One Piece : Brotherhood

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******

"Tap…Tap.Tap...Tap"

The uneven rhythm on the bar counter froze Hugo for just a moment. His innocent smile faltered, his face slipping into a neutral mask as he turned toward the man seated at the counter.

The other patrons didn't notice—the tapping seemed random to them, as if the man was trying to drum out a tune but couldn't find the beat. But Hugo knew better.

His decade of training with Cipher Pol had burned the secret code into his very bones. This was a signal, unmistakable and urgent. After five long years undercover in the cursed kingdom of Flevance, he was finally being activated.

With the faintest nod, Hugo allowed his smile to return, masking the storm inside him. He excused himself from the counter, slipping into the back room where barrels of alcohol were stored.

His heart raced, but his movements were calm, methodical. Five years of blending in, of playing the part of the amiable barkeep, of earning the trust of the locals—it was all about to pay off.

His eyes scanned the room, landing on the largest barrel in the corner. He moved toward it, placing his hand on the cool wood.

The barrel would serve as the perfect vessel for his mission. As his palm rested against the side, his fingers began to glow with an eerie, radiant purple—a manifestation of the Shiku Shiku no Mi, the Devil Fruit that made him a walking plague.

Hugo had spent years nurturing this particular pathogen, one that mimicked the symptoms of the Amber Lead disease, a cruel, slow-killing poison that had already cast a dark shadow over the kingdom.

But unlike the original Amber Lead sickness, this version was highly contagious. The World Government's plan was simple and chillingly effective: if the people of Flevance feared a plague, why not make it a reality?

The rumors of the disease's resurgence would hide the truth, and the kingdom's population would be eradicated—no survivors, no witnesses. A convenient disaster that would leave no trace of the government's hand in it.

Hugo focused, channeling the pathogen into the liquid inside the barrel. His touch was delicate, precise—years of practice had honed this deadly craft. The alcohol inside would become a vessel for death, carrying the disease through the kingdom like wildfire.

Satisfied with his work, Hugo lifted the barrel with ease and returned to the front of the bar. The tension in the air was thick; an argument between a couple of patrons had escalated into raised voices, fueled by the kingdom's unrest and fear.

The strain of Flevance's slow collapse was visible on everyone's faces—suspicion, doubt, and anger were brewing just beneath the surface.

Hugo's innocent, disarming smile returned as he hefted the heavy barrel onto his shoulder, his footsteps soft as he reentered the bar's main room. To the untrained eye, he was just another friendly barkeep, well-liked by the patrons who had come to know him over the past five years.

But beneath that gentle facade, Hugo was a weapon, honed and deadly, forged by Cipher Pol and hidden away like a sleeper agent in this decaying kingdom of Flevance. He had played the long game, blending in perfectly with the locals, adopting their quirks, and earning their trust.

Today, all that patience would bear fruit.

The barrel thudded against the wooden bar with a solid weight, drawing the attention of the patrons. The soft tension that had been simmering in the background—a low argument between two men over something trivial—instantly shifted as eyes turned to Hugo.

"Drinks on the house!" he declared with a wide grin, his voice cutting through the escalating dispute like a knife. The murmur of discontent stilled, and in its place came a chorus of delighted cheers and raised tankards.

"Oi, Hugo! You always know how to lighten the mood!" One of the regulars, a burly dockworker named Remy, bellowed from across the room, his gruff voice thick with gratitude.

Others chimed in, their voices overlapping with slurred enthusiasm. "Free drinks? Ah, you're too good to us!"

"Another round from the best damn barkeep in all of Flevance!"

Hugo smiled, a smile that didn't reach his eyes. He moved with practiced ease, tapping into the barrel and filling glasses with foaming liquor.

His hands moved swiftly, gracefully, but beneath the surface, a different kind of poison flowed. Every pint, every mug, now carried the invisible mark of death. The pathogen he'd carefully nurtured within the depths of his power—courtesy of the Shiku Shiku no Mi—was now taking its first steps into the population, masquerading as a simple night of revelry.

"Don't go spending all your coin tonight!" Hugo chuckled, a lighthearted joke that drew more laughter. "You'll need something left for tomorrow's hangover cure."

The crowd responded as they always had, eating up his affability without a second thought. They trusted him. He was one of them. Just another hard-working man in a hard-working town.

Five long years of careful integration—building relationships, making himself indispensable to the community. The perfect mole. Not even the most paranoid among them would suspect that Hugo's smile was the mask of a killer, and that the barrel they now cheered for carried more than alcohol. It carried the seeds of their destruction.

As Hugo poured another round for a couple of sailors, he noticed the once tense argument between the two patrons had dissolved. They clinked their mugs together, the earlier animosity forgotten in the haze of booze and camaraderie.

"All it takes is a bit of kindness," Hugo said warmly, sliding another mug across the counter, watching as the man on the receiving end grinned, completely oblivious to the danger that now coursed through his veins.

"Kindness?" the sailor laughed. "More like you just know how to keep a rowdy lot happy. Ain't nobody fights when the drinks are free!"

Hugo chuckled along with him, but inside, his mind was already spinning with the next steps. The infection would spread quickly, he knew. These sailors would take it back to their ships, the dockworkers would bring it home to their families, and soon the kingdom would be riddled with plague.

Flevance, already crippled by the paranoia surrounding the Amber Lead disease, would fall to its knees as this new, far more contagious scourge swept through its people.

The World Government's plan was insidious in its brilliance. The citizens had already begun to doubt the monarchy's claims that the Amber Lead was under control. Why not make the rumors a reality? If the people feared a plague, then give them one—only worse. This time, there would be no survival.

And as Flevance collapsed into chaos, the World Government would wash its hands of the situation. The kingdom would be a memory, erased from the maps, with nothing but a convenient disease to blame.

Hugo poured another round, his face the picture of geniality, as the tavern buzzed with growing intoxication and merriment. The tension in the air had dissipated entirely, replaced by laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the hum of casual conversation.

"To Hugo!" someone shouted, and a chorus of voices joined in the toast. "To the best barkeep in Flevance!"

He raised his own glass in response, eyes twinkling with false modesty. "To Flevance," he said, his voice carrying the weight of an irony only he could appreciate.

The glass met his lips, but he did not drink. Instead, he watched the room with a quiet satisfaction, knowing that this would be the last night these people would ever drink together.

As the night wore on and the crowd grew increasingly drunk, Hugo took stock of his surroundings. He had been embedded here for so long that every inch of this town, every face in this tavern, was as familiar as his own. But they were all strangers, really.

Pawns in a larger game they would never even know they were a part of. And Hugo? He was merely the hand moving the pieces.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the unassuming man at the bar—the one who had tapped out the code earlier. He hadn't spoken since the message had been delivered, hadn't even looked in Hugo's direction, but his presence was a reminder. The mission was now in motion. There was no turning back.

With a final smile, Hugo leaned against the bar, his demeanor as relaxed as ever. The tavern was alive with noise, the patrons blissfully unaware that with each laugh, each cheer, they were spreading death amongst themselves.

He had spent years preparing for this moment. Now, all that was left was to watch it unfold.

And it had begun.

****

"Splash…!"

Cold water hit him like a wave, jerking him out of a deep, alcohol-fueled slumber. The man blinked blearily, sputtering as he wiped his face with a rough hand. His surroundings slowly came into focus—the shabby couch where he'd passed out last night, the peeling paint on the walls of their modest home, and his wife standing over him, holding the now-empty bucket. Her expression was a mix of annoyance and exasperation.

"How much did you even have to drink yesterday?" she snorted, her plump figure moving briskly as she set the table for breakfast. She didn't wait for an answer, already busying herself as their three children, all wide-eyed with energy, dashed around the room before settling into their chairs.

Groaning, he sat up, feeling the stiffness in his neck from sleeping on the couch. He could still taste the stale alcohol on his breath.

Normally, a miner like him wouldn't be able to afford such luxuries—good food, a decent home—but the Amber Lead mines had changed everything.

The so called cursed material brought in a fortune, and for now, at least, his family lived comfortably. His children wore clean clothes, and they never went hungry.

But even with that comfort, the fear was creeping in. Rumors had been swirling through Flevance like wildfire, spreading from one family to the next. People were starting to believe that the Amber Lead, the very thing that had brought them prosperity, was slowly killing them.

Some said it caused sickness, like a curse that seeped into your bones over time. Others swore that it wasn't the Amber Lead itself, but something else—an old plague, resurfacing to finish what it started.

Hugo's generosity at the bar last night had been a rare reprieve from the anxiety. For a while, he and the other patrons had laughed, toasted, and dismissed the rumors as nonsense. But now, in the unforgiving light of day, the doubt crept back in.

He muttered under his breath, too quiet for his wife to hear. "Damn those bastards trying to take all this away..." His mind flashed back to the men in the bar who believed in the rumors, the whispers that something far worse than Amber Lead was eating away at them.

He'd scoffed at them, sure that nothing could touch him. He'd been working in the mines for decades without a problem. As for the decreasing lifespan of each generation, that was all a rumor.

But then, a sharp, unexpected pain shot through his arm.

He winced, clutching his forearm instinctively. His wife, busy setting down plates, glanced over with concern.

"You alright?" she asked, her tone softening for a moment.

He didn't answer right away, instead pulling back the sleeve of his shirt to inspect his arm. His breath hitched in his throat as he saw it.

The skin around his forearm had turned a sickly, ashen gray, as if it were rotting from the inside out. White patches spread unevenly across the flesh, cracked and peeling in places.

His veins, normally barely visible, were now bulging under the surface, dark and swollen. His fingers trembled as he ran them over the disfigured skin, feeling the rough, uneven texture beneath his fingertips.

Amber Lead disease. It had to be. But… it couldn't be. Not like this, not according to what was described by the newspaper. The symptoms were supposed to take years to manifest, and it was supposed to be rare, not something so painful at first. This… this was something far worse.

His stomach lurched violently, bile rising in his throat.

"Blurgh…" He retched, vomiting everything he had consumed the night before onto the floor in a violent heave. He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air as his body convulsed with pain.

His wife screamed. "What's happening? What's wrong?!" Her voice cracked, panic rising in her throat as she rushed toward him, but froze when she saw his arm. The look of horror on her face mirrored the terror that had begun to flood his mind.

"Daddy?" one of the children called, their voice small and trembling. The other two were crying, clinging to each other in confusion and fear.

He tried to speak, but only a weak croak came out. The pain in his arm was spreading now, crawling up toward his shoulder, as though something was eating him alive from the inside. His vision blurred, black spots dancing in front of his eyes as his body betrayed him.

More than pain, it was the sight of his own flesh—rotting, crumbling—that terrified him the most. This wasn't just the slow poison of Amber Lead. This was something far more aggressive, a sickness that consumed its host with terrifying speed. His mind raced back to the bar last night.

The drinks. The people.The disease.

He was drowning in agony as his wife's voice, shrill and desperate, filled the room. The children were screaming now, their terrified cries piercing his ears as his body convulsed on the floor.

His wife knelt beside him, hesitating before reaching out to touch him, but recoiled in horror at the sight of his decaying arm, which now spread to his entire body.

He couldn't think, couldn't breathe. The world was spinning, the walls closing in as pain wracked his body. He could feel his strength fading, his body weakening as if the disease was hollowing him out from the inside.

And then, everything went black.

****

The morning sun had barely risen over the kingdom of Flevance, but already the streets were filled with an eerie tension. In house after house, the nightmare had begun to unfold.

The disease that Hugo had unleashed the previous night was spreading with terrifying speed, seeping into every corner of the city. What had started as a small ache for some had already turned into full-blown agony by dawn.

In one of the larger homes near the market square, a wealthy merchant lay in his bed, drenched in sweat. His wife was pacing at the foot of the bed, wringing her hands in distress.

Just last night, they had both been at Hugo's bar in the VIP section, celebrating a successful trade deal over drinks, laughing with friends, unaware of the deadly pathogen they were sharing with every breath.

Now, the merchant's skin had taken on a ghastly pallor. His once-strong arms, which had hauled cargo and signed contracts, were now covered in blackened patches, his veins bulging unnaturally beneath the surface. The skin on his neck and shoulders had begun to peel away, revealing raw, rotting flesh beneath.

His wife gasped, stumbling back as the merchant suddenly lurched forward, coughing violently. A thick, dark liquid spewed from his mouth, splattering across the bedsheets. He tried to speak, to call for help, but only a gurgling sound came from his throat. His eyes were wide with terror as he clutched his chest, feeling the disease burn through him like fire.

"Please!" his wife cried, rushing to his side, her hands trembling as she reached for him. "Stay with me, please! We'll get a doctor!" But deep down, she knew no doctor would be able to stop this. The sickness had taken him too quickly, and not just him; she could tell she was sick as well.

As he fell back onto the bed, gasping for breath, the sound of footsteps echoed through the house. Their young son appeared in the doorway, his small face filled with confusion and fear.

"Papa?" he asked, his voice trembling.

"Don't come in!" the merchant's wife screamed, her voice breaking as she shielded her son from the horrific sight of his father's decaying body. But it was too late. The boy had already been infected.

****

Down by the docks, in a cramped room shared by several sailors, another nightmare was unfolding. One of the men, still in his bed from the long night of drinking, woke with a start, his muscles aching, his head pounding. He groaned, thinking it was just a hangover.

But when he tried to sit up, a sharp, burning pain shot through his chest and arms, causing him to collapse back onto the bed. His roommate, another sailor who had been out drinking with him, was in a similar state, groaning from his own bunk.

The first sailor looked down at his hands, his heart freezing in terror. His fingers were swollen, his knuckles blackened, the skin peeling away in long, sickly strips.

He gasped, pulling back his sleeve to see more of his arm in the same state—his flesh turning a sickly shade of gray, veins throbbing underneath.

"Oi! What the hell...?" the second sailor muttered, clutching his stomach, as if he had been struck by some invisible force. He suddenly bent over and vomited violently onto the floor, his eyes wide with panic. The liquid he spewed was thick, dark, and smelled like rot.

They both exchanged looks of horror, their groggy minds barely able to comprehend what was happening.

One of the sailors leaped to his feet, intending to run, to find help—but he didn't make it far. His legs gave out beneath him, his muscles spasming uncontrollably as he collapsed face-first onto the hard wooden floor.

The second sailor screamed, scrambling backward until his back hit the wall, but the disease was already taking hold of him too. His vision blurred, and his breaths grew shallow as his body began to shut down.

Outside, seagulls cried, and the sound of the ocean seemed far away. The dockworkers going about their business had no idea of the horrors waiting just inside the quarters.

****

At a small bakery on the corner of a busy street, the scent of fresh bread mingled with the faint stench of decay. The baker had returned from Hugo's bar late the night before, but unlike the others, he hadn't slept much. His arms had begun aching almost as soon as he got home, and by morning, he had barely been able to get out of bed.

Now, standing behind the counter, his body was failing him. His hands trembled violently as he tried to knead the dough, his skin cracking with every movement. His wife, who had been up early to help, glanced over at him, her face clouded with concern.

"Are you alright, love?" she asked, pausing as she shaped the loaves.

"I'm fine," he lied, gritting his teeth as another wave of pain shot through his back. But the lie quickly unraveled as he collapsed against the counter, gasping for air.

His wife rushed to his side, but as she grabbed his arm, her hand recoiled. His skin had become soft, spongy to the touch. And worse—where she had touched him, the flesh began to tear, pulling away from the bone in a grotesque, oozing mess.

"What… what's happening to you?" She whispered, her voice breaking as she stared in horror at her husband. His face was contorted in pain, his body now covered in festering sores.

Outside, a customer entered the bakery, humming cheerfully, unaware of the scene unfolding behind the counter. When he saw the baker slumped over, his eyes widened.

"Hey, are you alright?" He called out, stepping closer, but as the baker's body convulsed, his skin seeming to melt before their eyes, the customer backed away in horror.

The wife screamed, cradling her husband as he collapsed to the floor, blood and bile leaking from his mouth. The disease had claimed another.

****

In the heart of Flevance, just outside the Amber Lead mines, the foreman's family was facing their own horror.

After returning home late from the bar, the foreman had been greeted by his young daughter, who ran to him with a hug, as she did every night.

He hadn't thought much of it at the time, but now, the sight of her small body lying limp in her bed made his stomach turn with guilt.

He had woken that morning to a deep, burning pain in his chest, a feeling like fire eating away at his lungs. His skin had already started to show the signs—white patches creeping up his arms, veins bursting through the surface, leaving his flesh rotten and discolored.

He tried to stand, to call for help, but collapsed onto the floor, his body betraying him. His wife had found him there, gasping for breath, his eyes bloodshot with panic. But it wasn't until she rushed to check on their daughter that the true horror sank in.

Their little girl was burning up with fever, her small body already showing the same blackened veins, her skin peeling away.

She hadn't even left the house, but she had been exposed to him—her father—the moment she hugged him the night before. Now, the sickness was ravaging her young body, faster than anything he could comprehend.

"Papa… it hurts," she whimpered, her voice weak and trembling as she clutched her stomach. The foreman, on his knees, could only watch in helpless horror as his daughter began to convulse, her small body racked with violent shakes.

His wife screamed as their daughter's body seized, her mouth foaming, her eyes rolling back. The foreman crawled toward her, but before he could reach her, darkness overcame him.

His vision dimmed, and the last thing he heard was his wife's heart-wrenching cry echoing in his ears.

All across Flevance, the scenes repeated themselves: families torn apart, friends dying in each other's arms, children crying for help that would never come. The plague Hugo had unleashed spread like wildfire, infecting homes, businesses, and the very heart of the kingdom.