat up, the movement of his own shadow startled him. He let out a yelp before sighing. "Right. Forgot about that," he muttered. Even after all this time, he was still getting used to the fact that his shadow was alive—his brother, in all that matters.

"We're not on the ship anymore," his brother reminded him. "We landed a few hours ago. This place belongs to one of our parents. I already checked everything out—it's amazing! They even have a stable!"

Jonathan barely had time to react before his brother excitedly pointed at a toy on a nearby shelf.

"Look at this! Limited edition!"

Jonathan sighed, already accustomed to his brother's boundless enthusiasm. At least it helped him make sense of the situation. Shaking off his lingering grogginess, he quickly got dressed and followed the maid to where his parents awaited him.

"Jonathan, you're finally awake! Come, sit with us," Sam called, setting down his newspaper as Jonathan entered the grand dining hall.

The sheer extravagance of the room was overwhelming, but his attention was immediately drawn to the massive, ornate chair at the center of the table. He was about to ask about it when the figure seated in it turned.

His mother.

Pale skin. Dark eyeliner. Rebellious attire. She exuded an aura of confidence and arrogance that unsettled him. "Hello, Jonathan," she greeted, a mocking smile playing on her lips. "What do you think of my new throne?"

Jonathan blinked. "Exotic, I guess," he replied cautiously, slipping into a seat next to his father.

"This is awkward, isn't it?" Sam muttered, shifting uncomfortably. "So, Jonathan... we haven't really talked about this yet, but—"

"We're your parents," his mother cut in bluntly. "We abandoned you, and now we've decided to bring you back. That's it. There's nothing more to it."

Jonathan sat frozen.

His mother smirked. "I suppose your dad's already introduced himself, so let me introduce myself. I'm Saint Donquixote no Cherry, a World Noble—and your mother. Which makes you Donquixote no Jonathan."

Jonathan's mind reeled.

"Wait... you mean Jones Jonathan, right?" he asked, baffled.

"No. Donquixote no Jonathan. You only have one name. That's what your father and I agreed on—" Cherry's expression darkened as she turned to Sam. "Sam. Do you have something to tell me? Why does our son think he has two names?"

Sam shot up from his chair like a bullet.

"Jones Jonathan is his name. There's no going back now!" he declared before bolting from the dining room.

Cherry groaned. "I'll be back. You eat while I go ask your father what the hell he did," she told Jonathan before storming after him.

Jonathan sat there, dazed. "...Wait. World Noble?" His stomach dropped. "Hey, you two, come back!" Panic set in as he leapt from his chair, chasing after them.

He barely made it halfway before misstepping—his foot slipped, the world tilted—

He was falling.

Before he hit the ground, strong arms caught him.

His father.

"Are you okay? Of course, you're not! Wow, we're really bad at this, aren't we?" Sam muttered as he helped Jonathan back to his feet, guiding him toward the dining table.

And so began his new life with his parents—two figures as remarkable as they were unpredictable.

"Rules? Here, there are no rules," his mother explained when he finally asked what was expected of him.

"But there have to be rules! They hold society together," he protested, his voice edged with frustration. Fear lurked beneath his words. Rules had always been his anchor. Back in the Port of Hope, they had given him purpose. They were the only way he knew to prove he was a good son, a well-behaved child. Without them, how was he supposed to show he was worthy of being kept? That he wouldn't be discarded again?

Cherry lifted him onto her shoulders with ease. "You're a clever boy," she mused. "Hold on tight—we're going somewhere I know you'll love."

"Jeffrey, prepare the carriage!" she called to her butler, who immediately set to work.

Jonathan clung to her as they made their way outside. The carriage awaited, its polished frame gleaming under the sunlight. Cherry placed him inside before climbing in herself, and Jeffrey took the reins, guiding them forward.

Jonathan's nerves buzzed with anticipation. He didn't know where they were going or what awaited him, but excitement bubbled beneath his uncertainty. He had never ridden in a carriage before.

As they traveled, Cherry pointed out landmarks, weaving stories about the places they passed. Jonathan listened, captivated, momentarily forgetting his fears.

After a long ride, they arrived at their destination. Cherry stepped out first, then turned with a flourish. "Welcome to my private futuristic amusement park!" she declared.

Jonathan's breath caught. The amusement park was dazzling—unlike anything he had ever seen. Neon lights illuminated sleek, impossible architecture, stretching toward the night sky.

Cherry wasted no time, leading him straight to the Ferris wheel. As their cabin ascended, the vast expanse of the park unfolded beneath them—a glowing wonderland, a hundred years ahead of its time. "Surprise!" Cherry grinned. "There's no other park like this. It's completely unique—and all ours."

Jonathan stared in awe, struggling to process it all.

Cherry's expression softened as she turned to him. "You're right, rules are important," she admitted. "But have you ever wondered who makes them?"

Jonathan hesitated. "People in power?"

A pleased smile curled her lips. "Exactly. Those who hold power create the rules. And whoever wields that power dictates what justice is." She met his gaze, her voice velvety yet firm. "Humans follow rules. Gods create them. And Jonathan… we are gods."

His stomach twisted.

Cherry leaned back, draping an arm over the railing. "That's why, in our home, you'll never have to worry about rules. Our love isn't something earned by rules. No, it's a little different…"

Jonathan's mind raced. Rules had always been his measure of worth—a way to prove he was good, a way to be wanted. Without them, how could he be sure he wouldn't be cast aside again?

Cherry chuckled, reading his turmoil with ease. "Oh, I forgot—you've been living among humans for too long." She gestured toward the cityscape below. "But listen well, my son. Everything in this world is yours. Rulers don't abide by rules. The world is already at their feet." Her gaze bore into him. "Like me, you are limitless. You can have anything you desire. And all we ask in return is one thing—your loyalty."

Jonathan inhaled sharply. "That's all you want?" he asked at last, his voice steady despite the storm in his mind.

Cherry leaned in.

Jonathan smiled. "Let me tell you a secret… I'd like to make a deal." That night, Jonathan sold his soul to the devil.

The Ferris wheel resumed its ascent, and after that, they rode every attraction they could. Jonathan hadn't felt this free since the last time he saw Prince—or at least, that's what he told himself. As exhaustion finally crept in, he leaned back against a bench, breathless. "How do you even have something that's a hundred years ahead of its time?"

Cherry, equally tired but clearly satisfied, smirked. "Simple. All you need is a brilliant mind, a lot of passion, or—" she gestured dramatically, "—a father like yours."

Jonathan blinked. "Dad did all this?"

"Yep. Want to see him at work?"

His curiosity flared. "Yes!"

They made their way to a sleek, high-tech lab, its glass walls revealing a flurry of glowing screens, whirring machinery, and blueprints scattered across metallic desks. Inside, Sam was in his element, tweaking wires and calibrating circuits. The hum of invention filled the air.

At the sound of their footsteps, Sam looked up, his face brightening. "What brings you two here?"

Cherry recounted their day, mentioning how impressed Jonathan was with the technology behind the amusement park. Naturally, she had to show him the source of the magic.

"Impressed, huh?" Sam grinned, wiping his hands on a rag. "Kid, you haven't seen anything yet!"

Jonathan followed eagerly as Sam launched into a tour of his latest inventions. His enthusiasm was contagious, and for a moment, Jonathan found himself swept up in his father's world. "And this," Sam gestured grandly, "is Jones X-1872!"

Jonathan blinked at the small, adorable robot. "…Wait. Jones?" He turned to his mother, suspicion dawning. "Does Dad name every single one of his inventions Jones?"

Cherry sighed dramatically. "Unfortunately, yes." She shot Sam a look—half amused, half exasperated. "We agreed you would be named Jonathan. But apparently, someone just couldn't resist."

Sam grinned unapologetically. "I had to do it!" Without warning, he swept Jonathan up into a bear hug. "Jones Jonathan—my greatest creation!"

Jonathan groaned, squirming. "Dad, put me down!"

Cherry rolled her eyes. "I swear, I'm surrounded by children."

Jonathan wasn't sure what tomorrow would bring. But one thing was certain—life with his parents would never be normal. And maybe, just maybe, he was okay with that.

"Speaking of creating, want to see my biggest project yet?" Sam asked, excitement bubbling in his voice as he led them to another room.

Jonathan, still shaken from his father's bone-crushing hug, nodded hesitantly.

The room was a chaotic workshop, filled with strange gadgets and half-finished blueprints strewn across metal tables. But at the center of it all, suspended in a glass tube, was a girl. Her limbs were missing, her eyes closed, her body preserved in an eerie stasis.

"There she is," Sam declared proudly. "My latest and second greatest invention—Electra."

Jonathan's breath hitched. "What… is she?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"I'm surprised you didn't name her Jones!" Cherry teased, laughing lightly.

Sam waved off the joke, his expression turning serious. "She's a revolution, Jonathan. With Electra, I'll prove that life can be created through science." His eyes gleamed with conviction. "I plan to give her bionic limbs soon, but for now, she's in preservation. I haven't figured out how to complete her yet, but someday, I will."

"If your father says it'll happen, you'll soon have a sister," Cherry added.

Jonathan stared at Electra's lifeless form, considering the idea of having a sister. It was an oddly comforting thought—until Cherry smirked.

"A Frankenstein android sister."

Jonathan stiffened.

Before he could process it, his shadow flickered unnaturally, creeping toward a cluster of delicate machinery.

"Hey! What 's that, can it touch something?!" Sam yelled, eyes wide with panic of his machinery being messed with.

Jonathan quickly recalled his shadow. "Relax, it's just my Devil Fruit power. He can't touch anything."

Sam's panic faded, replaced by keen interest. He examined the shifting shadow with fascination. To Jonathan's surprise, neither of his parents seemed shocked. If anything, they looked intrigued.

From that day forward, his shadow became more than just an ability—it became a presence, an entity not only for himself. His parents even started calling it his little brother. That made Jonathan above happy.

Two days later.

"Come on, little brother! Today's the day!" Jonathan called as he stepped outside.

Several men stood waiting in the courtyard—some in Marine uniforms, others looking far less official.

Cherry crossed her arms, smiling. "Alright, Jonathan. As promised, I'm going to help you get stronger."

Jonathan's eyes flickered between the gathered men. "Who are they?"

"These are your opponents," Cherry said, handing him a sword. "Your task is simple—defeat them all, one by one. No Devil Fruit. No 'brother.' Just you."

Jonathan tightened his grip on the sword, hesitation flickering in his eyes. "Do I really have to fight for real? Can't they just… train me?"

Cherry rested a firm hand on his shoulder. "No. The best lessons come from battle. The stronger your opponent, the stronger you'll become." Her gaze bore into him—sharp, expectant. "Let's see what you're made of. Let's see your courage." Then, with a small, knowing smile, she added, "But don't worry—no pressure."

As Cherry made her way to the sidelines, Sam trailed behind, tossing a handful of popcorn into his mouth with an easygoing air.

Jonathan inhaled deeply, steadying himself before falling into a fighting stance.

The first battle was over before it truly began. He barely managed a swing before he was struck down.

Frustration burned in his chest.

From that moment on, he trained relentlessly, pushing his body past its limits—even beneath the relentless downpour of rain. Yet when the next fight arrived, the outcome remained unchanged.

Defeat.

Again.

And again.

Each failure chipped away at him, carving something raw and desperate into his soul.

He wanted to prove himself—to show his parents he was worthy. Worthy of their pride. Worthy of their love.

Hours passed. The rain thickened to a relentless downpour, but Jonathan didn't move. He sat motionless, fists clenched, thoughts spiraling in the storm of his mind.

From the shelter of the doorway, Sam watched in silence. He exhaled slowly and murmured, "It's raining." But his gaze never wavered from Jonathan. Because he recognized that look—the same frustration that had once burned in his own eyes.

He used to spend his afternoons in the stable, hiding from his parents. It was the only place where he could immerse himself in his creations without the weight of their expectations.

His parents never supported him. They saw him as a dreamer, someone who needed to ground himself and focus on the family business instead of chasing impossible ideas. School wasn't any better. The other kids were blunt. As soon as they learned of his dreams, they ridiculed him, especially when he took things too literally.

He was the type of person who, upon first hearing the joke about the chicken crossing the road, thought it referred to an actual chicken. At fourteen, he left home to pursue his dreams, selling his products in different places, trying to make a living.

Slowly, he began to build a client base, leveraging his rare ability to read people. Selling wasn't hard for him—convincing others came naturally, though convincing himself was a different matter. Despite his talents, he watched as people with fewer skills and more connections climbed the corporate ladder, while he struggled to afford a decent meal.

One day, in the village trying to sell his wares, someone locked eyes with him.

Later that day, he learned he had been passed over for a job at a company he had hoped to join, simply because the owner's friend's son had asked for the position.

It was raining, but he didn't care about the cold or getting soaked. All he felt was frustration. His dreams, his ambition, seemed to be slipping away. For a moment, he even considered returning home to apologize to his parents for trying. Then, the woman who had spotted him earlier finally found him. She had been searching for him all day. Without a word, she extended an umbrella. He accepted it with quiet gratitude.

"Why the long face? Are you sad?" she asked, an eyebrow raised.

"Me, sad? No, definitely not… I think? Am I sad?" he stammered, as he often did when caught off guard.

"You're acting differently from this morning," she observed, her expression curious.

"I was wearing a mask—the work one," he explained, his voice wavering, about to break.

"What happened?" she asked, genuinely concerned. Sam hesitated. It felt like a bad idea to confide in a complete stranger. But it was a bad idea, and he did it anyway.

"No matter what I do, everyone else is ahead of me. If things don't change soon, I'll have to go back and live with my parents. I thought I could make it, but even that idiot Stephenson got the job." A tear slipped down his cheek.

"Wait, are you going to give up because of some loser who doesn't even have what it takes to stand out? Is your will really that weak?" The girl's irritation was clear. "I saw you earlier, and I'll tell you one thing: you have something they can only dream of," she continued, meeting his gaze with intensity. "Passion."

Her words made him laugh bitterly.

"I'm a Celestial Dragon—a Donquixote. By all rights, I should be living in Mariejois, basking in luxury. But it's dull up there, suffocating. I have no interest in ruling from a gilded cage. I want to build my own empire from the ground up, something truly mine.

Of course, I could simply request a right-hand man, and they'd be delivered to me on a silver platter. But where's the thrill in that? No, I want someone who has what it takes—someone worthy.

When I saw you earlier, I recognized it immediately. That fire in your eyes, your conviction, your relentless determination… And that sharp, manipulative mind of yours.

I knew, in that moment, that talent belongs to me. And only me."

Cherry extended her hand. "When people have common goals, they form alliances. I can be your connection, help you rise to the top. With my influence and your intellect, we'll surpass all those fools. So, what do you say?"

Sam stepped forward and accepted her offer. From that moment on, they became a team, climbing to the top together.

Later, as he stood over a dying man, machete in hand, the man asked, "Who are you?"

"The executioner," Sam replied, driving the blade deeper.

The pain from the wound was dulled by the rush of adrenaline, but a cold sensation spread within him. As the attacker twisted the blade, Sam remarked, "How rude of you to ask my name but not poor Jones Johnny Corkscrew." He watched as the man's life slipped away under the blade he had named.

Cherry was a goddess, and goddesses didn't stain their hands with mortal blood. They issued orders, which their executioners carried out. That's how Sam became her executioner.

On his home island, executions were a form of entertainment. But with Cherry, they symbolized devotion, loyalty, and love.

"Don't be a loser!" Cherry shouted as she slid across the ice.

"I'm coming!" Sam called out, finally stepping onto the ice.

"This isn't so hard!" he exclaimed, grinning.

From a distance, it looked like a heart had been carved into the ice, but as you got closer, you could see the frozen bodies of those Cherry had disposed of, their final resting place.

.

.

.

Sam took a deep breath as he neared his parents' house. It had been years since he'd left to chase his dreams. Now at eighteen, he rang the doorbell, his heart pounding. He knew what to expect when they opened the door, but he also knew he had to speak to them before moving on to what he'd come to do. The conversation was always the hardest part; everything else would come easy.

This felt like running a marathon—difficult and exhausting—but he chose to face it. Maybe, deep down, he yearned for the brief moment when his mother would open the door, confused and surprised to see him. Then he would step forward, embrace her tightly, and let the tears flow. His mother would hesitate, but she would return the hug, holding him close.

When they pulled away, his mother would study his face, noticing the changes, a deeper voice, a newfound confidence. She would see that her son had grown, had become a man.

"Mom, I'm really sorry," he would say, his voice breaking. "I never meant to hurt you or Dad."

Her response wouldn't be what he expected, but he longed for it nonetheless. It would give him the closure he sought.

His mother would shake her head, tears in her eyes. "It's okay, Sammy," she would say, using the childhood nickname. "We're just so happy you've come back. We missed you so much."

Then, his father would appear from behind her, his face more reserved than his mother's. He had always been the stricter parent, not one to show emotion. But as he saw Sam, his expression softened, and he walked forward, taking Sam's hand.

"We were wrong, Sam," he would say quietly. "We should have listened to you, tried to understand you better. We're sorry for how we treated you."

Sam would feel a weight lift off his chest as he heard those words from his father. "It's okay, Dad," he would reply, relieved. "I'm just glad to be back, with my family."

But as he dreamed of his future, his father brought him back to reality with one simple question. "Who is it? What do they want?" he asked, his gaze fixed on the door.

"Your son," Sam answered, without a second thought.

"Son? Oh, you mean that fool who thought it was a good idea to abandon his parents, neglect his duties on the farm, and stack up wealth without ever giving a single berry to his struggling parents, barely scraping by for a piece of bread?" His father paused, his words growing more forceful. "Then tell him to go back to where he came from and stay there. Maybe, just maybe, he should try being a bit more considerate. He's probably hiding behind that poker face of his." Sam took a step back, then bolted for the door, slamming it open.

His chest tightened, and his heart raced so fast he thought it might burst out of him. Everything happened in a blur, and before he realized it, he was standing outside his parents' house, holding a lighter, setting the place ablaze, while the lifeless bodies of his parents lay inside. He barely recalled his father hurling insults or his mother's disappointed gaze.

As he walked away from the ashes of the farm, he spotted Cherry, and his heart twisted, reminding him of how his parents had always crushed his most cherished dreams—his aspirations. They would ridicule him, call him foolish every time he dared speak of his ambitions. No one ever believed in him, not even himself. After all, when you hear something enough, you start to believe it. But then Cherry came into his life, and with every word she spoke, telling him how great he was, he began to believe it too.

"What is that?! Tell me everything!" Her smile was warm. He fondly remembered the times she'd listen to him talk about science and technology, even when she didn't quite understand it. She followed him to places tied to his interests, turning the experiences into a whirlwind of joy. Life with her was chaotic, and that was the thrill of it. With her, he felt unstoppable, as though he could conquer the world.

No, he would conquer it.

For her, he would even kill his parents—or rather, he had already done it for her. After all, Cherry was like a fire, one that spread and consumed everything in its wake.

"You really did it," Cherry marveled, watching as Sam killed his parents at her request. "You know, 'I love you' is just a phrase people throw around without meaning it." Sam moved closer to Cherry, who was dressed in a black wedding dress.

And he wasn't lying. How many times had his parents said they loved him, without ever really meaning it? Love wasn't just words. He would never say "I love you" to her, not in those simple terms. Instead, he would give her everything and anything she desired.

"Killing for someone is a declaration, a statement. If you ever ask me to burn the world, I'll do it, nothing will stand in my way," Sam said, as he kissed Cherry on the lips. Like his old home, Sam's love for Cherry consumed him. So utterly consumed that on that very day, the two of them were married.

No matter who fell in their wake—his parents, his friends, even strangers—they were all expendable. They were mortal, easily replaced. Even himself, was replaceable. But there was one who wasn't: Cherry. She was a goddess.

If it served a purpose, if it brought her happiness, he would willingly become a pawn in her game of chess. That was his way of showing love.

But love brings more than two young adults can anticipate.

"A baby?"

.

.

.

Sam approached his son with a smile, but as he neared, he saw Jonathan turn away, a response to his presence. "What's wrong? Giving up already? Is your will so weak?" Sam asked with a serious expression, catching Jonathan off guard. Sam had never been serious before, at least not like this.

Jonathan sighed, gazing at the overcast sky. "No matter how hard I try, I just can't keep up," he admitted, frustration thick in his voice. "Maybe you should have left me at the orphanage."

"You know what I see every time you strike?" Sam asked, his gaze intense. "I see a passionate young man whose fire burns brighter than mine."

"But maybe I was wrong." Sam turned to walk away, and Jonathan, in response, grabbed his sword, pushing himself harder than ever. "Or maybe I wasn't." Sam added, his figure growing smaller as he distanced himself.

Every time Jonathan swung his sword, time seemed to fly. Soon enough, he was cutting down marine after marine.

His parents had been eccentric, crazy, and obsessive, but in the end, they had always been his biggest supporters. They never missed a fight and always cheered him on.

They tried to spend every moment with him, taking him to the most exciting places. If he had nightmares, they welcomed him into their bed. If he fell ill, they sought out the best doctors. And if he ever needed to talk about his feelings, he knew they'd always listen without judgment.

Life with his parents had never been boring. With a wildly unpredictable mother, an inventive father, and a brother as chaotic as he was, there was never a dull moment.

Like now.

"Strike Tornado!"

Jonathan swung his sword in a fierce arc, unleashing a whirlwind of devastating force. The gust spiraled across the battlefield, roaring like a beast unleashed, lifting enemy soldiers off their feet and hurling them through the air like ragdolls. Weapons clattered to the ground, banners tore from their poles, and the very earth trembled beneath the storm's might.

As the winds died down and the dust began to settle, Jonathan stood firm, sword still raised, his crimson eyes gleaming with purpose. The battlefield was in chaos—scattered soldiers scrambling to regroup, their once-disciplined ranks now in disarray.

"Shadow Knights!" he commanded.

Instantly, the shadows of the fallen twisted and stretched, shifting unnaturally across the ground. Panic spread like wildfire.

"What's happening?! Where are our shadows?!" the soldiers cried, searching desperately for their missing reflections.

Their fears were soon answered. From the writhing darkness, figures began to rise—towering knights clad in pure shadow, their glowing eyes the only sign of life. Their blades, forged from the abyss itself, gleamed ominously in the moonlight.

Jonathan smirked. "Shadow Horse!"

At his call, the darkness coiled and shaped itself into a massive, ethereal steed. It reared up, letting out a ghostly whinny before standing at attention. Jonathan swung himself onto its back with practiced ease. "Alright, little brother, it's your turn now. After all, you're the better rider."

His fiery red eyes flickered, shifting into an oceanic blue as a new presence took over.

"Understood," came the smooth, measured response from his own lips. His shadow—his ever-loyal, ever-watchful other half—had taken control.

Without hesitation, the shadow army surged forward, cutting through the battlefield like a tidal wave of darkness.

Jonathan, now a mere passenger in his own body, rode through the chaos, the castle looming ever closer. As they neared the gates, control returned to him. His fingers flexed on the reins, his expression hardening as the guards eyed him warily.

He paid them no mind. Instead, he rode straight to the entrance, dismounted, and pounded his fist against the massive doors. "Open up, King Peter!" His voice rang through the air, filled with authority. "I demand to see the prince!"

A deep groan echoed as the doors slowly creaked open. Beyond them stood King Peter, draped in regal robes, his sharp gaze filled with disdain as he took in the sight of Jonathan. A sneer curled the king's lips. "Who are you?" he asked, voice dripping with contempt.

Jonathan's grip on his sword tightened. "I am Sir Jonathan," he declared coolly. "And I've come to take back my friend."

Years of relentless training had led him to this moment. He had scoured every lead, every whisper of intelligence, piecing together the dark truth of his friend's imprisonment. And now, he was ready to tear down the walls of this wretched kingdom if it meant setting him free.

But the king merely chuckled, his expression dark with amusement.

"That thing is no longer here," he scoffed. "The ungrateful brat had the audacity to escape. And now, another foolish child comes knocking at my door, demanding things he doesn't understand. I'm fed up with the lot of you."

Jonathan's heart lurched. His friend—gone? Where? How?

He forced his emotions down, his expression steeling into something unreadable. "How dare you speak of him like that!" he snarled, raising his sword until its tip hovered just inches from the king's throat.

The shadows around him stirred, whispering like venomous spirits.

"End him."

"Sever his head."

"He doesn't deserve another breath."

Jonathan's grip on his blade faltered for just a moment. He could feel their hunger, their insatiable need for retribution. A dark part of him wanted to give in. To let them guide his hand.

"Show the weak what you're capable of," one voice urged, its tone dripping with malice.

"It would only be impolite if it's was a well-mannered man," another shadow whispered. "But this king? He's nothing but filth."

Jonathan inhaled sharply.

Then, in one swift motion, his sword plunged forward.

The king gasped—a sound of pure shock—before the blade silenced him forever.

Days later, word spread that the kingdom had fallen into the hands of an unknown assailant.

"He hasn't left his room in days! What if he's dead? What will we do now? Everything was ready for the next phase of our plan!" Sam exclaimed, his worry over Jonathan's state apparent.

Jonathan had secluded himself in his room since his fateful visit to the kingdom.

"I knew something like this would happen, but I didn't expect him to be this affected," Cherry said, surprised by her son's reaction. "Wait, did you know from the start he wouldn't find his friend?" Sam asked, his tone tinged with frustration.

"It was supposed to be a test, to see if he had what it takes for the next step. But wow, I didn't realize it would hit him this hard," Cherry reflected, rubbing her pet lizard, Chilly. "Still, maybe this experience will help him close this chapter. We really need him at his best. So let's give him time."

"I've got an idea that'll cheer him up! He needs Bonzó!" Sam exclaimed with excitement before rushing out of the room to fetch his son's dog.

Jonathan, hearing barking outside his door, opened it to be knocked over by Bonzó, his loyal dog. "Did you miss me? I missed you too," Jonathan said, laughing as Bonzó licked his cheek. "Sorry I didn't play with you, the reasons are complicated," Jonathan muttered, his voice tinged with melancholy.

"Too complicated for Bonzó and Ponzó?!" A sock puppet appeared at the door.

"First of all, Dad, don't you think I'm too old for Ponzó? And secondly, it's complicated for both of us," Jonathan responded, trying to avoid his father and Bonzó's sad expressions.

Though Jonathan's outward expression was one of sadness, his true feelings were far more complex. The most unsettling thought gnawed at him—was it impolite to care about good manners?

The internal struggle twisted his insides, a sharp pain deep within him. It felt like a claw, cutting through his heart, and no matter how much he wiped his face with his sleeve, he couldn't stop the sweat from pouring down.

Ah, don't envy Jonathan. He has nothing to envy.

Over the years, Jonathan had attended one of the most prestigious institutions—Eton. What he took from that time was an unyielding appreciation for education. Good manners came naturally to him, a man obsessed with rules, as much as he sought to please others.

Good manners! Even as he spiraled, he still clung to the belief that it was the only thing that truly mattered.

Within, he heard a screeching sound, like rusty gates opening, followed by a sharp knocking that echoed in the silence of his mind. The eternal question remained: "Have you behaved with good manners today?"

It was a complex feeling, a double standard that ate away at him.

"It wasn't complicated for Ponzó, but maybe you're right. You're growing up, but do you know what else is growing?" Sam said, his voice gentle and affectionate. "Our concern for you, son. You haven't eaten in days! This morning, I almost thought you were dead! You know how paranoid I get!" Sam exclaimed, always with his usual intensity.

"Okay, Dad, I'll try to have dinner with both of you soon," Jonathan replied, taking a deep breath.

"Take your time. I'll let Bonzó take care of you," Sam said, before leaving the room.

As Sam left the room, his smile faded. "We're good parents, right, Ponzó? Of course, it's all part of the plan," he murmured to the puppet in his hand.

Sam then entered his laboratory, a room cluttered with boxes, and quickly made his way to a particular corner.

"Look at this, Ponzó," Sam said as he revealed boxes filled with weapons and a strange black substance. "These are the results of a happy and useful son."

Ponzó, however, gave him a look of disappointment.

"I care for him, don't get me wrong, Ponzó," Sam explained, almost pleading. "But you know why we brought him back. Everything useful for her must stay, and everything else must go." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "And neither of us wants Jonathan to leave, right, Ponzó?"

The puppet's head shook in agreement.

"It's a small sacrifice," Sam continued, his tone softening. "Cherry is happy, I'm happy, and Jonathan will be happy. The only price is that he has to grow up a little faster. It's not a big deal. People kill all the time, for fun, for entertainment. We're just hunting a few birds..." His eyes hardened, a cold, bloodthirsty gleam in them. "But most importantly, Ponzó, everything is justified in the name of love."

Sam had done many things in the name of love—freezing bodies in lakes where he used to skate, even killing his own parents. He wasn't a saint, nor a demon; he was simply an executor. A clumsy man, a caring husband, a father who supported his son, and a killer whose thirst for blood could drive him to the highest ecstasy.

And through it all, he justified it all in the name of love.

The Devil Fruit they had purchased had ended up being consumed by someone. When they investigated, they learned it was their son who had eaten it.

Upon hearing the news, they devised a plan. They would secure his loyalty, make him stronger, and he would become their most powerful weapon. Sam had used his son for years, crafting weapons and dark creations that blurred the lines between man and monster.

Finally, after years of research, Sam had succeeded. His son was ready. Cherry's test had confirmed it: Jonathan was strong enough to wield his newfound shadow powers without hesitation when the time came.

It was time to hunt Phoenixes on the Island of Rebirth.

The Island of Rebirth was a small, isolated paradise, surrounded by crystal-clear waters that glowed with an ethereal light. Its air was thick with the sweet scent of exotic flowers, and the forests teemed with towering trees and plants unlike any other. The beaches sparkled with sand that shimmered under the sun's rays, and the whole island seemed to hum with a mystical energy.

Birdsong filled the air, a chorus of trills and chirps from the island's diverse wildlife. As the sun began to set, the sky turned vibrant shades of pink and gold, casting an almost magical glow over the island.

From the deck of his ship, the Jolly Roger, Jonathan gazed toward the island, its silhouette growing closer on the horizon.

"Dear brother, would it be improper to proceed with what we have in mind?" Jonathan asked, his voice tinged with unease.

"Taking the life of an educated man would certainly be poor manners, but these creatures are nothing more than animals. I see no issue," his brother replied, his tone detached.

For the first time, Jonathan found himself wishing his brother's words rang true.

In the heart of the Island of Rebirth, nestled in a garden of blue roses, a mother was gently combing her daughter's hair.

She placed a single blue rose in her daughter's hair and smiled warmly. "Go, my dear, and find your brothers. Tell them the moon is rising and the sun is setting."

The young girl nodded, her eyes bright with purpose as she darted off toward the horizon.

---

Back to the present,

in the Bourgeois kingdom.

"What were you thinking?" Helina's voice was sharp with fury as she confronted Cavendish. She couldn't believe the audacity of him returning after he had promised his kingdom he would never return while exiled.

"Do you have no honor? No loyalty? Is this all just a joke to you?" Helina's words cut deep, but Cavendish stood silent, his face hidden beneath the shadow of his hat.

"All for what? Duty?" Helina's voice trembled with disbelief. "But was it really your duty? Or was it just a way out? The Betwixt-and-Between controls the shadows. You know exactly what Hakuba is, Cavendish..." She paused, taking a step back, her frustration building. "Just leave. It'll be easier to deal with him without Hakuba. That way, you might give your kingdom a fighting chance, if there's any hope left."

Helina said what she believed was best for everyone. She understood Cavendish's intentions; his heart was in the right place. But now, they had to face reality. Hakuba's will was stronger than the former prince's.

Without a word, Cavendish turned and began walking away, followed by Sabo, who had been silent the entire time.

"What is Hakuba?" Sabo asked as they walked through the streets, his curiosity piqued.

Suddenly, Sabo bumped into a child, sending him stumbling. "Sorry about that! My glasses... I can't see!" the child exclaimed, frantically searching for his glasses. Sabo spotted them nearby and handed them over, helping the child regain his sight.

The child, known as George, smiled and shook Sabo's hand. "Thank you for your kindness," he said gratefully.

Sabo noticed how cold the child's hand felt.

"Well, my dear sir, what are we waiting for? We must follow Cavendish! The others are probably already guiding him to the Whispering Forest," George declared, his voice firm.

Unwittingly, Sabo followed the child, unsure of what was unfolding.

After several minutes of walking in silence, they arrived at the Whispering Forest, a place known for its eerie calm, where only the occasional rustling of leaves or murmuring of wind broke the silence.

As they ventured deeper into the forest, a sense of unease crept up on Sabo. His thoughts were interrupted when George suddenly stopped. "Listen," George whispered, his voice barely audible. "Can you hear that? Follow it, and you'll find the answers you're looking for."

Sabo focused, sharpening his hearing, and caught the faint sound of singing in the distance. Before he could ask George about it, he realized the child had vanished without a trace.

"A gentle breeze from Hushabye Mountain, Softly blows o'er Lullaby Bay."

Compelled by the melody, Sabo's heart began to race. The sound of crunching leaves beneath his feet sent shivers down his spine. He turned, but no one was behind him. A cold breeze swept through the trees, making him shudder.

"It fills the sails of boats that are waiting,

Waiting to sail your worries away."

The singing grew louder and clearer, echoing in the dense forest. Guided only by the spectral voices of children, Sabo tried to resist, but his feet moved on their own. He spotted George running ahead in the distance and tried to chase him, but the child disappeared before he could catch up.

"It isn't far to Hushabye Mountain,

And your boat waits down by the quay,

The winds of night so softly are sighing."

Sabo looked around cautiously, and that's when he saw them—more children, some with pale skin, others with burns or large scars. But what

He followed them to the center of the forest, where a golden statue of a child stood, its features oddly familiar.

As he approached, he read the inscription carved into the statue: "There are different ways to be brave. You are brave when you think of others and not just yourself." The words belonged to the bravest child who ever lived, the only child who never grows—Pan D. Prince.

"Soon they will fly your troubles to sea

So close your eyes on Hushabye Mountain."

Looking up, Sabo's heart nearly stopped when he saw George standing before him.

"It was an honor to meet you, sir," the child said, his voice steady yet tinged with something softer—something wistful. "I hope our paths cross again someday, and when they do, you can tell me all about the incredible mother she was." He hesitated for a moment, then smiled, eyes gleaming with a quiet warmth. "If you can, let her know that we miss her… but she shouldn't rush. After all, living is the greatest adventure of all."

With practiced grace, the boy removed his top hat and bowed deeply, his small frame radiating an old-fashioned elegance far beyond his years.

George watched him, his expression unreadable, before stepping forward. "Have a good journey, young Sabo," he said, his voice carrying the weight of something unspoken.

Reaching out, he plucked something from the statue—a small, seemingly insignificant object.

The moment he did, the ground beneath Sabo shuddered. Then, without warning, it collapsed entirely.

Sabo's eyes widened, but before he could react, the earth swallowed him whole, dragging him into the unknown.

"Wave goodbye to cares of the day,

And watch your boat from Hushabye Mountain. Sail far away from Lullaby Bay."