"Divine Departure."
Two titanic sword flashes collided midair—one crimson and searing, the other shimmering gold like the first light of dawn. The impact was cataclysmic.
The sky cracked open as if reality itself had been torn, thunder erupting with such force it shattered the sound barrier. The entire island trembled beneath the weight of the clash, trees uprooted, rocks split into dust, and the sea surrounding the battlefield surged violently, forming monstrous whirlpools that threatened to swallow the coastline.
Shanks stood at the heart of it all, his crimson cloak billowing like a banner of war, his blade still humming from the impact. His breathing was calm, but his eyes burned—not from pain or fear, but from fury.
Across from him stood a ghost. Not a memory. Not a man. But a living embodiment of legend—Gol D. Roger, the Pirate King himself, just as Shanks remembered from decades past. Towering, broad-shouldered, the same ferocious grin that once lit up the Grand Line now twisted into a cruel scowl. His presence was so overwhelming, it distorted the air around him, and even though Shanks knew this wasn't real, every instinct in his body screamed otherwise.
"This is your limit?" Roger's voice echoed, deeper, darker than it should've been. "You've squandered the legacy I left behind. If I had known this is what you'd become... I would never have saved you that day."
The words hit harder than any blade. Shanks clenched his jaw. This isn't him. This is a lie. A weapon made of my memories... twisted by that damn Devil Fruit.
His gaze flicked momentarily to the figure floating above the battlefield—Saint Killingham, the man with the Qilin-like visage. It was his cursed Devil Fruit, one that gave shape and substance to thoughts, memories, regrets—nightmares reborn in flesh. Shanks still didn't fully understand the mechanics, but the principle was obvious: manifest enemies crafted from one's own fears. And this one had chosen the image of the man Shanks had revered most.
Even an illusion, Roger's phantom radiated such overpowering Conqueror's Haki that the air pulsed with electric pressure. Shanks could feel the tremors deep in his bones. He may not be the real Roger… but he's damn close enough.
And yet, he didn't flinch.
He stepped forward, red aura surging from his blade as it began to hum with raw haki. "You're not him," Shanks muttered coldly. "You're just a shadow. And I don't take orders from ghosts."
Another clash erupted between them—blade against blade, haki against haki. This time the island buckled. A ridge exploded into the sky like a geyser of stone. Clouds miles above swirled into a vortex, thunder cracking as the heavens responded to their fury.
But while Shanks held his ground, his Observation Haki pulsed outward, reaching beyond his immediate duel—and what it revealed chilled him.
On the western slope of the island, Beckmann, Yasopp, and a few of their elite crew were engaged in a desperate battle against another of the god's knight: a towering knight clad in bone-white armor, its helm carved like a screaming skull. Each swing of its jagged greatsword sent shockwaves that ripped through trees and tore craters in the earth. The Red-Haired Pirates were holding, but only barely. The rhythm of the fight was shifting—not in their favor.
This is bad. The longer this drags out, the more ground we lose. We're playing their game...
"RAAAAAHHH!!" Shanks let out a primal roar, flames of Haoshoku Haki exploding outward from his body, blasting through the battlefield like a tidal wave of willpower. The illusory Roger grunted, momentarily staggered. Seizing the chance, Shanks stepped in with lightning speed, blade flashing.
"Scarlet Severance!"
His sword carved a wide arc, exploding into a crescent of red-gold energy that surged toward the Roger-phantom, cleaving through rock and air alike. The fake Pirate King blocked it, but stumbled. A crack formed across his chest as it reformed after a few moments.
Good.
But even as Shanks pressed forward, he couldn't escape the feeling clawing at the back of his mind—that no matter how hard they fought, this battle was meant to wear them down. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. These so called God's Knights hadn't come to fight. They'd come to break him. And if they didn't find a way to turn the tide soon… they might just succeed.
"You know," Saint Killingham said with a lazy smile, his voice calm yet laced with venom, "the more you resist, the worse it's going to get for you. At some point, this dance becomes tedious… and when that happens, we may stop holding back."
He hovered effortlessly in the air, his long, flowing robes billowing with the wind generated by the sheer force of the clashing haki below. The glint in his Qilin-like eyes wasn't amusement—it was calculation. Every word he uttered dripped with manipulation, each syllable crafted to press on old wounds and buried fears.
"Do you really want to see your precious crew die here, one by one? Burned, broken… forgotten?" His grin widened as he gestured casually to the battlefield below, where Beckmann and the others struggled to contain the bone-armored monstrosity.
"All we ask is that you come with us. Quietly. No chains. No bloodshed—at least, not more than necessary. Isn't that a small price to pay… for their lives?"
Shanks said nothing.
The Red-Haired supernova stood rooted to the torn earth, his blade crackling with residual energy from the last clash. His bloodshot eyes narrowed—not in fear, but in disgust. The emotional pull of the illusion of Roger, the devastation wrought upon his crew, the looming threat of Saint Killingham—it was all meant to break him.
But if the so-called Saint thought that cheap threats and phantom images could force a man like Shanks to yield, he had sorely underestimated his opponent.
Still, Killingham kept talking. Because deep down, despite his composed facade, there was a flicker of frustration behind his mask.
This shouldn't be this hard.
He had used his Awakened Devil Fruit, a reality-bending power that allowed him to summon living nightmares born from the minds of his enemies. He had drawn upon Shanks' deepest memories, his greatest fears, and his most revered idol. And yet… the man still fought. Still endured. Still resisted.
What kind of willpower is this?
So Killingham had changed tactics. If he couldn't break Shanks through force, he would shatter him with the thing he couldn't harden his haki against: love—his crew.
After all, once Shanks was in custody and taken to the Holy Land, what happened afterward wasn't his concern. He had a mission. Deliver the Supreme commanders offspring to the Celestial Council. And he would do it by the easiest means possible.
"You're a pragmatic man, Shanks," he continued, voice dropping into a near-whisper, his words carried by Observation-enhanced clarity. "You've carried burdens others couldn't even comprehend at your age. You've lived long enough on the seas to know there's no such thing as a clean ending. Why not let this one be… clean?"
He gestured again—this time toward the sea, where pillars of smoke were rising from massive battleships in the distance. Other world government agents were moving. The noose was tightening. Shanks finally spoke.
"Funny," he said softly, his voice as sharp as his sword. "You talk about pragmatism. About easy endings. But you don't get it."
He took a step forward, his aura igniting like a wildfire, the sheer pressure forcing the clouds above to spiral. The sea recoiled. The ground cracked beneath his boots. "You're the one who's making this harder than it needs to be."
His eye locked onto Killingham's, and in that moment, all the warmth that had once defined the Red-Haired pirate was gone.
"You threatened my crew. You summoned his face." He pointed his sword toward the vanishing illusion of Roger. "And now… you think I'll just come quietly?" His haki surged, lightning laced with scarlet crackled around him like divine fire.
"You should've killed me when you had the chance."
****
Dressrosa, New World
"This is troublesome, Doffy-kun," Fujitora murmured, his blind eyes drifting beyond the edge of the ornate balcony, gazing in the direction of the distant seas he could not see—but could still feel. "If what Ross-kun says carries weight… then I suggest we remain in Dressrosa. Venturing out to confront Kaido on the open seas is too great a risk. The World Government will seize the opportunity. They've been waiting for it."
He paused as his senses brushed over the courtyard below, where children and young prospects, the future pillars of the Donquixote core family, trained under the warm afternoon sun.
Among them moved a figure whose presence alone carried seismic potential and earth-shattering consequences—Einstein, the sharpest mind in the world and the newest member of the Donquixote family, engaging casually with the rest of the family. But Issho's tone darkened with quiet urgency.
"If they even suspect he's connected to Vegapunk… the world will plunge into chaos. Neither side has shown their full hand yet. But with Einstein here and Vegapunk's knowledge in our possession, we're treading on divine ground. And the so-called gods would not have anyone else having access to the true secrets of the world."
Doflamingo leaned back on his iron chair, golden lenses glinting, a wine glass in hand. His usual smirk was more thoughtful than amused.
"Fufufufu… Even I understand the value of time, Issho. That's why I haven't moved yet despite all my rage. Kaido can roar all he wants in Wano, but I'm not about to walk into a trap laid by ghosts and gamblers."
Diamante, seated beside him, sipped tea offered by the ever-diligent Señor Pink.
"Do you think the World Government has a hand in pushing Kaido to act?" he asked. "He hasn't left Wano since Whitebeard tore him apart. Suddenly he's moving again?"
"Of course," Doflamingo said lazily, flipping through a folder full of intelligence reports. "When does the World Government not have their hands in the affairs of the New World? Everything happening now is far too convenient to be random. Someone's pulling the strings. The question is, who's pulling the strings of the World Government itself?"
Issho nodded slowly, the tension in his jaw betraying his concern.
"You're not wrong. Whitebeard moved because one of his territories was provoked by the newest Shichibukai. Meanwhile, the Marines, with Garp himself at the front, are storming the New World to strike at Scarlett's forces. And Kaido—he's pushing toward us. They're trying to cage all the Emperors at once. That's no coincidence. This isn't just an invasion—it's a coordinated gambit."
"They're keeping the kings of the sea occupied…" Doflamingo murmured, raising his glass in the sunlight, watching the crimson swirl of wine. "Because while the strong are distracted, the real prize can be taken unopposed."
Diamante's brow furrowed. "The God Fruits… you mean what Ross mentioned recently?"
"Exactly," Doflamingo said, voice dropping low with gravity. "The World Government has dispatched the God's Knights to locate and secure the most dangerous fruits in existence. They're moving in secret, cloaked by the chaos."
"Pfft... God's Knights," Diamante scoffed. "What a pretentious name. How many of those 'divine warriors' have fallen over the years? Whitebeard slew one in Wano. Our young master killed another at Sabaody. If this is the best they can send…"
A new voice interrupted, cold and sharp as steel wrapped in velvet.
"You will suffer miserably if you underestimate the true God's Knights, Diamante."
All eyes turned as Lady Agana stepped onto the balcony. Graceful, poised, with a deadly aura that chilled the air, she accepted the chair Señor Pink offered her with a nod of appreciation.
Once a prodigy of the World Government, now a trusted figure within the Donquixote inner circle, she had carved out her place over years of loyalty—and blood. And while rumors swirled about her connection to the highest echelons of power, only Doflamingo truly knew the depths of her knowledge.
"Agana," Doflamingo acknowledged with a smirk. "Still bitter about Rosinante?"
Agana's expression flickered with something unreadable. "Some debts are never paid. Some wounds never heal."
Diamante raised an eyebrow. "You were a God's Knight once, weren't you? And didn't quite a few of them die recently—despite their Abyss Marks?"
Agana laughed, low and mocking. "You misunderstand. I was merely a prospect. A candidate. Not one of the true ones. And those who died? They were pawns—ceremonial figures marked with power they could never comprehend. The true God's Knights are not so… mortal."
Doflamingo's eyes narrowed, voice soft but edged with interest. "Immortality."
Agana nodded, sipping her tea as if they were discussing the weather.
"Yes. Immortality granted by the World Government's deepest secrets. Those who bear the Abyss Mark and survive the Rite… they stop aging. They stop dying. Many of them have walked this earth for centuries. They were monsters in their own era—warriors, scholars, tyrants. Now they're more than legends. They are gods in the flesh."
A silence fell.
"They cannot be killed?" Issho asked, his voice dangerously calm.
Agana looked him dead in the eyes, though he couldn't see her.
"Perhaps someone like Rosinante, who always seems to have a trick or two up his sleeve, might have come up with a measure to circumvent the immortality… But as far as my knowledge goes, no immortal being of the World Government has perished since the incident in Wano seven centuries ago… There was a reason even the world government with all its momentum back then didn't dare to touch Wano, which was being guarded by a samurai called Ryuma," she admitted, her voice laced with a bitterness she couldn't hide.
"But not by ordinary men. And that's not even the worst part. I told you before—the Abyss Mark is a gateway. If even one infiltrates our ranks, they can open a path… summon an entire legion through the mark. What you call a 'God's Knight' is merely the herald. The army follows behind."
"Fufufu…" Doflamingo tilted his glass toward the horizon, the wine catching the light like blood in the sun. "So… the gods can bleed after all? That hardly makes them immortal, does it? Perhaps the World Government knows this too. Maybe that's why they've decided to play the game of war once more. Let them. I've watched kings fall. I've killed them with my own hands. But gods…?"
His smile deepened, cold and full of promise.
"I wonder how loudly they scream." His smirk widened into something darker. "I look forward to slaying the so-called gods too..."
"What are your orders, Master Doffy?" Senor Pink finally asked, his voice calm but laced with anticipation. He had waited patiently, watching his leader weigh the decision in silence.
Doflamingo's gaze remained fixed on the courtyard below, where Einstein—arguably the biggest secret that the Donquixote family had to date—mingled effortlessly with the younger members of the Donquixote family. The soft hum of conversation and laughter beneath contrasted sharply with the storm brewing in Doflamingo's mind.
"For now…" he began slowly, swirling the wine in his glass, "even more than the need for revenge against Kaido or the need to confront the World Government, what we need most… is time."
His eyes narrowed, catching the glint of sunlight on painted window glasses. "We can't delay the project any longer. Not with him here. Prepare a list of individuals we can trust absolutely who can work on the project—no doubts, no cracks. Rely on the Tontatta for manpower where possible. Their loyalty and skill are unmatched, and they can work undetected. Under no circumstances can the World Government catch wind of this."
As Doflamingo's words cut through the still air, his gaze drifted toward Agana. She frowned, subtle yet telling. Despite being embraced by the Donquixote Family, she knew all too well that there were layers to Doflamingo's secrets—doors that even she had not been allowed to open. Most of all, she still didn't know the true identity of the boy who had recently joined their ranks—Einstein himself.
Agana abruptly stood, her teacup clattering hard against the iron table, almost shattering. "Fine. I'll leave. Keep your precious secrets to yourselves," she hissed, her pride wounded. Then, without waiting for a response, she turned sharply and stormed out.
Doflamingo didn't flinch. He merely chuckled softly, as if humoring a child's tantrum. The smirk never left his face. Issho, who had remained quiet, now spoke up, his tone thoughtful.
"Doffy-kun… she's proven her loyalty time and again. Perhaps it's time…"
But Doflamingo raised a single gloved hand. "Not yet, Issho."
His tone turned serious, his voice a razor beneath velvet. "She's not like the rest of us. Everyone here either chose this life… or was born into it. But she? She came from the Holy Land, and not by her own will. That tether may be severed—but it's not forgotten. And it's not forgiven. Until I am absolutely certain that she's no longer their pawn—consciously or otherwise—she stays at arm's length."
He leaned forward, resting his elbow on the table.
"She's privy to the Donquixote Family's day-to-day workings… but not the matters that could change the fate of the entire world."
He turned to Senor again.
"Reach out to Stussy. We're going to need massive resources—and we'll have to move them completely undetected. With her connections, she should be able to ensure nothing leaves a trace. And send a message to Iceburg. Tell him to push Tom-san on his end. We can't afford to delay any longer. Even if we began tomorrow, at the best pace, we'd still need a decade—maybe two—to complete what's needed."
Diamante, who had been listening silently, finally spoke.
"Doffy, we can't risk building something so important away from our stronghold. We need a site close by—one we can watch around the clock."
Doflamingo nodded. "You're absolutely right, Diamante." He fell into brief silence, then snapped his fingers. "Green Bit. It's perfect. Quiet. Covered in dense forest. Already crawling with the Tontatta. Have one of our architects meet with the Tontatta Chief. See if they can expand the island discreetly to house a hidden facility. With their underground engineering and talent for camouflage, we can construct the core of the operation there—hidden in plain sight."
His glasses glinted in the fading light.
"We begin laying the foundations for Pluton—right there. And this time… we won't just build a weapon. We'll build the endgame."