One Piece : Brotherhood-Chapter 569

Water 7, Grand Line

The adjoining workshop was a world apart from the main shipyard — a chaotic sanctum of creation. The air was thick with the scent of sawdust, oil, and the faint tang of sea salt carried through the open portholes. Crumpled sheets of parchment lay scattered across the floor like fallen leaves, each one bearing the ghost of a discarded dream.

Hundreds of meticulously drawn schematics — hull cross-sections, propulsion diagrams, elegant curve studies — had been rejected and tossed aside. For weeks, Iceburg had labored here, stealing hours from his sleep and moments from the Seatrain project to chase the vision that consumed him.

At the center of the storm, under the warm flicker of gas lamps, stood a massive oak table buried beneath a single sprawling sketch — the culmination of countless failures and revisions. His hands, calloused and stained with ink and grease, trembled slightly as he adjusted the parchment. Every line of it had been drawn with purpose; every mark carried the weight of obsession.

Tom stood behind him, arms crossed, the faint hum of machinery from the main workshop echoing beyond the door. He didn’t seem to notice the chaos of the room — the half-built models, the disordered tools, the sea breeze rustling through the blueprints pinned to the walls. His gaze was fixed entirely on Iceburg’s latest creation.

"What do you think, Master?" Iceburg asked, his voice tight with both hope and exhaustion. The question seemed almost to hang in the air, fragile as the paper beneath their hands.

Tom said nothing at first. The great shipwright — the man who carried the blueprints of the ancient weapon Pluton, the craftsman whose name was already legend — simply stared. The flickering lamplight caught in his wide eyes, and for once, the unshakable confidence that had always surrounded him seemed to falter. There was awe there — genuine, unguarded awe.

Finally, he let out a deep, rumbling laugh. "Heh... Iceburg, you’ve outdone yourself," he said, his voice filled with pride and disbelief. "If you can bring this to life... then even the sea itself might remember your name."

The younger shipwright exhaled shakily, his shoulders sinking as weeks of silent tension melted away. Around them, the disarray no longer looked like failure — it looked like the aftermath of genius, the debris left behind by the birth of something extraordinary.

For all the brilliance of the Seatrain — the project that would connect the scattered islands of Water 7 into a network of progress — Tom knew, in that moment, that this dream of Iceburg’s reached even further. It wasn’t just a design. It was a declaration — a promise to the future, forged by human will against the endless tides.

Cutty Flam’s voice broke the silence, curiosity sharpening his usual carefree tone.

"What is it exactly...?"

Though brilliant in his own right, Tom’s youngest apprentice still had much to learn in the true art of creation — the kind that transcended mechanics and reached into the realm of dreams.

Tom’s lips curled into a knowing grin. "Can’t you tell what your brother’s created here?" he said, stepping aside to give Cutty a full view of the massive draft spread across the table. His tone carried no reproach — only challenge, and perhaps a hint of pride. "Go on. Take a look. Tell me what you see."

The younger shipwright straightened, his usual goofy demeanor falling away like a mask. The moment demanded the attention of a craftsman, not a teen. He stepped forward, his boots crunching softly over discarded parchment, the faint sea breeze stirring the edges of the great sketch.

Before him lay a design unlike anything he had ever seen. At first glance, it resembled the intricate blueprint of a ship — immense and elegant, its hull drawn with sweeping, confident strokes. But as Cutty’s eyes moved across the paper, he noticed the impossible complexity within the lines: vast stabilizing structures, propulsion cores of unknown design, systems of balance and lift that seemed to defy logic itself.

He leaned closer, tracing the faint annotations written in Iceburg’s meticulous handwriting. Pressure regulators, energy flow channels, atmospheric control vents — terms that had no place on a mere ship. His brows furrowed deeper and deeper, his mind racing to connect the impossible.

"This... this isn’t just a vessel," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "It’s... it’s an island. A whole island converted to float on the sea—no..."

He stopped, realization dawning as he looked up, eyes wide. "You’re designing a floating island!"

A silence followed — not the silence of doubt, but of awe. Even the soft hum of the workshop machinery beyond the door seemed to fade, leaving only the sound of the sea and the ticking of the old clock on the wall.

Tom’s deep, rumbling laughter broke through, rich with pride and astonishment. "Hah! Floating, you say?" He stepped forward again, resting one massive hand on Cutty’s shoulder. "No, boy. Look closer."

Cutty blinked, turning back to the sketch, confusion flickering in his expression. "Closer?"

Tom’s gaze softened, and for a moment, the legendary shipwright seemed almost reverent as he looked at his apprentice’s dream. "This isn’t meant to float," he said quietly. "It’s meant to fly."

Cutty’s breath caught. The word seemed to hang in the air like lightning frozen mid-strike. He stared down at the blueprint again — and suddenly, the pieces fell into place. The propulsion systems weren’t for buoyancy, but thrust. The stabilizers weren’t for waves, but wind currents. The annotations weren’t nautical, but aeronautical — though no such science truly existed.

A flying island. A city among the clouds. It was madness — and yet, it was beautiful.

Iceburg’s dream wasn’t just to build upon the sea, but to surpass it. To take humanity’s craftsmanship beyond the reach of the tides themselves. It was the dream of a man who had spent his life in a city that fought daily against the rising ocean — a dream to rise above it all, to build a sanctuary untouched by the sea’s wrath.

Even Tom, the man entrusted with the blueprints of an ancient weapon, stood in quiet awe. For all his years and all the miracles he had built, even he could not deny that what Iceburg envisioned was something greater — something that touched the divine essence of creation itself.

The lamplight shimmered across the parchment, illuminating the title Iceburg had written in the corner — bold, precise letters spelling out the name of his dream. And as the three shipwrights stood in silence, the world beyond the workshop seemed to hold its breath, as though the sea itself waited to see if man truly could take to the sky.

Iceburg’s eyes lingered on Tom’s massive hand still resting on the table, tracing the edge of the parchment as though touching something sacred. His heart pounded with a mix of pride and doubt.

The moment Tom uttered that single word — fly — it had felt like a tide breaking inside him. To hear his master, the Tom, speak of his work with such awe was almost overwhelming. But Iceburg was no fool. Praise from Tom was never an end — it was a beginning. There was still so much he did not know.

He drew a slow breath, his voice quiet yet steady.

"Master," he began, bowing his head slightly, "your words honor me more than I deserve. But this design... it’s still far from perfect. I can feel the flaws in it — places where my theory falters, where the balance won’t hold under real stress. I’d like your input... both of you."

Tom looked up, surprised at first — and then his face softened into a smile of approval. Iceburg’s humility was what set him apart from so many others who’d ever crossed Tom’s path. It was the mark of a true craftsman.

Cutty, still standing at the opposite side of the table, blinked. "Huh? Me too?"

"Of course," Iceburg said, meeting his gaze with quiet respect. "You see things neither of us would. When it comes to invention — to breaking limits — you’re the best there is."

Cutty’s goofy grin threatened to return, but something in Iceburg’s tone stopped him. It wasn’t flattery — it was genuine belief. That was enough to straighten his spine. He gave a small nod, rolling up his sleeves, the fire of curiosity burning anew in his eyes.

Tom chuckled deeply, crossing his arms. "Heh. I couldn’t agree more. When it comes to thinking past reason itself, this kid’s brain runs wilder than a Sea King in a storm. All right then, boys — let’s tear this thing apart and rebuild it better."

He leaned in again, tracing a thick finger along the blueprint’s spine — the central framework that connected the island’s core to its propulsion rings. "First thing’s first," he began, his voice slipping into the tone of a teacher dissecting a masterpiece.

"The weight distribution along this central axis — it’s too linear. The center of gravity will shift depending on the upper mass density. You’ll need a compensating system, maybe a modular ballast core that can realign mid-flight."

Iceburg’s pencil was already moving, his neat handwriting annotating every word. "A modular ballast... dynamic counter-weighting," he murmured, thinking aloud.

Tom nodded approvingly. "Exactly. And the energy supply — you’ve designed this assuming unlimited propulsion efficiency. But nothing burns forever. You’ll need a secondary loop, something that converts ambient energy, maybe from atmospheric pressure differentials. A flying island’ll pass through countless temperature gradients — that’s potential energy just waiting to be used."

Cutty’s head snapped up. "Hey, that’s brilliant! Like an air-exchange turbine system! You could rig intakes along the lower hull, feed them through compression rotors, then channel the pressure build-up into thrust vents. Self-sustaining flight!"

Tom laughed, loud and full of pride. "Now that’s the kind of mad thinking I meant!"

Iceburg looked up at the two of them, his heart swelling. This was what he lived for — minds sharpening each other like blades. He quickly redrew a section of the blueprint, sketching out the new intake placements.

"Atmospheric turbines integrated into the underside grid... yes, that could stabilize both lift and thrust. If we balance the rotational force against crosswinds—"

Cutty interrupted, leaning close and pointing with a grease-stained finger. "But then you’ll get drag in the mid-section. You’ll need something to redirect flow — maybe use heat vents! The ones you’ve got here for exhaust, repurpose them to channel airflow. That way you’d reduce resistance and keep the engines cool."

Iceburg hesitated for a moment, processing the idea. Then his eyes lit up. "That could work! Dual-function venting — efficiency doubled, output increased!"

Tom nodded. "Heh, see? That’s why you listen to him."

For the next few hours, the three shipwrights worked in perfect rhythm, the room alive with the scratching of pencils, the rustle of blueprints, and the low hum of brilliant minds colliding. Every few minutes, one of them would pause — to think, to question, to refine — and the others would listen, counter, or expand the idea.

Tom spoke of structure — the strength of materials, the balance between weight and endurance. His experience was a deep ocean, each word carrying the wisdom of decades spent shaping wood and steel against the fury of the sea.

Iceburg spoke of precision — of harmony between form and function, the unseen artistry that gave soul to machinery. His notes filled the margins like a language of dreams — exact, mathematical, yet strangely poetic.

And Cutty — he spoke of chaos. Of innovation without fear, of bending rules until they broke into something new. His ideas seemed insane at first — fuel cells that converted salt vapor, gyroscopic wings that bent with the wind — but every so often, those impossible suggestions opened doors neither Tom nor Iceburg had considered.

The workshop had fallen into a rhythm beyond time. The outside world — the waves, the creaking of the docks, the fading sun — all of it had dissolved into nothing but background noise. Within those four walls, brilliance burned like a forge.

The three shipwrights had long forgotten the hour. The air was heavy with ink, graphite, and sweat; the floor was littered with crumpled sketches that only hours ago had seemed vital. The once pristine schematic on the table — Iceburg’s dream — had transformed into a living organism of notes and revisions.

Layers of parchment overlapped like scales, filled with new annotations written in three distinct hands. The margins were dense with arrows, formulas, measurements, and the occasional grease fingerprint.

Tom’s booming laughter echoed one last time as he scrawled a final correction onto the edge of the paper. "Ha! There — now she won’t just fly, she’ll dance on the wind!"

Cutty groaned, rubbing his aching mechanical wrist more out of habit. "If she ever actually gets built, Master, I’m gonna make sure my name’s right under Iceburg’s."

"You can fight over the naming rights after we make sure she doesn’t fall out of the sky," Iceburg replied dryly, though there was warmth in his tone. His voice carried the exhaustion of hours spent in mental battle, but his eyes still burned bright — the look of a man possessed by creation.

"But the biggest hurdle will be the power source... to power up something of this scale..." Tom’s words were interrupted.

Then, suddenly — knock, knock.

The sound was soft, almost hesitant, yet in that stillness it struck like a hammer. The three men froze. For the first time in hours, Iceburg noticed how quiet the world outside had become. The usual chorus of the shipyard — distant shouts, clanging hammers from the nearby workshops and those who had volunteered to work on the sea train project, and the laughter of laborers—had faded into eerie silence.

Tom straightened slowly, his massive frame casting a long shadow across the table. "That’ll be Kyros," he said, voice dropping to a low rumble. "Probably here to make sure I haven’t worked myself to death again."

Cutty chuckled, stretching his arms. "Guess we should tell him we’re all still alive." But when Tom opened the door, the sight that greeted him turned that jest into ash.

Kyros stood framed by the flickering lamplight of the corridor, his tall form half-silhouetted. His shirt was torn at the shoulder, and from his side dripped a slow, steady stream of blood. The metallic scent hit the room before the realization did. A dark patch had spread down his flank, soaking into his belt. The sheath of his sword — still fastened to his side — gleamed wetly red.

"Tom-san," Kyros said, his voice steady, though his breath carried strain. "We need to talk."

For a moment, Tom’s instinct as a craftsman — that unyielding focus that ignored all else — warred against the growing dread in his chest. He had been ready to boast, to show off what his apprentices had achieved. But one look at Kyros’ grim expression — and the blood dripping to the floorboards — told him this was no simple matter.

"...Who?" Tom’s voice came out like gravel.

Kyros shook his head once. "Cipher Pol. Two squads, maybe three. I lost count after the first fell."

The silence that followed was suffocating. Cutty’s easy grin vanished, replaced by the sharp, alert focus of a craftsman who understood danger far too well. Iceburg, standing nearest to the worktable, clenched his fists, his mind racing.

In recent weeks, the shadows around Tom’s shipyard had grown thick. Government men in plain clothes had begun appearing near the docks, watching, listening, never approaching directly—but always there. Everyone knew the reason: Tom was no ordinary shipwright. The man had been pardoned by the judge of the world government in exchange for his services in building a complete sea train route connecting Water 7 at its center.

And now, with the success of the Seatrain project nearly at its end, Tom’s name had grown too large, his influence too wide. It was inevitable the World Government would start to feel threatened.

"Seems like the tide’s shifting," Tom muttered darkly, stepping aside to let Kyros in.

Kyros entered, leaving faint crimson footprints across the workshop floor. His eyes — sharp, soldier’s eyes hardened by a lifetime of battle — swept over the chaotic table, taking in the hundreds of drawings and schematics that littered it. "You’ve been busy."

"Too busy to notice the wolves at the door," Iceburg murmured.

Tom’s massive hand landed on his apprentice’s shoulder. "Easy now. The wolves have always been there. They just howl louder when they’re afraid."

Cutty frowned, his usual levity nowhere to be found. "Afraid? Of us?"

Tom turned toward him, his gaze heavy with understanding. "Of what we build."

The words hung in the air like a prophecy. Kyros reached up, wiping blood from his side with the back of his hand. "Their patrols are getting bolder," he said. "Tonight wasn’t an accident. They weren’t just watching Tom san— they were moving in. I think they planned to take something."

Tom’s expression hardened, the jovial warmth replaced by a rare edge of steel. "Blueprints?"

Kyros nodded. "Or you."

Cutty slammed his fist against the wall, the sound sharp and sudden. "Damn them! You’d think after all he’s done — the Seatrain, Water 7’s rebirth — they’d at least respect him!"

Tom didn’t respond. He walked back to the table, staring down at the sprawling blueprint — Iceburg’s dream. A flying island. A paradise beyond the reach of the sea. Beyond the reach of the World Government. A quiet realization stirred in him. Perhaps that was why they feared him now — not for what he had built, but for what he might yet build.

Outside, the rain began to fall, drumming a steady rhythm against the shipyard roofs, a song of foreboding that seemed to echo the unease within Tom’s workshop. The once-blazing lamps now flickered low, throwing long, wavering shadows across the cluttered room. The great blueprint — the dream of flight — lay abandoned on the table, its once-pristine edges curled from the heat of the lamps and the touch of countless hands.

Tom stood before it, silent. His immense shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the sea itself. For a long while, no one spoke. The hum of the rain, the distant moan of the wind, and the faint tick of the clock on the wall filled the void.

"So..." Tom’s voice broke the stillness, rough and low, the exhaustion in it unmistakable. "What now?" He didn’t need to elaborate. Everyone in the room knew what he meant.

There was sadness in his eyes — the kind that came not from fear, but from understanding. Tom had known this day would come. He had known it from the moment the World Government had presented him that so-called pardon, wrapped in the pretense of goodwill.

To the world, it had been a second chance — a symbol of mercy extended to a master shipwright in exchange for his genius. But Tom had seen through it even then. A pardon from the World Government was just a piece of paper — and paper burns easily.

He hadn’t taken on the Sea Train project to buy his freedom. He had taken it on because it was his dream — the culmination of everything he had ever wanted to build. A bridge between islands, between people. A way for humanity to conquer the sea not through violence, but through progress.

But dreams, he knew, always came with a price.

"Master..." Iceburg’s voice trembled slightly before he steadied it, stepping closer. His coat was flecked with ink and sawdust, his eyes shadowed from long hours of work, yet his expression was determined.

"I think... it’s time we pack things up. There’s no reason for you to stay here anymore. The Sea Train’s almost complete. For all we know, this attack tonight was just them testing the waters. Next time, they won’t be so subtle." Tom said nothing, listening as Iceburg continued, his words gathering strength.

"Once the Sea Train’s done, we can leave Water 7. We can go back to Dressrosa — back to the Donquixote family. You know they’ll protect us, Master. They always have. The World Government’s spies haven’t dared to make a real move for years because they have been guarding us from the shadows. If we leave now, before things get worse, the Family can make sure you’re safe."

There was conviction in Iceburg’s tone, born of faith and experience. He had long since come to view the Donquixote family not as criminals or pirates, but as family — the unseen hands that had quietly ensured their safety, dealt with spies, and kept Water 7’s enemies at bay.

For years, their unseen protection had been like a shadow stretching over the shipyard — one that kept the World Government at a cautious distance. Iceburg trusted them. To him, the Donquixote family wasn’t a syndicate; it was a fortress.

Tom turned slightly, meeting his apprentice’s gaze. The corners of his mouth lifted in something that wasn’t quite a smile. "Heh... I wish it were that simple, Iceburg."

He sighed deeply, the sound heavy enough to still the air. His eyes moved toward his youngest apprentice — Cutty Flam.

Cutty had been silent this whole time, leaning against the workbench, his head bowed. The light glinted off the metal plating on his arms — a grim reminder of what he had become. Of what he had had to become.

Tom’s heart ached at the sight. The boy who once crafted toy ships with childish glee was now half-machine, half-man, forged in pain and guilt. And despite everything, he still stayed by his master’s side.

"Is it because of me, Master?" Cutty finally asked, his voice rough with suppressed anger. "If I’m the reason, I can leave. I can survive on my own."

Tom shook his head immediately. "It’s not about you, Cutty."

The younger shipwright clenched his fists, the metal joints creaking faintly. "Then what is it about? We finished the Seatrain! You gave them everything they asked for! They promised you a pardon!"

Tom’s expression softened with something between pity and pride. "You’re still too young to understand, boy."

Cutty slammed a mechanical fist against the wall, the sound cracking through the workshop like thunder. "No! I understand perfectly! They used you! The World Government — they never meant to forgive you! They only needed you until the work was done!"

His voice rose, raw and furious. "You gave them your genius, your life — and for what?! A lie?! A piece of paper with ink on it?!"

Tom let him vent. He didn’t flinch. He simply stood there, letting the storm wash over him. When Cutty’s voice finally faltered, the old shipwright spoke — quietly, but firmly.

"You’re right," he said. "The pardon was a lie. Always was." Cutty’s eyes widened, his anger freezing into shock.

"But that doesn’t matter." Tom’s deep voice rumbled through the room, steady as the sea. "I didn’t build the Seatrain for them. I built it for the people of Water 7. For the future. For every man, woman, and child who’s ever been trapped by the ocean and dreamed of crossing it safely. If the Government wants to twist that into something political, let them. But I know what I built — and why."

His words carried the weight of truth — the kind of truth that no government or weapon could ever silence. He turned toward Kyros, who stood near the door, silent as a statue. The blood on his side had darkened, but his eyes were sharp, waiting. Tom knew that look — the look of a soldier torn between loyalty and conscience.

"Kyros," Tom said, "tell me the truth. You already received instructions from the Family, didn’t you?"

Kyros hesitated. The silence stretched, broken only by the rain. Finally, he nodded. "Yes. They told me to prepare. The World Government won’t stop — not after tonight. The Family can keep their spies at bay, but if Cipher Pol moves in force, even with our current forces here on Water 7, we won’t hold them off for long. They’ll come for you directly."

Cutty’s teeth clenched. "But why?! What do they gain from—"

"Because," Iceburg interrupted softly, "he’s Tom. The man who holds the blueprints to Pluton."

The name itself hung in the air like a curse.

Tom chuckled, the sound tinged with weary acceptance. "Heh... so the secret’s still heavy on their minds, eh?" He looked toward the rain-streaked window. "It doesn’t matter if I’m innocent or guilty. To them, I’ll always be a threat. A man who might build a weapon is as dangerous as the weapon itself."

He turned back toward his apprentices, his eyes soft now — almost fatherly. "They won’t stop hunting me. Even if I flee to Dressrosa, even if the Family hides me in their deepest vault, the World Government won’t rest until I disappear from this world."

Kyros looked away, his jaw tightening. He didn’t want to say it, but Tom could see the truth in his eyes.

"So that’s it then..." Tom said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "They won’t stop unless..."

Kyros met his gaze, finishing the thought in a low voice. "...unless you die."