One Piece: Bloody Devil

Want to read ahead of schedule? Head over to Patreon @

[https://patreon.com/ensquare_24]

This link is also in the synopsis.

---

.

The door shut with a soft but final click.

Vice Admiral and the Rear Admiral had left.

Asiro remained seated on the medical ward's cot, eyes fixed on the empty space they had occupied just moments ago. The tension still clung to the air like the fading echo of a gunshot.

For a few lingering seconds, no one moved. The room... doctors, nurses, injured Marines... was caught in a collective stillness. As if Hiroto's presence had rooted them in place, even after he was gone.

Then, all at once, the pressure broke.

A long, quiet exhale passed through the ward, like a ship releasing built-up steam. The nurses visibly relaxed, shoulders dropping, hands no longer clutching their clipboards so tightly.

A doctor rubbed his temples before muttering something under his breath. Even the wounded, those still strong enough to register their surroundings, shifted slightly, the weight they hadn't realized they were carrying now gone.

The heavy presence that had gripped the room had vanished in an instant.

Asiro noticed it all.

His fingers twitched slightly as his mind absorbed what he had just witnessed.

It wasn't just rank that made Hiroto powerful. It was his presence alone.

Not a single soul had dared to speak when he was in the room. Hiroto had commanded the space without needing to raise his voice.

Without needing to threaten. The sheer force of his authority had kept everyone on edge, like they were balancing on a knife's edge, waiting for his next move.

And now, without him, the air was breathable again.

Asiro's gaze flickered to the medical staff.

They exchanged quiet glances, some whispering under their breath. Their words were low, cautious, but the meaning behind them was clear.

"Did you see how the Vice Admiral looked at him?"

"What's a kid like that doing talking to someone like Hiroto?"

"Is he really joining the Marines?"

They thought he couldn't hear them. Or maybe they just assumed he wouldn't care.

They weren't entirely wrong.

Asiro didn't react. He remained seated, unmoving, absorbing everything.

It wasn't just Hiroto's authority that held weight... it was the way others responded to it. The silent fear. The unspoken obedience.

Power wasn't just about strength. It was about control.

The realization settled deep in his bones.

He clenched his fist slightly, then released it.

He had a long way to go.

But one day… people would look at him the way they looked at Hiroto.

Not just with respect. Not just with obedience.

With fear.

The room continued murmuring around him, the tension fully drained.

Asiro said nothing. He simply waited. And thought.

After some time.

The door creaked open again, but this time, the presence stepping inside carried no oppressive weight... only quiet authority.

Head Doctor Elias Valtor entered the medical ward with measured steps, his white coat stark against the dim lighting of the room. He moved with the practiced ease of a man who had spent decades tending to soldiers on the brink of death. His limp was barely noticeable, but Asiro caught it immediately.

The old man's sharp blue eyes scanned the ward, barely acknowledging the medical staff before landing on him.

"So, you're the kid who refused to die."

His voice was low and gravelly, like stone grinding against steel. There was no warmth in it.

Asiro didn't respond. He simply met the doctor's gaze with quiet intensity.

Elias clicked his tongue and approached, the faint scent of antiseptic trailing behind him. Without waiting for permission, he reached out and placed two fingers against Asiro's wrist, checking his pulse. A second later, he pressed a hand against his forehead, then along his arm, feeling for tension or lingering weakness.

"No fractures, no lasting damage. You should be dead, but instead, you're sitting up like nothing happened."

He stepped back, arms crossed.

"Whatever your body went through, it's already over. You're just exhausted. A full night's rest, and you'll be back on your feet."

Asiro remained silent. He already knew he was fine... his body had endured worse. But hearing it confirmed, spoken with such clinical detachment, made it feel strangely insignificant.

Elias studied him for a moment longer, then his tone softened... just slightly.

"Get some rest, Ashford. You'll need it."

With that, he turned on his heel and walked toward the door.

But just before leaving, he hesitated.

For a split second, Elias Valtor stood at the threshold, fingers tightening at his side, as if debating whether to say something more.

Then, without another word, he exited the room, leaving Asiro alone with his thoughts.

A moment later, the door clicked shut.

Asiro exhaled slowly, leaning back against the cot. His body was still heavy with fatigue, but his mind remained sharp.

Rest?

Maybe.

But sleep would have to wait.

There was too much to think about.

Asiro lay back against the pillow, the stiff fabric rough against his skin. The room was quiet now, save for the distant murmur of voices outside the medical ward. His body was weary, but his mind refused to surrender to sleep.

His thoughts drifted... slowly at first, like ripples across still water. Then, without warning, they pulled him under.

He saw her.

His mother.

The image was hazy, unfocused, like a dream slipping through his fingers. He tried to hold onto it, to sharpen the edges of her face in his mind. He remembered her warmth, the softness of her voice, the way she would tuck stray strands of his hair behind his ear. But beyond that?

What did he truly know about her?

Asiro's chest tightened. She had died saving him. He knew that much. But in her final moments, she had done something impossible... something that should have been beyond human ability.

That green light, Is that the cursed devil fruit?.

The moment replayed in his mind with perfect clarity. Her body, broken beyond recognition. Blood pooling around her like ink spilled across parchment. And then... her hand, trembling as it reached for him, her fingers barely brushing his skin before the light engulfed him.

He should have died that day.

And yet, here he was.

He exhaled slowly, his fingers curling into the thin blanket draped over him.

But there had been more to her.

Something powerful. Something unnatural.

Something she had passed down to him.

Asiro stared at his hands. They looked the same as always... Soft, and Ordinary. But deep beneath his skin, he felt something else. A lingering trace of that impossible power.

Was it still there?

His mother had given her life for him. She had given him something more... but what?

His throat tightened.

Then...

A whisper.

So faint, so distant, he almost believed he imagined it.

"Live."

His breath caught in his throat.

His mother's voice.

Not from memory. Not from the past.

But here. Now.

The ghost of her final words, lingering in the depths of his mind.

Asiro shut his eyes.

He remained still, his body worn from exhaustion, but his mind refused to rest. His mother's whisper had faded, leaving behind a silence that felt heavier than before.

Yet, something else lingered in his thoughts... something darker.

The newspaper.

The Demon King.

Asiro's fingers tightened over the blanket. He didn't know why the name stuck with him. He had never met the man. He had never seen him. But in the few words printed on those pages, in the destruction described in detached, clinical detail, Asiro could feel something... something vast and monstrous.

What kind of being could shatter the world so easily?

What kind of monster could rip through Marine strongholds like they were made of paper?

The thought unsettled him.

Strength.

Demon King had it.

And Asiro did not.

Not yet.

A slow fire burned in his chest, pushing back against the cold emptiness he had felt before. The grief, the exhaustion, the confusion about his mother's past... it was all still there, lingering in the back of his mind. But in the forefront, something new took shape.

A need.

A hunger.

A vow.

"Never again."

He would never be weak again.

Never be powerless.

Never be at the mercy of a world that only respected strength.

The path forward was uncertain, shrouded in the same shadows that stretched across the room. But it didn't matter. He would walk it anyway.

Because one day, when the time came...

He would carve his own name into the world.

And when he faced the Demon King, he would not tremble.

He would make him bleed.

The candle's flame flickered once, as if bowing to the weight of his thoughts. Then, at last, exhaustion pulled him under.

But even in sleep, the name echoed in his mind.

The Demon King.

And Asiro Ashford would be waiting for him.