I was born beneath gold ceilings.
Not metaphorically. Real gold. Ornate carvings stretched across the walls, every inch shaped by craftsmen whose names had been stripped the moment their work was done. There were no lullabies in Mariejois, only the soft shuffle of silent servants and the hiss of nobility breathing through veils of entitlement.
And yet, in the chaos of reincarnation, I smiled.
I had died in another world—faceless, nameless, worthless. One moment I was choking on exhaust fumes and bad choices, the next I was wailing in the arms of a palace maid while cloaked men whispered about lineage.
I was Lucien.Saint Lucien Figarland.Son of Figarland Garling—Divine Knight Commander, executioner of the worthless, and living monument to the rot of the World Government.
I didn't cry out of confusion. I cried because I had won.
Eight Years Later
"Don't lower your eyes, Mireille," I said, voice soft like a scalpel. "You represent me now. Keep your back straight."
The girl flinched, then obeyed. Eight years old—same as me, though we both looked like we'd seen centuries more. She had long black hair, a face too sharp for her age, and a scar under her collarbone — one she never talked about.
She and her sister, Raisa, were the daughters of a slave. Their mother once served in our estate, stripped of her name, branded behind the shoulder. She died shielding me from a jealous outburst by another noble child — a boy who no longer walks. I made sure of that.
Some call what I did mercy. Others call it madness. I call it… ownership.
Their lives were mine to sculpt.
We trained every morning at dawn, before the palace's uglier faces stirred. Beneath the gardens, away from Garling's eyes, I had a private chamber of my own design: a stone-cold arena lit by sea-glass torches and ancient weaponry from long-dead kingdoms. The smell of blood never left the stones.
Raisa, the elder, charged at me with a wooden sword, breath steady, eyes focused. She was the wild one — untamed when I found her, all teeth and rage. Now she moved like a dancer trained in death.
Steel clashed. Our blades locked. I let mine slip just enough.
"Too eager," I murmured, stepping inside her guard. I jabbed her in the ribs. Not hard. Just enough for pain. "Always wait for the second breath."
She gasped, winced, and bowed her head. "Yes, Master Lucien."
I hate that title. I love it when they say it.
The Public Mask
In front of other nobles, I was the obedient son. Soft-spoken. Brilliant. The one the Gorosei whispered about.
I was never like the other brats.
They burned insects for fun. I memorized the marine command chain and mapped bounties in my sleep. They mocked slaves. I spoke to them when no one watched. Not out of pity — I wanted to understand the world from every rung of the chain.
"Why do you speak to them?" one noble girl asked once, peeking through her lace fan.
"Because they're honest," I replied with a pleasant smile. "You should try it sometime."
She didn't talk to me again. She couldn't tell if it was an insult or a compliment.
That was the point.
When I First Met Hancock
The first time I saw Boa Hancock, I was ten.
She had just been released from slavery and was being paraded before the Celestial Court. I remember her eyes — not broken like most, but simmering. Fury she couldn't show. Dignity she refused to lose.
She looked at me like I was filth.
I remember smiling.
Not because I wanted her. Not then. But because I realized: she's like me. Not a lamb, not a fool. A monster in beautiful skin, caged only by timing.
She hated me. But one day, I would enjoy watching her pretend otherwise.
My Father, The Butcher
Saint Garling rarely spoke. When he did, it was law.
He trained me once a week. No words, just bruises. His sword was like a guillotine — every motion meant to kill. He taught with violence. I learned quickly.
"You are my blood," he said one night. "That means you are expected to be worse than me."
I nodded, smiling through split lips. "Yes, Father."
Inside, I laughed.
I wouldn't just be worse. I would be everything.
Nightfall – A Moment of Truth
I sat in my private study — a cavernous library three floors below the main estate. No one but Raisa and Mireille knew it existed. I called it The Archive.
Parchment covered the desk. I charted the seas, not in miles but movements: which pirate crews were rising, which admirals were shifting posts. Straw Hat Luffy's name appeared occasionally, a mere speck on a greater map. He interested me.
Not because of what he'd become.
Because I wanted to see if a man like him could ever notice someone like me — someone who doesn't shout, doesn't fight, but moves the board beneath the table.
Someday, he would.
Final Words for the Night
Raisa brought me tea. Mireille curled up silently in the reading corner. Neither spoke unless I allowed it. Not out of fear — out of ritual.
"You both did well today," I said.
They brightened, almost childlike.
"Will we ever leave Mariejois?" Mireille asked. "The seas… they call to me."
I tilted my head.
"Of course," I said, sipping. "One day, we'll travel the world."
I leaned back, smiling at the ceiling of gold.
"And when we do, the world will kneel. Not because we demand it… but because it has no choice."