On an island they've never known about, in a part of a sea no one has ever heard of, stood a city. This one wasn't like any other. It was a city that hid secrets, open secrets, and others that weren't even known to be secrets but were kept better than any of the others. It was Vermeer Island, a small dot in the New World, not far from the route to Elbaf. It was both known and unknown due to the fact that it was surrounded by seas rich in electromagnetic currents, making it difficult to track with normal log poses. This strategic location and its stable climate made it, for a time, a neutral point for intellectuals, artists, and scientific exiles, who were the ones who created what was once a semi-utopia. A Golden Age – The Age of Reason 20 years ago
Vermeer was once known as the island of creators, an enlightened republic ruled by a council made up of philosophers, engineers, and painters. The cities were functional, elegant, and castle-free: everything was designed to foster beauty, reason, and efficiency, eliminating what they all detested: sovereignty.
They had advanced technology powered by atmospheric energy, a new invention called "impulse capturers," which generated light, sound, and movement without the need for Devil Fruits, burning fossil fuels, or physical strength. This technology fascinated all who saw it, and unfortunately, that included the World Government, which kept a constant eye on them.
As soon as they learned of the rumors about those leaving, heard by their informants—it was well known that their agents were everywhere—a covert operation began.
For years, artists and scientists from other islands traveled to study without fear of persecution. It became a sanctuary for those who rejected the tyranny of the Tenryuubito or the brutality of pirates.
Until what became known as "The Night of Mirrors" 13 years ago.
One moonless night, in the mist and waves, several ships carrying CP0 agents approached the island. It was the final phase of a plan that had been brewing for a long time, slowly infiltrating the island's entire infrastructure, making use of agents, sailors, and even hired pirates—a common practice given the government's history of rejecting its ideals whenever it benefited them. That night, all the inhabitants could say was that: Power towers were destroyed, houses burned with people still inside, council members killed or missing.
The island fell into chaos. Without the energy that fueled its systems, and without leaders, Vermeer fragmented, revealing human nature in its purest form. Neighborhoods became fiefdoms. The coliseum—originally a philosophical amphitheater for public debates—was transformed by the new lords into a blood circus where disputes were settled by combat or for entertainment.
PRESENT
Now, Vermeer is a pit of broken glory. The central coliseum is the only functioning structure thanks to recovered energy. Combatants are captured, hired, or volunteer in search of fame.
From time to time, unique pirates who aren't in the news because of their crimes use it as a gambling area, conscious of a lawless zone. After all, the world government wouldn't want it known that there were people out there who could come to their country and kill them without the Navy being able to do anything. While this was common in the New World, it wasn't at the level of these characters. They weren't yonkou, but they could certainly put up a fight against important figures.
Some revolutionaries consider it a warning, showing that their ideology is correct, given how the government ignores anything that happens here, believing the island is doomed, leaving it as a kind of spectacle that, thanks to the den den mushi, could become popular in the area, leaving only those who could be saved. After all, many of them also shared similar pasts.
Although here, it could be said that everything was compensated. There were no blows capable of blowing mountains away or creating tsunamis, but everything was balanced out with weaponry, a unique arsenal in every sense of the kind of weapons that in the underworld are truly underworld, the kind that not even the world government can get its hands on en masse. But that wasn't what made hundreds, thousands of people every day tune in to the den den mushi to see this place, this place that became so safe and dangerous for them at the same time.
some weeks ago
The air tasted of gunpowder. And of waiting.
The metal floor of the former industrial zone vibrated beneath the boots of heavily armed pirates. They were the "Southern Revenants," a local gang from what were once the fiefdoms of this lawless island: they carried modified rocket launchers, pressure rifles laced with liquid seastone, and resonant mines.
And in the center of the esplanade, as if on a cursed walkway, walked a masked man in a red cape, arms crossed behind his back, looking around with an expression you couldn't see... but felt: absurdly arrogant.
"Is this the famous invader?" snarled Lieutenant Kyros, a metal-jawed thug, as he loaded a double-barreled bazooka with sharp seastone tips.
"They say he killed fifteen in the center without receiving a single cut..." another said, aiming his rifle with a nervous look.
The masked man stopped. His cape fluttered in the dirty wind of the industrial port. Beside him, a small man emerged, as if spat out by reality: same immaculate suit, shiny bow tie, perpetual smile.
"GENTLEMEN!" shouted the little man, bowing exaggeratedly. "The HERO that VERMEER waited for generations has arrived!"
The masked man raised his fist to the sky, the other at his waist.
"I... AM MASK DE MASCULINE! AND I AM HERE TO DEFEAT EVIL WITH THE FIST OF JUSTICE!"
A second of silence.
Then, laughter. Mockery. A couple of shots fired in the air.
Kyros spat oil.
"Cut him to pieces."
The first to move were the snipers.
Bang—Bang—Bang!
The bullets hit Mask with surgical precision. One in the collarbone. Another in the temple. One straight in the chest.
Mask recoiled. He bled.
Out of nowhere, a small man appeared as if he had appeared from nowhere, frozen, arms raised. What should have been fear at seeing a man die simply turned into praise:
—"M-My hero… YOU CAN FINISH THEM…!"
he said, ringing a bell as if signaling the start of a fight in a ring.
Mask fell to his knees.
The crowd roared. Some began to load heavier weapons.
—"And that was the 'hero'?! Pfff—!"
But then, on the ground, Mask began to laugh.
A hoarse sound. Thundering.
—"…That… was an entrance worthy of a fallen hero…"—"…But, James… do you hear that…?"
James tilted his head. He blinked.
—"What?"
—"…The first applause…"
And yes. In the background. From somewhere, a crazy, drunken, or deluded woman was clapping loudly. Then a child. Then three drunken soldiers, simply out of mockery.
The world vibrated for a moment as if an unknown energy had appeared.
Mask's body emitted a white pulse, and the wounds closed as if time had gone back a second. His muscles tensed. His eyes, hidden beneath the mask, lit up.
He stood up. Slowly.
One of the gunners aimed his bazooka.
BOOM!
The shot came out like a thunderclap, spinning like a storm spear. Mask didn't dodge. He caught it with both hands, as the impact dragged him several meters back, breaking poles, crushing metal crates, until he came to a stop against a crane tower.
Upon impact, the ground shook. A cloud of dust and scrap rose.
Silence. A collective heart stopped.
And from the dust emerged a silhouette. With a sweep of his arm, he blew away all the dust.
—"…THAT EXPLOSION REALLY HAD A TASTE OF JUSTICE!"
Mask was covered in cuts, blood, and ash… but he was smiling with an intensity impossible to fake.
He opened his arms. He raised his voice to the heavens as if expecting applause:
—"WHILE SOMEONE CLAIMS FOR JUSTICE, IT WILL NEVER FALL!"
James began to shout like crazy:
—"HERO! HERO! HERO!"
More confused pirates opened fire. Seastone grenade launchers. Blade barrage. Explosive daggers with thermal tracking.
Mask began to move in earnest.
He leaped onto a container, using it as a shield to repel a projectile as it hit him in the air. He spun in the air with unexpected agility for his size, while throwing his makeshift shield, hitting a turret and causing it to explode.
The battlefield became a symphony of shattered metal, fluorescent smoke, and the cheers of an audience no longer sure whether they were witnessing a massacre or a post-apocalyptic play.
One of the pirates, bleeding and crawling, stared at him in horror.
"What the hell are you...? A human?!"
Mask leaned over, grabbed him by the neck with one hand, and whispered,
"I am what happens... when the world forgets what a real spectacle means."
CRACK!
The neck snapped like a twig.
And so the legend continued, the legend of the hero of justice acclaimed by all who saw him. If Garp is the hero of the Navy, then Mask is the hero of the people, a hero who arrived just a month ago.
one month ago
The atmosphere in the coliseum was always the same. The arena smelled of old blood and sun-baked leather. Thousands of voices, shouts, bets, and laughter filled the sky boxed in by high walls of eroded stone. Banners hung like dried skins over the columns of the thrones of the fiefdoms, the elevated stage where the lords of the coliseum—uncrowned kings—watched and dictated the fates of the fighters.
That day, the audience expected carnage.
Rumors spread that a new foreign champion would arrive, appearing one night out of nowhere. No one knew his name. They only said that he came with a slave who screamed like crazy and that his face was covered by a porcelain mask.
Outside the entrance tunnel, in the preparation area, the veteran gladiators were laughing among themselves.
"They say the guy is three meters tall and shines like a statue. Bah. He hasn't fought in this arena. He hasn't bled here."
"I saw them bring his cage in. He wasn't chained... that was the strange thing."
"And the screaming dwarf with him? The one who thinks he's his host?"
One of the men spat on the ground.
"Circus. It's probably another one of those farces to raise bets. When they have him fight Blue Wolf or the Eastern arm, the whole theater will fall apart."
The gong rang three times.
Silence.
Then, the announcer's Den Den Mushi, with his black-painted microphone, began to broadcast:
"Ladies and gentlemen of hell, slaves to steel and glory... Today, in the cursed arena of the Three Thrones... comes a challenger without history... without a face... A man who claims to be... A HERO!"
A tremor of curiosity ran through the stands.
The stone gates opened.
And from the darkness of the tunnel, a silhouette emerged. Slow. Precise.
A cape as red as new blood. An immense body, wrapped in diffuse white light. And on his face, a white mask with golden lines, expressionless, almost theatrical. His footsteps echoed like ceremonial hammer blows.
Behind him came James, impeccably suited, leaping like a clown possessed by emotion:
"THEY HAVE CALLED HIM! THEY HAVE SUMMONED HIM! THE STAGE DEMANDS IT! EVIL EXISTS… AND HE HAS COME TO DESTROY IT WITH FISTS AND STYLE!"
Some began to laugh. Others whistled.
Mask didn't react.
He stopped in the center of the coliseum, where the arena was more red than gold.
James shouted to the sky:
"AUDIENCE OF DEATH! HE IS… MASK OF MASCULINE! THE FIST OF HOPE! THE CHAMPION OF GOOD! THOUGH YOU DID NOT ASK FOR IT… YOU WILL HAVE IT!"
And then, the roar from the other side of the coliseum.
The opposite hatch opened, and a flesh-and-blood monster emerged.
"Gorrum, the Devourer." A Wano cannibal modified with prison implants: steel claws, a hydraulic jaw, adrenaline injections in his spine. He had dried blood up to his elbows and had a reputation: either he would kill in thirty seconds... or he would eat his opponent alive.
The crowd went wild.
"The challenge has been accepted! We wager lives, limbs, and fortunes! Will the masked clown survive? Or will he be just another mask in the wall of bones?"
The gong boomed once more, and the air seemed to tighten like a rope about to snap.
Gorrum the Devourer roared with animal fury, launching himself like a mindless projectile. The cannibal's every step creaked the stone slabs of the arena. His arms, reinforced with metal plates, moved like guillotines. Each finger was a mechanical claw with traces of dried blood between the joints. He was hungry. And not for victory.
"GRAAAAAAH!"
Mask barely turned his neck to see him coming. He made no move to dodge. The light from the coliseum shone on the porcelain of his mask.
CRACK—BOOOM!
The first impact was brutal. A downward blow crushed Mask's chest like a sledgehammer. His red cape ripped through the air as it flew from the force of the impact, slamming into a marble column.
The stone exploded. Dust. Debris. Silence.
"…Tch. It broke easily," Gorrum grunted, spitting on the ground.
From the stands, laughter. Broken bets. Some Den Den Mushi zoomed in as hovercams captured the remains of Mask's cape dragging across the arena.
James… didn't move.
He was still smiling.
Through the smoke, a groan. Low. Human.
Mask emerged limping, his left shoulder dislocated, his mask split at the cheekbone. Beneath his left eye, a trickle of blood ran slowly down, marking the porcelain with a scarlet line.
"The hero... hasn't fallen yet," James murmured like a prayer.
Gorrum grinned with all his teeth, which looked like black splinters.
"Hero, huh? Then I guess you're my special dinner…"
And he launched himself again.
TAC-TAC-TAC-TAC! The ground shook with his dash. Gorrum leaped and swooped down, both claws slashing down like twin blades. Mask slid to the side, for the first time moving with urgency.
CRASH! The claws split the ground. A wave of dust and stones rose like an explosion. Fragments struck nearby spectators, causing some to flinch. A Den Den Mushi screamed before being crushed.
Mask counterattacked.
A spinning kick aimed at Gorrum's side.
THUD! Gorrum blocked with his metallic forearm. Sparks. Tension. Mask gasped.
"No... you're strong out of justice. Only out of hunger," Mask said through gritted teeth.
"Justice is too little, hero! I eat the insides of truth," Gorrum growled, spitting out a mouthful of blood.
Another clash. Gorrum came down with a cross slash. Mask blocked, but his forearm cracked with a splintering bone. He stepped back. Blood. More blood.
The applause still hadn't come.
James began to shout:
"WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?! THE STAGE IS ON FIRE! THE ACT ISN'T OVER YET!"
A child began to clap, mockingly.
Another imitated him.
Clap. Clap. Clap. Clapclap.
And then the light changed.
Small bluish particles began to detach themselves from the air, like reverse ash. It curled. The arena burned faintly beneath Mask's feet. His wounds began to heal. His shoulder creaked as it snapped back into place.
Gorrum attacked again, this time with a retractable cable that he fired from his wrist.
CLANK! The cable wrapped around Mask's leg and dragged him, hurling him back against the arena walls. An entire slab collapsed. Dust covered the scene.
But this time… Mask emerged walking.
His steps were heavy. Filled with pain, yes. But firm. A figure who refuses to die.
"The public... demands justice."
"And I demand your liver!"
Gorrum lunged one last time.
Mask didn't dodge.
BOOM!
This time, Mask's punch was clean, but charged with tension, energy, and weight. A straight uppercut to the jaw.
The blow wasn't striking… but the sound was:
BOOOOOOOOOOOM! Like a rumble of thunder. As if justice had a bell.
Gorrum's mask shattered. His jaw cracked. His eyes went blank. He flew—literally—until he crashed into the statue of a forgotten ancient champion, shattering its marble head. Gorrum's blood stained the effigy like a crooked crown.
Silence. No one could believe it.
And then…
The Colosseum erupted.
"HERO! HERO! HERO!"
James raised his arms like a prophet.
"CLAP! CLAP! JUSTICE ANSWERS YOUR PALMS!"
Masculine Mask fell to his knees, breathing heavily. The Reishi still swirled slowly around him. His hands trembled.
He wasn't invulnerable.
But he had endured.
And the broken mask still hung on his face.
The announcer spoke in a gravelly voice over Den Den Mushi:
"And so… in the first act of his crusade… Mask has survived. The coliseum has seen blood, glory, and a new symbol. But the true titans… still watch from the shadows."
And so it went on for days and days. When he wasn't in the coliseum, he would fight pirates in the streets, forcing the smartest criminals to hide and the not-so-smart ones to die.
Currently,
Mask was in his room resting, but he had his hand on the front of his head as if trying to concentrate.
When suddenly, everything took a turn. The shadows around him lengthened, and it became dark as if everything were darkness itself. And from them, an immaculate figure in white approached. Jugram.
So you continue to earn all the love of the people, huh?
His voice rose above everything, as if coming from everywhere, while his eyes remained static, a crimson color, but with a single pupil.
Mask quickly bowed.
"Yes, sir. I've been tasked with eliminating the entire fiefdom structure on the island as ordered. Now, only a few pirates remain who haven't left, but when they do..."
Jugram simply looked back without moving a muscle, as if he had seen someone following him, but didn't want to betray that he knew.
"Well, hero, make sure you shine. We expect great things from your justice,"
he said as he walked, yoking himself in the shadows again.
Thank you very much, sir. I appreciate it.
Mask said, still bowing.
Very well, if you'll excuse me, I must go deal with a very annoying bug that won't stop following me.
As he moved further into that space, it collapsed, revealing a normal room once again.