The red walls of Pangaea Castle glowed in the twilight like blood. Deep within the gilded corridors, behind curtains woven with gold thread and history, a trial was being held in silence.
No judge. No jury. Only Viktor D. Virelion, shackled by seastone chains, stood before the Five Elders.
"You dare speak the name of the ancient kingdom?" "You question the will of the gods?" "You are not a son of Heaven. You are filth."
Viktor's once-immaculate white robes, embroidered with the symbol of the Celestial Dragons, now dragged along the marble floor like torn paper. His once-golden mask lay shattered at his feet.
He raised his eyes—clear, blue, burning. He did not kneel.
"You rule with fear and call it order. You wear masks to hide your rot. I have seen the truth," he said. "The world does not need gods. It needs a hammer."
The room quivered. One of the Elders—an aged man with a curved saber—tightened his grip.
"Then let the hammer fall on you."
That night, without a name, title, or grave, Viktor D. Virelion was cast from the Holy Land.
He fell down the Red Line. And he lived.
---
Two Years Later — Somewhere in the Underworld
A pirate's skull slammed against the bar counter, shattering teeth and bottle alike.
The dive bar went still. Guns stopped clicking. Dice froze mid-air.
At the center of it stood a man—tall, bare-chested, and wrapped in a long red coat. His muscles rippled like coiled ropes, each breath slow and thunderous. He carried no sword. He needed none.
"You said this island had strength. All I see are drunkards and orphans."
"Who… who are you?" one pirate whispered, eyes bloodied.
"Name's Viktor D. Vire," the man said, stepping over the groaning body. "And I'm looking for monsters to kill, or men worth following me."
Someone in the back chuckled.
"And if we don't?"
"Then you die."
Someone screamed. Then someone charged. Bullets flew, chairs splintered. But Viktor didn't move like a brawler. He moved like a storm.
He grabbed a full-grown pirate by the face and hurled him through the ceiling. With his bare hands, he crushed a man's sword like paper. When a cannon was wheeled in from the back room—he punched the cannonball back into the barrel. The explosion tore half the building down.
When the smoke cleared, he stood in the rubble, unburned, fists steaming. At his side, a black metal fruit with swirling ridges gleamed.
He took a bite.
And the world shifted.
---
Later That Night
A news coo cawed over the seas.
"Unidentified man levels pirate outpost in the North Blue. Bounty expected."
Back at the burning bar, a young woman with a red scarf approached him.
Her face was scarred on one side. Her eyes held something strange.
Not fear. Not awe.
Recognition.
"You're the one who fell, aren't you?" she asked. "The Celestial Dragon they threw