One Piece: Blood Clan

Night had fallen. Three furtive silhouettes crept toward the villa of the Ikanu family—a once-peaceful estate now a stage for mischief.

Ever since Bors had begun training blindfolded to hone his Observation Haki, every sound had grown painfully acute. Now, as footsteps echoed outside, Bors paused, his senses alight.

"This… It's familiar, like someone I once knew—but whose?" he murmured.

Removing his blindfold—the one he reserved only for home—he peered out the window. "Those workers from the distillery," he thought, "What business do they have here at this hour? Wanting a raise? They're hardly diligent enough anyway. I'd rather not upset them."

Before he could ponder further, a sharp knock resounded at the villa's door.

"They're here," came a voice from inside—Mia's.

Within moments, the door swung open. Three men entered, their expressions mischievous. Mia's eyes narrowed as she addressed them, "Aren't you the distillery workers? What's the matter—got a problem?"

A sly grin spread across the leader's face as he replied, "Oh, Miss Mia, we'd like to ask you a little favor."

From the stairs, Bors—ever alert—watched their demeanor shift. His eyes hardened.

As a man who knew all too well the depravity lurking behind such smiles, he instantly understood their intentions. No matter the world, such parasites always reappear.

"We're bored," one of them sneered. "How about we invite you to come out and have some fun? What do you say?"

Mia recoiled slightly. "I'm in the middle of important work—I can't spare time for your games."

"Don't worry," the ringleader chuckled, seizing Mia's hand roughly. "You can work while we play."

A startled cry rang out, "Help! Bors, save me!"

"Ha! Listen well," The ringleader growled, "You should know that today the fleet set sail. That scoundrel is undoubtedly on board already!"

"Let go of my hand!" Mia snapped.

The leader's confident smirk faltered into panic when he heard Bors' voice—a tone of cold command that cut through the night.

"I said, let go of your filthy hand!"

For a heartbeat, the man froze, his eyes widening in disbelief.

"B-Bors? What—aren't you off delivering supplies?" he stammered.

"No more words," Bors replied, his tone icy. Without further hesitation, he acted.

In one swift motion, a gaunt, deadly arm shot through the air—its impact a wet, sickening sound. "Thud!"

A pained cry erupted, "Ah—my hand! My hand!"

The remaining two men, witnessing the gruesome display, tried to flee. But Bors was relentless. He hurled a vial of his "Blood Drink" at one assailant, the crimson liquid puncturing his chest.

The others, barely escaping, was caught in Bors' pursuit; with a grim twist, his neck snapped under the force of Bors' fist.

Only the man whose hand had been severed remained. Mia stood rooted to the spot, eyes wide in horror. She had never witnessed such unrestrained bloodlust.

Moments later, Bors emerged from the villa dragging the two lifeless bodies and the broken-armed man by his side.

"Mia," he said in a flat tone, "please clean up the villa."

"Of course," Mia replied, her voice trembling. With frantic energy, she rushed off to mop up the bloodstains—her only thought to erase every trace of tonight's horror, so as not to sully Bors' reputation.

Later, away from prying eyes, Bors ensured these men would never surface among the villagers. In the barren wilderness, he drew out several blood bags and methodically drained every drop from their bodies.

For the two who had fled, death came swiftly—painless and final. But the one who had dared to grope Mia was left to suffer; his flesh slowly desiccated, his agony prolonged as he transformed into a dried husk of his former self.

Returning to the villa, Bors found Mia still shaken.

"Mia, if anything happens, call me immediately—no matter what," he urged.

After a long pause, as realization dawned that Bors' concern was genuine, Mia nodded hastily. "I understand, Bors."

Bors's heart tightened. In his previous life, he had never known betrayal; home was a haven where fellow writers and friends collaborated in harmony.

But tonight's events stung with a bitter loneliness. It was clear that having only one fighter in the village was not enough.

He needed trustworthy allies—people to safeguard Mia and the others when he was away. "In the future," he mused quietly, "I must recruit a few more dependable souls."

That night, as the moon hung high, Bors set sail. The deaths of these trespassers caused little stir among the villagers—for in the treacherous world of piracy, a few deaths were as common as the tide.

Days later, in the bustling streets of Loguetown, Bors wandered among wanted posters, committing to memory every face marked as a criminal. Blessed with an almost superhuman memory, he registered each detail instantly.

Though the East Blue was rife with low-level scoundrels with bounties in the hundreds of thousands, his own Level 20 status and 370 Dao Power meant that dispatching minor pirates was but a trivial matter.

He knew his true challenge lay in avoiding conflicts with stronger adversaries. As he scanned the crowd, his thoughts turned to weapons—a visit to a reputable arms shop was in order.

After all, legends spoke of Zoro's cursed blade "Sandai Kitetsu" and even "Ghost Cutter," both purchased in Loguetown.

Perhaps a new sword would suit him, or at least serve as a backup if his trusted "Blood Drink" ever faltered.

Somehow sensing Bors' intentions, his faithful companion "Blood Drink" (his ever-watchful, sentient weapon) murmured its quiet protest, "Be quiet."

In response, Bors retrieved a piece of cloth and methodically wrapped his eyes, feigning blindness.

A blind child wandering the streets with an extraordinary katana was an image bound to lure ill-intentioned foes—and Bors intended to let fate come to him.

Not long after, a commotion broke out ahead—footsteps and shouts, the sound of running. "Clear the way! Don't run!" someone cried.

Instinctively, Bors pivoted toward the clamor. A chase was underway: one man sprinting with a crowd in pursuit. "Could it be?" he wondered, "Are the Marines capturing a pirate?"

The night pulsed with tension as Bors prepared for what was sure to come next.