Within a quiet chapel in a modest kingdom along the Grand Line, the air was thick with incense and whispered prayers. Hidden in the dim corner beneath a high-arched window stood a man cloaked in a deep green coat, his hood drawn low over his face.
Arms folded, Dragon watched in silence.
A long line stretched through the church, filled with weary, hollow-eyed men and women. Some leaned on canes, others hobbled forward on trembling legs. Their clothes hung from skeletal frames. Starvation and sickness had carved deep grooves into every face.
At the front stood a towering man in priest’s robes, his silhouette broad, his hands gentle.
Frameless glasses sat low on his nose, his lips curved in a quiet, reassuring smile. Bartholomew Kuma placed a palm—large, calloused, and padded with pink paw-like flesh—on the chest of an old man hunched with pain.
The elder’s face twisted with suffering... and then, Kuma pressed.
A faint wisp of translucent darkness rose from the man’s chest, dispersing into the air like soot on the wind.
Moments later, color returned to the elder’s cheeks. His eyes welled up in disbelief as strength crept back into his limbs.
Then he broke down sobbing, wrapping his arms around Kuma.
"Thank you! Thank you... I can’t—how can I ever repay you?!"
One by one, the line shuffled forward.
For more than an hour, Kuma treated them all, gently, wordlessly, without rest.
Only after the final villager left did Dragon finally step from the shadows.
"Can you really keep this up, Kuma?" he asked, voice low with concern. "They don’t know. That pain you ’paw away’... it doesn’t disappear. You’re taking it into yourself."
The Paw-Paw Fruit—a strange and formidable power. Its user could repel anything they touched: physical force, air pressure, even pain itself. And Kuma had developed it to its cruelest refinement—drawing out human agony and absorbing it into his own body.
But the world saw only healing hands.
Kuma smiled, wiping his brow.
"I’m fine," he said gently. "My body can handle it."
He chuckled, voice soft as falling snow. "These people... they have nothing, Dragon. They come here hoping for mercy from heaven. If I can give them peace, even just for a day, it’s worth a little pain."
He looked at the doorway where the last villager had exited.
"Did you see their smiles?"
He reached into the air, pressing his palm into a floating orb of translucent pain.
His face tensed immediately, cold sweat beading at his temples. But he said nothing.
Dragon watched in silence, respect and sadness twisting in his chest.
This was the third country they’d visited together since setting sail.
Dragon’s purpose was clear: before revolution could take root, they needed to understand the world they meant to change. Not from books. Not from reports.
But with their own eyes.
They moved from kingdom to kingdom, mapping political systems, wealth gaps, power hierarchies, cultural scars. Investigating the weight of class division and state violence.
And everywhere they went...
The only constant was suffering.
Poverty. Famine. Plague. The yoke of Celestial Dragons. Human trafficking. War.
Even in the World Government’s "prosperous" member nations, the hidden rot in their slums often stank worse than the open wounds of non-member states.
"So," Dragon said wearily, "have you found anything?"
Kuma didn’t answer at first, still absorbing the last of the pain.
Then he looked up, eyes solemn.
"You already know the answer, Dragon."
Dragon nodded slowly.
"Poverty isn’t just a problem. It’s a design. And as long as privilege exists, exploitation will always follow."
"But..." he exhaled, his voice low. "There’s hope."
He looked out the window, toward the worn-down homes beyond.
"The people... they’re not as broken as they seem. They still have fire. Potential. If we can reach them—truly connect—we may yet find allies."
Kuma bowed slightly. "You always see further than others. As expected of a former Marine strategist."
"Your words: ’Without investigation, there is no right to speak’—they echo louder with every village we pass."
Because he hadn’t said those words first.
But his pride wouldn’t let him admit it.
He coughed lightly, changing the subject. "How are you feeling now?"
Kuma leaned against a pew, wiping sweat from his brow.
"I’ll be alright. Just... need a moment to rest."
Then he paused, and his face turned sheepish.
"But we have a problem."
Dragon tensed. "What now?"
Kuma scratched his cheek, chuckling awkwardly.
"We’re broke." For origınal chapters go to 𝕟𝕠𝕧𝕖𝕝⟡𝕗𝗂𝗋𝖾⟡𝕟𝕖𝕥
"WHAT?!" Dragon exploded, nearly falling over. "Don’t tell me—did you everything to the poor again?!"
Kuma gave a sheepish grin.
"They needed it more than we did."
Dragon groaned, burying his face in his hands.
"Damn it, Kuma! That was our bounty money!!"
This was how it always went.
Dragon would spend days helping people. Kuma would help even more... then give away their only source of income.
They’d hunt pirates to survive—then hand every last coin over to an orphanage, a church, a ruined village.
And no matter how much Dragon scolded him, Kuma would just nod, smile... and do it again.
How are we supposed to build a revolutionary army ?
He’d left the Marines to reshape the world.
Instead, he was running a mobile clinic and bounty hunting ring.
"This is ridiculous," Dragon muttered. "At this rate, we’re just glorified Marines again."
No men. No resources. No intelligence network. No plan.
He finally understood what Darren had meant the day they parted.
"This will be a very difficult road."
He slumped into a chair, ready to pass out, when something caught his eye.
A newspaper, tucked beneath a nearby hymnal.
"Huh...? What’s this...?"