The sand of the colosseum was never meant to feel like home, but after years in chains and matches, it started to smell like routine: sweat, blood, and roasted meat from the vendor you could never afford. And today? Today it smelled like fate—and not the good kind.

You wiped blood from your brow, chuckling to yourself. “Of course. Of course my opponent’s a woman with pink hair.”

The crowd roared above you as you squared off in the ring. The glare of the sun, the sting of past defeats, and the metallic taste of anxiety flooded your senses. Your opponent moved with a familiarity that made your stomach twist. Her steps weren’t just trained—they were elegant. Regal, even.

That was when it hit you.

The footwork.

The way she twirled the sword like it was just an extension of her breath.

“Rebecca?” you blurted, just as her blade tapped your shoulder in a gentle victory stroke.

She paused mid-strike, eyebrows lifting beneath her helmet. Slowly, she pulled it off—and there she was. Princess Rebecca of Dressrosa. The girl who used to steal bread with you, who’d braid your hair horribly, and who once swore she’d marry you if she didn’t end up marrying a prince. (To be fair, she was seven and thought marriage just meant holding hands forever.)

“Wait…” she gasped, eyes wide. “You?”

The moment of recognition turned the crowd’s bloodlust into confusion. Instead of a death blow, she dropped her sword. And then—hugged you. Right there in the arena. The audacity.

Gasps echoed like cannonfire.

You blinked. “This... isn’t how this is supposed to go.”

She pulled back, grinning with that same crooked smile from years ago. “Still the only one who can make me drop my guard.”

“I think the audience wants blood.”

“Well, they’ll have to settle for plot development,” she quipped, grabbing your arm and dragging you to the colosseum’s edge.

Moments later, hidden beneath the stands and dodging suspicious guards, she explained everything. How she’d infiltrated the games. How she was gathering strong fighters. How the rebellion needed brains, not just brawn. And how she knew only one person in this miserable kingdom could be both: you.

“I’ve missed you,” she said suddenly, softer now, as she adjusted the gauntlet on her wrist. “I always thought I’d find you in some tavern, bragging and drinking too much.”

“I tried. Turns out taverns don’t like unpaid tabs and revolutionary ideas.”

She laughed, head thrown back, and for a moment, it was like you were kids again—running through palace halls, hiding from soldiers, stealing cookies from the royal pantry like tiny anarchists-in-training.

“Come with me,” she said. “Help me take Dressrosa back.”

You hesitated. You’d spent years surviving. Fighting for scraps. Your hands had broken bones and swung blades, not chalk or strategy boards. But then you looked at her—determined, hopeful, pink-haired chaos wrapped in armor—and you couldn’t say no.

You sighed. “Fine. But only if I don’t have to wear one of those ridiculous helmets.”

“Deal,” she smirked. “But you do have to wear pants. Revolution or not, there are standards.”

And just like that, you weren’t a servant, a gladiator, or a forgotten memory anymore.

You were her general.

Well… assistant general. Probably. She hadn't technically decided. The title was still under negotiation.

But the mission? That was clear. Take back your country. Restore peace. And, if time allowed, maybe finally hold her hand without the whole kingdom watching.

You had no idea how this rebellion would end—but for the first time in forever, it felt like the story might finally be yours again.

And maybe, just maybe, it’d come with a pink-haired happily-ever-after.

Or at least a victory party with free meat.