One Piece : Brotherhood-Chapter 567

Dressrosa, New World

The streets of Dressrosa were alive with color and song. Vendors called from their stalls, children raced past with laughter ringing in the air, and the golden midday sun bathed the tiled rooftops in a warm glow. Admiral Kuzan walked through it all at his own unhurried pace, hands buried in his coat pockets, his lazy eyes half-lidded as if he had just rolled out of bed.

But despite his casual demeanor, he was watching. Always watching.

The man beside him, cane tapping rhythmically against the cobblestones, moved with quiet dignity. Wherever they passed, the reaction of the citizens was the same. Heads bowed. Voices lifted in cheerful greetings. Some pressed their hands together in gratitude, while others simply smiled with a relief so genuine it was impossible to fake.

It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t obligation. It was respect.

Kuzan’s sharp gaze flicked sideways to the blind swordsman — Issho, known across the seas as "Fujitora," the guardian of Dressrosa. His presence rippled through the streets like a tide, and the people responded as though walking in the presence of a saint rather than a pirate carrying a bounty north of a billion.

"For a pirate carrying a bounty surpassing a billion berries..." Kuzan muttered, his tone deceptively casual as his eyes tracked the way even hardened merchants tipped their hats in reverence. "...you seem to be respected very well in this country."

The swordsman gave no immediate reply, only the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he dipped his head politely to a group of children who had stopped their play to wave at him. His blindness mattered little here. Issho didn’t need sight to see.

Kuzan exhaled, his breath curling lazily in the warm air. Yet within his easy tone was an edge of curiosity. He remembered well their clash years ago on the shores of this very island. He had faced monsters in his career — emperors, legends, the embodiment of chaos itself — and Issho had stood among them. Even back then Kuzan had failed to measure the full depth of the man’s strength. Now, after all these years, he was no closer. 𝒇𝙧𝙚𝓮𝙬𝙚𝓫𝒏𝓸𝓿𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝙤𝓶

If anything, Issho seemed greater, weightier, as if time had only honed him into something even more formidable. Kuzan’s gaze lingered, studying the man as though searching for cracks in an enigma. Then, he asked quietly — though his words carried the weight of honest intrigue.

"I sometimes wonder how a man such as yourself ended up becoming a pirate in the first place...?"

The question hung in the air between them, carried away by the wind that swept through the bustling streets. It wasn’t just idle curiosity. Out of all the cadres of the Donquixote family, Issho struck Kuzan as something entirely different. A man who embodied justice, integrity, and compassion more sincerely than many Marines who wore the uniform.

To Kuzan’s eyes, Issho was a paradox — a pirate who walked with the bearing of a protector, a warrior feared by the world yet revered by the weak, a man who could have sat among the highest ranks of the Marines but chose instead to cast his lot with those branded as criminals.

And as Kuzan studied him, he couldn’t shake the thought, this man — calm, blind, unshakable — might very well be capable of standing at the same level as the Yonko themselves.

Issho paused mid-step, the faint clack of his cane echoing softly on the cobblestones. The streets bustled around them, but for a moment it felt as though the world had quieted, holding its breath for his reply.

"At first..." Issho began, his voice calm, almost conversational, yet carrying a depth that drew even passing strangers into silence, "...it was simply because of a promise."

His expression softened beneath the shadow of his kasa hat. The faint smile on his lips was tinged with something heavier — remembrance, perhaps.

"Or maybe," he continued, "it was gratitude... for someone who chose to spare my life when they had every reason not to."

Kuzan’s brow arched slightly. He didn’t press — he didn’t have to. The weight in Issho’s words told him there was more beneath the surface, fragments of a past that the blind man carried alone.

"But later..." Issho tilted his face upward, as though staring into a sky he couldn’t see. "Later, down the years, I realized something simple. Just because I am branded a pirate... does not mean I have to be evil."

The words carried no arrogance, no defiance, just a serene truth that resonated like the steady flow of a river. Kuzan studied him silently. Here was a man hunted by the World Government, reviled on wanted posters across every sea, and yet—children waved at him with unshakable trust, and townsfolk smiled with gratitude in their eyes.

Issho tapped his cane once, firmly, as if punctuating his thought. "Evil and good... they’re not stamped into our foreheads by the titles the world gives us. They’re choices, Admiral Aokiji. Choices we make each day, in the lives we save... or the ones we turn away from."

His head turned ever so slightly toward Kuzan, sightless eyes seeming to pierce deeper than vision ever could.

"I chose to stand where I can see the suffering of this world... and try, in my own way, to ease it. If the world insists that makes me a pirate, then so be it. I’ll carry that name — but I won’t carry their sins."

The wind tugged at the edges of his robes, and in that instant, Kuzan felt the weight of the man beside him. A force as immovable as the mountains, as steady as the tides. This wasn’t the philosophy of a pirate or even of a Marine. It was the creed of a man who had truly looked into the abyss of human suffering and chosen to stand against it, regardless of the cost.

Kuzan exhaled a slow breath, his lazy eyes narrowing slightly, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "...You really are a strange one, aren’t you..?."

Issho chuckled softly, the sound warm, disarming — as if to deflate the gravity of his own words. "Perhaps. But this world... it needs strange men, doesn’t it?"

Kuzan’s lazy gaze lingered on the blind man at his side. Issho walked with the same steady rhythm he always had, unhurried, unshaken, as though the world itself bent to his pace. What struck Kuzan most was not his blindness, but the ease with which he carried himself — utterly unbothered by the fact that he bore the crest of one of the most feared Yonko crews in the New World.

It was strange, Kuzan thought. In every Marine report, in every dossier compiled by Cipher Pol, Issho never appeared as a man following the Donquixote brothers. If anything, he looked like the one who had set the moral compass for the entire crew. Their actions, their code, even their restraint — all seemed to orbit the quiet gravity of this single man.

The Marines knew his history well. Issho’s past was no secret to their vast intelligence network. A former military chief of the Aoi Kingdom, a man entrusted with the protection of its throne, until war consumed his homeland and reduced it to rubble.

The records branded him a war criminal — not for what he had done, but for what he had failed to do: protect the royal family, protect the king. When his nation fell, Issho vanished from history’s stage, only to resurface years later at the Donquixote brothers’ side, no longer a general but their most trusted blade.

Even reading those files, Kuzan had sensed something different about him. Issho wasn’t a man who craved power, nor one who reveled in blood. If anything, the line that tied his past and present together was simple, almost naive in its constancy: he believed in justice. Not the World Government’s justice, nor even Marine justice. His own.

Kuzan exhaled a thin plume of frost in the crisp air, breaking the silence.

"Does it not bother you...?"

Issho tilted his head slightly, confused by the abruptness of the question.

"Bother me, Admiral...?"

"Yes," Kuzan pressed, his voice still calm, but sharper now. "No matter how colorful it looks here — the smiles, the laughter, the peace — at the end of the day, the Donquixote family are still pirates. All this wealth, all this prosperity these people enjoy..." He swept his hand at the bustling market street, the vendors waving to Issho as if he were their guardian angel. "...doesn’t it bother you that it comes from plunder? From the weak, stripped bare so that your kingdom can flourish?"

For a heartbeat, the air between them tightened. Issho stopped, planting his cane firmly on the stone path. His sightless eyes turned toward Kuzan, and though he could not see, the Admiral felt pinned beneath the weight of that invisible gaze.

"Admiral Aokiji..." Issho’s voice was calm — but beneath it thrummed a low, unshakable steel.

"For a man who serves the World Government willingly, you sure do speak with a hypocrite’s tongue."

Kuzan’s jaw tightened.

Issho’s hand rested lightly on the hilt of his blade, not in threat, but as though grounding his words. "Do not lump us together with the criminals who roam the seas. We do not pillage. Our wealth does not flow from chains and bloodshed. Most of it comes from trade, from partnerships, from building something that even the World Government has never given these people — security."

His voice carried now, strong enough that even a few townsfolk passing by slowed to listen, their heads turning toward their guardian.

"Dressrosa has never raised its banners to conquer. Not once have we attacked another kingdom unprovoked. But the world calls us pirates, Admiral. Do you know why?" He tapped his cane against the stone, the sharp tak resounding like a gavel.

"Because the World Government fears what it cannot control. Because they must paint us black, so their justice appears white."

The air stilled, as if even the wind waited on his words.

"They call us evil, brand us pirates, so the world does not question why we resist. But tell me, Admiral Kuzan..." Issho tilted his head, his expression unreadable beneath the kasa hat. "...how different is that from you Marines, hunting down children for bearing the name of D? From your Celestial Dragons who dress their slaves in chains and call it divinity? Tell me, which sin is greater — the sin of a man branded a pirate... or the sin of a world that brands monsters as gods?"

Kuzan’s eyes narrowed, a glint of frost shimmering at his fingertips before he let it dissipate. He wasn’t angry — Issho’s words didn’t sting because they were insults. They stung because they rang too close to truths Kuzan had spent years trying to ignore.

Issho smiled faintly, serene as always. "No, Admiral. It does not bother me. For I know who I am. And more importantly... so do they."

A child ran past then, tugging at Issho’s robe, beaming up at him with a basket of fresh fruit. "Issho-san! Mama says thank you again for helping last winter!"

Issho bent low, patting the child gently on the head, his expression softening in a way that needed no eyes to be understood.

Kuzan said nothing. He only watched — and in that quiet moment, he realized what made this man dangerous was not his strength, nor his haki, nor even his blade. It was the simple fact that he had turned the word pirate into something these people no longer feared, but respected.

"You would’ve made a damn good Marine..." Kuzan said at last, his voice lacking its usual laziness. There was no jest in his tone — only sincerity. After all the years he had spent in uniform, fighting under the banner of "Justice," he could count on one hand the number of men who truly fought for people, not power. And Issho... Issho was one of them.

The blind man chuckled softly, tilting his head as if the notion itself amused him. Then his expression hardened, and his grip on the hilt of his sword tightened ever so slightly.

"And become a lackey of the World Government? ...No thank you."

His voice cut through the bustling street like a blade. The chatter of merchants, the laughter of children, the clatter of carts seemed to fade, leaving only his words and the weight they carried.

"I don’t need a banner to tell me what’s right. I don’t need a uniform to validate what my heart already knows. In my eyes, the Marines you speak so highly of are nothing more than glorified pirates, serving under the cruelest of rulers. They plunder, they enforce, they kill — not because it is just, but because it is ordered."

Kuzan’s brow furrowed. He wanted to interrupt, to protest, but Issho pressed on. His sightless gaze turned upward toward the sky, as though addressing the heavens themselves.

"And this propaganda you cling to — this idea that the Marines are the very embodiment of ’Justice’?" His lips curled in a faint, bitter smile. "Even a blind man such as myself can see it for what it truly is... nothing but a grand joke."

There was no anger in his tone, only weary conviction. Years of watching, listening, and understanding the weight of suffering had carved the truth into his very soul.

"I do not claim every Marine is evil," Issho continued, softer now, his voice like the rumble of distant thunder. "I know there are good men among you, men who truly want to protect the innocent. But how can I respect an institution that chains itself so willingly to monsters? The World Government enslaves, oppresses, and destroys — and yet, time and time again, it is you Marines who arrive as their executioners. Beacons of justice?" His smile faded. "No. You are the shadow their tyranny casts."

Kuzan felt a shiver, though not from the cold. There was no venom in Issho’s words, no self-righteous fury. Only truth — simple, undeniable, and crushing in its clarity.

And for perhaps the first time in years, the Admiral had no rebuttal.

For a long while, Kuzan said nothing. His hands were stuffed into his pockets, shoulders hunched in that usual lazy slouch, but inside his chest a storm brewed.

Issho’s words rang louder in his mind than the noise of the streets. Glorified pirates... enforcers of tyranny... beacons of justice, nothing but a joke.

The painful part was that he couldn’t dismiss them. He knew they weren’t empty accusations. He had seen it all himself — the Celestial Dragons dragging slaves through Sabaody, the Buster Call on Ohara, the countless cover-ups that painted massacres as "justice." And yet, even as those memories clawed at him, he had always found a way to bury them under excuses. Orders are orders. Justice is absolute. Without us, chaos reigns.

But here, standing beside a so-called pirate, Kuzan felt his excuses unravel. Issho was no tyrant, no plunderer, no monster. He was... what the Marines were supposed to be.

Finally, Kuzan broke the silence. His voice was low, stripped of its usual casual tone.

"...Then tell me, Issho. If the Marines are shadows, if justice is just a joke... how do you do it? How do you pursue justice without a banner, without a system, without the power of an institution behind you?"

Issho tilted his head, his milky eyes unblinking. For a moment, he seemed to be listening — not to Kuzan, but to the rhythm of the world around them: the laughter of a child chasing a ball, the quiet hum of an old woman selling fruit, the sigh of the wind against the stone streets of Dressrosa.

"I walk where I am needed," Issho answered at last, voice calm as still water. "I do not chase ideals. I do not cling to slogans. I listen. I feel. When I sense suffering, I move. That is all."

He paused, the corner of his lips curling into the faintest of smiles.

"Justice, Admiral Kuzan, is not a word to be shouted. It is a weight to be carried. Every man decides for himself how heavy that burden will be."

Kuzan’s chest tightened. His usual cool, detached demeanor felt stripped bare. Issho’s answer wasn’t grand, it wasn’t complex — it was frighteningly simple.

Justice isn’t handed down by the World Government. It isn’t written in doctrine or shouted through propaganda. It was... a choice. A burden. And for the first time, Kuzan wondered if he had chosen wrong.

Issho tilted his head slightly, the faintest trace of pity hidden behind his calm expression. His unseeing eyes seemed to pierce deeper than sight ever could.

"...And what of you, Admiral Kuzan?" he asked softly. "What does justice mean to you?"

The words hung in the air like a blade. For once, Kuzan couldn’t hide behind his lazy drawl or half-sarcastic quips. He felt his throat tighten.

Issho’s voice deepened, steady as an earthquake rumbling beneath their feet.

"You carry the banner of the Marines... but who does that banner truly shield? Do you protect the people, or the ones who sit atop the world and look down on them as less than human? Tell me, Kuzan... does serving the Celestial Dragons amount to justice in your eyes?"

The question slammed into him harder than any sword or fist ever could. Memories surged like a tide. The cries of children as flames devoured Ohara. The sound of chains clinking in Sabaody as slaves were dragged through the streets. The laughter of a Celestial Dragon pulling the trigger on a helpless mother.

And through it all, the silence of the Marines — his silence. Kuzan clenched his jaw, the usual fog of indifference in his eyes now storm-dark. His hand twitched inside his pocket as if trying to grip something that wasn’t there. He opened his mouth to answer — but no words came.

For the first time in years, he felt naked. Not as an Admiral. Not as a soldier. But as a man. Issho turned his face toward the distant streets, where the people of Dressrosa smiled and lived freely, untouched by the chains that bound so much of the world.

"You see, Kuzan... I do not need the Celestial Dragons’ approval to know I am serving justice. I need only look into the faces of the people I protect."

The blind man’s milky eyes softened, but his words struck like thunder.

"You call me a pirate. But tell me... who is the true criminal? The one who defies tyrants, or the one who obeys them?"

Kuzan stood frozen, the wind brushing against his coat, the weight of those words crushing down on him. For the first time, he wondered if everything he had stood for, everything he had fought for, was nothing but a lie.

The silence stretched between them until Kuzan finally exhaled a slow, heavy breath. He reached up, tugging the rim of his coat higher over his shoulders.

"...Excuse me," he muttered, his voice quieter than usual, stripped of its lazy tone. Without waiting for Issho’s reply, the Admiral turned and walked away. He left the blind man behind, but the weight of Issho’s words followed him like a shadow.

Through the winding streets of Dressrosa, Kuzan wandered. Everywhere he looked, he saw people living with a vibrancy he hadn’t seen in half the kingdoms under the World Government’s banner. Merchants laughed as they bartered in the markets, children darted between the legs of armored guards without fear, and workers sang as they hauled crates down to the docks.

And everywhere... there was joy. Not the forced smiles of oppressed citizens under a Marine garrison. Not the fearful obedience of people bowing before the World Government’s flag. But genuine joy — born from trust, from safety, from freedom.

Kuzan’s boots crunched against the cobblestones as he passed a group of children tugging playfully at Issho’s robes in the distance, their laughter echoing through the square. The blind man only smiled gently, allowing them their mischief. The people did not look at him and see a pirate. They looked at him and saw a protector.

"...Freedom," Kuzan whispered to himself.

It gnawed at him. This paradise, this peace, this prosperity — it hadn’t been built by the Marines. It hadn’t been handed down by the Celestial Dragons. It had been carved out of blood and sacrifice by men branded as criminals, enemies of the world.

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, his eyes hardening as fragments of memory flashed unbidden, the Celestial Dragons laughing as slaves were auctioned off like cattle. The screams of civilians as fire rained from the sky and hunted like game. The countless reports of kingdoms stripped bare under the guise of "Heavenly Tribute."

And yet those atrocities had all been sanctioned, legitimized, and protected under the name of justice. Kuzan’s steps slowed as he came to a fountain where a pair of young lovers sat whispering to each other, no fear in their eyes. He tilted his head back, staring up at the sky as though the clouds might give him answers.

"Justice, huh...?" he muttered bitterly.

Issho’s voice echoed in his mind. Who is the true criminal? The one who defies tyrants, or the one who obeys them?

For the first time in decades, Admiral Kuzan questioned not just his path — but the very foundation of the Marines themselves. And in that moment, the seed of doubt sprouted, silent but unshakable.