The sea churned and roared as a colossal creature tore through the surface with mechanical precision and raw biological force. It was a Sea King, yet unlike any known to the world—this one had been modified, augmented with cold, glinting cybernetic plating and humming internal systems.
Wires slithered beneath its scales, and metal implants protruded like barnacles from its hide. Calling it a beast would have been reductive; "cyborg" was more accurate. It was one of Dr. Vegapunk's Sea Beast Weapons—a fusion of monstrous marine life and bleeding-edge science.
This particular creature, however, bore a greater mission than patrol or war.
The cyborg sea king cut through the waters of the New World, its massive form casting a shadow over the shallows as it arrived off the coast of Green Bit, near Dressrosa. Its glowing eye lenses flickered as it scanned the coast, confirming its destination.
The beast grunted—an artificial, metallic groan that echoed through its reinforced throat—as it lowered its armored head near the shore. Slowly, its mechanized jaw unhinged, hissing open to reveal a platform of shimmering alloy.
From the maw, a boy stepped out. He was small—barely ten years old—but his posture was calm, deliberate. His eyes, sharp and unblinking, took in the lush trees and creeping vines with an intensity far beyond his years.
The moment his feet touched the wet sand, the Sea King gave another low, mournful sound. It had fulfilled its command: to ferry this boy across the perilous New World from Egghead to Dressrosa—a mission entrusted only to this singular beast by Vegapunk himself.
The boy turned and placed a hand on the creature's lowered jaw.
"Thank you… for bringing me safely," he said, voice soft but unmistakably confident. "Sooner or later, your memories of this trip might be erased, overwritten… but I'm grateful nonetheless."
Despite his age, the boy's words were laced with an intellect, a depth, that betrayed something far greater. He wasn't ordinary. He couldn't be.
He was Vegapunk's true legacy—the hidden seventh satellite of Vegapunk. The only one created not just to assist, but to inherit. A child forged from science and secrets, he carried within his brain a core fragment of Vegapunk's own consciousness—a backup of the scientist's true mind, locked away from the world.
None of the other satellites knew of his existence. Not even Punk Records, the grand digital brain of Egghead, retained any trace of his creation. Vegapunk's final contingency. A part of his true self and consciousness given life.
As the Sea King gave a final cry and turned back toward the open sea, disappearing beneath the waves without a backward glance, the boy smiled faintly.
"You should go," he murmured. "I'll be safe here. I'm sure… they already know I've arrived."
The silence that followed was broken only by the soft rustling of the forest and the sea lapping at the shore. He turned his gaze toward the trees.
"So… this must be Green Bit," he said, reaching toward the small satchel slung over his shoulder. But something was wrong. His fingers brushed air. The satchel was gone.
He blinked, surprised, then frowned as he felt a chill touch his ankle. Looking down, he saw the water lapping at one foot—his boot was missing.
He didn't panic. Instead, he stood still, watching as more and more of his belongings began vanishing. A pocket watch. A glove. A snack bar he was saving for later. All disappearing as if plucked by invisible hands.
The boy's eyes narrowed, and a knowing smile tugged at his lips.
"...The Tontatta Tribe," he whispered, scanning the forest's edge. Of course. The mythical dwarves of Green Bit, infamous for their speed, curiosity—and light fingers.
But before he could call out to them, the forest's stillness shattered with a burst of mocking laughter.
"Fufufufufu… Enjoying the view, are you…?"
The voice was sharp, amused, and impossibly familiar. The boy turned, slowly. Standing behind him was a tall, sinister figure dressed in a sharp crimson suit, sunglasses glinting in the dappled light, his grin stretched wide with theatrical glee. The flamingo-feathered coat rustled behind him like wings of a predator.
Donquixote Doflamingo.
Beside him, in stark contrast, stood a man in a crisp white suit, slicked-back hair shining. Senor Pink, expression unreadable beneath his shades and cigar. And perched delicately on his shoulder was none other than Princess Mansherry of the Tontatta Tribe, eyes wide with innocent curiosity.
Doflamingo opened his arms wide, as if embracing an old friend.
"Well, well… what do we have here? A little visitor from the Futureland, eh?"
But before Doflamingo could continue his performance, Wolf, who had accompanied the Donquixote party, strode forward with a foolish grin and eyes brimming with admiration towards the young boy.
"It's truly a pleasure to meet you, sir!" he said brightly. "My name is Wolf… I can be called the chief scientist of the Donquixote family! I never imagined I'd get to meet a man of your caliber in person!"
He moved with an eagerness that was both genuine and unnerving, brushing past Doflamingo without hesitation—ignoring the emperor's theatrical flinch—and made his way directly toward the young boy, who tilted his head in interest. As if Doflamingo's presence meant nothing. As if he were the one in control.
"Oye, Wolf…" Doflamingo's voice curled with amusement, laced with a low, dangerous chuckle. "You looking to catch a good beating?"
Despite the threat, there was no real venom in his tone—just that familiar edge of chaos that always danced behind his voice like a blade half-drawn. But Wolf didn't so much as flinch.
With a casual flick of his wrist—a hand missing two fingers, worn smooth at the stumps and scarred from time spent in the shadowy prisons of Wano—he waved Doflamingo off like one would a mischievous kid's teasing.
The gesture was light, almost dismissive, but not disrespectful. He knew Doflamingo well enough. They were both part of the family since the time it was put together in North blue. He wasn't afraid.
"You're not nearly petty enough to get worked up over something like that, Doffy," Wolf said with a sly grin. "Besides… you're family. You don't beat family over pleasantries, right?"
Doflamingo's smile widened, his shades glinting as he clicked his tongue. "Fufufufu… Sharp stunted bastard, aren't you?"
His fingers flexed idly, flames flickering on his fingertips and dancing in the air, a subconscious habit when he was thinking. He studied the boy carefully now—this unassuming child standing calmly on the shores of Green Bit, as if the weight of the New World meant nothing to him. Because perhaps, for him, it truly didn't.
"So… how do I address you, then?" Doflamingo asked at last, voice dipping with curiosity.
"Should I be calling you… Dr. Vegapunk?"
For once, the Joker wasn't mocking. There was weight behind the words—genuine intrigue, even a touch of reverence. His eyes, sharp behind the tinted lenses, narrowed as they scanned the boy for signs of the genius hidden beneath the youthful exterior.
After all, his little brother Rosinante had told him long ago: "One day, Vegapunk will come to us—not as an enemy, but as an ally. To help us fight against the World Government."
But this?
This child, no taller than Doflamingo's knee, carried that promise on his back. And if not for little Shyarly's recent divination, they wouldn't have known who he truly was. Her divination had come weeks earlier—visions of a boy arriving by sea, cloaked in the aura of the world's greatest mind. Vegapunk's legacy.
Right now, only a select few know the truth. Only Doflamingo, Issho, and a few others from the inner circle were aware of what this little boy truly represented: the final, secret satellite, created not as a helper—but as an inheritor.
The boy stepped forward, eyes gleaming with intelligence far beyond his years. He let the question linger in the air for a moment longer, like a conductor letting silence stretch before the music resumed.
"You may call me Einstein; that was what my creator named me…" he said finally, voice even, calm. "Vegapunk is the name of my creator. The name of the man whose brain still lives, in part, within me. But I am not him..."
He paused, a faint, knowing smile playing at the corners of his lips—one that held the weight of intellect beyond comprehension.
"Not entirely," he said, his voice low but resonant, cutting through the air like a scalpel. "I am Vegapunk… and yet, I am not. I carry his thoughts, his dreams, his burdens—but I am my own creation. I am his shadow made flesh… his legacy, walking."
"So… where is Rosinante?" Einstein asked, his tone quiet but edged with anticipation. His mismatched eyes scanned Doflamingo's unreadable face. "He promised to let me in on everything once I officially became a part of the Donquixote Family. And now… here I am. So tell me—what exactly are you all working on? What was so important that he went to such lengths to pull me into this?"
Even now, after inheriting every fragment of Vegapunk's vast intellect and memories, the reason Rosinante had extended that hand remained shrouded in mystery.
Doflamingo didn't hesitate. His grin widened, but his tone turned razor-sharp.
"Pluton."
The word dropped like a cannonball between them. No buildup. No dramatic pause. Just truth, bare and unfiltered. Einstein blinked, caught off guard. At first, he chuckled, thinking Doflamingo was playing games, perhaps testing him—trying to provoke a reaction.
But then he looked around. Not a single soul cracked a smile. Not Wolf, who had been eagerly fawning over him just moments ago. Not Senor Pink, whose impassive face had turned grim. Even Princess Mansherry's expression had grown distant.
They weren't joking.
"You're serious…" Einstein whispered, his voice hollow with disbelief, then rising with growing awe. "You actually want to revive an Ancient Weapon?"
His heart pounded—not from fear, but from something else. Wonder. Possibility. Temptation.
Doflamingo's grin turned wider, darker, almost reverent.
"Fufufufufu… You misunderstand. We don't merely wish to revive an Ancient Weapon. Our ambition is far greater."
He leaned in slightly, voice low and electric with purpose.
"We intend to build one. A brand new Pluton—reimagined for our age."
For a moment, Einstein was stunned into silence. His initial awe faltered, his scientific mind already calculating the impossibility of it. Even Vegapunk—the greatest intellect in the world—had never solved the riddle of the ancient power sources that fueled such weapons.
His expression darkened. "Building one... That's a fool's dream. Even if you somehow gathered the resources, you'd need a blueprint of a weapon that could destroy the world itself." He shook his head.
"You don't understand. These machines were not just tools—they were miracles of a lost age. We don't even know what powered them. There's no energy source left in this world that could awaken something like Pluton."
He was already muttering, fingers twitching in a subconscious pattern as calculations and theoretical models flooded his mind—but all of them led to dead ends, like they always had.
Then Doflamingo spoke again, silencing his storm of doubt.
"What if I told you… we already have the blueprint?"
Einstein froze.
"What…?"
"You heard me." Doflamingo's voice was low, deadly serious. "The original blueprints. We recovered them from Water 7. My little brother wasn't one to believe in fate. Rosinante set everything into motion the day he whispered his promise to me."
Einstein's eyes widened, sparkling like twin stars ignited. His breath caught in his throat. The mere thought of such blueprints existing had once driven Vegapunk to madness. And now, here it was… handed to him by pirates, of all people.
It was overwhelming. It was humbling.
"No…" he whispered again, shaking his head. "Even if you had the blueprints and every ounce of material required… without the original power source, it's impossible. The engine—Pluton's heart—was powered by something beyond comprehension. The only comparable substitute we've ever identified is the Dyna Stones… and even those are unstable, barely understood, and possibly still insufficient."
Wolf, who had been quiet all this while, stepped forward. His voice was calm, but carried the excitement of a child on the edge of unveiling a forbidden truth.
"Dr. Vega—sorry, I mean… Mr. Einstein," he corrected himself quickly, a grin spreading across his face. "What if I told you we've been working on a theoretical model that might solve that exact problem?"
Einstein blinked. "A theoretical model?"
"A concept based on a theoretical energy source," Wolf said, his voice steady, eyes gleaming with a fire reserved only for those who had spent years chasing the edge of the impossible.
"Nuclear energy."
Einstein blinked. The term was familiar—familiar because he had once speculated about it, explored it in countless models, dismissed it due to a lack of evidence in this world's current scientific paradigm.
Wolf continued, unfazed by the boy's silence.
"Ross was the one who first planted the seed in my head," he said, tone dropping into reverence.
"He must have stumbled upon fragmented references buried in the ruins of an ancient temple—texts so old they defied carbon dating. They spoke of a force drawn not from flame, coal, or wind, but from the very fabric of matter itself. Those texts didn't have all the answers… just a direction."
He pointed toward Einstein, eyes intense.
"Now, with you—with your mind—this will no longer remain a theory. You're the key, the spark that turns this into reality. You carry Vegapunk's genius and his drive. With your help, we won't just replicate the Ancient Weapon—we'll eclipse it. We'll create a new god of war born not from the past, but from the future we choose to forge."
Einstein's breath caught in his throat. Rosinante had known… about nuclear energy?
The boy's world shifted again. Even Vegapunk, in all his wisdom, had never made it this far. Could it be? Could these criminals, these pirates—these so-called misfits—have truly stumbled onto something so profound?
He remembered Rosinante's words during their last meeting. Words that had seemed impossible, almost divine in their scope. But now… now they echoed with terrifying clarity.
"The world hides its deepest truths in the unlikeliest of places."
Einstein looked at Doflamingo—no longer just a warlord, no longer just a tyrant. But a man holding the keys to lost gods. And for the first time since he had stepped onto Green Bit, the boy who thought he knew everything… felt small.
And yet, in that humility, there was something else burning deep in his chest: hope. Hope that he had finally found the one place in the world where even Vegapunk's dreams could be reborn—and perhaps, even surpassed.
****
"Sensei… can you please tell me who won that battle…?" Little Kuina sat cross-legged on the training grounds floor, her shoulders heaving with exhaustion, arms trembling from hours of relentless sword practice. Her wide, eager eyes shimmered with curiosity and effort. She looked up with the kind of expression only a child could muster—pure, unfiltered, and impossible to ignore.
Across the training field, young Zoro's ears perked up at the question. He didn't dare stop swinging his training swords—three wooden blades clashing in rhythm against the training dummy—but his focus now split in two: one on his training, the other on the long-awaited answer.
Everyone had speculated about the outcome of that fabled duel—Mihawk the man hailed as the strongest swordsman in the wold versus Rosinante the man who bore the title of Heaven's equal. Yet no clear answer had been given by either of the parties involved in the duel.
Only one clue remained: Mihawk now bore a fresh scar on his chest, bound tightly with a bloodstained bandage. Even days after the battle, the wound hadn't fully healed—a testament to the gravity of the clash.
Zoro, despite his stubborn pride, didn't want to guess. He believed in facts, in strength proven on the battlefield. His ambition to surpass both Kuina's master and his own master, the world's strongest swordsman, demanded it. And, though he would never admit it aloud, he desperately wanted to know whose master truly stood taller.
On the far edge of the field, seated in lotus position on the grass, Dracule Mihawk appeared as if carved from stone and serenity. Bare-chested, his blade Yoru lay across his lap like a resting beast. Tiny birds flitted around him—one nestled calmly upon his shoulder, another dared to perch atop his head—unbothered by his presence. He had entered a meditative state two days prior and hadn't moved since. Zoro didn't dare disturb him.
There was something ethereal about his presence now. Mihawk wasn't just practicing—he was ascending. With guidance from Rosinante, Mihawk had begun glimpsing a deeper dimension of swordsmanship—what some whispered as the World's Flow. It was a path toward true enlightenment through the sword, a state only the greatest of masters could perceive.
Zoro watched, awe flashing behind his ferocity, and with renewed determination, he resumed his strikes. If his own master—already a demon capable of splitting the very seas—was still pushing to grow stronger, what excuse did he have?
Meanwhile, I sat beneath the shade of the old pine, a worn leather book resting on my knee. Kuina's question hung unanswered in the air. I flipped another page, returning to my reading: The Legend of the Sword God Ryuma, a manuscript Sukiyaki had brought from Wano—a tale whispered from a forgotten era.
Kuina puffed her cheeks in frustration, her hands twitching toward her bokken, ready to launch a protest. But my voice cut through the silence before she could erupt.
"If you have the strength to question me so incessantly, then you have enough strength to swing the blade. Ten more repetitions—twice the weight." My tone was calm, detached, yet commanding.
She groaned, but obeyed. That, too, was the way of the sword.
Beyond the training grounds, within the quiet interior of the dojo, a different conversation was unfolding—one that would shape the future of Wano itself.
Koushirou, calm as ever, poured steaming tea into three porcelain cups. The aroma of roasted leaves filled the air as he addressed the two elders before him—his father, Kozaburo, and Sukiyaki, the former Shogun of Wano. Despite the serenity of the setting, the matter at hand was anything but peaceful.
"Are you certain about this, Father?" Koushirou asked, eyes flicking briefly towards his father and then towards Sukiyaki with a mixture of concern and resignation. "You know I respect both of you, but dragging these children into war… into Wano's war... I can't allow that."
Sukiyaki didn't flinch. His eyes, once dulled by loss and shame, now burned with a slow, tempered fire. A fire that had been lit anew.
"I won't force them," Sukiyaki said firmly. "That is not the way of the samurai. We will not deceive them nor guilt them. But we will tell them the truth—of Wano's suffering, of our people's chains. And those who choose to walk that path… we will train them, and those who are willing to fight for the cause, I am also willing to give them the Kozuki name..."
Koushirou nodded slowly, understanding the resolve in the Shogun's voice. His own mother was from the Kozuki line. The very blood of that same family that ruled Wano for millennia ran through his veins too, and now the very legacy of that family was now enslaved. He could not refuse to aid them—but he would not allow blind sacrifice either.
"It still feels like madness," he murmured. "But… Rosinante told you they're alive?"
"Yes." Sukiyaki's fingers tightened around his teacup, trembling just slightly. "According to what he told me… Toki was a devil fruit user… She must have used the Toki Toki no Mi. The prison they were held in was burned to ash. No bodies. No bones. Rosinante believes—and so do I—they've leapt forward in time. My daughter… my grandchildren… they may yet return."
There was silence then. The quiet kind that reverberates with unspoken truths and impossible hopes.
"And what will you do until then?" Koushirou asked softly.
"We prepare," Sukiyaki said. "We forge a blade worthy of vengeance. A force of samurai ready to reclaim Wano when the hour arrives."
Koushirou's gaze wandered for a moment, and his observation haki extended to the training fields. To Kuina, eyes filled with fire. To Zoro, sweating, bleeding, pushing himself beyond his limits. Then back to the man leisurely reading under the shade of the tree.
"And what of him?" he asked. "Surely it would be simpler to ask for his help. You've seen what he can do. Even Kaido would think twice."
Sukiyaki chuckled—partly in shame, partly in admiration.
"It's as you said, Koushirou-kun. It's not his war to fight. He has walked beside us, helped us, yes. But to rely on him for everything… it would be a betrayal of who we are. Wano must rise with its own strength. Not with borrowed swords." His voice cracked slightly. "We are samurai. We live with pride, or we die with it."
In that moment, Koushirou saw something in Sukiyaki's eyes—hope. Not blind or naive hope, but the hope of a man who had once seen everything crumble and now glimpsed a sliver of light on the horizon.
The Sword God's homeland would rise again. Not through miracles, but through training, sacrifice, and unrelenting will.