Vánagandr

Vánagandr (ヴァナガンドル; Vuanagandoru), the is the captain of the Iron Legion, one of the most powerful and influential military organizations that currently plagues the seas of the New World. A monster clad in black, he is thoroughly feared both because of his ominous silhouette, his terrifying fighting prowess- that few people would be able to withstand, let alone match- and his utterly determined and merciless behavior in battle. Innumerable mighty creatures, from the mightiest beast to the most skilled warrior, have fallen before his blade, entire armies slaughtered like cattle. Vánagandr has left a trail of conquest and destruction, forcing entire countries to follow his banner or obliterated in a sea of blood and violence.

Beside his reputation, not many know the man that lies before his lupine armor. The truth is that Vánagandr is a cyborg, the crowning achievement of the scientist Weil N. Simon, who sought to create a being which transcended the limitation of the flesh, a god of destruction made of metal. Vánagandr is utterly subservient to his own “creator”, and uses his colossal strength to fulfill Weil vision of word of science and prosperity, united under his heel.

Appearance
Bearing more in common with a hellish were-hound than a man both in behavior and look, Vánagandr’s figure is modeled to beget as much terror as possibly. Vánagandr’s outer shell looks like typical medieval plate armor whose color is black as obsidian. The armor is composed of an unusual number of scales for a plate gear, giving him overall a pointier and spikier look; in particular, his pauldrons have very sharp edges, so that Vánagandr posture never looks anything but fierce even in the rare moment he feels somewhat relaxed.

The most frightening aspect of this look, and the reason which most contributed to his moniker and visual persona, is surely Vánagandr's headgear: surmounting a lamed belvor comes a helmet shaped like monstrous wolf head, its eye always red and jetted, its gaping maw sporting fangs so sharp they could easily slash or crunch steel. What lies behind Vánagandr’s jaws, very few people know, as it is hidden by a darkness which seems almost unnatural: many of his subordinates speculate that its is possible find his human visage trapped in clasps of metal; others think that no trace of his human flesh besides his brain remains in Vánagandr current body, and that grotesque lupine helmet has become his permanent head. While the mystery entices many, almost no one has the courage to look in their captain’s maw to find the truth, and those who have done remain silent, as this truth is something the dreaded captain himself does not want to reveal. Vánagandr's eyes always glimmer of blood, burning like fire when the captain reaches the peak of his fury.

At 12'6’’ of height, Vánagandr stands out from most his peers, towering over lesser men and submitting them via sheer size. Nevertheless, he is hardly enormous by New World standards, having many of his crew mates and enemies being far taller than he is. Despite that relative lack of physical height, Vánagandr can still freeze solid the blood in even the vastest colossi true raw force of his intimidation and bottomless lust for violence, and his feral look is something Weil tailored to make apparent and capitalize on that inner ferocity. As a memento of his former, poorer life, Vánagandr dons a dark brown, furred cape of such size it encompasses his body right down to his ankle, whirling like a flag every time little gusts of wind blow. Because of the size of the Kingbreaker compared to its wielder, Vánagandr does not keep sheathed, but chained behind is back, read to a reap whenever he swings it downward.

Personality
Those who have the superficial acquaintance with Vánagandr will get almost only three forms of interactions: a somber silence, a sneering bark or a blood curling growl. Taciturn to the point of moodiness, Vánagandr is always concise and direct. While not particularly rude, the Dark Wolf bears an utter disdain for forced attempt at causal conversation and loathes any form of flattery. He always goes straight to the point and rarely, if ever, sugarcoat anything, this bluntness making even him looking even more imposing than his appearance would suggest. His allies and enemies alike describe him as something less than a man and more a thinking war machine, demolishing everything and everyone standing in his own way before returning to his tent for his daily meditations. Despite the considerable amount of resources he has amassed through his years of conquering and pillaging, Vánagandr knows very few moments of genuine leisure, maintaining the belief that a true warrior must keep himself fresh and strong all the time. Such rigidity is exhibited particularly with his own subordinates, to whom he is extremely strict and demanding. Many of his lesser underlings have been scolded for inappropriate behaviors, cowling in fear before their Imperator. Because of his dour attitude, few members of the Iron Legion bear love of the man himself, though they still carry out his orders without any questions. However, Vánagandr is not devoid of charisma, as his voice exudes an immense amount of tenacity and confidence despite his dry rhetoric, capable of carrying on his men in the moments of most need.

An even more terrifying side of him is displayed whenever the Black Wolf feels rage, amplified many folds by Weil modification on the limbic system. He howls and screams, crouches and hit the ground numerous times like an insane animal rather than conqueror or a captain. In these extreme bouts, being him is in mortal danger, as Vánagandr would rip through or mutilate with complete abandon, delving so deep in his feral side he starts to indulge in cannibalistic habits. Yet Vánagandr will display shrewdness and astute instincts even when taken by these bouts of fury, employing cunning tactics one won’t suspect from such a fuming berserker. If anything, the angrier Vánagandr gets, the more his martial form becomes streamlined and effective without significant losses in finesse.

While in his first years of activities Vánagandr was somewhat of an idealist, believing that Weil's vision could genuinely make the world a more just place. A closer look on the roboticist actual policy of conquest completely shattered that illusion, and Vánagandr has fully realized to have become not a liberator but a tool for carnage and subjugation. For this reason, Vánagandr seems to eschew concepts such a “justice” or “greater good”, believing them to be fancy delusions at best or self serving lies at worst. Unlike other the Yonko and even the Marine Admirals, the Black Wolf seems not to deny but almost revel when somebody calls him out the atrocities he has committed, and chastises all men in power who dare to claim their higher moral ground. To him, the players in the World of One Piece are just as bloodthirsty mastiffs as he is. Moments of unyielding wrath aside, the few who have little knowledge of the man behind the armor will find that he is nowhere near the monster he is painted or sometimes he fancies himself to be. While certainly far from being approachable, Vánagandr is hardly cruel when not assuming the role of the warmongering warlord, never using his position of power to abuse his subjects. Behind his cynicism and ruthlessness, Vánagandr is a deeply broken and disillusioned individual, still haunted by the loss of all his dearest friends and family, and fully aware that the role Dr. Weil imposed on him will never allow him to fully connect with other human beings. Knowing that he had become little more than a slaughtering machine, slave to a madman, Vánagandr deeply loathes himself and his uncontrollable fury, often crossing longs periods of mourning and deep depression, from which he can get over only through the thrills of his next fight. In more ways than others, Vánagandr keeps his distant facade not out of disdain for his fellow men, but of terror he may lose or hurt again someone else he cares about. And yet, the capacity for genuine kindness and mercy still beats within his heart, and comes forth in rare but truly heartfelt displays of empathy and compassion.

Because Vánagandr has such low opinion on his himself and his job, he is surprisingly tolerant of jokes on his person. To better cope with his terrible position, Vánagandr won’t hesitate in engaging in a grim and self-deprecating of humor, mocking his glory, his fame as a savage, and even the utter lack of sexual prowess his transformation has left him with. Ironically, the people who are most likely to see this slightly lighthearted side of his him are Vánagandr's cockiest and wittiest enemies, as he doesn’t believe he must be as severe with them as he normally is with his own underlings. Though even a zinger from his subordinates, if he deems to be particularly good, will elicit some muffed chuckle from the Black Wolf. On the flipside, Vánagandr despises bad attempts at humor, and will make an exception to his abstinence to unnecessary violence to punish anybody who dares to crack an unfunny joke in his presence.

One of the few things that makes Vánagandr genuinely is happy is fighting at his fullest and learning new techniques to improve his abilities. Always searching worthy opponents to face, he will maintain an highly sportsman-like and chivalrous attitude when his role as the leader of the Iron Legion does not call him to mutilate and destroy. While very difficult to impress, considering his own level of mastery of the art, Vánagandr will show a great deal of respect to the truly skilled and tenacious warriors, regardless of whether they are his enemies or not. Such respect evolves in deference whenever he finds a fighting style that pick up his interest. He will always politely ask other people to teach him, being humble and reverent toward any of his masters, even those who happens to be far weaker or overall less skilled than he is. Vánagandr wholeheartedly believes that martial arts, swordsmanship in particular, are a patrimony to be preserved and diffused throughout the world, that anybody does have the right to learn and master.

As such, in even more rare occasion, Vánagandr will take disciplines to pass on his primary fighting style, or just some of the general knowledge he possess. He is possible at his strictest in these occasions, since he will demand them the same total level of obedience and devotion he would gladly give to any master worthy of that name, taxing their minds and bodies with shattering schedules. Still, he never crosses the border of being unfair, and while his training sessions are often exceedingly brutal, they really pay off, with some of his disciplines becoming fabled swordsmen in their own right. While he would rather deny that, Vánagandr does care deeply about his pupils, and will try as far as he can to keep them living in the purer word of martial arts, rather than the bloody atrocities he is constantly involved in.

Infancy in Blood
True monsters are men and women forged through conflict and chaos, mighty beings thrown in a hellish life that no normal men could survive in, yet still manage to live and thrive. Before assuming the name of Vánagandr, the Captain of the Automata pirates was known as Otho Valerius, one of the many orphans of the decadent country of Midum, located in the Grand Line. Midum was land in many similar ways similar to the kingdom of Dressrosa, boasting a rich monarchy and a longstanding tradition of holding gladiator battles; yet, unlike the former, the ruling body of Midum eschewed pace and modesty instead of holding an opulent yet brutal empire over many of the smaller neighbor countries. Midum expansionistic views were always tolerated by the World Government as they paid them a lot of tributes and provided some of a safe harbor against pirates within the most turbulent part of the world. In particular, Midum had the fame of being one of the greatest centers of slave trade in the region, rivaling even the imponent market established in the Sabaody Arcipelago.

Without any parents to remember, Vánagandr has little memories of his earlier life: he was spending all time munching in mud and dirt, finding what little scrapes he could just to survive. He remembered people looking at him with a mixture of terror and disgust, as even back then he growled and acted more than an undisciplined pup than a boy. One of the many gangs of scums and hoods, always hungry for new recruits and young mind to exploit, managed to convince the young boy to join in exchange of little food. Of the gang, Vánagandr recalled only the name “The Blight Furies”, as none of his members bothered to establish any sort of connection with the boy, merely calling the “Wolf Kid”. During one the many skirmishes of the Blight Furies against many of their rival gangs, Vánagandr was struck in the face by one of the adults. A little more than light slap, but that triggered within him a rage worth of a horde of devils. Vánagandr launched a long, creepy howl and charged forward like an hungry beast. Of the entire gang, the largest pieces left somehow recognizable was a hand with the longest two fingers severed; the rest was all pulped in a bloody mess. The Blight Furies run for their lives, fearing to be the next victims of the savage boy. Soon the fame of the little Vánagandr spread to the suburbs of the capital, voices of a born slaughtered in the form of a kid. Midum slave masters recognized the rare opportunity for a meal ticket; using Vánagands recurring cravings for food, they manage to lure in a cage made of seastone and bring them to Amphitheatrum Vespasianum, the giant stage when Midium bloody and immense lucrative games were conducted every day, where masses found the little solace to distract them from the squalor of their everyday lives.

When they opened the door of the cage, the young Vánagandr was inches close to butcher any of the poor captors who dared to come in the nearby. Yet one person managed not only to avoid being massacred, but to defeat the boy without even fighting: an old man, yet sharp and spry as he was in his prime, gave the boy kind words and caresses, promising that no one would have hurt him. That man was Batiullus Crixus, a veteran fighter in the coliseum who had fought and won through innumerable battles, and, having lost in his family long time before, found the boy someone capable of replacing his losses. Vánagandr was given his first name Valerius from his foster faster, meaning ‘brave’, while his surname came to the reigning emperor of the time, as all orphans in Midum had a father in the emperor, a parent to whom they owed the utmost obedience and devotion.

Growing up, Valerius’ talent as a warrior grew beyond the wildest expectations. Trained by his old foster father, he absorbed any technique and form Crixus taught, gaining mastery over various forms of gladiatorial combat. When thrown in the arena in the first fight of his life, he proved his mettle by besting fighters many times his size and age like they were mere babies, devastating them in the blink of eye. Yet that was problem for the slave masters, because the boy did not fight like sportsman nor to entertain the crowd, the very reason the gladiatorial matches were held in the first place, but like a raging demon: every time he entered in the arena, he was almost possessed by an unfathomable bloodlust, an unquenchable desire to devour and destroy anything on his path, more blood-curling than awe-inspiring. Despite the boy borderline supernatural attitude, Valerius’ seemed totally unable to get the best of his anger. Crixus, however did not gave up on the boy, knowing that, if the beast could be tamed, he could somehow by taught to tame himself: every day he meditated alongside his protegé, giving him the means to tap on his most powerful instincts without succumbing to them. The rambunctious Valerius initially scoffed at those tentative, as they bored his childish mind: yet he loved his father, and would have done anything in his power to please him. As such, day after day, week after week, Valerius got a better and better grasp of the fury seethed inside his soul until he managed to fully master it.

The day he got the best of his anger, Valerius’s reputation as a gladiator flew high, like fireworks in the sky. The entire city became enchanted of the prowess of this lone warrior, capable alone the most bloodthirsty hordes and the mightiest giant and always winning against each and every odd. The fellow gladiators of his school, once terrified by Valerius, became awed by him, and flocked to the man to improve his combat capabilities. While Valerius was not the most sociable or friendliest of men, he believed that the right to do to honor his master was to spread his teachings among his fellow youth. Slowly but steadily, he became not only a comrade with many gladiators, but a dear friend. Despite being only a slave, Valerius’ life was truly happy in this period, having found a family he could rely on and the constant pleasure from the battles of Coliseum.

Once he blossomed at the peak of his maturity and at the rankings of the school, the slave masters of Midium sought that the time was ripe for a duel truly worthy of the young wolf. Valerius was brought in the arena to fight against any opponents: what he was shocked to find was his father Crixus clad in battle gears, ready to give his all. The announcer spoke the terms of the fight: father and son would have to fight in a duel to death, or both would have been executed. A death sentence, with no chance of escape. The pupil did not want to hurt his beloved foster father, but Crixus himself insisted on his son going all out, since that was the life of the gladiator. The duel that ensued was incredible, filled with twist and terms: to the public they appeared to be equally matched, but an expert eye would have guessed Valerius’ inevitable victory since the first moment the two stepped in the sand. With a sharp cleave of his sword, the young gladiator offed his foster father, granting a quick and painless death, Crixus’ smiling head falling on the sand. While victorious, Valerius was the one who suffered the most: the gladiatorial combat which has brought him nothing but joy had just robbed him from the dearest person he had in his life. He returned silent to his cell, crying the whole night.

Fortunately for him, he had his fellow gladiators to share his pain with. They cheered up Valerius, soothing the sorrow with their companionship and comradery. He found welcome arms to soothe, the loving embrace of a woman to keep him warm the night he felt more alone. On the surface, life seemed to return at his normal stage for Valerius, a constant stream of brutal he won without sail. But seeds of doubts had took place in his mind: he could no longer relish the thrill of fight, knowing that his masters may have ordered to butcher the people he loved the most in any moment, like pigs on rich banquet. The blood of gladiators, the fine art of spectacle and martial display, beauty thrown at the feet of hogs, ungrateful, pampered bastards who did not know anything about honor. Those thoughts weren’t his own alone; many of his brothers and sisters in arm were whispering about a life without saddles, where they could be free to fight and die only for the wars they believed in.

The Prince of War
Those were surely the seeds of a rebellion, a war which surely would have ground Midium’s entertainment machine. But Valerius’ masters, while bloodthirsty, were no fools: they were spying their precious palestra all along, carefully picking even the slightest sign of turmoil from their glorified meal tickets. Instead of arresting the recalcitrant fighters for suspect insubordination, they opted for appeasement as a tactic. Midium warmongering policy, ultimately, had caused enormous fear in the nearby countries, so much they had stipulated an alliance to put an end to Midium's conquest campaigns. Having obtained a silent approval from the Government, who could not close an eye on Midium’s constant warfare any more, the gathered a massive mercenary army and waged open war. Desperately in need of as many soldiers as possible, emperor Otho conscripted the gladiators, offering freedom and a stable place in the militia should they prove their worth in battle. Knowing they little choice, the gladiators had to accept the offer and fight their first battle in a true war. Some of them did wholeheartedly, believing it was a chance in a million to escape slavery; others, however, were far more suspicious of Otho’s sudden display of benevolence, as they had simply traded a life of slaughter and servitude in a small arena for a much larger one. Valerius’ anger toward his masters still burned strong, but he did not want to deny his friends the chance of freedom. They sailed in the midday of autumn, sea breeze gently brazing on the gladiator face for the first time. Looking at the ship he had to sail in, at his opulent and shimmer hull, the enthusiasm almost getting the best of Valerius’ grim predisposition. He almost dared feeling optimism.

The place of battle was the Dragon’s Maw, a jagged death trap for ships, perfect to engage a numerically superior opponent. The departure of the fleet was greeted with roaring applause, petals falling over and the reverent blessing of the emperor. The Dragon’s Maw, however, welcomed the fleet in utter silence. There was no trace of an enemy, a sea so dead calm it almost felt fuming; moreover, the sky was met with a purple haze. Nobody had a clue of why no one was there to be found; the commander-in-chief screamed for answers, demanding for the head of anybody who had dared to make a fool of him and Midium. Soon after, however he ended up coughing blood. Every person in the fleet was feeling weaker, dizzier, almost constantly nauseated. Valerius felt his body shaking, and sweated more profusely than he ever did. Believing they had incurred in a curse or some kind of treacherous trick, that the purple haze they have breathed was venomous, all ships sailed back in panic to Midium, ready to face a race against time to be cured before the poison had killed them all.

They failed. At the first day of travel, more than half of Midium grand fleet had been succumbed, laying down rigid, blights spreading across their face. The second day, all but the harshest fighters had survived their encounter on the mist, praying God to deliver them swift death. At the end of the third night, Valerius was surrounded by nothing but cadavers. Totally lost in the mist of the sea, he had nothing but wait, barely able to stand among his fallen friends. His brother and sisters, his lover… the people he shared his life with, cowardly killed while they were one step close to freedom, not even getting a death worthy of warriors. Valerius spent the last two days crying, cradling to his comrades, in the mad belief they might have woken up. When the sixth day came, the enemy insignia were finally on sight. Despite everything that had happened, Valerius still carried his small battle axes and gladius with him. Amidst the desperation, his mind was focused, his purpose clear.

The alliance armada alliance had an easy game in flanking the ships, turned in lifeless husks, aimlessly floating in the embalmed sea. They all cheered, believing they have scored a clear and easy victory. Valerius soon flipped their tables. He stood tall above the mast of his ship, looming over the man and women who boarded the empty deck. Leaping off his higher ground, Valerius welcomed the invaders with a hellish owl and firm steel. The enemy soldiers were initially confounded by such survival, believing that it was impossible for a mere human to withstand the strength of their experimental weapon. What they found in Valerius was even more terrifying: that withered man smothered by blight was moving sharper and faster than anything they had witnessed, massacring them one by one. None of the well-fed solders was able to hold a candle to Valerius’ unbridled ferocity, which seemed only to grow stronger as wounds and damages were piling upon him. Sending more of their waves, more of their elites proved to be just as useless; their more glorified champions were less than toddlers in Valerius' eyes.

Stripped away of everything, Valerius had become something akin to rage incarnate. He had stopped caring about any semblance of honor, piety and showmanship, the qualities his father and companions have nurtured so much to very end, the highest virtues of a gladiators. Valerius had no love for the murderers of his friend. He slashed and howled, sank his blades, kicks, elbows and even teeth in every spare piece of flesh he could grab. But that savagery was not the surrender of his lucidity: rather, Valerius was totally resigned to his fate. He was sure he had to die, his lungs were already being cluttered by cysts; better going in hell in a last blaze of glory instead, surrounded by the corpses of his enemies.

Valerius fought and killed, filling the deck with severed arts and maimed remains. The enemy fleet had stopped sending waves of cattle. Ships retreated from the boarding, perhaps thinking of ending the lone man with sheer artillery, since the might of their soldiers had proven to be useless. Valerius clenched his fists, vomited insults and curses to the cowardice of his enemies. His eagerness to fight was so great, that he abandoned his vessel with a bound, landing of the first enemy ship he could find off. Valerius found far more soldiers than before, all took aghast and soiled by the demon. He was probably on one of their flagship, as he noticed a more comfortable deck and soldier clad in much better clothes. Ha cared not, and killed with the same abandon, the same ease. Neither his enemies cared too much, though; by that point, the leper demon had terrorized them so much they deemed an acceptable loss to just let him pill apart their best ships and further their gap. In the enemy ships had put enough distance between them and Valerius, they all fired in the hole, a storm of cannonballs blitzing and tearing off pieces of wood. Lone, in a nearly sunken vessel, Valerius could barely understand his situation. His eyes turned red, his mouth gorged in foam.

A sound came from the depth of Valerius throat, a scream so potent the air around him fractured and burst, a thunder roar amplified a reverberated to a unnatural degree. The entire army had barely the time to cover their ears to endure the hellish shout. They all fell, thousands of soldiers, sailors and officers knocked out senseless aboard their vessels. The multitude of projectiles stopped. Valerius did not smile nor he roared again: that shriek had taken all the rage he had in his body, making it explode in one, almighty blow. Exhausted, he fell on his knees, waiting for the sinking of his vessel or the poison was tearing his body apart to put an end to his life. His last thoughts, before he lost consciousness, were to his companions and to his foster. They all smiled at him, as if they were waiting him from the other side. A few tears dripped from his closing eyes. But Valerius’ days on earth were not over: the whims of fate, or better yet, of a man, had other plans for the wolf man…

A Wolf Reborn
Valerius following weeks were spent in drowsiness, his mind fleeting in a haze of rainbow lights and confusing sounds. Sometimes they were as pleasing as lullaby; in other occasion, they were cruel visions of steel clashing against steel, blood flowing in rivers, barely contained scream. A male voice, awoke from the dream. Valerius recalled how he sounded: intelligent and well articulated, but also filled with curiosity. His eyes opened to cascade of lights he could have never even imagined before, his ear were pulsing with noises. Valerius jerked in dizziness, but that impression lasted a second, as a calming noise from the back of his eased his pain. The world never felt so unique and vibrant to Valerius, filled with a symphony of beautiful lights and sounds. Looking at this wonder, Valerius felt his nightmares receding over, finally happy to be alive. He twitched his head, feeling strangely heavy, to thank the man that saved himself.

The latter courteously addressed himself as a Weil N. Simon. He told Valerius he had found the gladiator while floating in the sea. Taking piety of the man, he salved his by a nose, replacing the parts ravaged by the weapon with metal construct. The two spent the following hours in pleasant conversations: the seemingly kind doctor shared Valerius's view on the deplorable state of the Midium, its squalid policies and senseless waste of talents and resources. Once told of Valerius' story, he showered the warrior with praise, expressing bewilderment on how tenacious he had been. Having gained Valerius' trust, dr. Weil proposed the warrior to help fighting the corruption tearing apart Midium. Putting his talents to a cause finally worth fighting and dying for. Valerius accepted it in a heartbeat. To give the warrior the tool he needed, Weil offered an weapon which suits a destroyer of tyrants. The Kingbreaker, one of the venerable Supreme Grade Swords, an ancient sword made to be wielded only the most skilled and physically daunting swordsmen in the entire planet. Valerius felt a connection with the blade the moment he grabbed his hilt: its massive suited perfectly his new own, now considerably increased by the robotic transformation, its weight an added force Valerius could have used to smash through any defenses, ending the life of any barbaric king.

Powers and Abilities
As the leader of the Iron Legion, Vánagandr controls a vast amount of manpower and resources located in the New World. While Vánagandr has only the formal rank of a military commander, not a ruler, he has almost absolute authority of the Kingdom of Midium, exceeded only by his master dr. Weil. Due to the Iron Legion's deep involved in the Underworld, Vánagandr has a throughout knowledge of many of the key events and players in the world geopolitical chess-board.

Believed by his creator to be the “perfect fighter”, Vánagandr is a quintessential war machine, a being who can easily go toe to toe with the strongest creatures in the planet, be they humans, animals, or other androids.

Physical Abilities
hen he underwent to the physical surgery to save his life and repair his broken body, most of his mangled flesh was replaced piece by piece by sturdy metal. Pretty much all his muscles left the place to artificial fibers, his skin put in a cage of connectors and transistors, his inner organs either bolstered by mechanical support or simply removed entirely. It is difficult to assess how much (or little) of his former existence, as the only one with enough technical expertise and ingenuity to maintain his cyborg form is dr. Weil himself. As per any cyborg, he was devised to be far stronger, tougher and sharper than most human. That process is not something groundbreaking: cyborg implants have been somewhat of a staple in warfare since the times of Dr. Vegapunk, the man credited of transforming Kuma Bartholomew in the first human machine of the era. However, while hybridization between man and machine is certainly implemented, Vánagandr possesses a might which surpass any metallic construct ever conceived in his era.

This is mostly due to the materials his body was rebuilt with. His master had perfected a special alloy, a blend of iron and extraterrestrial material known as the Uskotos, bound together by a reagent called Orichalcum. Both the latter materials are considered substantially more durable than even industrial diamonds, so much that they are employed on a semi-industrial scale by only the richest and powerful people in the planet. Weil had spent years both in meticulously unveiling the deepest secret of metallurgy and planning just as meticulously to obtain the necessary ingredients; so, when he was to time to upgrade Valerius, he spared no expenses.

When it comes to physical capabilities, Vánagandr’s alloys muscled allows him efforts which would be unfathomable for even some of the strongest fighters, and vastly eclipses that of even the most advanced model of Pacifista employed by the World Government. Vánagandr is more than capable of not just destroying but turning mountains in piles of dust with a mere punch, lift off entire chunks of cities exceeding the billions of tons in weight and throwing them away with zero effort, or dissipate hurricanes into nothingness. His punches and kicks carry so much strength and speed within them they are followed enormous gusts of wind pressure, engulfing the enemy whole; if connected, they end with the ignition of large masses of hydrogen, resulting in explosions observable from hundreds of miles away. Rather than mere physical blows, his attacks resemble more high-tier nukes, and are just as capable of completely blow apart targets ranging from human sized enemies to whole islands. Whenever Vánagandr stops holding back, destruction surpassing the most terrifying of natural calamities is ensured to occur, countries are so thoroughly annihilated that not a blade of grass would remain standing; the survivors, if any, are left dreading, paralyzed in awe and terror. The power of his alloys is expressed also in speed and agility, which is just as important to Vánagandr’s style of combat as his sheer might. He can easily disappear from the line of sight of his enemies, be they men or machines, and attack so fast their nervous system can barely register the blow before shutting down. Even when his movements are captured by high-tech cameras equip to register fractions of milliseconds, they will appear as confused blurs. Since Vánagandr does not share the fear of Devil Fruit users of being drowned in water, he can cross oceans on foot simply by running at high speed and relying on momentum, which he does whenever he desires to reach a place alone, unhindered by the bulk of his stewardship. Far before he had become a cyborg, Vánagandr was already blessed with supreme nimbleness and coordination, his movement fluid and ungodly precise. The transformation has added a lot off mass to his body, but the power of his metallic muscle is far more than enough to compensate for any kind of imbalance. If anything, his new muscles are so durable and flexible that they do not suffer any amount of strain of over-contraction. As such, the speed and flow of Vánagandr's movements will remain impeccable in virtually all situations, without being subjected to the small biases which hampers ever so slightly the performance of martial artists after hours of toiling effort.

A super-humanly sharp body requires equally lightning fast reflexes and instantaneous ability to process the nearby surrounding. Vánagandr’s mind was already on par with supercomputers when it comes to speed and precision in battle, but now it is aided by two actual processors, connected to Vánagandr’ central nervous system via the cerebellum. These computational devices boost Vanargard’s mental process to a considerable degree, but, even more importantly, can function as crutch, covering any faltering in Vanargard’s conscious mind. Plus, one of this is deputed to help his motor control, giving him a nigh flawless sense of space in even the most confusing predicament. A refined sense of space, however, means little if one is not able to visualize in clear details the environment. To take full advantage of his computerized nervous system, Vánagandr was endowed with multiple sensor placed in the gasps of his armor. Having been designed to mimic the “campaniform sensilla”, a natural organ found in his insect which detects strain within the animal cuticle. This artificial sensilla are shaped like domes made of plastic like substance, tailored to be even more sensitive to vibration than the organs insect is endowed with. Because of that, while Vánagandr mechanical armor should prevent him to detect close range signal as effectively as human tactile corpuscles, he is, thank to the sensilla, just as perceptive as the most sensitive human beings. That heightened sensitivity, however, does come with the price of being forced to sense as one was naked all the time; Vánagandr mechanoreactors are also equipped to send signals to his pain. The cyborg has welcomed these changes, as he believes that his robotic resistance would have dulled him sooner of later, while pain makes him sharper and more alive. He could, however, deactivate both sensorial and pain receptors in case of stimuli overload.

While his mechanoreceptors are very powerful, their range is also very limited. To make it up for it, Vánagandr uses a far more precise method to comprehend the surrounding based on radio detection. Placed between his sense, Vánagandr has built thousands of small yet very efficient monostatic radars. By taking advantage of electromagnetically backtracking, Vánagandr has a 360° perception of each and any object in the range of tens of meters, the only exceptions those which can totally absorb radio waves. While they are not quite on par with naval radars, Vánagandr’s receptors are very accurate and highly precise in terms of spatial assessment; they are also tuned to ignore any reflected radiation from Vánagandr. This magnificent mechanism is built as extension of Vánagandr’s natural parasympathic system, directly plugged in his neural system. In layman terms, Vánagandr has the ability to perceive incoming harm on a totally unconscious level, with multiple microprocessor speeding up the time of reaction. Adding it to a borderline unnatural fighting instinct, honed through the harshest conflict, these modifications allow Vánagandr to need not to think when responding to incoming dangers. Vánagandr lets his unconscious mind dealing every opponent who is foolish enough to try to take him by surprise, dodging and counterattacking with no effort.

Vánagandr’s “convential” sensorial organs are just as pioneering and effective at tracing preys. Vánagandr’s visor drew his inspiration from the mantis shrimp ocular apparatus, possibly the most complex and versatile vision system ever made by nature. Possessing a number of photoreceptors far surpassing that of a human eye, Vánagandr is capable of perceiving light waves on incredibly wide spectrum, easily grasping frequencies from ultraviolet to infrared. The world to Vánagandr is painted in colors man can not even fathom, grasping invisible things. Vánagandr's eyes are equipped with multiple lenses, which increases the reach and the precision of his sight to a super human degree, above that of a normal telescope in deeper than widening lenses. As far as his auditory system goes, it is also equipped to perceive frequencies of ranges far higher than it is humanly possible. Because of the Doppler effect, Vánagandr can calculate the distance between himself and moving targets simply by measuring the shifts in wavelength emitted by their sound.

Vánagandr’s armor, easily the most imposing part of his look, is also an outstandingly functional mean of defense. Built by large scales, seamlessly blended together, the gear is made of an incredibly sturdy alloy, matching Vánagandr’s bones and fiber in terms in durability. An unique ingredient, however, was added to the mix: an outer layer of seastone, the most infamous type of metal known in the world of One Piece, as it deprives Devil Fruit users of his power and strength. Because of that, Vánagandr’s lethality is maximized these wielders of otherworldly powers: even the most strenuous physical combatants, who nonetheless have eaten a forbidden fruit (and the upper echelon of the New World is full of these monsters) will find their strength and resilience weakened simply by the touches of the Black Wolf, all the more ripened for a defeat. If we add to debilitating of the sea stone Vánagandr’s already outrageously high strength, it is almost impossible for Devil Fruit wielders to best the Black Wolf in a brawl: either they must rely to an unimaginably strong Haki, or take protecting measures against the seastone just to survive.

Taking this aside, the gear is, by the itself, borderline indestructible. For surpassing almost every material known to man, there is little on Earth who can do so as much as scratching it. From storms of cannonballs to mighty sword slashes, to even island-shattering kick and punches, physical attacks of all kind will crash down fruitlessly against the black armor, with even Haki being nigh-useless. In all the physical confrontations Vánagandr has ever been involved with, he did not receive a single dent on his armor. When testing his creation durability, Weil has proven that it can easily withstand a point-blank explosion from weapons of Dynas Stones’ caliber without taking a scratch. The only thing that might hurt Vánagandr is the full might of a Yonko or being of a comparable caliber in destructive strength, and Weil boast that even such level of power won’t suffice. When creating Vánagandr’s armor, Weil drew inspiration by the Kingbreaker, using his detailed researches on the weapon to recreate the alloy that made the sword so powerful in the first the place. While the results are amazing because of that, that may suggest in a limit in the armor durability, with weapons of the same tier being able to penetrate his defenses.

Vánagandr’s expert engineering is also shown in all the various ways he is equipped to maintain his homeostasis. Between his outer plate and tendons and skeleton, his body is protected by foils of reinforced carbon–carbon and various silicate derivatives, a cutting-edge material composed of carbon fire which has tremendously effective insulating properties, capable of withstand extreme thermal shocks and temperatures ranging over 2000 F°. The jet-black gear works a lot like a cake, with multiple laminas of different materials interwoven among each other, so maximize protection both against physical blows and thermal incursion. Compared to most androids, whose metal components suffer tremendously while bearing great leaps in temperatures, Vánagandr can bathe in lava with no problems. In the innermost part of Vánagandr’s armor, multiple foils of an experimental insulator tape protect the circuits below from electrical currents of extreme amperage, ensuring that no lighting bolt may ever scorch the machine.

Swordsmanship
More than any other martial skills, Vánagandr has perfected swordsmanship like very few in the planet. Due to the colossal size of the sword, almost as tall and wide as the man himself, Vánagandr is naturally geared toward a power-style swordsmanship, plowing his way through brute force. When wielding his weapon, the amount of destruction Vánagandr can muster skyrockets through new heights. His slashes are considered authentic acts of God, creating air pressures of such length they make mountains insignificant by comparison, easily cleaving countries in half and cutting down through whole armies. Vánagandr’s own swordsmanship can rewrite maps, slicing archipelagos like cakes or being capable to dig so deep in the ground they carve through tectonic plates. Vánagandr's slashes comes usually in the form of simply bouts of air pressure, though he so precise with the use of this sword that he can mold the air he created with the sword like an expert waiver makes clothes. Similarly to the most skilled Gogyō Shizora-ryū practitioners, Vánagandr’s is capable of conjuring animal figures of breathtaking size and send them to hunt his enemies almost as if they have a will on their own.

This level of destructive swordsmanship, however, is spared only when Vánagandr needs to go all out in a contest of might or simply end battles quickly. When facing one-o-one an opponent worthy of his respect, he uses the Kingbreaker strength in a minimal amount and clashes with pure skills. His swordplay borrows heavily from real life Wushu styles, employing kicks, leaps and flips while launching cleaves and coiling attacks; however, Vánagandr tempers this with thrusts coming from western fencing styles, showing often an exquisite work of his wrist. Vánagandr’s style is incredibly relentless and acrobatic, sweeping through his opponents at every move and giving them no pause. Yet is feels never erratic: his martial form remains tights and efficient, and not micrometer of his movements is out of place. While the Kingbreaker has the handle of a broadsword, Vánagandr prefers to use it efficiently with one hand only, benefiting of an added flexibility on the muscle of his wrists. Whenever Vánagandr wants to go for a fast killing, he adopts the mentality and the footwork of a kendo or iaido user, using simple yet effective crosscuts. Many warriors who have faced the Hellhound mistaking him for a brutal with no finesse have all regretted it, as that savagery belies perfect polish in swordplay.

Weapons
Vánagandr's signature weapon is called the Kingbreaker (キングブレイカー ; Kingubureikā), a broadsword massive even compared to the Black Wolf himself. The swords' history is an ancient one, having drawn blood and brought destruction for centuries before the timeline. Its exact origins are largely shrouded in the mists of time, with even Vánagandr's ignoring the details. The one who seems to know the most about Kingbreaker, Simon N. Weil, is very elusive in giving away any precise information: every time he refers to Kingbreaker, he treats it more as an object of worship than a mere manufacture built from humans hands, an antiquity that should be venerated rather than fully understood. Regardless of the exact intent behind Kingbreaker's creation, it was surely made to wielded for warrior mighty beyond imagination, as it bears the rank of Saijo O Wazamono Grade Swords, the highest tier of rarity and quality a sword can attain, on par as other revered masterpieces such as Yoru and Shodai Kitetsu.

The blade itself jet black, shaped like an oblong pentagon whose sides closer to the base are far longer than the ones of the top, the latter forming the blade's tip. Kingbreaker's handle has its core made with the Treasure Tree Adam, the most renowned wood in existence, almost unbreakable and capable of lasting centuries. Bandages dangling from the pommel wrap the handle: they are an “improvement” that Simon N. Weil reluctantly made to sword, having insulating properties which protect the wielders from “maverick” flows of electricity. The blade and the hilt are held together by a single bolt; at the end of it, it dangles a chain link. Since Kingbreaker sheer size and width makes very impractical to secure it a sheath of any kind, Vánagandr loops a hook on his back into the chain, having the broadsword hanging with him all the time. Kingbreaker is a double-edge sword, its tips both being capable of cut and bite. To compensate with this relative fragility on both edges, the Kingbreaker's fuller is unusually large and thick even for a weapon its size, making it feel more like a club with bladed edge than a proper sword. The base of the blade is so large it can work as a cross-guard, which the Kingbreaker is lacking.

The incredible power of the sword comes mostly from the stupendous alloy it is manufactured with: a mixture of iron, orichalcum, Uskotos, and, more important that all, seastone. The composition of the sword makes it virtually indestructible by itself, surpassing in durability each known material and each other weapon except for its eleven brethren. The seastone making its edge adds another layer of danger to Devil Fruit users, which will feel weakened and stripped of their power when they come in contact with. The strongest defense Logias have, their intangibility, will turn into nothingness by the slightest touches of the Kingbreaker. This superb manufacture, however, comes with a parcel in terms of mass: the Kingreaker weights tens of metric tons, requiring men being not only of massive size, both boasting even greater strength to wield it properly.

Because of they shared components of seastone and superb craftsmanship, many have drawn comparison between the Kingbreaker and the Shodai Kitetsu, both weapons regarded as the pinnacle of craftsmanship and embodiments of death. Whether one blade had inspired the construction of the other, or they were just made by bloodthirsty geniuses with comparable skills and mindsets, this is unknown. In battle, however, there are devised for very different purposes. Whereas the katana is a weapon whose cruelty and lust for blood is expressed in elegant movements and refined swordplay, the broadsword is an unabashed tool for destruction, made not to merely spill blood, but to obliterate everything on its path. Looking and moving like heap of raw iron, Kingbreaker's effectiveness comes almost entirely from the sheer force behind its swings, being exceedingly difficult to properly manage with the finesse of true master swordsman. It is testament to Vánagandr's proficiency that the broadsword does not always give in to his destructive instincts. To fully master himself and his own rage, Vánagandr has managed to tame the monster, making it wearable for subtle and precise tasks.

Trivia

 * Vánagandr's main source of visual influence is Guts from Berserk; his backstory his more inspired by Angron from Warhammer 40.000.
 * Vánagandr's name derives from an epithet of the mythological Wolf Fenrir, roughly translatable as "monster of the [River] Ván".