[RLOP] Chapter : 17 - Lucci's transformation

Inside the Shogun’s Residence.

The once-glorious palace had crumbled into a ruin of shattered walls and broken stone.

The bloody scramble for Orochi’s “parts” had already ended. Now, only two battlefields remained.

One was where the four ancient Zoans, after discovering Orochi’s twisted “immortality,” had descended into a brutal frenzy—pummeling him with a savagery so overwhelming that even seasoned pirates would grimace at the sight.

The other was the duel between Denjiro and Rob Lucci.

But to call it a duel was perhaps being far too generous.

The clash of swords rippled across the air, shaking the walls with every aftershock. Pirates gathered in small clusters of twos and threes, spreading out to seal off all possible escape routes.

They didn’t interfere. They didn’t dare.

Instead, they watched—hungry, eager, eyes glinting.

For these minor pirates, scraping by in the New World with only the barest grasp of Armament Haki, this was a rare chance. A battle beyond their level—too advanced to fully comprehend, yet clear enough that, if they studied carefully, they might learn something.

“That samurai’s sword… Haki’s flowing on it. Isn’t that Ryou?” one whispered.

“But Big Brother Lucci’s fighting him bare—he hasn’t even coated his blade with Haki,” another muttered.

“Idiot!” a third snapped. “If Big Brother used Armament, that samurai would already be dead! Then what would we learn from it?”

When Lucci’s kick sent Denjiro skidding back across the rubble, their admiration spilled out openly.

“As expected of Big Brother Lucci!”

“…Is it just me, or has he gotten even stronger again? How old is he now, thirteen? Fourteen?”

“If he keeps climbing like this… will we even be able to keep up with him?”

At that, silence fell.

Because the truth was—most of them were already falling behind.

No talent. No Devil Fruit. No great lineage.

They had fought tooth and nail for over a decade just to scratch at the surface of Armament Haki. And here, even that felt like nothing.

This was the New World.

Where the strong could level nations with a single swing, and the cries of the weak were swallowed by the sea.

And yet—Rob Lucci had given them something no one else had.

A chance. A path. A way to climb.

The power of Devil Fruits.

Even the most common Animal Zoan—the kind others scoffed at—was a priceless treasure to them, the forgotten scraps of the New World.

It was because of that, because Lucci had cracked open the door to a future they’d never dared to dream of, that their respect burned so fiercely.

Not just respect. Admiration. Loyalty.

And something else, too.

Ambition.

If Big Brother could do it… so could they.

“…Oi,” one older pirate finally asked, “anyone know when Big Brother’s birthday is? He’s still a kid. Stuff like that must matter, right?”

Emotional value was still value.

On the other side.

Steel clashed, sparks rained.

Lucci’s powerful slash hurled Denjiro back several meters once again.

But instead of pressing forward, Lucci planted his blade into the ground, standing tall, silent—like a challenger waiting to test his prey further.

Denjiro’s chest heaved. His once-neat hair hung in wild tangles, his face twisted in humiliation. Forcing his sword into the ground to steady himself, he glared up at the towering beast before him.

Five meters tall, radiating monstrous strength.

His breath was ragged. His Haki reserves were nearly spent. Even his hands trembled against the hilt, betraying exhaustion.

What kind of monster is this…?

Grinding his teeth, despair gnawed at Denjiro’s heart.

With each exchange, the gap widened. He was falling further and further behind.

Oden-sama… Is this truly my limit?

At the start, he had been confident.

Lucci’s swordplay was crude, unpolished. His style lacked finesse. He didn’t even coat his blade in Haki. And his experience in one-on-one combat was clearly thin.

Denjiro had believed his refined swordsmanship, his superior Haki, and his ten extra years of battle experience would secure him victory.

Even if he fell later, cut down in the inevitable pirate siege, at least he would drag down a terrifying enemy of the Kozuki future.

But reality was merciless.

The longer the battle raged, the more his confidence unraveled.

Every clash of steel brought with it a chilling revelation—his Ryou was seeping into Lucci’s body, it was striking true.

And yet…

Lucci was still standing.

Unshaken. Unmoved.

And that was what truly filled Denjiro’s heart with dread.

Yet after more than a dozen rounds, his opponent still looked completely unfazed.

Denjiro, on the other hand, felt the sting of throbbing tiger’s slashes and the ache of arms battered raw from taking those monstrous slashes head-on.

But worse than the pain—

His proud swordsmanship, the skill he had polished for decades, had only worked against Lucci once.

The next time, Lucci copied it.

Not just imitated it—perfected it.

And when Lucci struck with the same technique, the power behind it was even more terrifying than Denjiro’s own.

Ten years of swordsmanship versus one minute of observation.

And the one minute won.

For the first time, Denjiro questioned the sword in his hand.

To learn an enemy’s blade in the midst of battle… what kind of monster is this?

“The world is a dark night, the moon shines on you,
Holding on to what remains, awaiting the dawn.
Twenty years of light, through the flow of time,
Nine shadows cast—when the sun rises in the east.”

Adjusting his breathing, Denjiro softly recited the prophecy of Kozuki Toki.

Like a desperate hero in a shonen tale, he clung to those words as though they were strength itself.

But when he finished, his eyes only grew cloudier, as if drowning in obsession.

“The prophecy cannot be wrong… None of the Red Scabbards will die… We cannot die… No one can…”

His fingers clenched tighter around his blade, knuckles white.

From where he stood, Lucci observed him with calm indifference—only the faintest flicker of mockery curling at the corner of his lips.

“Is this it? Your final strike?”

Denjiro roared like a gambler staking everything on one last throw of dice.

He sheathed his sword, leaned forward, and drew out the very last thread of Haki left in his body, wrapping it around the blade until it bled a dark glow.

“The prophecy says I will live to the end! So I will definitely win this strike!”

In the next heartbeat—

Thunder cracked.

Denjiro vanished, reappearing before Lucci with speed too fast for the naked eye to catch.

The blade flashed—drawn and swung in a single seamless motion.

For an instant, he saw Lucci standing motionless, seemingly too slow to react.

Denjiro’s eyes wavered. A flicker of hesitation crossed his face.

And then—he released the sword.

Letting inertia carry his body forward, he abandoned the strike, rushing instead toward Orochi’s battered form amidst the Tobiroppo.

This had been his true objective all along.

Escape. Protect Orochi. Survive until the prophecy is fulfilled.

Even if it meant letting the perfect chance to kill Lucci slip through his fingers.

“How boring.”

The words were soft, almost casual, but they froze Denjiro’s blood.

As he rushed past, his final sight was Lucci’s face—not startled, not concerned, only heavy with disappointment.

Then, in a blur, everything reversed.

Lucci moved.

A single twist of his body, and his right-hand blade plunged downward, nailing Denjiro to the ground. His left-hand sword followed in a ruthless arc, severing Denjiro’s head in one clean stroke.

The lightning-fast gamble had ended before it even began.

“You had the chance to kill me… to sever the drift of destiny.”

His voice was calm, almost regretful.

“Too bad. You chose to remain his slave.”

Lucci lifted his blades, black-purple light flickering along their edges.

“But still, you gave me something. And for that, I’ll thank you.”

The two swords glimmered faintly as the aura around them shifted—Haki, refined, transformed.

The blades were now faintly wrapped in a translucent black-purple glow.

It was subtle. Almost invisible.

But unmistakable.

Ryou.