One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 61: The girl with red hair(24)

Warning: Dark stuff ahead. Skip if you don't like it. While I have minimized and outright not mentioned a lot of stuff. IT still is dark if you understand the implication. Think the scenario in your head.

So don't read if you are uncomfortable with it.

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He lay there on the ground. Battered. Broken. His face shattered in ways no mirror could ever reflect back. Swollen meat where features used to be. Blood bubbling in his throat, struggling to breathe through the ruin of his jaw.

A sorry sight.

But not sorry enough.

Just pummeling him with a gun wasn't enough. Not for what he did. Not for what he watched. Not for what he became a part of. Pain needed to be deeper. Slower. I needed to go the extra step—the step that crossed the line between vengeance and something older, darker.

Sure, I had a gun. But that would end things too fast.

A sword, though... a sword could hurt in ways a bullet never could.

A sword could teach him something before death took him.

I looked up at the others. The scum still watching. Still too close. My glare burned through the crowd like fire through dry grass. One look—and they flinched. Stepped back. One after another. No words spoken. No threats made. They just knew.

I spotted the one carrying a sword on his back. A thick blade, slightly curved, already stained with too many sins. I raised my hand and pointed—not at him, but at the weapon.

You. That. Now.

He froze. Eyes darting from me to the half-dead mess on the floor and back again. His hesitation lasted seconds too long.

"Give it," I said—quiet but final.

With trembling fingers, he unslung the sword and held it out, hilt-first like an offering to something unholy. He didn't meet my eyes. Smart man. I took the weapon without a word, feeling the weight in my grip. Heavy. Cold. Perfect.

I turned back to the heap of flesh gasping at my feet.

Then I flipped him over—onto his stomach. His broken body flopped like a sack of meat, helpless and twitching. He whimpered, gurgled something through the blood. But he didn't fight. Couldn't. The fight had left him the second I started swinging.

Now came the real punishment.

He wasn't just going to die.

He was going to be unmade.

I knelt beside the ruin of him.

He was twitching—barely alive, barely conscious, but still clinging to the thread of life like a coward who only feared death when it finally stared him in the face.

I was going to rip that fear out of him. Piece by piece.

I took the sword in both hands, angled it across the lower back, just above the spine.

And pressed.

The edge split skin like paper soaked in rain.

He jerked. A choked scream left his throat—more like a gargle, wet and pitiful. I carved deep. No hesitation. I pushed the steel between the layers of flesh, cutting through muscle, nerves, veins that pulsed with his worthless blood.

Hot spurts sprayed across my arm.

He shrieked louder.

I kept cutting—upward now, following the line of his ribs, slicing through everything in the way. Skin peeled back in thick, red flaps. I worked the blade slow, dragging it through meat like a butcher at war with the carcass.

When I hit bone, I didn't stop.

The sword scraped against ribs. The sound was dry and sharp, like metal against rock. He bucked underneath me. I slammed my knee down on his back, forcing his spine to arch. I needed access. I needed his ribcage opened like the chest of a beast. Not because the ritual required it—but because I wanted him broken from the inside out.

I dropped the sword.

The part that hurts the most came. I was going to enjoy it whole heartedly.

I dug in with my hands—bare fingers, slick with blood. I gripped one rib, deep under the gore. Then pulled. Hard.

His body convulsed.

The bone cracked.

He screamed—no, howled—like something primal being torn from the earth. I didn't stop. I twisted, ripped the rib outward, snapping it at the base with a sickening pop. Blood ran down his sides in rivers. He pissed himself. Good.

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I went for the next.

Both sides. One by one. I pulled his ribs apart like the pages of a cursed book, spreading them open. The cavity stretched wider with every pull, every snap, every shriek. His lungs were exposed now—wet and quivering, gasping like they knew what was coming. They expanded and collapsed under open air, coated in blood, pulsing like heartbeats.

I wasn't done.

I reached in. Grabbed one of the lungs.

He felt that. Deep. His whole body tried to rise, tried to escape itself. But I held him down. Fisted the organ. Yanked it out and laid it on his back like a trophy.

Then the other.

Pulled from his chest and displayed.

Now he looked like what he truly was.

An offering.

A message.

A ruined thing, flayed open and laid bare for all to see. The Blood Eagle in its full, ancient cruelty—wings of bone and breath torn from a man who deserved less than mercy.

He didn't die quickly.

He felt every second.

Because this wasn't execution.

This was ritual.

This was judgment.

And for what they did to her, it still wasn't enough.