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The sun seemed distorted when viewed through smoke billowing out from the ruins of Marineford.
Shiryu watched from the edge of the battlefield as men stumbled over scorched and fractured earth. Ash swirled and cast strange shadows over the bodies at their feet. The air hung heavy with the stench of death and he breathed it in, tasting blood and rot and the promise of freedom.
The war was over. Blackbeard’s era had begun. But all he could focus on was the restless hum of energy from his side, one he had been deprived of for far too long.
Raiu beckoned. He would be a fool not to heed her call.
Shiryu sat alone in the ship’s cabin, blade soaked in the blood of an Emperor.
Cheers from half-drunk fools seeped in from above, celebrating their escape from a hell of his own creation. The ship stunk of booze and sweat as the men—Shiryu’s new crew—lowered their guard in exchange for a night of carefree abandon. A luxury Shiryu had denied them for years. How strange that they now trusted him so easily, as if his time spent in the pit made them equals.
More important than his newfound allegiance was his reunion with Raiu. Living without her was akin to living without a limb. Her absence was a hole in his heart, one that ate away at him every second they were separated. Raiu did not fare much better—she had languished, decayed from disuse within her sheath. He would have to give her special care.
Bringing out his cleaning kit reminded him of his release, a glorious affair of destruction and vengeance. It was there he found freedom, though not the kind that released men from cages. As helpful as Blackbeard had been in that regard, the simpleton could never understand what Shiryu felt as he participated in the greatest slaughter in human history.
In the chaos of battle, deafened by the thunder of guns and clashing of steel, Shiryu had faced a titan. His only impression of the Emperor had been through the fearful whispers of the men he defeated, but Whitebeard was even greater in person. His height blocked out the sun and the half crescent moon of his face glared down in disappointment and disgust as Blackbeard’s men let loose a dozen killing blows.
It was a coward’s execution, but Shiryu no longer cared for such virtues. All he could focus on was the slashing of skin, blood pouring out of the Emperor’s veins like water from a faucet, painting his face red. After escaping his cage, tasting the salt of the sea, feeling the sun’s warmth on his face, that moment was when he first felt well and truly free.
Killing Whitebeard was the closest he had come to killing a god. Shiryu savored the feeling. Wished for a moment that he could keep Raiu stained forever.
But the old man was no god, not really. Gods couldn’t be stabbed and shot and speared a hundred times over and the thought gave him some form of comfort.
He sparked a flame, inhaled leather and spice, and got to work.
As he wiped the blood off Raiu’s edges, he thought back to his life before becoming her acolyte. After only a few years as head jailer, Shiryu had already grown disillusioned with the system he once believed in wholeheartedly. Long gone was any notion that what he was doing was justice. It was the miserable fools at the world’s summit who decided the laws of the land and the punishment for those who broke them. He was shackled to these faulty principles, made to believe that babysitting cockroaches would somehow benefit the world. It was a waste of time and resources and Shiryu yearned for something, anything to escape the gnawing sense of uselessness that bit at his heels.
Fortune appeared as a pirate ship on the outskirts of the calm belt, its occupants too weak and stupid to realize storming the prison’s gates was an impossible dream. It was easy to defeat them—it was too easy to do anything, then—and he felt nothing as he struck them down.
Only when standing amongst their bodies did he hear it for the first time: a faint whisper in his mind beckoning him below. He followed the voice, believing himself mad, until reaching the cargo hold. Mounted on the wall was a sword nearly his height. He did not know where it—no, she—originated from, but it felt right doffing his white gloves to hold her bare at the hilt. The moment he grasped her in his palm, sharp edges dividing the light in half just like the men he had slaughtered, he gained what he had been lacking all those years: Power. Unearthly power seeped into his being from dark stars, and he suddenly found himself with a purpose.
All gods needed sacrifice. The prisoners of Impel Down would suffice.
When prisoners began to be found dead in their cells, Magellan ordered extra guards stationed across each floor in order to catch the culprit. Inmates whispered of a fallen angel with flaming eyes and a mouth of smoke stalking the halls, searching for victims. Superstition was useful to keep men in line but an unknown entity could not be controlled, and so the jailers made it their duty to catch it.
Shiryu was not worried about being caught. Shiryu was not worried about anything, anymore. The world was no longer his concern. All he wanted was to keep the rush of power flowing through his veins and her whispers in his ear, encouraging him to feed her, to make her proud.
Raiu was hungry for more than just flesh—she absorbed bits and pieces of the men she decimated, not only their strength but their fear, their desperation. He regretted his inability to give her the finest, but no matter. The sheer number of offerings almost made up for it, each forfeiting their lives to become sacrificial lambs at the altar of blood, unwilling participants in unknowing worship.
Shiryu knew it wasn’t the killing that horrified Magellan—he did plenty of that—it was the method.
An unruly inmate lay chained in his cell, bound, blindfolded and gagged. He was half-mad, separated into solitary confinement to prevent him from tainting the rest of the population—but even that was a ridiculous notion. There were no men in this place. Only meat.
Shiryu approached with deliberate slowness, letting his footsteps echo against the concrete floor as he unsheathed Raiu, her sides glinting from the flame of his cigar. He did not speak, instead holding her to the meat’s trembling neck so it knew what was coming in its final moments.
Shiryu cut off the head in one powerful stroke and let the warm, wet rush of blood rain down. He held Raiu up with gloves stained black and heard her sing as she was baptized. She was happy, she was fed, and, very briefly, she was satisfied.
But good things never lasted. Shiryu sensed a presence and turned to find Magellan at the cell entrance, eyes narrowed, watching. It did not matter for how long. He was going to stop Shiryu, perhaps knowing that his bloodlust would one day extend beyond the prison walls.
Shiryu should have readied himself to defend Raiu, but he did not. He knew it was futile, that they would be parted, that he would feel her absence as if feeling a knife in his side. But one day they would be reunited to unleash fury upon an unsuspecting world. He would make sure of it.
Within Blackbeard’s ship, Shiryu continued his cleaning. He tapped an uchiko ball on Raiu’s surface, gently rubbing her with the light film of polishing powder. He then placed drops of oil on each of her sides, spreading it carefully and evenly before wiping off the excess with thin rice paper. In a matter of minutes she was bright and gleaming, reborn and imbued with newfound strength after years of neglect.
Once again he heard her humming, singing, begging to be fed. And oh, he would feed her. He had the rest of the world to explore to find a better cut of meat, one even greater than an Emperor. Perhaps by following in the shadow of the man who would be King of the Pirates he would be led to the final sacrifice.
After all, only a god could satisfy a god.