Chapter Text
An oblong portal opens in the Sabaody Amusement Park, somewhere behind a cluster of stalls. It hovers in the air for a moment before it ripples and swirls. A small blond maybe 5 feet tall steps out. He looks confused and lost. His long blond hair reaches just past his hips and his purple attire is trimmed in silver and perfectly tailored to show off all his best features. He looks like he could be a prince of some far off and strange nation. As he looks around he’s taken aback by all the sights and sounds and smells. It’s all overwhelming and he even staggers for a moment trying to step back into the portal. Only for the portal to have disappeared when he turns around.
With no real other choice, he walks out from behind the cluster of stalls and tries to get some kind of bearings. He’s standing at the edge of what can only be described as a carnival of marvels and chaos. Towering structures spin through the air. Enormous sea creatures drift inside tanks of glass. Kids dash past him, clutching cotton candy shaped like animals he doesn’t recognize. Laughter - sharp and shrill - peals out from every direction.
He takes it all in and tries to process what he’s seeing. “Where the hell am I?”
He doesn’t recognize any of this. Not the strange metal contraptions. Not the shiny tokens clinking in the hands of giggling children. Not the light, which flickers just a beat too fast. It’s dazzling, it’s disorienting, he doesn’t hate it. In some ways this is his element. He would feel right at home if it wasn’t for this strange off feeling he gets from simply existing here.
He walks forward slowly, shoulders tense, instinct humming. Something is really truly off about this place but it’s so unfamiliar he can’t place what has him on edge. His eyes scan the people around him - tourists. Some are smiling. Others are watching. And a few? A few seem too still. Like statues placed just wrong in the flow of the crowd. He watches those people for a moment feeling like they could be the cause of his unease when a call rings out through the PA system.
“Reminder: Auction House starts in thirty minutes. Line up early if you want a good seat!”
An auction? What kind? The need to find information digs a hole in his stomach. He stops cold as he hears someone laugh nearby: “I heard the Celestial Dragons are in town today for the Auction. Must be something good this time.”
“Yeah but if you see one, you better stir clear. I wouldn’t even breathe too close to one.”
The name, “Celestial Dragon…?” it doesn’t mean much to our blond but he gets the feeling it should. He looks around with more purpose this time as he passes a ride that looks like a spinning octopus with screaming passengers strapped to its legs. He’s not even sure if the octopus is real or not, it looks like it could be.
Suddenly, a pair of children playing tag nearly crash into him. He dodges just in time - then hears a mechanical voice behind him bark: “SLAVE COLLAR DETECTED. HUMAN, MOVE AWAY.”
The nearby worker - collared and hunched - stumbles forward to pick up a spilled tray. Our blond sees bruises and hollow eyes. And his fists clench. This place isn’t just strange, it’s wrong. He doesn’t know how his portal brought him here but he needs to stay sharp. This strange ‘carnival’ is a gilded trap. And he can feel its corruption with every step he takes.
Despite trying to stay sharp, the lights of a floating Ferris wheel catches his eye. It’s lit up by glowing jellyfish. It’s beautiful. And while he’s seen magic before, to see it displayed so openly like it’s commonplace takes his breath away. So he doesn’t notice the slaver that’s taken notice of him.
Even though he’s dressed modest by his own standards, in this place he sticks out. His clothes are snug, tailored, and dusted from the road. His top is a vivid purple material clinging to his frame in all the right places. His collar is open, exposing a deep V line of throat and collarbone. A confident, careless beauty.
A few passersby glance at him too long. Some with curiosity. Some with hunger. And one with calculation.
“That one. He's not tagged. And he doesn’t look like he knows what this place is, like a deer caught in headlights.” The slaver watches from the shadows beneath a candy-striped awning. His coat is too fine, and his eyes are small and mean. He murmurs into a mini transponder snail. “Beautiful long hair, lean build, unique eyes, healthy tan complexion. Exotic. Could fetch a high price.”
Someone responds over the snail. “Bring the collar.”
The purple clad blond steps toward a vendor stand - charmed by the sight of floating sweets spinning above hot oil - when a hand clamps down on his wrist. Too tight. His eyes flick down, then up - to a man in black with a too-slick smile. The gleam of possession in his eyes.
“You lost, Beauty?” the man says, pulling the blond towards himself. “We’ve got a special place for tourists like you. Real exclusive. High-end clientele.”
The blond tilts his head as he turns his full attention to the guy. His smile is pleasant, lazy. Deadly calm. “Let go of me,” He says in a dangerously pleasant tone.
The man chuckles. “You’ll like it, I promise. You’ve got a face that could buy an island.” He reaches for something at his belt- a metal collar, like the one he saw earlier on the ‘worker’. It’s humming faintly.
The blond moves. Fast. Faster than he should be able to. Propelled by some sort of … mist? His knee slams into the larger man’s gut with a sickening crunch. In one smooth motion, he grabs the man’s wrist and twists -hard- until something snaps.
The man screams.
The crowd nearby freezes. Some back away. Others watch with vague interest as if this were just another day here. Our blond sits on the would-be slaver’s back. Eyes gleaming, calm and dangerous. “You put that on me?” He says dark amusement playing on his words. He pulls the collar out of the man's grasp and inspects it with a cold and rather uninterested look. “You don’t even know who I am.”
The slaver groans.
The blond smiles as he tosses the collar away. “But I’ll give you a hint: I really don’t like being touched.”
~~~~~~
Law stood at the edge of Grove 33 with Bepo, only half-listening as Penguin and Sachi bickered over whether cotton candy qualified as a food group. The amusement park was loud — garish music, shrieking children, the clatter and hiss of aging machinery — and Law was already regretting the decision to let his crew take shore leave here. He could feel it in his bones, the low, thrumming certainty that something was about to go wrong.
That certainty landed with the dull, unmistakable sound of a body hitting pavement, followed by a sharp scream that cut through the noise.
Law turned, sharp and instinctive, and saw him.
A small figure stood in the middle of a stunned crowd, golden hair cascading like silk down his back — long enough to brush his thighs, maybe longer. He wore rich layers of violet, his coat trimmed with silver that shimmered faintly in the harsh Sabaody light. His boots gleamed. His gloves were spotless. He looked out of place — like he’d stepped out of a palace and into a ruin, a dream walking through chains and rot.
But it wasn’t his appearance that held Law’s attention. It was the way he moved.
The man beneath him, now clearly a slaver writhed on the ground, cradling a broken wrist. A slave collar sparked uselessly beside him. And the blond, delicate-looking and finely dressed, stood on the man’s back as if he weighed nothing at all. There was something cold in the way he held himself — not indifferent, exactly, but distant. Calm. Like winter.
Then he spoke, voice clear and unhurried. “You don’t even know who I am.”
Bepo’s ears twitched beside him. “Captain…”
“I see him,” Law murmured, his gaze never leaving the stranger. They weren’t close, but they didn’t have to be. His Observation Haki registered the pressure radiating from the blond with uncomfortable clarity — not Haki, not a Devil Fruit, but something older. Wilder. Something that moved beneath the skin like a sleeping beast.
Power was coiled inside that too-small frame, masked by fine fabrics and an ethereal stillness. He was a spring wound tight beneath silk and starlight.
“Should we step in?” Bepo asked quietly, noticing the slaver’s backup approaching — men in black suits, one already holding another collar.
Law didn’t answer immediately. The stranger had turned his head slightly, just enough to acknowledge them with a glance — eyes half-lidded, mouth relaxed into a faint, unreadable line. There was no fear in him. No urgency. Just an effortless awareness.
“No,” Law said at last. “Not yet.”
Because whoever he was, this blond figure with too-bright hair and bloodless grace, had already assessed them, dismissed them, and turned his attention elsewhere.
Even under the bruised lights of Sabaody, he was beautiful.
And he looked utterly unimpressed.
The slaver beneath Rowan groaned again, trying weakly to crawl out from under him.
The blond didn’t even look down. He merely shifted his weight — elegantly, deliberately — settling onto the man’s back like a bored prince sitting atop an uncomfortable throne. One leg crossed over the other, ankle bouncing slightly.
A group of four more slavers advanced from the crowd, all dressed in matching black, collars in hand and smug grins on their faces.
“You’re pretty,” one of them sneered.
“You’ll look good in gold. Might even put you on the special stage.” Another jeered.
The blond looked at them. He did not flinch. He did not panic. He just frowned, slow and unimpressed — the kind of withering expression only someone very tired and very dangerous could pull off. Then he let out a long, theatrical sigh. As though the weight of the world — or maybe just the weight of this nonsense — pressed on his shoulders.
“Honestly,” He muttered, glancing up at the sky like he was asking some divine force for patience, “every damn time I go somewhere new.” He reached behind him and, with fluid grace, gathered his long golden hair into his hands. He twisted it up and around, tying it in a loose, elegant bun at the crown of his head — quick and practiced, like someone used to fighting with beauty as both weapon and hindrance. The movement bared the length of his neck, his sharp jawline, the small glint of silver at his collarbone. His silhouette sharpened like a drawn blade.
One of the slavers whistled. “Keep the hair up, sweetheart. Makes you look feisty.”
The prince's gaze slid to him. Cold. Lethal. As though he were already measuring where the man would break.
From the edge of the crowd, Bepo tensed. Law didn’t move. Didn’t speak. His golden eyes never left the blond.
“Captain,” Bepo whispered, “he’s gonna—”
“Let him,” Law said softly.
Because the prince was already rising — slow and fluid like smoke off a candle.
He stepped off the broken slaver and brushed invisible dust from his coat. His gloves gleamed. His expression was calm. Flat.
“You really should’ve let me get my candy,” He said. Then he moved.
To the average bystander, nothing happened.
One moment, the slavers were closing in — confident, collars gleaming in the light. The next, they were crumpled at the blonde's feet: unconscious, twitching, bruised. A few foamed lightly at the mouth. A mother dragging her child toward a candy stall didn’t even glance in their direction.
But Law saw it. More than that — he felt it.
Just before the collapse, there was a shift in the air. A pulse. Barely there, but ancient. The kind of presence that prickled against the skin and stirred something instinctual. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
And then the mist arrived.
It wasn’t smoke. It wasn’t fog. It rolled across the ground like velvet, curling up the slavers’ legs with deliberate grace — like it knew them. Knew exactly where to strike. It shimmered, deep violet threaded with silver, like dusk made tangible. And it hadn’t been summoned. Not by word, not by gesture. It came from the blond himself like a breath exhaled but not by lungs, but by soul.
And then it moved.
With purpose.
One by one, the slavers gasped. Choked. Dropped. The mist wrapped around their mouths, their eyes, their hearts. Not a single scream escaped. The air swallowed it all.
Law’s eyes narrowed, his breath sharp. The pressure that lingered in the mist wasn’t like any power he recognized. Not Haki. Not Devil Fruit. It felt like the world had tilted around a single presence — just for a moment — and now it was righting itself again.
As silently as it had come, the mist receded. It returned to the blonde's feet and paused there, hovering for a breath. Then it rose — gentle, intimate — and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
Not an attack. Not a command.
Affectionate. Possessive. Alive.
The blond blinked at it, and smiled. He didn't thank it. He simply tilted his head and stroked it— as if to say good boy — then slid off the broken man he’d been perched on. He dusted off his coat and walked away, unhurried, unconcerned.
Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn’t just undone five men with a sigh.
He wandered over to a nearby jewelry stall and began idly examining hairpins and charm bracelets, poking through trinkets like someone out for a lazy afternoon — not a weapon, not a god — just a man with time to kill.
Law stepped forward slowly, eyes fixed on the blond as he drifted from one glittering trinket to the next, as if he hadn’t just left a trail of unconscious bodies behind him.
“Captain…” Bepo’s voice was low, uncertain. “What was that?”
Law didn’t answer right away. His golden gaze tracked every graceful movement, every tilt of the blonde's head, every careless flick of his fingers as he examined a silver hairpin. At his side, Law’s hand twitched — just once — near the hilt of Kikoku.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly.
Then, softer still — almost to himself — “But I think we just saw a devil pretending to be a doll.”