Chapter Text
Another day. Another training session. Another exact repetition of the same movements, at the same pace, with the same required precision, wearing the same impeccable clothes, consuming exactly what was necessary, no more, no less. The routine did not fail. It never failed. Procedures, commands, corrections, raised voices that should not provoke any reaction. And they didn’t.
On the outside, Ichiji was perfect.
Posture aligned. Responses exact. Execution flawless. He spoke only when addressed by Judge, without hesitation, without delay. The ideal heir. The expected result.
The perfect puppet.
But inside...
Something was wrong.
It wasn’t recent. It never was.
It was old, constant, persistent in a way he couldn’t name. A noise that had existed since before he understood what silence was. A discomfort without a defined origin. A flaw.
And, somewhere deeper, almost unreachable, there was the echo of something even fainter, too small to be identified, but impossible to completely erase.
A red-haired child.
Confused.
'Why am I doing this? Why can’t I stop?'
Who didn’t understand why his hands struck his brother’s body before any order could be questioned. Who didn’t understand why, with every visit to the scientists, something seemed to... Diminish. Not in strength. Not in performance. Something that shouldn’t even exist to be measured.
Who didn’t understand why refusing was never an option.
And accepting wasn’t a choice either.
Everything was simply executed.
Always what was necessary.
Always enough.
Then why didn’t it feel like it was?
The inconsistency persisted.
He should ignore it.
He couldn’t.
Something was building. Pressure without form, without name, without defined function. A constant impulse that didn’t turn into action, only remained there, occupying space where nothing should exist except execution.
He wanted...
The thought cut off before it could complete. Always.
Even so, the residue remained.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to express himself.
'Someone help me...'
He wanted to talk to his brothers about something that didn’t involve missions, strategies, performance, results. He wanted a conversation without a defined objective, one that didn’t require a correct answer, that wouldn’t be evaluated.
Useless.
Interactions were limited to what was necessary. They always had been. With them. With nobles. With anyone. Measured words, controlled tone, irrelevant content as long as it followed protocol. Never more than required. Never less.
Always enough.
Then why wasn’t it?
The only acceptable variations occurred when his father was absent. Short periods. Orders left in advance. Autonomy granted not as a privilege, but as an operational necessity.
Inconvenient.
In those intervals, something changed. Not externally. Performance remained intact. Routines were maintained.
But there was space.
Ichiji used that space inefficiently.
He sat on the balcony of his room. Remained there for varying periods, watching the sky without a clear objective. He breathed more times than necessary.
He thought.
It was in those moments that the error became more evident.
He wanted to escape.
The idea came fully formed. Clear.
Wrong.
He wanted to run, go anywhere that wasn’t defined, wasn’t mapped, wasn’t under control.
His body reacted immediately.
Immobilization.
Like an internal containment mechanism, activated before the thought could fully develop. Muscles rigid. Breathing forcibly controlled.
Automatic correction.
So he used his short “free” time the only way he could. He remained in his room. Door closed. No witnesses.
Strawberries, whenever he could get them.
'I wish I could eat more...'
Books, especially the ones he wasn’t supposed to have.
Science fiction, distant worlds, concepts that didn’t exist in Germa, narratives that didn’t demand performance, only reading. He had always been good at it, which was useful for the political lessons he was required to master, analysis, strategy, predictability. But that... that was different. It wasn’t useful. It wasn’t necessary.
And still, he continued.
Because sometimes, he wanted to read other things. Fantastical stories, unreal, useless. Forbidden. To Judge, that was nothing but a waste of time, something that didn’t contribute to efficiency, something that should be eliminated. Ichiji knew that.
He had known since the first time.
The memory came fragmented, unstable, but still present. Too young to understand, too young to question.
A white room.
A soft voice.
Stories about princes, dragons, places that didn’t exist. His mother, him, and his brothers close by, listening without interruptions, without commands, without demands.
'Why couldn’t they ever see her? Why did she always seem sick? Germa was supposed to be superior... why couldn’t they cure their mother?'
Before the protocols were fully implemented.
Before the visits were cut off.
He didn’t know if his brothers felt the same. There was no space for that kind of questioning between them, no opening that allowed that kind of exchange. Interactions were direct, objective, limited to what was necessary. Even so, patterns existed.
Differences.
Small flaws that, on their own, could be ignored, but not by him.
Niji had always been unstable. Not externally, his performance was perfect, but there was something constant, something that repeated. Irritation. If there was one identifiable emotion in him, it was anger, everything seemed to provoke a response, everything seemed to demand reaction. He was the opposite of Yonji, who operated almost too lightly, as if nothing had weight, as if everything were entertainment. Easy laughter, and A sense of etiquette that didn’t quite make sense, almost... gentle.
Ichiji observed.
And did not interfere.
He knew what happened inside the palace. He knew what the servants endured, the pattern of behavior, the constant provocations, the excesses. Food thrown, contradictory orders, raised voices, laughter.
Judge did not correct it.
It was not considered an error.
As long as missions were completed perfectly, as long as public behavior remained impeccable before the nobility, nothing else mattered. The rest was irrelevant.
He was fifteen when he first heard about Haki. Anything that could bring advantage in combat caught Judge’s attention, power was utility, and utility was priority. The problem lay in the nature of Haki itself. It wasn’t an external resource, something that could be implanted, modified, or artificially reproduced.
It was internal.
Dependent on will. On emotions.
Incompatible.
The “perfect machines” were not supposed to possess any of that in sufficient quantity to manifest it. Even so, attempts were made, without success. The project was discarded, replaced by more efficient solutions, more resistant exoskeletons, physical adaptations capable of compensating for the disadvantage against Haki users.
Ichiji, however, did not discard the concept so easily, the record remained. Classified as something beyond immediate utility. There was interest. He sought more information under an acceptable justification, understanding the enemy, anticipating patterns, neutralizing threats before they became real risks. The argument was accepted, and access was granted.
That was how he came into contact with one of its variations: Observation Haki. An ability described as the capacity to perceive presences beyond normal range, identify intentions, predict movements before they happened. An expanded awareness of the surrounding environment. Some users were able to detect subtle fluctuations, as if they could read other people’s emotions.
Reading emotions.
Ichiji returned to that part more times than necessary. If emotions were a requirement, then its use should be impossible for them.
The thought came before it could be interrupted.
What if...
If he could perceive something beyond what was visible. If there was a way to identify what was not said, not shown, not allowed... Then maybe it would be possible to confirm.
About his brothers.
Ichiji did not have enough data to claim there was something wrong with them. Only patterns. Deviations. Inadequate responses in specific moments. Niji, with aggression that exceeded what was necessary. Yonji, with gentle responses, laughter out of context, interest in stimuli that should be irrelevant.
Flaws.
Or something else.
He couldn’t ask, there was no space for that kind of communication.
But there was observation.
It was his function.
It was his responsibility.
He was the eldest.
The line of thought slowed for a moment.
'I should protect them... What am I doing?'
Protection.
The word appeared unprompted. Without immediate utility. Without logical placement within the system he followed.
Even if he had already failed once with one of them...
'Sanji... I hope you’re okay.
He needed to know.
And without communication, without direct confirmation, without access to internal variables that shouldn’t exist. There was only one possible method left.
The only one that had always worked.
Ichiji returned to the beginning of the material he had available.
And studied.