One Piece: Undying Dream

The destruction had begun.

Roku didn't waste time gawking at the plume of fire and debris erupting from the southern harbor. The rooftop beneath him groaned, threatening to give way as aftershocks rippled through the island. With a fluid motion, he launched himself toward the next building—a rickety guardhouse whose roof was already tilting at a dangerous angle.

Time seemed to slow as Roku sailed through the air. The distance was too great—a leap that would have been impossible for most. But Roku wasn't most people. He twisted mid-flight, arms outstretched, fingers just catching the rain gutter of the listing structure. The metal creaked under his weight, bending but holding as he used his momentum to swing his body upward, landing in a crouch atop the damaged roof.

He didn't pause. Couldn't. Not with the island literally crumbling beneath him.

Roku sprinted across the uneven surface, bare feet finding purchase where others would have slipped. When he reached the edge, he didn't hesitate—leaping again, this time toward a thick wooden post that supported a market awning. His hands closed around it as he spiraled downward, using the pole to control his descent before dropping the last few feet to the ground.

All around him, chaos reigned. Guards abandoned their posts, fleeing toward the main harbor. Slaves stood frozen in confusion, their conditioning so deep that even with freedom collapsing around them, they couldn't bring themselves to run. A few of the braver or more desperate ones had begun to move, tentatively at first, then with growing purpose as they realized the usual punishments weren't coming.

"What's happening?" A woman clutched a child to her chest, eyes wide with terror as she grabbed Roku's arm. "Is it the Marines?"

Roku shook his head, pulling free of her grip. "Pirates. Not the usual kind. These ones aren't here for slaves or treasure." His eyes tracked the spreading destruction. "They're here to burn everything to the ground."

"But... where do we go?" The confusion in her voice was echoed in dozens of faces around them. These people had been slaves so long they couldn't conceive of a world without masters, without walls.

"Anywhere but here," Roku snapped, already moving again. "North harbor. There'll be ships. Take one if you can. Or swim. Just get off this island before it sinks."

He didn't wait to see if she heeded his advice. He had his own problems. Jiro. That idiot would probably still be hiding, too afraid to seize this chance at freedom.

Roku cut through the panicking crowd, moving against the tide of bodies fleeing inland. Most would head for the center of the island, thinking distance from the shore meant safety. They didn't understand. From what Roku had felt of those pirates' aura, nowhere on this island would be safe for long.

Another explosion rocked the ground, this one from the direction of the arena. The sound of crumbling stone filled the air as sections of the massive structure began to collapse. Screams followed—the fighters trapped in the holding cells below would be the first casualties if the arena fell.

Not your problem, Roku told himself, pushing forward toward the eastern quarter. Find Jiro. Get to a ship. Leave this hell behind.

But the growing list of explosions told him time was running out. Whatever these pirates had planned, they were executing it with ruthless efficiency.

13:49- Slave Quarter(Eastern Sector)

Roku reached the slave quarters, but the usual maze of shacks was now a scene of utter confusion. Some slaves huddled in corners, paralyzed by fear. Others fought amongst themselves, old grievances finally boiling over without the guards to maintain order. And a few—a very few—were gathering what meager possessions they had, preparing to flee.

"Jiro!" Roku shouted over the din, scanning faces as he moved through the chaos. "JIRO!"

No response. Roku cursed under his breath, shoving his way toward his shed. Maybe Jiro had gone there instead, seeking the one place on the island where he'd felt marginally safe.

The shed was empty. Roku stood in the doorway, chest heaving with exertion and growing panic. Where would that idiot go? Had he already been killed in the chaos? Captured by one of the warlords as they evacuated? Or worse—had he tried to reach the pirates, thinking they might offer salvation?

"Damn it, Jiro," Roku muttered, slamming his fist against the door frame. "I told you to hide."

The ground trembled beneath his feet, reminding him that time was a luxury he didn't have. He needed to move, with or without Jiro.

Roku closed his eyes, trying to clear his head enough to think. The steady throb of fear and anger that had been his constant companion threatened to overwhelm him. One chance—he had one real chance at freedom, and he was wasting it looking for someone who probably wouldn't survive the crossing even if they made it to a ship.

Something strange happened then. As Roku stood there, eyes closed tight against his rising panic, he felt a shift inside him—like a door opening to a sense he hadn't known existed. The constant noise of the island—screams, explosions, crumbling buildings—seemed to fade to a distant hum. In its place came something else: a heightened awareness that extended beyond his physical senses.

Presences. He could feel presences all around him—shifting, moving, each with its own distinct impression. The terrified slaves nearby felt like flickering candle flames, wavering and uncertain. The guards were harsher, their presences tinged with panic but still carrying that edge of cruelty that had defined them.

And farther away—much farther—Roku sensed those other presences. The pirates. They burned like infernos against his newfound awareness, so powerful he almost recoiled from the sensation. But something else caught his attention. A familiar flicker, weaker than the rest, moving in a pattern he recognized.

Roku's eyes snapped open, his breath coming in short gasps. "Jiro."

He didn't know how, but he was certain. Jiro was alive, and he was near the southern harbor—exactly where Roku had warned him not to go. Worse, he wasn't alone. Another presence was with him, cold and methodical, like poisoned silk against Roku's senses.

Salazar.

"No," Roku whispered, his blood turning to ice. Of all the warlords to encounter, Salazar was the worst. Lucien might capture a slave for later sale. Dagon might kill one for sport. But Salazar... Salazar would experiment, extract, reduce a human being to components for his vials.