Heaven Has No Limit Chapter 6 - Speedrun

“Don’t touch them! They belong to the Saint!”

The first time Boa Hancock heard those words, was in the Auction House, after a set of explosive collars had been affixed upon her neck. One of the guards had slapped a girl she had never seen, knocking that girl down, and she readied herself to intervene, to stop the horrid outcome that would come, another slave had spoken up, a frail old woman, from a cell.

“The Saint said he wants girls from the Isle of Women! Do you think you can survive his wrath if you continue?”

The guard had frozen stiff, then, immediately looking at the girl in confusion.

“She’s not from the Isle of Women—”

“How do you know? Have you ever been to the Isle of Women? Huh? Have you? What if she ends up being one?”

The man hadn’t said anything, he cursed under his breath, and left, and she, Boa Hancock, covered in rags in the Auction House with her sisters, had no words for the actions of that old woman.

The girl had thanked her profusely, but the old woman had only shaken her head, denying the praise. “Thank the Saint of Liberation. Because of him… because he made it clear that anyone who brings him girls from the Isle of Women would be given a big reward… a lot of women captured into slavery have had it easier…” 

“It’s true,” another captive, an old man from the Long-Arm Tribe said. “Before, captors would not hesitate to do unthinkable things to you girls, but now, they think twice… they don’t dare. They’re afraid of his wrath… and wish to gain his favor.”

The Saint of Liberation, the old woman had called him. The three of them, three sisters, turned to each other, each holding confusion and curiosity.

“Granny, who is this… Saint of Liberation?” Sandersonia had asked.

“Oh, you three are new here, so you don’t know. He is Saint Jaygarcia Noah. He is the kindest of the Celestial Dragons, the Gods, the Saints. He is a child, young, but already he differs from the majority. Through his games, those of us who have given up all hope, and believe we would never be free again, have found hope. Hope for a better tomorrow. Hope that we can still survive.”

The old woman had gone in depth, speaking of slaves who had been given hot meals, food, slaves spared from work, slaves granted leave of their slavery. The old woman had spoken with a pious, almost reverent tone, with tear-filled eyes, and many others had nodded along, corroborating such tales.

“If you get an opportunity to win one of Saint Noah’s games… your life can turn around for the better. You have a chance to become free again.”

“We’ll escape and gain our freedom by ourselves!” Marigold had huffed. “We’re proud warriors of the Kuja Tribe! We don’t need someone’s charity!”

“Marigold!” Hancock barked.

“K-K-Kuja?!”

“She doesn’t mean what she says,” Hancock said quickly, shooting a dirty look to her youngest sister. “She often speaks without thinking.”

“But Hancock-nee we—”

“Not another word, Marigold!”

Marigold held pride in their identity, so much so. She idolized Tritoma, the current Captain of the Kuja Pirates, and the Empress. On their Island, strength was beauty, thus the strongest was said to be the most beautiful. As one of the few chosen to become apprentices on the Kuja Pirates ship, one of the few allowed to leave the Island and see the world of men, Marigold’s pride in her strength, and thus, her home was the greatest of them all, because she was the youngest of them all.

However, she was also the least cunning of them all. It was a problem, Hancock knew, with many women on the Isle, in that they lacked guile. Even she was no different, having never seen a man until the first time she set foot off the Island, the first time she set sail. Many of the women of the Kuja Tribe were utterly incapable of deception, growing up amongst their fellow sisters, fighting honestly, openly, in a society where strength was respected. As strength meant victory through overwhelming, indisputable might, the art of duplicity was detested and denounced, and the finer nuances of deception disparaged.

Marigold had never needed to deceive anyone before, lie to anyone, trick anyone, her sisters least of all, so she could not do so. Even now, she still did not understand why such a thing was needed, despite their dangerous circumstances.

Yet, Hancock could not blame her. She, too, was once like her. When she was an inquisitive child, Hancock had asked, how it was new girls came to be on the Isle of Women, but she had been given lies about storks bringing them that fooled no one. Only one of the older women on the Isle had told her about men, about what they did, about how ‘new women’ came to be on the Isle with vivid, obscene detail.

She remembered thinking it to be a lie, or, if not a lie, the greatest act of treachery. Men were not allowed on the Isle, those who left the Isle in pursuit of such men were condemned, yet, for their population to continue, for the Isle to continue exist, the Kuja Pirates needed to not only go and meet men, but do such filthy things with them?

Her sisters did not, had not, and had never even heard of such acts before. They had, not too long ago, still believed the tales of storks. Many on the Isle of Women also believed such tales. They knew nothing of men, nothing at all, and thus, nothing of the acts between men and women, or the union responsible for their own existence.

Hancock learnt from that same older Kuja, who cautioned her, telling her there had been no small number of apprentices of the Kuja Pirates who ended up being ‘fooled’ out of their purity by men. Not even knowing what a man’s genitals were, they would be told that the ‘stick’ was a ‘worm’ or ‘dangerous mushroom’ that needed to be removed with one’s mouth, or that only by using a woman’s ‘second lips’ could the ‘dangerous evil’ be killed.

That ignorance about topics of men could be a fatal problem. Hancock tried to learn as much as she could, swearing not to be tricked, and to avoid her sisters being tricked as well. She was still ignorant in many matters, but, unlike the vast majority of the women in the Kuja Tribe, she was not ignorant about her own ignorance.

Her sisters, too, were wisening up. Upon becoming apprentices on the Kuja Pirates ship, only upon meeting ‘men’ for the first time, Marines, men who lusted after them, blatantly displayed inappropriate desires to touch them, their eyes opened, that they grew to learn.

Yet, there was still too much they had to learn. On deception, on lies, on analyzing threats.

On betrayal.

It was unfortunate that they had been captured off their ship, because a lack of understanding of such things would only severely worsen their circumstances.

It was why they had not been too keen to observe that the way the old woman looked at them after hearing about the ‘Kuja Tribe’ changed. Why they had not overlooked how she became overly friendly, taking at face value her word about knowing their former Empress, Shakuyaku. Why they believed her words about an escape plan, listened to her, even aided her, as they fled from the Auction House, surrounded by hundreds of slaves, captured, bound, and tied with ropes to a poll, as the slaves all celebrated.

“We’ll share the Kingdom together! You’ll make me a royal advisor, won’t you, Granny Hachi?”

“No, no, I’m going to be a Minister! Minister of Finance!”

“You’ll be a Queen, Granny! Royalty! I’ll be one of your loyal subjects, haha!”

“You actually did it! Girls from the Isle of Women! Amazon Lily! With this, we’ve won Saint Noah’s games!”

“You lied to us, you old woman!” Marigold yelled, veins bulging from her forehead. “You betrayed us!”

“Hah! Wisen up, girly! You think I want to remain a slave forever? In my old age?! No one’s ever going to buy a thing like me. I’m not young, or pretty, and have breasts no one wants to see. I don’t want to die a slave, not even given a proper burial, left on the roadside for dogs to eat my corpse! In this world, it’s every woman for herself! The sooner you learn that, the happier you’ll be! Just watch! You’ll see! You’ll—”

A bigger, burlier slave had grabbed the old woman’s neck from behind, cutting off her words.

“You’re right, old thing. It’s every one for themselves. Why should we let you become Queen, when you’re already one foot in the grave?”

“Stop it! Let her go!”

No amount of yelling had made a difference. The old woman’s life was wrung out of her neck, her body tossed aside. Her betrayal to them, not even given a moment to breathe, before her death had come.

“You girls fare my ticket to become a King! A King! I will have a crown! I will rule a Kingdom! From a slave… to a King!” 

In the measly one week she had been captured, the one week she had been a slave, Boa Hancock had seen many things, encountered many experiences, and saw so many changes of fortune. Thus, when the man in white came, the one said to be an Agent of something called Cipher Pol, she saw a man go from declaring he would be a King, to having a finger placed in the center of his skull, and collapsing, his face still etched in anticipation for a crown.

The massacre had been hard to stomach. Marigold had vomited three times, unable to stand the sight. They had killed animals before, butchered beasts before, but not people, and not with the casual disregard the Agent had done. Each kill entirely emotionless, and the reason behind each kill uttered in complete monotone, as if merely delivering a message.

After the corpses had piled, then did the Agent turn to them, and speak words that made Hancock tremble.

“Henceforth, you belong to the Saint.”

=====)+(=====

“Let us play a game.”

The voice had come through a white Den-Den Mushi, carried by that horrid man, the CP0 Agent, and it was the voice of a young boy. Smooth and dignified. At least, it was what Boa Hancock assumed a dignified voice would sound like. She had not met many dignified individuals in her life.

Still, it was the voice that belonged to the person that the old woman in the Auction House, the one who ultimately betrayed them, had prayed to encounter. The voice to whom, his mere name alone invoked, was said to have made the lives of female slaves better. A person that many other women in the Auction House, young, old, had sworn up and down to be the kindest and most merciful of all the Celestial Dragons, such that he was referred to as  Saint of Liberation. 

The information had been given before they found out Hancock and her sisters were from the Kuja Tribe, so, it had to be true. They were told that if they entered into his hands, they could, merely by playing a game, regain their freedom.

Hancock had no reason to doubt the words, and no choice but to believe them. The tiniest glimpse of hope was better than none at all, and given her appearance, her sisters’ appearance, there was little doubt of what fate would befall her if she fell into the hands of any other Celestial Dragon.

She had never even known of their existence before she became a slave, and pondered why the Kuja Elder had never so much as mentioned them. The things the other slaves said they did, the power they were said to wield, it was beyond her understanding and her grasp.

No, before becoming a slave, even the notion of slavery was something she did not understand. Not fully. Not properly. The concept of being bought and sold by another person and being unable to fight back against such an ordeal had been difficult to wrap her head around. There were no slaves on Amazon Lily, and the literature available, the few books brought back by the Kuja Pirates had only casual, fleeting mentions of such things.

“This game is called Sharing is Caring. The rules are simple. For the next three months, you will each be kept in three isolated cells. Every day, Guernika will bring a large meal that’s enough to only satisfy two people. Every day, you have a choice—”

His voice had come through the Den-Den Mushi.

“You can decide whether to share or hoard the food he brings. If everyone decides to share, the food is split evenly. If someone hoards, that person gets a bigger portion of the meal. No one will know who decides to share, or who decides to hoard.”

“If, by the end of the three months, all three of you choose to share to the end, all of you will have your freedom. If one of you chooses to hoard… that person earns their freedom immediately, and condemns the other two to be branded as my slaves.”

Boa Hancock did not understand what the purpose of such a game was. At first glance, it appeared it was supposed to be a test of trust, to see if she and her sisters would share no matter what, but that, Hancock could say, was already a given. The trust between the three of them, though having not been tested in battle, was tested through a bond of blood, and a bond of sisters. If all that was needed to do was to prove they could trust each other and share with each other, was their freedom not basically guaranteed? 

“Marigold. Sandersonia. We’ll share, together, as we always have. It is only three months.”

“Yes, Hancock-nee,” Sandersonia nodded.

“We can do it!”

“By the end of the three months, we’ll be sailing back home together!”

They had clutched their hands, huddled together, pressed their foreheads against each other, with trust, before being separated. Hancock held the hope that by the end of the three months, they would meet each other once more, and leave.

By the first day, as she locked in a small, cramped cell that barely had enough space for her legs to stretch, having nothing to do with her time. Her true enemy, would be finding a means to idle the time. There were no books to read, nothing to sew or knit, nothing to fix, or repair, and seldom enough space to train or practice. She could close her eyes, and drift to sleep, and when she tired of sleep, she sat still, and thought of the sound of the sea, the waves, and setting sail once more, finding herself at Amazon Lily, enjoying a hearty welcoming with her sisters.

When the bowl came, when that shallow, wooden bowl of still steaming plain white rice had been shoved through the space, she couldn’t believe it.

“That’s… it? This— this can barely feed a child! You cannot be serious!”

No response had been. Her indignation, anger, frustration, had been vented on a person who did not care. At first, her pride almost refused to let her eat from it. Yet, her common sense told her, allowing it to go to waste would be a mistake. Thus, reluctantly,  she’d slowly eaten every last grain and found it woefully lacking, her stomach gnawed even worse than before, as though it would have been better to have starved, than to have been so dissatisfied.

It was the first time Hancock truly felt such hunger. 

On Amazon Lily, wild animals were always present, and one could always hunt with their ability, and those too old, sick or frail to hunt, were still given food in abundance, so Hancock had never truly felt that sense of hunger.

Thinking it over, Marigold had once been punished by the First Mate, because she’d eaten all the rations once. She had not understood, nor had Hancock, about why it was such a concern. Food was everywhere, and if the rations went out, they would hunt beasts or Sea Kings, and store new ones.

As the second day came, she found that she could not sleep. Her thoughts drifted and wandered uneasily, to Amazon Lily, to her sisters, who were also in the same predicament, to the Captain of the Kuja Pirates, who was no doubt worried for them, to her home, to the sea, again, and to that old woman, the one who betrayed them, the one who claimed it was every woman for herself, only to be killed the next moment, and only for her killer too to suffer the same fate. 

“You’ll see! You’ll see!”

The old woman’s final words repeated, constantly. She saw it, in the bowl of rice that came that day, a bowl that felt so traitorously the same, the meal presented before her, barely enough to be called sustenance. The woman’s voice, the cramped room, the lack of sunlight, of a sense of time, made sleep harder to endure. 

The third, fourth, and fifth day passed in a similar manner, and the only way she could mark the passing of days and time was by the arrival of food, which was a portion of the rice the same, small, tiny, such that even the youngest Kuja Warrior would not have given such morsels to the cats and dogs. Sleep became harder to reach, as she would awaken, not knowing what time it was, with a biting in her stomach the likes of nothing she had ever experienced. 

Desperate, and ashamed, she had licked the emptied plate to feel a sense of satiety that never once followed. Desperate, she turned to the Den-Den Mushi that was kept up above in her cell, watching her, and questioned if she had the stomach to eat it raw.

By the seventh day, unable to sleep, unable to tell what time it was as there was neither a clock nor any indication, and as it had been a week without speaking to anyone, she kept hearing the old woman’s voice. 

“You’ll see!”

Questions and doubts grew. A mere seven days had already pushed her to feel hunger she had never felt before, and discomfort she had never experienced before. Could she truly endure three months of such a thing? In such a cramped room? In the dark? In silence? 

Even if she could…

Could her sisters?

Sandersonia, the middle-born, had grit, confidence, and a strong will. She would not buckle. However, Hancock’s worry was with the youngest, Marigold. That one still had much too learn. That one ate the most out of all of them, and was often warned to watch her diet, lest it affect her growth as a warrior.

Women on Amazon Lily all ate copious amounts of food to maintain their bodies which they trained relentlessly. Going a day without a feast or meal was inconceivable. Thus far, it had been seven with mere scraps, and there were still three months, or eighty-three days of such torment ahead.

Yet, the alternative was inconceivable. Surrender and condemn her younger sisters to slavery?

Hancock would never.

Even if she had to starve, she would never.

She loved her sisters, and would lay down her life for them if needed, and she was certain they would do the same for her.

Thus, the first week passed. Tally marks scratched on the walls indicated seven meals, therefore, seven days. As the second week began, on that day, no bowl of rice came to her. She thought it was a mistake, somehow, that something had gone wrong, somehow.

That day, the hunger grew worse, unbelievably worse. Enduring on that small portion of rice alone had been torture enough, but now that it was gone?

Her body had already consumed a large portion muscle storage, and would soon start consuming fat as well. She had banged on the door, asking what had happened, and why the meal had not come, but no answer had been given. No reply had been provided.

Biting her fingers, all but nibbling and chewing them, when the meal had finally come, she had ravenously gulped it down with such speed she nearly choked, and cast aside her pride to lick the bowl clean.

It was at least, one day of delay, but it made her worry. What had caused it? Would it happen again? What would she do if it did? The uncertainty of whether or not the next meal would come became a new worry, a new concern, and something that kept her up even further, and sent her thoughts into a spiral.

Did one of them…?

She refused to believe it.

It had only been a week.

How could any of her sisters betray the rest after a mere week? A mere seven days? They were proud warriors of the Kuja Tribe, and though they had never endured such a stretch of time under such circumstances, it was unthinkable to condemn her sisters to slavery merely to be sated.

“You’ll see! You’ll see!”

The old woman in the corner cackled at her, and Hancock ignored her.

The next day, the bowl of rice came as expected. No disruptions had followed. It had been eight days thus far.

Yet, already, it felt far longer.

Hancock looked to the tally marks, and saw that there were, by her count, eighty-two more days left.

Eighty-two more days of this.

Eighty-two more days of uncertainty, of being unable to tell day from night, of looking at plain walls and counting every crack and crevice, of scarcely having enough space to stretch. There was a small toilet in the corner of a room, and a small faucet with water, thus water was not a concern, but she had not gotten a proper bath in eight days, and had those lounging in her own filth.

Could she endure eighty-two more days of this…?

Hancock believed she could.

Yet, loathe as she was to admit it—

She worried her sisters could not.

Yet, she had to maintain the hope that they could.

Because she would never betray her sisters for the sake of comfort, and she hoped, and believed, and trusted in her heart, that her sisters would never do the same.

She had to.

By the ninth day, Hancock felt a need to speak to someone. Anyone, other than the cackling old woman. She looked again to the Den-Den Mushi high above, the one watching her, and, without any other options, began to speak to it. 

“We’ll win this game.”

To her surprise, the person on the other end, the Saint, responded.

“No one who ever plays a game, plans to lose.”

The Celestial Dragon, Saint Noah, became the only voice she heard besides hers in over a week. On occasion, she asked questions, conversing through the Den-Den Mushi, and he answered. In turn he asked odd questions, but regarding the Kuja Pirates, amazon Lily, and regarding their methods to use Haki.

The conversations, though brief, though transactional, provided a sense of normalcy. They became a thing that anchored her. Reminded her of her goal. Provided a means to track time, to reassure herself of who she was, and what it was she wanted.

Hancock had now learned, for the first time, just how important talking to someone was. It was more important than food. She had never spent so long without speaking to anyone, and the voice of the Saint became a voice she longed to hear.

Isolation, Hancock learned, was more damning and more gnawing, than hunger.

“...Do you also speak to my sisters, Saint?”

“No.”

“Why? They need—”

“They aren’t as clever as you, that’s why. It’s too easy to fool them… and manipulate them. If I spoke to them… the game would be unfair. I could accidentally and easily convince them to hoard. Do you think I could do the same to you?”

Hancock couldn’t offer a rebuttal. She hated that it was true, and hated that the Saint knew it. How easy were they to read, that even a child could see it? Why were the women of Amazon Lily, their island, allowed to grow up so naive and foolish? Why?

However, the Saint’s words were correct. Nothing he said could convince her to choose to hoard a meal, and thus, sacrifice her sisters, but the other two could be tricked.

By not talking to them, he was helping them. He was being fair.

“Also,” he added. “Because you’re special.”

The words had stirred Hancock. Made her unable to comprehend it. Special. She knew it was true, but hearing someone say it—

For the next three days, as the meals came, she did not speak to the Den Den Mushi, nor was she spoken to. Sleep, which had already been a struggle, became all but impossible as there was an odd heat in her chest. She burned with a strange fever she had never experienced before. She yearned further to listen to the voice of the Saint, his voice, soothing, calming, reinvigorated her. She wondered what he looked like, how he was, what things he had an interest in, and why he felt she was special.

Sleep came uneasily, food was low in supply, her body was weak, and the isolation was crippling, however—

“Saint… Noah? Are you… there?”

“Who else would be here?”

He was always listening. The knowledge that he was always watching and always listening made her strangely bashful, but at the same time, incredibly… delighted.

Yet, she disregarded such thoughts. Once the game was over, she would be free, and would never meet the Saint, their paths diverging. She would go on to continue her life, as a proud warrior of the Kuja Tribe, perhaps succeeding Tritoma as the Captain of the Kuja Pirates, and Empress of the Kingdom, and this encounter would only be a fleeting memory.

Two more days passed. Two more meals came.

It was the fourteenth day. Two weeks had officially passed, alone, with no other contact with any living creature, and communicating only with Saint Noah.

Hancock tried again, to speak to the saint.

“Saint Noah?”

But for the first time the Saint did not respond.

“Saint… Noah? Saint?”

Try as she might, the Saint did not respond.

Where before, there was delight from his voice, now, there was dread from its absence. No responses had come. No words had come. She dumped once more in that ocean of solitude, that vast, unknowable sea of isolation. She was someone drowning, and had been saved out of the water, only to be tossed back in by that savior, and grew to possess warring, conflicting and never before known sentiments regarding such treatment.

The temptation was there, to speak, only once, and choose to ‘hoard’ for the sake of hearing Saint Noah’s voice, but she swallowed it, fought it down. To do so would mean condemning her sisters to slavery. No matter how kind Saint Noah appeared, he was still a Celestial Dragon, and this, all to him, was still a game.

Alas, the longer she went without his voice, the odder Hancock found something happening to her. Her body ran a dangerous fever. She clutched her chest, rolled about, exhaled, sharp, unknowable breaths, and felt as if her entire body was seized by some vile demon.

I’ve… fallen ill! No… why… now? This… illness…

“Hancock.”

Saint Noah’s voice came.

As it did, the symptoms vanished. Hancock rushed to the Den Den Mushi.

“S-Saint Noah?”

“Are you unwell?”

“No. I… I’m fine.”

“I see.”

Silence came, and Hancock’s fever returned, burning hotter than before. She’d heard, in rumors, that the Empress before Tritoma, Gloriosa, had been afflicted with a potent disease after she left Amazon Lily, but Hancock knew nothing of the disease’s name, nor of its effects, only that it afflicted individuals of the Kuja Tribe who stayed too long away from the tribe.

Had such a disease finally struck her?

If it had, if the disease had come for her, it was possible she could die. No, worse, what if the same disease had affected her sisters?

If the choice was between death or slavery, most Kuja would choose death, however—

If one were to choose to be a slave, they would need someone as kind as him, someone called the Saint of Liberation, someone whose name alone was used to prevent horrid things happening to other slaves…

If it was someone like Saint Noah…

Four more days passed. Her sickness got worse. The fever burned almost uncontrollably when she did not hear his voice. It burned so hot that it caused her unspeakable agony. His voice alone was the only thing that could cure it, and she alternated from hot to cold in a manner that left her body, already malnourished from nearly two weeks of poor meals, almost completely unable to cope. 

“You need to eat, Hancock.”

Without his voice, she was not able to eat even the rice that was present. Yet, with his voice, it was the sweetest it had ever tasted. Without his voice, she could only lay down, burning with a fever, yet with it, she found energy she had never before possessed.

The visage of the old woman, which had once cackled endlessly in her ear, cackled even worse when the fever took her.

“Every woman for herself. You’ll see.” 

Hancock’s chest had burned with a new fear. If she was afflicted by this illness, her sisters undoubtedly were too. If she, at such a juncture, was struggling to hold on, struggling to endure, what hopes had her sisters?

Have they already… did one of them… already…?

Hancock knew what she had to do.

“S-Saint Noah!”

“Yes?”

“I… I want to… sacrifice myself for my sisters!”

“...What?”

Her voice trembled.

“Set them free… and… Keep me as your slave!”

=====)+(=====

In the Limit Breaking Room, Noah crossed his hand over his heart, and quietly gave thanks to the Lord.

Halle-fucking-lujah! 

By the Lord, of course, he meant Oda.

A sickness that only affects women once they gain affection for men, and kills them if they don’t pursue that affection…

4chan Incels couldn’t have written this shit.

Noah looked through the video feed, and grinned so hard his cheeks hurt.

Hancock Love Sickness Any-Percent Run is Fucking Complete!

Thank you ODA! My Bruddah-In-Bitch-O-Nomics! Up top!

Noah had always seen Love Sickness as a bullshit way to break everything established about Hancock, turn her into a Luffy-simp, and handwave any inconsistencies from someone saying, ‘Dawg, that ain’t how love or attraction works.’

But Shonen Pirate Fantasy Land ran on Todd Howard's Motto:

It Just Works.

Kuja Girls Need Dick.

No Dick, No Life.

In the OG’s own words:

Love is a hurricane!

And Noah was the fucking Weather Man.