"Make sure every area is secured. I do not want any issues arising. Is that understood?"
Admiral Akainu's voice carried over the gathered Marine officers like the roar of an active volcano, his very presence demanding absolute obedience. The heat of his Magu Magu no Mi simmered beneath the surface, and though he had yet to unleash his fury, every soldier present knew that failure in his presence was a death sentence.
The Marines had completely brought Sabaody under control. Every street, every alley, and every exit point was locked down. In preparation for the grand auction—one that would be attended by none other than the Celestial Dragons—Sengoku had ordered the most ruthless and disciplined forces to oversee security.
However, not all Admirals had been so willing to follow this command.
Admiral Raylene, known for her staunch opposition to the concept of slavery and her apparent disgust towards Tenryubito, had outright refused the mission. Her rejection had forced Fleet Admiral Sengoku to adjust his strategy, placing the responsibility in the hands of Akainu instead. But Sengoku was no fool—even Akainu's unwavering loyalty to the Marines would not be enough.
Thus, alongside Akainu, he had deployed the newest addition to the Admiral ranks—Ginshimo.
Unlike Akainu, who barked orders with his usual iron-fisted authority, Admiral Ginshimo stood in silent vigilance at the edge of the pier, his piercing silver eyes locked onto the horizon.
Where Akainu was rage and destruction, Ginshimo was calm and unshaken—a blade sheathed in ice, waiting for the right moment to strike. His very presence sent an eerie chill through the air, despite the humid atmosphere of Sabaody. His long silver hair, neatly tied back, and his pristine Admiral coat swayed slightly with the sea breeze. He was an enigma, his true beliefs buried beneath layers of unreadable expression.
This mission was more than just safeguarding the Celestial Dragons—it was a test.
Sengoku wanted to see where Ginshimo's loyalties truly lay. Would he be like Akainu, an iron-willed enforcer of absolute justice, willing to bend the knee to the World Nobles? Or would he be another Raylene—defiant, insubordinate, unwilling to turn a blind eye to the atrocities of the Celestial Dragons?
So far, to Sengoku's relief, Ginshimo had not voiced any outright opposition to the task at hand.
"At least he isn't another damn Raylene," Sengoku had muttered earlier, rubbing his temples in exhaustion. One rebellious admiral was already one too many.
From the pier where he stood, Ginshimo could see it—a massive floating fortress on the horizon. The Celestial Dragon Fleet.
A leviathan of the seas, it flew the unmistakable insignia of the World Government, its gilded sails shimmering beneath the sunlight. The fortress was a moving stronghold, built with the sole purpose of carrying the World Nobles in luxury and absolute security.
Unlike the fragile, ornate ships they usually traveled in, this one was fortified, a statement to the world that the Celestial Dragons were not to be touched—not even by the greatest of pirates.
It was heading straight for Grove 66—the Marine base within the archipelago, the only place secure enough to accommodate the "gods" of the world before they made their way to the auction venue.
Neither the Marines nor the World Government wanted to take any chances.
Even with two Admirals on site, thousands of elite Marines, and a fleet of warships, every precaution was being taken. After all, a single attack on the Tenryubito could change the course of history.
"Are you expecting trouble?"
Admiral Akainu stepped up beside Ginshimo, watching the older Admiral with a raised brow. It was rare to see the man unsettled. Ginshimo was known for his unshakable composure, a man whose face was as still and cold as the steel of his blade. Yet now, his brow was creased—his usually serene expression marred by a deep frown.
Though Ginshimo was new to the rank of Admiral, Akainu had come to respect his strength. They had sparred before, and while Akainu's brute force and sheer devastation had made him a monster on the battlefield, Ginshimo's blade was something else entirely—swift, precise, and unyielding. Though Akainu still considered himself the superior fighter, he had no doubt that Ginshimo was an opponent few could match in single combat.
Yet, despite all of that... the man's grip on his katana tightened, his fingers clenching around the hilt like a vice.
"I do not know…" Ginshimo muttered finally, his voice low but heavy with something far deeper than mere concern.
Akainu exhaled a long plume of smoke from his cigar, his sharp eyes scanning the Admiral's face before letting out a low scoff.
"I don't think any sane person would dare cause trouble in Sabaody right now," Vice Admiral Momonga spoke up, stepping forward with his arms crossed. His voice was steady, logical, unwavering. "The entire island is under quarantine. Only guests with invitations to the auction are allowed to travel freely, and even then, their movements are being monitored. No one could slip past our security—"
Momonga's words trailed off as he caught Ginshimo's gaze. There was something different in the way the older Admiral looked at him—a weight, a knowing... something ancient and unreadable in those piercing silver eyes. Ginshimo did not speak right away, instead, turning his gaze back to the horizon, as if watching for something only he could see.
Then, he finally broke the silence.
"I see that you pursue the path of the sword as well."
Momonga blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt shift in topic.
"What—?"
"Remember this..." Ginshimo's voice was barely above a whisper, yet it carried with the weight of absolute certainty, as if he were passing down a secret of the world itself.
"As one who walks the path of the sword... always trust your instincts. No matter how insignificant, no matter how unremarkable the feeling—believe in it. The blade can be honed, the body can be trained, but instinct? Instinct is what separates the dead from the living."
The words hung in the air, thick and foreboding. Even Akainu, who had dismissed Ginshimo's initial unease, found himself watching the man more closely now.
"So tell me, old man..." Akainu finally asked, tapping the ash from his cigar. "What do your instincts say right now?"
For a moment, there was only silence. Then, Ginshimo turned his gaze away from the sea, away from the approaching fleet of Celestial Dragons, and looked directly at Akainu.
"Believe it or not…" his voice was calm, but beneath it was something unshakable—certainty, dread, resolve.
"There is a storm coming."
Akainu's eyes narrowed slightly. Ginshimo did not blink.
"And I am afraid we are ill-equipped to handle it." Then, without another word, he turned away.
"I will survey the perimeter of the island." His tone left no room for argument, his posture already shifting into motion. "Though I agreed to this mission, I would rather not stand here to welcome these so-called 'gods.' "
With that, he brushed past the gathered officers, his long coat flowing behind him, leaving Akainu and Momonga standing in thoughtful silence. Akainu watched him go, his cigar burning down as he narrowed his eyes.
"Hmph... Storm or not, whoever dares challenge the Marines today..." he muttered, cracking his knuckles as his magma pulsed just beneath his skin, "I'll burn them all to the ground."
****
"Are you absolutely sure the island has been secured…?"
The voice was muffled behind the thick glass of a regal helmet, trembling despite its owner's desperate attempt to mask his fear. The speaker—a Celestial Dragon, one of the self-proclaimed gods of the world—stood rigid, hands clenched within the fine silk of his robes, as he addressed the masked CP0 agent stationed beside him.
The agent did not react immediately. He stood like a statue of polished death, face hidden beneath the emotionless mask, body clad in white—silent, immovable, and unshaken by the fear in the Tenryūbito's voice.
But the Dragon's anxiety was palpable. For over eight centuries, the Celestial Dragons had walked above the world, untouched and unchallenged, ruling with the absolute authority bestowed upon them by their lineage. They had never needed to fear anything—not war, not rebellion, not even death.
But now, for the first time in history, they did. Because someone had dared to kill them.
And worse, the one responsible still walked free. Not long ago, Mary Geoise had burned.
For the first time since the establishment of the World Government, the Holy Land—their Holy Land—had been blown apart, reduced to ash and ruin by an enemy they had once considered beneath them. The Donquixote family, the same bloodline that had once stood among their own, had spat in the face of their divine rule.
And the worst part? They had survived. The fact that someone had challenged their invincibility and lived to tell the tale was an open wound in their pride.
The celestial dragons had been humbled—brought to a realization they had never before considered. Even gods could bleed.
Since that horrific day, not a single Tenryūbito had dared step foot outside Mary Geoise. For a full year, they had hidden behind their walls, cocooned in paranoia, their once-unshakable authority beginning to fracture.
The world had seen them cower. And the Elders would not tolerate it. Their power, their very rule over the world, was built upon an illusion of invincibility. The moment that illusion shattered, the moment people stopped fearing them, their entire empire would begin to crumble—piece by piece.
If the Tenryūbito continued to hide, then soon, it would not just be the New World they lost.
It would be everything. And so, despite the terror gnawing at their bones, the Elders had sent them out once more—ordered them to step into the world, to remind everyone who ruled it.
"The gods of the Holy Land still govern this world."
But even as they walked beneath the glow of Sabaody's lights, their heavily armed escorts, their battalions of Marines, their elite CP0 bodyguards, none of it could fully silence the fear in their hearts.
Because they knew. The world had changed. And there were some demons that not even the so-called gods could escape.
As the dozen Celestial Dragons and their retinue disembarked from their massive fleet, an air of unease clung to the atmosphere like a storm waiting to break. The towering World Government flagship loomed behind them, adorned with golden insignias and lined with cannons, a floating fortress meant to serve as a deterrent against any daredevils who might even consider an attack.
At the head of the procession, the lead CP0 agent—a figure clad in a pristine white mask and robes—stood motionless, his gaze sweeping the pier like a predator surveying its hunting ground. His Observation Haki stretched across the island, but his brows furrowed ever so slightly.
Something was… off.
In the next instant, his form blurred—vanishing from sight in a flicker of speed—Soru.
He materialized beside Admiral Akainu, standing at the head of the Marine forces overseeing security. The CP0 agent barely spared the Vice Admirals and lower-ranking officers a glance, his focus honed on something—or rather, someone—missing.
"Admiral Akainu…" the agent's voice was cold, calculating, unwavering. "We were advised that there would be a second Admiral as part of the Marine protection detail." It was not a question. It was an expectation.
Akainu, clad in his blood-red Admiral's coat, exhaled a slow plume of smoke, the end of his cigar burning like embers in the dimming daylight. He met the masked agent's gaze with the same unyielding presence that had made him one of the World Government's most feared enforcers.
"Admiral Ginshimo is currently surveying the perimeter of the Sabaody Archipelago," Akainu stated, his voice a gravelly rumble of authority. He knew the implication behind the agent's inquiry—distrust.
CP0 did not put faith in the Marines—not fully. But that didn't matter to Akainu.
"You can rest assured, the island is locked down tight," he added, eyes narrowing as he released another thick drag of smoke into the salty air.
The CP0 agent remained silent for a moment, as if weighing his next words, before finally responding in a flat tone.
"Understood."
And just as swiftly as he arrived, he vanished—his form a blur as he reappeared next to the Celestial Dragons, who stood waiting like impatient deities, draped in their ornate robes and glass-helmed arrogance.
With the final checks complete, the procession began its march—a slow, deliberate parade from Grove 66 to Grove 1, where the Human Auction House—the venue of tonight's dark spectacle—awaited them.
The moment the Celestial Dragons regained their footing, their initial nervousness melted away, replaced by their usual air of untouchable divinity.
With jeweled canes in hand and gleaming armor on their enslaved escorts, they climbed atop their human steeds—slaves forced to their knees, their backs serving as the very ground the "gods" would tread upon.
As the procession moved through the deserted streets, the eerie silence was broken only by the sound of chains rattling, the occasional whimper of exhaustion, and the cruel laughter of the so-called gods.
****
The Human Auction House in Grove 1 of the Sabaody Archipelago was no ordinary venue. It was a palace of cruelty, a place where lives were bought and sold with the flick of a wrist and the clinking of golden Berries.
It was grand, built from polished obsidian stone that gleamed under the golden chandeliers, its walls adorned with ornate tapestries depicting scenes of subjugation—proud warriors brought to their knees, noble women bound in silk, the weak bowing before the so-called gods.
The circular auction stage stood at the center, raised above rows of luxurious seats filled with Sabaody's elite—nobles, world-renowned merchants, and pirates bold enough to bid for flesh. Among them, sitting in a special reserved section, were the Celestial Dragons.
Their glass-helmed faces showed no emotion, their fingers idly toying with golden auction paddles, as if this was just another routine gathering—no different than picking out new jewelry or fine wine.
At the center of it all, under the brilliant glow of stage lights, stood the auctioneer—a rotund man dressed in a flamboyant white and gold suit, his voice booming through snail speakers attached to the ceiling. His greasy black hair was slicked back, and his grin, stretching ear to ear, was the grin of a man who thrived in the suffering of others.
"Ladies and gentlemen, honored guests of prestige and power—welcome to tonight's grand auction!" The auctioneer's voice rang out with an air of theatrical excitement, his eyes gleaming with greed. A murmur of anticipation spread through the room.
"I assure you, tonight's selection is unparalleled! Exotic beauties, unspoiled children, warriors ripped from the fiercest battlefields, and—of course—treasures fit for gods!" He bowed deeply toward the Celestial Dragons, who remained silent but expectant.
"Now, without further delay… let us begin!"
Two hulking guards, clad in black uniforms, emerged from behind a velvet curtain, dragging forward a cage of reinforced seastone bars. Inside, huddled together, were two figures—a young man and woman, their arms shackled, their heads bowed.
A collective gasp rippled through the audience.
Even in chains, they were stunning—their forms both human and beast, their fur-covered bodies hinting at an origin unknown to the ignorant but clear to those who truly understood the world. They were Minks.
"Behold!" The auctioneer gestured toward the captives, his voice thick with exaggerated enthusiasm. "A pair of truly rare specimens! Not humans, not beasts—but something in between!"
The spotlight illuminated their forms. The male Mink had the features of a wolf, his fur a deep shade of midnight blue, his piercing golden eyes filled with a silent, smoldering rage. Despite the chains, his muscles tensed, his every breath controlled—a predator waiting for an opening.
The female Mink was smaller, more delicate, with the ears and tail of a fox, her fur a brilliant fiery red. Her eyes, however, held no trace of submission. Instead, they burned with defiance, her lips curled into something between a snarl and a sneer.
Gasps and murmurs filled the room.
"What are they?" whispered a portly noble, adjusting his gold-rimmed monocle.
"I've heard of them before…" another man muttered, his voice laced with uncertainty. "Aren't they from the Grand Line?"
But those truly knowledgeable—those who had connections in the underworld or had traveled the farthest reaches of the sea—knew the truth.
They were from Zou.
The Mink Tribe, a proud and ancient race of warriors, hidden away from the world atop the colossal elephant Zunesha. A people said to possess unnatural strength, unparalleled agility, and—most dangerously—an ability to call forth lightning itself.
And now, two of them stood in chains.
"Starting bid—50 million Berries!" The auctioneer's voice rang out. A noble raised his paddle instantly.
"60 million!"
"70!"
"100 million!"
The bids escalated rapidly, the crowd's excitement growing. The Celestial Dragons watched in silence. Some leaned forward slightly—interested, but not yet moved.
"300 million Berries!" a king from West Blue roared, standing from his seat. He was a mountain of a man, his face covered in scars, his massive hands twitching with anticipation. "I'll take 'em both!"
The auctioneer's grin widened. "Ah! A fine offer! 300 million for this exquisite pair! Do I hear 350?"
Silence. For a moment, it seemed the bid was settled.
And then—
"400 million Berries."
A new voice. Cold. Calculating. Absolute. Every head in the room snapped toward the speaker—one of the Celestial Dragons, his pristine white robes shimmering under the light, his glass-helmeted face unreadable. The room fell into an uneasy hush.
Which meant— The auction was over. No one would dare outbid a god. The auctioneer—despite being a man accustomed to wealth and power—swallowed nervously before forcing another grandiose smile.
"Ah, a most… divine offer!" He bowed low, as though speaking directly to the heavens themselves. "As per custom, when a revered Tenryūbito has graced us with a bid, we must respect their divine authority! Thus, the pair is SOLD!"
The gavel struck the podium. And just like that, their fates were sealed.
The wolf Mink clenched his fists, his golden eyes locked onto the Celestial Dragon who had just purchased him. The fox Mink gritted her teeth, her tail bristling. They had seen what happened to those taken by these so-called gods. And they knew—without a miracle, their lives were over.
As the guards moved in, unlocking the cage and dragging the Mink captives toward their new master, a deathly silence fell over the room. Not out of sympathy.
The auction house, usually a symphony of wealth and power, had fallen into a tense, suffocating silence. No one dared to speak. No one dared to oppose what was about to happen.
The Celestial Dragon, the so-called god who had just won the bid, shifted in his lavish throne-like seat. His pristine white robes, embroidered with golden filigree, shimmered under the stage lights as he slowly lifted a gloved hand, signaling his will.
A servant, clad in dark rags, immediately bowed and scurried forward, carefully lifting a heavy iron box from beside the Tenryūbito's seat. Even through the thick velvet covering the container, the audience could see the faint, red-hot glow emanating from within.
A brand. The Hoof of the Soaring Dragon. The ultimate mark of slavery.
The auctioneer—who had always been boisterous, flamboyant, reveling in the sales he made—now stood still, hands tightly clasped in front of him, eyes cast toward the floor. Even he wouldn't dare to interfere.
This was no longer his auction. This was a spectacle for the gods.
The guards, clad in world government-issued armor, roughly dragged the two Minks toward the Celestial Dragon's section, forcing them to their knees on the elevated platform. Their heads were pushed down into a forced bow, their shackles clinking as their limbs strained against the heavy steel bindings.
The male Mink—the wolf—growled lowly, his golden eyes burning with rage and humiliation. But the force of the guard's boot pressed against his back, forcing his face against the cold marble floor, prevented him from doing anything but seething.
The female Mink—the fox—was trembling, but not in fear. No, her bristling fur, her clenched jaw, the way her ears were flattened in fury—it was all rage. The kind of rage that burned deep into one's soul.
But even warriors could do nothing in chains. The servant carefully removed the velvet covering and lifted the iron lid, revealing the branding iron inside.
It was shaped into the emblem of the Celestial Dragons—a hoofed cross, the same symbol that had been burned into the flesh of thousands before them. It glowed a wicked orange, heated to a merciless temperature, its metal edges curling with the sheer intensity of the heat.
The air grew thick with the scent of burning iron and charcoal.
The Celestial Dragon leaned forward slightly, his voice carrying through the auction house like the whisper of death itself.
"Brand them now. I want my property properly marked."
A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. Even among the cruelest of nobles, even among the wickedest of pirates, branding was not something usually done in public.
It was barbaric, even by their standards. But no one dared to object. This entire occasion—this grand auction event—was to remind the world that the Celestial Dragons were untouchable. That they could do whatever they pleased. Even if it meant delaying the auction itself.
The guards moved swiftly, gripping the wolf Mink's arm, twisting it behind his back, exposing the bare fur and flesh of his shoulder blade.
His growls became snarls, his fangs bared, his muscles coiled even in chains. The red-hot brand was lifted from its container. A hush fell over the room.
The Celestial Dragon raised a delicate, gloved hand, signaling the final command. The brand was pressed against his flesh. A sickening hiss filled the air. The smell of scorched fur and burning skin spread through the auction house like a suffocating poison.
The wolf Mink's entire body went rigid, his sharp claws digging into the marble floor, his teeth grinding so hard they nearly cracked. His golden eyes widened in pure agony, his throat tightening with a choked, strangled sound—
But he did not scream.
The branding iron was held firmly against his skin for several long, excruciating seconds.
When it was finally lifted away, it left behind a charred, blackened scar, the shape of the Soaring Dragon Hoof now permanently burned into his flesh.
His breathing was ragged, his entire body trembling from the unbearable pain—but his golden eyes never lost their fire.
Even on his knees, even as his body smoldered with the scent of burnt flesh, he still glared up at the Celestial Dragon like a predator waiting for the moment to tear out a throat.
Next was the fox Mink. The guards moved toward her, but she did not fight. She did not growl. She did not flinch. Her fiery red tail bristled, but she did not beg.
Instead, she tilted her head back, exposing her shoulder willingly, her eyes locking onto the Celestial Dragon with a quiet, deadly promise.
Her silence was not submission. It was contempt. The brand came down again. Another hiss of burning flesh. Another wave of excruciating pain. Her ears twitched. Her fingers curled into tight fists.
But she, too, did not scream. She refused to give them the satisfaction. The brand lifted, revealing a second blackened mark, a mirror to the wolf's, now carved into her flesh. The Celestial Dragon leaned back in his seat, satisfied.
His new property was now properly marked. The auctioneer, who had been deathly silent, finally stepped forward, clearing his throat, forcing a strained smile.
"A-Ah, yes! A most…glorious event!" His voice was unsteady, despite his years in this business. "Shall we continue the auction, esteemed guests?"
The Celestial Dragons nodded imperiously, as if nothing had happened. The auction resumed.