Uncharted Island, Grand Line
Nestled deep within the ever-turbulent currents of the first half of the Grand Line, where the weather changed like moods and sea kings stalked beneath rolling waves, there existed an island that did not appear on any map.
Surrounded by an ever-present shroud of sea mist and concealed by magnetic interference emitted by naturally occurring lodestone veins in its bedrock, it was as if the world had forgotten it existed.
Yet, the world's forgetfulness had birthed a secret.
Greenhollow Isle, as the revolutionaries called it, was a jewel of untouched nature—lush, wild, and brimming with life. The island was blanketed in towering emerald canopies, their leaves so broad they created shadowy cathedrals beneath them.
Waterfalls spilled from jagged cliffs into crystalline rivers that wound like serpents through the thick jungle. The call of exotic birds filled the air, and strange fruits with vivid colors dangled from vines that wrapped ancient trees like serpents.
But beneath the canopy and behind waterfalls, stone passageways led to what was now a temporary yet formidable stronghold of the Revolutionary Army.
Carved into the very bones of the island, the stronghold bustled with activity. Hundreds of fresh recruits, the young, the scarred, the desperate, the determined—each one had passed rigorous screening, tests of loyalty, conviction, and sheer will. These weren't mere warriors—they were believers, chosen from the scattered shards of broken kingdoms, oppressed peoples, and fallen dreams from all over the world.
And this island was where dreams were reforged into weapons.
At the heart of the stronghold lay a colossal training ground, carved into a wide natural basin surrounded by jagged ridges. From dawn till nightfall, the ground shook with intensity. Shouts, grunts, the clang of blades, the crackle of fists breaking the sound barrier—it was a crucible.
Here, true revolutionaries were made.
The largest quadrant of the grounds was reserved for Haki training. Circles were drawn into the earth where men and women, some not older than sixteen, others grizzled survivors of civil war, stood locked in duels of will.
At times, the very air itself seemed to shudder and quake, rippling with invisible shockwaves as two opposing forces collided—not with fists or weapons, but with haki. Armament Haki, still rare among even the most promising trainees, occasionally clashed in brutal displays, leaving cracks in the soil and goosebumps on the skin of everyone within range.
The pulse of Armament Haki echoed through the field like thunder, as hardened fists struck ironwood poles plated with seastone alloy. The poles groaned and bent, but did not break—a testament to the revolutionary engineers who'd crafted them to withstand monsters.
Nearby, circles were drawn into the dirt, and within them, aspirants blindfolded themselves, dodging whisper-quiet darts shot from concealed mechanisms, and wooden clubs swung silently by cloaked trainers. These were the crucibles of Observation Haki—a deadly dance of silence and instinct.
The training ground roared with intensity, yet not one movement was wasted. Here, chaos had discipline. Violence had purpose.
Overseeing it all were the original titans of the Revolutionary Army, those who had stood with Dragon when the cause was still young, when they were nothing but an ambitious crew of outlaws branded as "freedom fighters."
Karasu, now newly appointed Commander of the Northern Army, watched from the distance like a shadowy specter. His voice rarely spoke, but when it did, the sharpness of his tone could shear through steel.
At the ground's edge, Belo Betty stood like a blazing fire, her vibrant hair whipping in the wind as her presence alone seemed to stoke the very spirit of the recruits. Even the most exhausted would rise at the sight of her, eyes flaring with renewed purpose under her unyielding gaze.
Lindbergh, ever surrounded by small drone-like automata, adjusted the arm-straps of a struggling youth. His tools and gadgets worked like exoskeletons, helping the weaker trainees push beyond human limits. He barked encouragement in between bursts of scientific babble, his strange mixture of brains and brawn lending hope to the hopeless.
But it was the presence at the far end of the training field that truly commanded reverence.
Black Arm Zephyr.
Once, he was known to the world as an Admiral of the Marines—a war hero, a teacher, the forger of heroes. He trained the likes of Aokiji, Kizaru, Akainu, and countless other vice admirals who now patrolled the seas with brutal, state-sanctioned justice. A man who once believed in the law above all else.
But time had taken much from Zephyr. The World Government had twisted justice into a weapon. They had massacred entire nations under false pretense, betrayed his ideals, and turned the students he raised into weapons of tyranny. And so he left.
Now, almost half his body modified with armor reinforced with seastone-plated cybernetics, Zephyr no longer stood as a servant of the World. He stood as a bulwark against it.
His arms were folded behind his back, posture upright and unmoving like a warship at anchor. His broad frame, refined by age and loss, radiated strength. The metal bracers around his forearms hummed with power, and the glint of cybernetic reinforcement beneath his sleeveless black coat reminded everyone that even the gods of the old era could be reforged in fire.
His eyes—sharp, unwavering—moved across the field like searchlights.
He barked, "Focus your will!"
The field fell deathly still. Every recruit straightened at once. Fatigue vanished from their bones like fog under morning sun. Stone dummies were rearmed. Metal poles were retightened. Pendulums swung faster. Zephyr began to walk. His steps were heavy and deliberate, echoing across the yard like cannon fire.
To a boy gritting his teeth, fists trembling with the attempt to coat them in Armament haki, Zephyr said with a voice like gravel and steel, "Don't swing with anger. Anger is a flame. It burns out. Swing with resolve. That burns forever."
He moved on. To a girl wobbling under her blindfold, drenched in sweat, he pressed a firm hand to her shoulder and adjusted her stance. His voice, calm and cold: "Don't listen with your ears. Listen with your heart. Feel the air. Feel their breath. The intent to kill screams louder than any footstep."
Even without yelling, his presence loomed like a monument. Some recruits feared him. Others revered him. But all knew—this man was not here to train them. He was here to temper them. Like steel. Like weapons. They were not soldiers. They were revolutionaries. Weapons of the people.
A rustle of wind, and Karasu arrived beside Zephyr using Soru. Other than being appointed as the commander of the North Army, he also had the duty of overlooking the training and assisting Zephyr.
"Commander," Karasu said, voice muffled behind his plague-like mask.
Zephyr did not turn. "The batch from South Blue is still lagging. Two years in training, and their armament hasn't matured enough. If they don't progress by the next moon phase, they're liabilities; it's better to move them to logistics than throw them into the front line."
Karasu nodded, eyes narrowing behind the glass of his mask. "I'll remind them of what it means to be chosen. Of what it means to be truly part of the revolutionary army."
Zephyr's eyes cut across the training field again. He stepped up onto the central platform. His voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"Three minutes to recover. Then break into pairs." He let the silence stretch for just a moment before continuing.
"When you fight in the field, it won't be for glory. It won't be for rank. It'll be to keep the person beside you alive. Train with that in mind." He scanned their eyes—some widened, some hardened.
"Because when the time comes, and the gods of this world send their dogs after us, you won't be fighting alone. And if your will breaks, it won't just be your blood on the battlefield. It'll be theirs too."
The yard moved. Recruits saluted. They understood. Zephyr didn't just train strength.
He trained accountability. Resolve. Purpose.
From a small ridge beyond the training field, just beside the row of reinforced tents that made up the command center, several officers observed in silence.
One of the younger lieutenants, barely older than the recruits below, whispered to the woman beside him. "Do they even know who he used to be? What he's done?"
Standing tall, arms folded, and posture still, Livia—one of the Revolution's strategic minds—watched the field without blinking. Her lips curled into a faint smile.
"Most of them do not… They don't need to know who he was," she said quietly, "only what he's building now." And what he was building—was a storm.
A new generation of warriors. Not servants of kings. Not slaves to banners. Not pirates. Not marines. But true agents of change, forged in fire, tempered by will, and unleashed when the world would least expect it. The Revolution had long been a whisper. Now, it was becoming a roar.
An hour had passed since the sun had dipped below the horizon, casting the island into the cool shroud of twilight. In the heart of the Revolutionary Army's hidden stronghold, a soft amber glow spilled out from within the largest of the tents—the Central Command Pavilion, a canvas fortress reinforced with steel ribs and sewn with seastone fiber to resist both fire and intrusion.
Inside, the atmosphere was thick with anticipation and the scent of sea-salted parchment and storm-damp cloaks.
Gathered around the central war table were the highest-ranking figures of the Revolutionary Army—their faces tense, backs straight, and expressions disciplined. Karasu stood with his arms folded, ever silent, eyes unreadable behind the glint of his avian mask.
Belo Betty paced slightly near the far wall, her fingers twitching, as if resisting the urge to light a spark and rouse hearts even here. Lindbergh's mechanical tail swayed with nervous energy as his cybernetic goggles clicked and recalibrated.
Livia stood near the map's edge, arms crossed, her silver eyes scanning the reports and dossiers pinned to various corners of the massive table. Even the normally animated commanders kept their voices low or said nothing at all.
Because he was here. Monkey D. Dragon.
For the first time in over two years, the enigmatic Supreme Commander of the Revolutionary Army had appeared in person. Not as a voice filtered through a crackling den den mushi. Not as a shadowy figure at the edge of reports.
But in the flesh. He stood at the head of the table, a tall and silent tempest cloaked in deep black and dark crimson. The faint, ever-present breeze inside the tent rustled his long coat, as though the wind itself obeyed his presence.
Scars traced parts of his jaw and temple, half-obscured by the shadows cast by the low lanternlight. His tattooed face, marked by rebellion and history, was expressionless—but his eyes burned.
Eyes like a storm locked in a man's skull. Cold, clear, and impossibly calculating. The silence in the room was not one of fear, but of gravity. When Dragon appeared, the Revolution took a breath.
He stood with one hand braced on the table, the other slowly flipping through reports—intelligence on Cipher Pol activities, movements of Marine fleets in the New World, the rise of rogue pirate factions, famine zones ignited by World Government negligence, and the increasing disappearances of villages in the West Blue.
Each parchment he read was like a match. Each detail another weight on the scales of war. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His silence was a question—and an indictment.
At his side stood Zephyr, arms folded behind his back like a judge awaiting sentencing. The former admiral's presence had steadied the army during Dragon's absence, his leadership bridging a generation and elevating the Revolutionary Army from shadow movement to global threat. And yet, even Zephyr stood a half-step behind Dragon.
"Still no confirmed intel on the matter you had personally asked me to look into..."
Livia's voice cut through the silence—crisp, clinical, yet beneath it trembled something rare for her: unease.
She stood with squared shoulders, but the slight tremor in her fingers betrayed how deeply the implications of her next words had burrowed into her soul. All eyes in the command tent turned toward her, though most didn't understand what she was referring to. Only Dragon and Zephyr truly knew the weight of the shadows they'd been hunting.
Livia exhaled slowly. "But I'm afraid the reports we managed to piece together from the Holy Land… they suggest that what Rosinante shared with you wasn't a fluke. In fact, it may very well be the most dangerous truth buried in this world."
Dragon didn't move, but the air around him grew still, as though the very wind held its breath.
Livia pressed on, each word deliberate. "We've lost almost every agent assigned to infiltrate Pangaea Castle. The few scraps of intel they managed to send back—before going silent—align with the warning Rosinante gave you. The… empty throne may not be empty after all."
A hush fell over the tent like a blade.
Even hardened veterans like Karasu and Belo Betty paused mid-motion. Lindbergh's mechanical tail froze, its usual flicking halted by the tension now gripping the room.
No one spoke. No one dared.
Only Zephyr and Dragon looked unaffected—because they had long suspected the possibility. And the weight of it had already begun shaping the course of their plans for years.
Dragon's mind flashed back to that conversation—Rosinante, the boy he had met in Loguetown, the boy whose talent even he admired and had taken to his father to be groomed as the perfect Marine, the Marine Hero's protégé, betrayed by the Marines and then turned pirate, currently a young man whose name shook the very seas, a man whose name was spoken in the same breath as Whitebeard.
"Who told you the throne was just a symbol...? The Empty Throne might not be empty at all. What if this world has had a true ruler for a thousand years… hidden behind kings and banners, ruling from the shadows?"
Those words had seeded something terrifying in Dragon's mind. Not fear—but certainty.
The World Government's illusion of shared power, of checks and balance among nations, of peace... was a lie. The reality was a world ruled by a phantom monarch—a god-emperor cloaked in myth and hidden from history.
Only a few, even within the Revolution, knew of Rosinante's words that he had shared with Dragon. Dragon had chosen to investigate the matter in utter secrecy. To share such a claim recklessly was to risk demoralizing the entire rebellion.
But Livia—his most trusted intelligence commander—had been the only one he'd trusted with the task. She had combed the shadows of Mariejois for two long years. And in return, they had lost more than agents.
They had lost time. And if this truth was real—then time was the one thing they had the least of.
Dragon's eyes flicked up from the page he'd been holding, finally meeting Livia's. She didn't flinch, but her jaw was clenched tight. She had stared into the abyss of truth—and unlike others, she had the strength to speak of it.
Karasu shifted, his voice low, like distant thunder behind his mask, not truly realizing the depth of the matter just shared by Livia; for them, it seemed like a metaphor.
"Cipher Pol's movements have grown erratic. South Blue cities have been gutted—entire orphan districts emptied in a week. The children are taken... and the ones that return are no longer themselves. If we don't move soon, we'll lose more than ground—we'll lose faith."
Lindbergh brought up a floating schematic, casting faint blue light across the tent.
"We've got new prototypes ready—long-range gliders, sea-bound walkers, and breaching units that can scale the Red Line. All we need is time to fine-tune deployment."
Dragon didn't respond. He didn't need to. His silence wasn't hesitation—it was calculation. He wasn't just planning a strike. He was trying to outmaneuver a phantom that had ruled the world for a thousand years.
Finally, it was Zephyr who stepped forward, cutting through the stillness like a hammer through glass.
"At this point," the former admiral said, voice low but resolute, "it's better to tell them. Even if it's only a possibility… they have the right to know what they're truly fighting against."
He turned, gesturing to the commanders gathered in the tent—men and women who had bled, lost families, left lives behind—all in service to a cause they thought they understood.
"They're staking their lives, Dragon. Their futures. Their children's futures. They deserve to know. Not just that the world is wrong—but how it's wrong. What they're truly up against."
His words didn't plead. They demanded.
Dragon stared at Zephyr. They had fought many battles together—on opposite sides, once. Now, they stood united under the same banner. And after everything Zephyr had seen the World Government do, he had no patience left for illusion.
Dragon's hand stilled over the last report. A long silence passed. Then, finally, he spoke—his voice quiet, but heavy as thunder.
"Fine, Zephyr-sensei…" Dragon's voice was calm, but the resolve behind it was unmistakable. "Like you said—if they've chosen to follow me and my ideals, it's only right they know the truth… before it's too late."
He turned his gaze slowly to the rest of the room. Veteran commanders. Elite agents. Hardened leaders of the Revolutionary cause—each standing with confusion etched into their features, sensing the gravity in their leader's tone but unable to grasp its full weight.
His voice dropped, commanding—not requesting.
"The matter we discuss here today will not leave this tent until we have concrete proof. Is that understood?"
No one dared speak. They only nodded, almost subconsciously, as if compelled by the sheer pressure in the air. Dragon stepped forward, casting a long shadow across the war table as he spoke—measured, quiet, each word like a blade.
"For centuries, the world has been taught that the Empty Throne was sacred. That it represented equality among the kings. That no one man could ever rule it all…" His eyes swept the room, calm but heavy, burning with conviction.
"But the throne is not empty."
The words hit the tent like a silent cannon blast.
"The lie has endured for a millennium. And in that time, a hidden king—a god—has shaped history from the shadows. Slaughtering nations. Erasing truths. Manipulating kings and governments. Rewriting the past and molding the present."
The air thickened with disbelief.
"What we fight now is not just a system. Not just the Celestial Dragons or corrupt monarchs. What we fight… is a phantom sovereign. A god who has lived too long—and built the world in his own image."
Silence followed. The kind that burned.
One of the commanders, his voice strained, finally broke it. "That's… absurd. How can that be? A single ruler, for a thousand years? That's just—legend. Where did such a notion even come from?"
The look Dragon gave him silenced the rest of the room. It wasn't anger. It was a confirmation. A quiet affirmation that everything they thought they knew was a lie.
Karasu, composed yet clearly disturbed, stepped forward. His plague-mask turned slightly as he spoke.
"Is this what Livia's report hinted at? The throne not being empty? And… we're supposed to accept this based on the word of a pirate?"
His tone was laced with bitterness—old wounds surfacing from the past.
"A Donquixote of all people? That family has done nothing but drown this world in blood. That boy—that walking nightmare—Reiju's failure still haunts—"
"Enough."
The word came like thunder—from Zephyr. The former admiral's voice cracked through the tent like a whip. He stepped forward, steel in every syllable.
"Rosinante may be a pirate, but he isn't a liar. I taught the kid myself. Raised him, in a way. He has heart—more than most Marines I've seen. He risked his life to save children, traitors, enemies. And not once did he ask for praise."
Zephyr's glare pinned Karasu like a spear. "You've seen what the World Government is capable of. Don't forget—we were once part of it. Don't let your personal hatred blind you to the truth."
Dragon nodded in agreement, adding with solemn weight,
"Rosinante didn't share this matter with me for glory or favors. He gave this to protect us. To protect the cause. And Karasu—have you forgotten who has been supplying us with weapons? With funds? While hunted by the Government itself?"
He paused, letting the facts speak.
"Even cornered in the Grand Line, with bounty hunters and Cipher Pol agents crawling over every inch of this territory… that man has kept us breathing. Without his resources, our rebellion might've already died in the dark."
The others in the tent now stood frozen—not in fear, but in slow, dawning realization. Dragon took one more breath. Deep. Anchored. Then, in a voice like a storm held just beneath the surface, he spoke the name.
"I may not yet have proof. But I believe in Rosinante's words. Etch this into your hearts, all of you…"
He turned, gaze burning through every soul in the tent.
"The ruler from the shadows. The god who commands the Celestial Dragons. The phantom that governs the Five Elders…"
His next word seemed to pull the temperature from the air.
"Nerona Imu."
A shiver passed through the room like a ripple of death. The name hung there—echoing in silence, like a forgotten curse spoken aloud for the first time in centuries. Even those who didn't know the meaning of the name felt something… wrong. Ancient. Primordial.
Livia bowed her head, whispering under her breath, "The throne is not empty…"
Karasu said nothing. Not out of acceptance, but because no words came. His mind raced through memories, missions, faces he couldn't explain—and now they began to make sense in ways he wished they didn't. Zephyr stepped forward beside Dragon.
"So you should all understand, this changes everything. Our strategies. Our alliances. Our timelines. If Imu exists… then the Revolution as it stands now is just a candle in a hurricane."
Dragon nodded. "Then we need to become the firestorm."
Outside, the distant roar of thunder cracked through the sky above the island—unnatural, booming, as if the world itself had heard the forbidden name and trembled. Inside the command tent, the Revolutionary Army had taken its first step not just toward rebellion… but toward war against a god.