The afternoon light slanted through the tavern windows, casting golden beams across the quiet hall. Dust motes danced in the air like drifting spirits. Ragnar stood by the hearth, splitting logs with rhythmic precision.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
The axe bit into the wood, each strike steady, grounding. A peaceful task. A good task.
Then—
It hit.
Not a sound. Not a sight. A feeling. A violent tear in the fabric of his soul.
His breath caught.
An image exploded behind his eyes—Iris, her face streaked with tears, her small hands reaching for him, her mouth open in a silent scream. The pain that followed was physical, sharp, and unbearable. His chest seized. The axe slipped from his hand and clattered against the stone.
Ragnar staggered back, clutching his heart.
Iris.
He didn't think. He moved.
A blur of red hair and raw urgency burst through the tavern doors. Snow and wind whipped past him as he tore down the street, the quiet village blurring around him.
He slammed open the schoolhouse door.
The wooden frame cracked against the wall. Children screamed. The teacher dropped her chalk.
"Iris!" Ragnar gasped, voice raw. "Where is she?!"
Elara, the young teacher, stepped back, eyes wide. "M-Mr. Ragnar! You're—are you alright?"
"Where. Is. My. Daughter?" he repeated, each word like a blade.
Elara trembled. "A woman… blonde hair. She came for Iris. Said you'd had an accident at the forge. That you were asking for her."
Ragnar's eyes flared. The lie was perfect. Cruel. Designed to exploit Iris's love.
He let out a low, guttural sound—rage and guilt twisted together.
"How long ago?" he snarled.
"Not long! She said she was taking her to the infirmary!"
Lies.
He spun and stormed out, leaving behind a classroom of stunned silence.
Outside, he found the old gate guard dozing in a chair.
Ragnar grabbed the man's tunic and hauled him upright. "A woman. A large man. A little girl with white hair. Which way?!"
The guard blinked, startled. "Th-They went that way, sir! Toward the port road! In a hurry!"
The port. The ship. Of course.
There was no time.
By the smithy, a massive yak-bull stood tethered to a post, steam curling from its nostrils. Ragnar didn't hesitate. He untied the rope, swung onto its broad back, and dug his heels in.
The beast bellowed and charged.
Hooves thundered against the frozen road, kicking up snow and gravel. The wind tore at Ragnar's coat, his golden eyes narrowed to slits. The yak-bull was no longer just a beast—it was his fury, his desperation, his will.
He rounded a bend where the forest thinned—
And his heart seized.
There—blocking the road like a wall of chaos—was a wave of pirates.
Not a single crew, but a coalition. A small army of two dozen brutes, mounted on crude sleds and carts, each pulled by snorting, armored bulls. Their weapons gleamed in the pale light, and their laughter was the sound of cruelty made flesh.
At the center, on the largest and most ornate sled, sat Stussy.
She held Iris tight against her, one gloved hand clamped over the girl's mouth. Iris's eyes were wide, terrified, tears streaking down her cheeks. Her small hands clawed at Stussy's arm, but the grip was iron.
Beside them stood Weevil, his massive naginata resting on his shoulder like a toy. His eyes were blank, waiting for orders.
Stussy's smile was a venomous slash across her face.
"There you are, Gunnar," she called, her voice slicing through the cold air. "Did you really think I'd just walk away? A king's ransom fell into my lap. I couldn't possibly let it slip through my fingers."
Ragnar's bull snorted, steam curling from its nostrils. He didn't speak. His eyes locked on Iris, burning gold.
Iris saw him. Her body trembled, but her gaze held his. She tried to scream, but Stussy's hand muffled the sound.
"He's all yours, boys," Stussy said, her voice dripping with malice. "Just don't kill him. I want him to watch as his treasure sails away."
A savage cheer erupted from the pirates.
The sleds lurched forward—but not in a reckless charge. They moved with precision, fanning out like wolves circling prey. Two sleds flanked Ragnar on the right, two on the left. Others fell in behind, cutting off retreat. The grinding of sleds on frozen earth, the snorting of bulls, and the jeering laughter of pirates created a cacophony of doom.
Ragnar was encircled.
A moving, shrinking cage of muscle and steel.
His face was a mask of cold fury. He gripped the rope leash, knuckles white. The bull beneath him trembled, sensing the storm in its rider's soul.
The world narrowed to a tunnel of violence.
THUMP-THUMP. THUMP-THUMP.
The beat of the bull's hooves. The war drum of Ragnar's heart.
A pirate on the left—a man with a scarred face and a cruel grin—swung a chain-linked flail. It whistled through the air, aimed for the bull's legs.
Ragnar didn't look. He felt the intent.
He yanked the rope hard.
The bull swerved with impossible grace. The flail missed by an inch, striking sparks of snow.
Ragnar leaned out, snatching a low-hanging pine branch thick as his arm.
CRACK.
He swung.
The branch connected with the pirate's head. The man flew from his sled, a ragdoll tossed into the snow-dusted trees. His bull, now riderless, veered off, crashing into another sled.
Another sled surged forward on his right. Two men. One held the reins. The other aimed a heavy crossbow.
THWACK.
The bolt fired.
Ragnar's arm moved—a blur. He didn't deflect it.
He caught it.
Black Haki flared around his fingers, crackling like lightning. Without pause, he hurled it back.
The bolt embedded itself in the throat of the reinsman. He gurgled, slumped. The sled careened. The crossbowman stumbled.
Ragnar's bull surged forward.
He kicked out—his boot splintering the sled's side. It flipped, tossing the pirate into the path of another charging bull.
CRUNCH.
The sound was swallowed by the crunch of snow.
At the front of the chaos, Stussy watched—her smile faltering, her breath catching.
"You fools!" she shrieked, her voice cracking like a whip. "Together! Bring him down!"
Four sleds surged forward, two from each side, their drivers brandishing spears and spiked clubs. They moved in perfect formation, boxing Ragnar in, leaving no room to maneuver.
But Ragnar didn't flinch.
He leaned forward, pressing his face into the bull's shaggy mane. His voice tore from his chest—not a man's voice, but the roar of the mountain itself.
"HRAAAGH!"
He poured his will—his Conqueror's Haki—not outward in a blast, but downward, into the beast beneath him.
The bull's eyes glowed red. It bellowed, a sound that shook the trees and sent birds fleeing from the canopy. Then it charged—not like an animal, but like a living avalanche.
It slammed into the front-left sled.
The sled didn't break.
It disintegrated.
The two pirates aboard were launched into the air, screaming, their weapons spinning uselessly from their hands.
Ragnar used the momentum. He vaulted from the bull's back, landing squarely on the sled to his right. The two pirates there froze, eyes wide, mouths open.
They didn't even scream.
CRUNCH. CRUNCH.
Ragnar slammed their skulls together. Their bodies dropped like sacks of meat.
He seized the reins of their bull just as his own mount, now riderless, gored another sled, flipping it into the trees.
Now Ragnar was the one driving a chariot of death.
He turned the sled with brutal precision, steering it straight into the heart of the remaining attackers. His fists were black with Haki, his eyes glowing gold.
The pirates—brutes, killers, mercenaries—felt something they hadn't felt in years.
Fear.
They broke formation.
Some tried to flee. Others turned their sleds around in panic. It didn't matter.
Ragnar was relentless.
He rammed one sled from behind, sending it tumbling end over end. He leapt from his sled to another, a whirlwind of fists and fury. Wood shattered. Bones broke. Screams echoed through the trees.
The entire skirmish lasted less than a minute.
When it ended, the road behind him was a graveyard of splintered sleds and broken bodies.
Only one sled remained.
The one carrying Stussy, Weevil, and Iris.
Ragnar stood once more atop his original bull, which had trotted back to him, bloodied but proud. He planted his feet on its back, unmoving. The beast snorted, steam curling from its nostrils.
Fifty feet of blood-soaked snow separated them.
Ragnar's red hair was wild in the wind. His knuckles were raw. His coat was torn. But his eyes—those golden, burning eyes—were calm.
Stussy's face was pale. The triumphant smirk was gone, replaced by disbelief and cold fury. She gripped Iris tighter, her fingers trembling.
Weevil stepped forward, placing himself between them. His naginata gleamed. His brow furrowed.