Vánagandr/History

Infancy of Violence
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 silently returned 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 him, 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 matches he won without sail. But seeds of doubts had took place in his mind: he could no longer relish the thrill of fights as he had done, 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 Price 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 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 blights, 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 many 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. As therest of the fleet 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 slumber and drowsiness, his mind fleeting in a haze of rainbow lights and confusing sounds. Sometimes they were as pleasing as lullabies; in other occasion, they were cruel visions of steel clashing against steel, blood flowing in rivers, barely contained scream. A male voice awoke him from the dream. Valerius recalled how he sounded: intelligent and well articulated, but also filled with almost childish curiosity and enthusiasm. 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 him.

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 length suited perfectly his own height, now considerably increased by the robotic transformation. A force Valerius could have used to smash through any defenses, ending the life of any barbaric king.