CHAPTER 485: CHAPTER 485

Prisoner Mines, Wanokuni

The stench of sweat, soot, and despair clung to the air like a curse.

A vast sprawl of smoke-choked quarry pits and rusting steel catwalks stretched as far as the eye could see, gouged into the earth like an open wound. The clang of pickaxes against bedrock echoed endlessly, mingling with the guttural shouts of wardens and the hoarse, ragged cries of exhausted men. It was a place where hope was stripped away, carted off like ore, and buried deeper with every passing day.

This was Udon, the Beast Pirates’ most infamous labor camp.

Tens of thousands of prisoners — warriors, rebels, and former lords — toiled beneath the scorching sun. Once proud samurai of Wano, the very guardians of its traditions, were now reduced to bent-backed laborers, their bodies scarred, their pride trampled under the iron heel of Kaido’s rule. Shackled in deadly Sea Prism Stone cuffs, their strength was drained, their dignity ground into dust.

But though their bodies bent, their spirits had not broken — and that, more than anything, infuriated their captors.

High above the chaos, in the central executive tower, a dark silhouette stood at the open balcony, arms crossed behind his back, eyes scanning the labor camp like a predator surveying its prey.

A towering figure of over four meters, the Beast Pirate officer was a monstrous sight — his broad, armored frame cloaked in a tattered haori made from lion pelts, golden fur spilling from his shoulders like a mane set ablaze. His hair, wild and crimson-orange, flared around his head like a firestorm, and his exposed skin bore black tribal tattoos inked in jagged patterns resembling claw marks.

He was known as Leon, a high-level executive in the Beast Pirates and one of the warden-commanders left in charge while the upper brass — including Kaido and Queen — had left to face Emperor Doflamingo’s rising threat in the New World.

He had consumed a perfect Zoan-type artificial Devil Fruit, synthesized by Caesar Clown—the Lion Model Zoan. Though artificial, the transformation was nearly flawless, granting him the same formidable power boost as a natural Zoan. With beastly strength, heightened senses, and the terrifying ability to unleash a roar powerful enough to rupture eardrums at close range, he had become a walking force of destruction.

At his side, a nervous officer hesitated, glancing between his superior and the ledgers in his hands.

"Leon-sama... are you certain about your decision to mix the samurai with the commoners? They’re already sparking unrest — if we push them together, it could ignite another riot. We’re already seeing a drop in mine output..."

The beast-man didn’t turn. His golden eyes narrowed as he observed a group of prisoners being herded into a fresh shaft, flanked by guards wielding blunt weapons and cruel smiles. Smoke curled around his tusked jaw as he exhaled through clenched teeth.

"Did you follow my instructions... to the letter?" Leon’s voice rumbled like distant thunder, low and dangerous.

The officer stiffened, his hand tightening around the ledger. He had followed them, but the cost had been heavy — over a hundred prisoners dead from infighting, several guard posts damaged, and the mine’s productivity had dropped by nearly twenty percent.

"Y-Yes, sir," he finally answered, bowing slightly. "But—"

"Then silence."

Leon slowly turned, and when his full gaze fell upon the subordinate, it was like staring into the eyes of a starving predator. His lion-like maw curled into a cruel smirk, sharp teeth glinting in the filtered sunlight.

"Productivity will recover. Fear and pain are excellent motivators. But if these samurai want to inspire hope in the worms around them... then let them try. All the better when I tear that hope from their hearts with my own hands."

He turned back to the window, the roar of industry and agony rising from below like a death hymn.

"Kaido-sama crushed their idol, Kozuki Oden, before their very eyes. He burned their castles, shattered their clans. And still... they bark like mutts refusing to lie down." He chuckled, low and bitter.

"Let them. The deeper the pride, the louder the break when it finally snaps."

In the pit below, two guards shouted as a prisoner collapsed from exhaustion — only to be struck repeatedly until he rose again, blood pouring from his mouth. Nearby, a young samurai reached out to help — and was beaten in turn.

Above it all, Leon smiled. Soon, he would show these relics of Wano’s past what true subjugation looked like.

"Maybe... we should wait until Queen-sama returns. If we lose too many workers, then—" one officer began, voice low and unsure.

Leon slowly turned his head, his face split in a feral grin that promised agony. The officer shut up instantly.

"Maybe... we should wait until Queen-sama returns. If we lose too many workers, then—"

The officer’s voice trailed off as the executive turned to face him. That smile—the one that chilled blood—curved across Leon’s lips like a predator catching scent of weakness.

"Are you the one in charge of the labor camps, or am I?"

The question, though softly spoken, struck harder than a blade. The officer stiffened, swallowing hard. Everyone who served under Leon knew the truth. In the presence of the higher echelons, he was quiet, calculated, almost invisible. But when given command—he became a demon in human skin. Ruthless. Efficient. Merciless. Even their own weren’t spared his wrath if they failed to meet his expectations.

Leon walked with leisurely calm toward the window that overlooked the distant quarry, where the dust of starvation hung heavier than the sun.

"So tell me," he said without turning, "which of the labor camps has been starving the longest?"

The officer wiped sweat from his brow, voice quivering.

"It’s the labor camps from the stone quarry, Leon-sama. We haven’t sent rations for over two weeks. Many of the weak... and old... have started to perish."

Leon’s smile widened, a wicked gleam in his eyes.

"Good... Gooood. Two weeks. That should be just right. Those proud samurai should still have just enough strength left to swing their blades. Drag the first batch to the designated spot."

He turned, snatching the jacket from the hanger with a flourish.

"I’d very much like to witness the spectacle myself."

The stone quarry pit, once a place of forced labor, had been transformed into something far more sinister. A colosseum of cruelty, carved into the bones of Wano itself. Jagged stone walls loomed high on every side, weathered by time and stained by suffering. The arena floor was vast, easily large enough to hold over a thousand prisoners.

Iron gates—twelve in total—ringed the pit, like mouths waiting to spew forth the damned. Scattered throughout the arena were glinting katanas—placed deliberately, like bait in a trap.

Up above, hundreds of Beast Pirates jeered and leaned over the edge, licking their lips in anticipation of the bloodsport to come. This was no mere punishment. This was theater.

Through the iron gates, the first wave of prisoners was herded in—men, women, the old, the crippled, even mothers clutching skeletal infants to their breasts. Nearly a thousand in total.

Among them, about two dozen still bore the proud bearing of samurai—though they were shackled at wrist and ankle. Their bodies may have withered, but defiance still burned in their eyes.

The common folk, however, were broken. Hollow-cheeked and wide-eyed, they barely resembled the people they once were. Hunger had scoured them of dignity. Mothers with sunken faces rocked motionless babes, breasts empty of milk, as their children wailed with weak, rasping cries.

Fathers stared blankly at the ground, lips cracked, spines hunched, having long since surrendered to despair.

Shimotsuki Ushimaru, the former Daimyo of Ringo, stood amidst them like a crumbling pillar. A deep gash tore across his back, hastily bound by what remained of his loyal retainers. They stood by him—gaunt, wounded, but unbowed. When Ushimaru stumbled, a retainer caught him, shielding him like a crutch against the tide of hopelessness.

Around them, the cries began. People clawed at the stone walls. Some wept. Some prayed. Some just... stared.

And then a voice boomed from above, snapping their minds back to the pit.

"Hello, proud citizens of Wano-kuni..."

Leon’s voice echoed like a sermon from hell. He stood at the edge of the colosseum, dressed immaculately, hands spread like a prophet delivering salvation. A smile of divine cruelty played on his face.

"I imagine most of you know me by now... but for the ignorant few: I am Leon, Chief Commander of your humble labor camp operations. I take immense pride in the beauty of this establishment."

He gestured around, his tone rich with mockery.

"And yet... despite all the care, the generosity, the benevolence I extend... I keep hearing whispers. Riots. Refusals to work. Attacks on wardens..."

His smile faded.

"So, today, we’ll be implementing some new rules."

He raised a small metal token—a dull silver plate that glinted under the sun.

"From now on... these will be your food tickets. Only those who possess one of these tokens will eat. The rest? Well, I’m sure you can guess what happens."

At his signal, jailers along the pit’s rim began hurling fistfuls of the meal tokens into the arena—maybe a hundred in total.

The sound of metal clinking against stone echoed like death bells. For a second, silence. Confusion. Then—

"Well? What are you waiting for?" Leon’s voice cracked like a whip.

"I hear most of you haven’t eaten in two weeks. Go on... eat."

And then—carnage.

Like a dam breaking, the prisoners surged forward. A thousand starved bodies, trampling over each other in a frenzy. Screams pierced the air as fists flew, teeth gnashed, bones snapped.

A mother holding her infant was tackled—her child flung aside like garbage. A boy barely twelve was stabbed with a broken utensil for a token he never even held. Old men were crushed beneath younger bodies. Women tore out hair, fingers clawed at eyes, throats, anything. All that remained was hunger—pure, primal, deafening.

Leon reclined in a chair brought just for the occasion, sipping from a porcelain cup as the screams echoed around him.

"Hunger," he said softly, to no one in particular, "is the truest teacher. It strips away morality, pride, loyalty. It shows what lies underneath the skin of civility. And what’s underneath..."

He chuckled, eyes gleaming.

"...is beautiful."

Above, officers began to place bets on who would survive. A game of blood.

Below, in the swirling chaos, Ushimaru roared.

"You bastard! Stop this... I beg of you stop this madness!"

But his voice was lost in the storm. For most of the prisoners, only one word repeated like a drum in their ears: food.

Two weeks without sustenance had frayed their minds. They no longer saw friends. No longer saw neighbors. Just obstacles to survival. Morality was dead. Pride was drowned. All that remained... was desperation. And Leon watched. And smiled.

"Stop... Stop this madness!"

Ushimaru’s voice cracked like thunder across the arena pit, but it was swallowed whole by the unrelenting chaos below.

The former Daimyo of Ringo, a once-proud pillar of Wano’s honor, could only watch in growing horror as his people—his own people—descended into the abyss. The proud commoners, farmers, artisans, mothers, once filled with dignity despite their chains, were now reduced to maddened beasts. Some still clung desperately to their humanity... but most had been broken by hunger, desperation, and fear.

It was no longer a struggle for survival. It was slaughter.

Among the crowd, several prisoners—thieves, brigands, and cutthroats—had seized the scattered katanas. With no shackles to bind their limbs and no honor to restrain their actions, they tore through the masses. Blood soaked the dusty floor. For them, meal tickets were not mere survival—they were power. The more you held, the more you ate. The more you killed, the stronger you became.

"Go! Stop them!" Ushimaru turned to his retainers, eyes aflame with anguish.

"They’re cutting down the innocent—do something!"

The samurai hesitated. Their duty—etched into the steel of their souls—was to protect their lord at all costs. Some of them were already eyeing the ground, where a handful of glinting tokens lay near fallen corpses. It would be so easy. Just grab one. Just this once. For their lord. For themselves.

But Ushimaru’s voice cut through them like a blade.

"If we let this happen, we are no better than Kaido himself."

Without waiting for reply, he hurled himself forward.

He tackled a crazed prisoner mid-swing, a man whose blade was aimed at an elderly villager cowering against the wall. The impact sent them crashing to the ground, Ushimaru’s strength overcoming even his hunger-ravaged frame.

His sudden action became a rallying cry. The two dozen samurai, emaciated but not broken, surged forward into the madness like a tide of dying fire, trying—hoping—to restore some semblance of order. For a brief moment, the tide shifted.

Up above, Leon’s smile faltered.

"Oh?" he murmured, leaning forward in amusement.

"Still a spark left in the samurai after all... how poetic."

But chaos, once unleashed, does not yield so easily.

The moment the prisoners saw the samurai reclaiming control, their fear twisted into rage. To them, these warriors—still strong despite their starvation—were the greatest threat. A new enemy. One more obstacle between them and a precious token.

And then—blood. The first samurai fell.

A teenager, eyes sunken and glazed with starvation, lunged from behind and drove a stolen blade through the back of a samurai who had just disarmed another man. The sword pierced flesh and bone, protruding through the retainer’s chest.

"Tensei...!" another samurai bellowed in horror, watching his comrade collapse to his knees, gasping. Rage overcame him. His blade swept out, and in a flash of motion, the teenager’s head was severed, flying through the air and landing near the feet of a weeping woman.

The world paused. And then it shattered again.

The woman fell to her knees, screaming as the headless corpse hit the ground beside her. She cradled the body—her nephew, barely fifteen. Her cries of agony echoed louder than the clashing of steel.

The samurai who struck the boy froze, the weight of what he’d done crashing down on him like a falling mountain. He hadn’t even thought—his body had simply reacted. His breathing grew ragged. His hand trembled.

"Please... please spare me," the woman sobbed, crawling toward him, tears and blood staining her face.

"I have a child... I have to feed him..."

The samurai hesitated. That plea... it was no different from the cries he had once sworn to protect. His blade lowered an inch. A mistake.

In a flash, the woman’s hand darted to the ground, snatching up the katana from the teen’s corpse. With a scream torn from the depths of despair, she lunged. The blade pierced the samurai’s throat.

He gasped, wide-eyed, blood bubbling from his mouth. His knees hit the dirt as he reached instinctively to the wound, trying to stem the flow—but it was no use. The woman dropped the blade, scrambling to her son’s body. She tore open his tattered robe and pulled free a crumpled, bloodstained token.

"I’m sorry..." she whispered, voice shaking, not with remorse, but desperation.

"I’m so sorry... He hasn’t eaten in weeks..."

The samurai’s vision blurred. As life slipped away, one final thought gripped him.

"If only... if only the people of Wano had fought with this kind of desperation... this fire... when Kaido came—perhaps none of this would have happened. Perhaps Oden-sama’s sacrifice would not have been in vain."

And then, he collapsed—just another body in a pit of madness. Above, Leon smiled again, watching the mother move to the next corpse in search of another ticket.

"This... is what I wanted to see."

He raised a glass of crimson wine.

"To human nature."

The pit had become a mirror—showing not the citizens of Wano, but the raw, savage truth of what lies beneath all civilization. And as the screams continued, Leon leaned back in his chair, basking in the chaos he had created.

And far below, Ushimaru stood lifeless... not from wounds, but from heartbreak. For he realized, perhaps for the first time, that even the noblest people, when stripped of food, hope, and dignity—can become monsters.

The pit had gone eerily quiet.

Minutes had passed—minutes that felt like hours—since the last scream had died on blood-slicked stone. The once-roaring chaos had dwindled into silence, broken only by the ragged, exhausted breathing of those few who remained standing. Less than a hundred prisoners now littered the pit, their clothes torn, their hands shaking, their eyes hollow. Survivors in name only.

The scent of blood was suffocating.

High above, the Beast Pirates cheered, laughed, and exchanged coins, reveling in the spectacle like gleeful gods watching ants devour one another. But for those outside the arena—prisoners who had watched in stunned horror from behind bars—the fear took root. A dark, crawling fear. If this was a new rule... who would be next?

Down in the arena, Ushimaru stood as if carved from stone, motionless except for the trembling in his fingers. Tears blurred his vision, not from the wounds on his body—but from the ones on his soul. Around him, bodies lay strewn like discarded dolls, their lives snuffed out for scraps of metal.

A dozen figures slowly approached.

His retainers—those who had sworn to follow him into hell itself—dragged themselves through the blood-soaked earth. Of the many that had charged into the madness, only twelve returned.

But it was not the sight of their battered forms that broke him.

It was what they carried.

Three of them stepped forward, their hands stained red—not only with the blood of enemies, but with the blood of the innocent. Each held a handful of bent, bloodstained tokens. Their eyes were cast downward, heavy with shame. Their armor clinked softly as they knelt before their lord in silence.

The eldest among them—Hidetora, grizzled and long-scarred—spoke, his voice cracked but resolute.

"Ushimaru-sama..." he said, extending the tokens in his palm.

"We know what we did... can never be forgiven. We broke the code... we killed for these tokens. Not in war, not for honor... but for survival. For you."

The samurai beside him bowed, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Your life is worth far more than our pride, my lord. If even one piece of Wano’s honor must live on... let it be you."

The third samurai, still a young man, couldn’t even speak. Tears ran freely down his face as he laid the tokens at his master’s feet.

Ushimaru stared at them, mouth parted slightly, unable to form words. His hands trembled harder. These were men he had fought beside. Laughed with. Trusted with his life. And they... they had crossed the one line no samurai ever should.

They had forsaken their honor. For him.

He opened his mouth to protest—but then he saw the quiet resolve in their eyes. They had already decided.

Without waiting for command, the three samurai each drew a short blade from within their tattered robes—ceremonial tanto, hidden and preserved even through months of captivity. Even Leon’s men had not found them. They had been saving them. For this.

"Stop—!" Ushimaru’s voice finally returned, choked and hoarse.

But the three warriors merely bowed one final time.

"We will not let your name die in disgrace, my lord. We offer our lives... to buy back the honor we’ve tainted."

Then—one by one—they knelt into position. Their comrades circled them, forming a wordless ring of silence. Even the other prisoners who still lived could feel it—the heaviness in the air, like the stillness before a storm. Even the Beast Pirates quieted, some watching in morbid curiosity, others in awe.

Hidetora went first. He plunged the blade into his own abdomen, drawing it across in the slow, deliberate motion of seppuku. His face remained still, even as blood soaked his lap and steam rose from his body in the cold morning light. One of the remaining samurai stepped forward, sword in hand—and in a swift, clean motion, ended his suffering.

The second samurai followed.

And then the third—his young face twisted not in pain, but in sorrow—closed his eyes and whispered something no one heard. His final breath was carried away by the wind. When it was done, the pit was silent again.

Only Ushimaru remained standing in the center of it all, staring at the fallen bodies of the men who had died not because they were weak, but because they loved him more than life itself.

He fell to his knees—not out of weakness, but out of grief. Tears streamed freely down his bloodstained cheeks.

"You fools..." he whispered, voice cracking.

"I never asked for this. I never wanted this."

But deep down... he knew they had done what they must. And that was the tragedy of it all.

High above, Leon sat back in his chair, a slow grin tugging at his lips.

"How poetic," he mused.

"Even their loyalty is a weapon... and they turned it on themselves."

The pit below was no longer just a prison. It had become a graveyard of honor, a shrine to human desperation, and a monument to what hunger, cruelty, and twisted love could birth when the world forgot what it meant to be human.

And Ushimaru, kneeling among the dead, knew that a part of him had died with them.