Defeat of the Pirate King

 The air in the throne room of Pangaea Castle did not simply smell of ozone and blood; it tasted of finality. Smoke, thick and acrid from the smoldering crater in the marble floor, coiled like phantom serpents. At its center lay Monkey D. Luffy, a broken god.

Gear Five, the embodiment of liberation, the Sun God Nika, had been extinguished. The white hair and vapor-wreathed form had receded, leaving behind the raw, bruised flesh of a twenty-year-old boy. His chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow hitches. One eye was swollen shut, a grotesque plum of burst capillaries. The other, a sliver of obsidian, struggled to focus.

“The drum of liberation has fallen silent,” spoke Saint Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro, his voice a dry rustle like ancient parchment. He stood over Luffy, the pristine tip of his Shodai Kitetsu resting lightly on the boy’s heaving sternum. “A most… disappointing crescendo.”

Saint Shepherd Topman Warcury lumbered forward, his immense form blocking the shattered moonlight from the bay window. “Disappointing, but not unexpected. A fruit’s whims do not change the nature of the weed that consumes it.” He drove a kick into Luffy’s side with a casual, brutal force. A sickening crack of bone was followed by a choked, wet gasp from Luffy. He curled inward, a reflexive, useless act of defense.

“Look at him,” scoffed Saint Marcus Mars, his avian features pinched in disdain. “This is what dared to challenge the celestial order? This… animal.”

Luffy’s one good eye fixed on Mars. There was no fear in it. Not yet. Only a feral, defiant glare, a low growl rumbling in his shattered chest. “I’m… gonna…” he rasped, blood bubbling on his lips. “...kick… your ass…”

A collective, humorless chuckle echoed through the chamber. Saint Jaygarcia Saturn, who had borne the first brunt of Nika’s rage, stepped forward, his multiple eyes blinking in asymmetrical patterns. “The spirit remains. A testament to the fruit’s power, or perhaps just the stubbornness of a common brute. We must rectify that.”

It was Saint V. Nusjuro who articulated the unspeakable. “The extraction of the Hito Hito no Mi, Model: Nika, has always been our paramount goal. The science is… imprecise. But we are scholars of a higher order. We have theorized that the essence of a Devil Fruit, its very will, is most concentrated in a user’s… life force. In their seminal vitality.”

The silence that followed was heavier than Warcury’s fists. The implication hung in the air, vile and absolute.

Luffy, through the haze of pain, frowned. The finer points of their meaning were lost on him, but the primal instinct, the threat radiating from the five ancient predators encircling him, was not.

“We break the body first,” Warcury grunted, cracking his knuckles. “Then the mind. Then, we drain the myth from his veins.”

What followed was not a battle. It was a dissection.

They took their time. Warcury’s fists fell like tectonic plates, methodically pulverizing muscle and bone. Saturn’s venomous limbs delivered jolts of agony that seared through Luffy’s nervous system, making his back arch off the cold floor in silent screams. Mars’s sharp kicks were like scalpels, precise and cruel. Ethanbaron’s blade never drew a killing cut, but traced fine, burning lines of pain across Luffy’s skin, a master cartographer mapping a continent of suffering.

Luffy did not beg. He gritted his teeth, his jaw locked so tight it felt it would shatter. He took the punishment as he always had: head-on. But this was different. This was endless. This was devoid of the thrill of a fight. It was a cold, administrative process of dismantling a thing.

“Where is your laughter now, Nika?” Saturn hissed, a coiled limb wrapping around Luffy’s broken leg and squeezing. “Where is your joy?”

“He’s just a stupid boy,” Mars sneered, delivering a kick to his ribs. “A simpleton who stumbled upon a power he could never comprehend.”

Through a mouthful of blood, Luffy spat. “Shut up…! I’m… Monkey D. Luffy…! I’m gonna be… King of the Pirates…!”

Warcury’s foot came down on his outstretched hand, grinding the bones with a gruesome crunch. Luffy’s world dissolved into white-hot static.

“King of what?” Warcury’s voice boomed. “King of the broken? The defeated? You are nothing. You were always nothing. The ‘D’ is a fading echo, and we are the silence that follows.”

The physical pain was a fire he was learning to endure. But their words were like needles of ice, finding tiny chinks in his monumental will. Nothing. Stupid boy. Disappointing. They were the antithesis of everything his friends believed, everything he believed about himself.

When his body was a tapestry of purple and black, when every breath was a knife-twist, they paused.

“The body is sufficiently prepared,” Nusjuro stated, as if announcing the next phase of an experiment. “Now, for the spirit.”

It was Saturn who moved first. He crouched down, his strange, aged form hovering over Luffy. “You fight for freedom. A childish concept. True freedom is order. Our order. Your ‘freedom’ is merely chaos.” A bony, venom-dripping hand trailed down Luffy’s chest, over the scar from Akainu, down his trembling abdomen.

Luffy flinched, a new kind of alarm screaming in his mind. “Get… off…” he snarled, trying to squirm away, but his body was a prison of pain.

“This is the vessel that held a god?” Mars laughed, joining Saturn. His sharp fingers dug into the flesh of Luffy’s thigh. “It’s just meat. Weak, trembling meat.”

The trash talk continued, a vile symphony meant to shatter him.

“Do your nakama know what a pathetic creature you are without your power?” Warcury mocked. “Do they know you would break so easily?”

“Shut up!” Luffy shouted, the protest mangled by his broken state. “Don’t… talk about them…!”

“They are already dead,” Nusjuro said flatly, his voice the most terrifying of all for its lack of malice. It was a simple statement of fact. “The Straw Hat Pirates are being eradicated as we speak. You die here, alone, and useless.”

The words hit Luffy harder than any physical blow. A sob, raw and involuntary, escaped his throat. It was a sound of pure despair. No. Not them. Zoro… Sanji… Nami…

Seeing the crack, they pressed their advantage. Hands, cold and uncaring, were all over him. They tore away the remnants of his red shorts, exposing him completely under the cold, judging eyes of the empty throne room. He was pinned, his broken limbs held down by Warcury’s immense strength.

“No… STOP!” Luffy cried out, real terror flooding his system for the first time. This wasn’t a fight. This was something else, something he had no framework for, no defense against. This was a violation that sought not to defeat him, but to unmake him.

“The World Government thanks you for your contribution, boy,” Saturn whispered, his breath foul against Luffy’s ear.

The gang rape was a brutal, efficient affair. There was no passion, only a cruel, clinical purpose. They took turns, each act a hammer blow to the fortresses of Luffy’s mind and spirit. The pain was secondary to the overwhelming, suffocating humiliation. He fought as much as his broken body could, his Haki utterly depleted, his strength gone. He could only endure.

They never stopped talking.

“This is your purpose.” “A container to be emptied.” “A lesson to all who bear the initial D.” “Cum for us, Nika. Give up your power.”

And despite the horror, despite the revulsion that threatened to swallow his very soul, his traitorous body was manipulated, stimulated to a brutal, shameful response. A choked, broken sound was torn from his throat as his climax was forced from him, not once, but again and again, each orgasm a agony of humiliation that dwarfed any physical pain he had ever known.

And with each forced release, something more than just seed was pulled from him. A faint, golden light, almost imperceptible, seemed to coalesce within his emission before fading into the air. It was the essence of Nika, the joy, the liberation, the very will of the Sun God, being physically and spiritually milked from him.

They were harvesting his dream.

Finally, they released him. He collapsed onto the cold marble, curled in a fetal position, shaking uncontrollably. He was empty. Drained in every conceivable way. His spirit, once a roaring sun, was a guttering candle flame in a vast, uncaring darkness. His eyes were wide, unseeing, tears of shame and defeat carving clean paths through the grime and blood on his cheeks.

They stood around him, adjusting their impeccable robes, as if they had just concluded a tedious meeting.

“The extraction appears to be a success,” Nusjuro observed dispassionately. “The Nika factor is neutralized.”

“What of the vessel?” Mars asked, nudging Luffy’s limp form with his foot. Luffy didn’t even react.

Warcury laughed, a sound like grinding stones. “Leave him. Let him be a monument. A trophy. Let all who dare to dream look upon the broken, used body of the Sun God and understand the absolute power of the World Government.”

And so they left him there. Naked, broken, and utterly hollowed out. The vibrant, rubbery body that had stretched to the sky in laughter was now a limp, discarded puppet. His drained testicles, a final, humiliating testament to his defeat. The throne room was silent save for the ragged, hiccupping breaths that shuddered through him.

He was not a king. He was not a hero. He was not even a man.

He was a warning.

Monkey D. Luffy, the boy who would be King of the Pirates, lay displayed on the cold floor, and the only thing left inside him was a silent, endless scream into a void that no longer echoed with the sound of drums.