The sea screamed.
Far within an uncharted quadrant of the New World, the sky wept fury. Thunder cracked the heavens like a whip, each bolt of lightning searing the sky with burning veins of light. Towering maelstroms swirled with a maddening rhythm, their spirals of foam and blackened sea reaching toward the skies like titanic serpents. A thick, unnatural fog blanketed the ocean, a shroud of grey that swallowed sight, sound, and even time itself. The sun had not touched these waters in decades.
It was a graveyard of gods. And within this choking fog… something moved.
The silence was broken by the deep, echoing clatter of chains—but these were not chains that would bind men. No, these were colossal, mountain-thick shackles, forged of ancient seastone and dark iron, each link the size of a fortress gate. They groaned like dying beasts, dragged across jagged seabeds, wrapped around something monstrous.
BOOM.
The very ocean floor quaked as massive stakes of iron—forged in darkness and blessed with foul purpose—were driven deep into the cracked foundation of a vast island. Like nails into the bones of the world, they pierced through bedrock and volcanic veins, sealing their hold.
Then it screamed.
The roar of the entity that followed was not the cry of any living creature. It was a sound from the forgotten past, a howl that tore through the sky and shattered the fog, sending gales rippling across the sea like tsunamis. Birds died mid-flight. Fish floated belly-up from the vibration alone. Whole clouds dispersed in the wake of its fury.
The island—lush with forgotten trees, rivers, and mountains—trembled violently.
And then, impossibly, it moved.
Ripped from the earth, torn from the tectonic plates below, the massive landmass shuddered and began to rise, its cliffs crumbling, waterfalls reversing as entire valleys tilted. With chains anchored deep into its molten heart, the island groaned and screamed—yet rose all the same.
Dragging it forward, step by thunderous step, was Oars.
But this was not the Oars of old. This was a colossus reborn, an ancient corpse reanimated and rebuilt, now adorned with war plating and bone-forged armor, bound by necromancy and hatred. Towering high enough to blot out the moon, Oars strained against the chains lashed to his arms and spine, his every movement cracking the air like distant explosions.
Behind him, looming like the cathedral of nightmares, was the behemoth of the sea itself:
Thriller Bark.
But to call it merely an island was heresy. Once a floating landmass, now it had evolved into something far worse—an abomination of wood, steel, stone, and soul. Ancient castles stitched together with dark science and devilcraft. Giant sails that flapped like wings of the dead. Cannons carved from leviathan skulls, mausoleums turned control towers. A foggy spire rose at its heart—Moria's throne, casting its shadow across the black sea.
And still… it grew.
This torn island was not being destroyed—but devoured. As Oars dragged it toward the vessel, the very surface of the landmass began to shift—machinery and shadowy figures atop Thriller Bark reaching out with dark tendrils, cranes made of bone and arcane chain, stripping the mountain, repurposing it—grafting it onto the main hull, feeding the beast to make it vaster, stronger, alive.
The seas split as the land fell into place. Steam hissed. Screams echoed. Dark laughter, muffled and haunting, carried through the wind.
Above it all, lightning struck the fog, revealing the silhouette of Oars as he let out another roar that shook the stars—a harbinger of horror made flesh.
And Thriller Bark… grew hungrier.
"Kishishishishi… Oars, they called you a Continent Puller—and now I see, it was no exaggeration."
Perched atop the tallest spire of Thriller Bark, silhouetted against the storm-lit sky, Gecko Moria stood with his cape billowing in the howling wind, gazing upon the monstrous figure before him. With each earth-splitting step, Oars dragged an entire island—cracked, bleeding, and chained—across the ocean floor. The sea trembled beneath his feet, waves surging like panicked beasts as ancient seabeds were torn apart.
Even now, Moria couldn't tell if this level of raw power had once belonged to the original Oars… or if the strength now wielded by this colossal reanimated corpse was the result of the shadow he had grafted into it—the shadow of Kozuki Oden.
Yes, Oars was no longer just a corpse. He was a chimera of ancient brute strength and the unyielding will of a man who had once made even the likes of Whitebeard and Roger acknowledge his name. Moria had gambled everything to bind Oden's burning will into this titan's flesh.
And it hadn't been easy. His memory then drifted to the massive island ship beneath his feet, which was currently being modified.
"It took nearly two years—me and my old crew—to bring this monstrosity all the way from the West Blue… into the New World through the Calm belt…" he muttered, his voice caught between pride and bitterness.
His eyes momentarily softened—memories surfacing like ghosts through the storm. The faces of the crew of the Thriller Bark Pirates and the many who had once called Thriller Bark home flickered in his mind. His original crew, lost to time, to an enemy, to Kaido.
And then the sadness morphed. Into rage. Pure. Boiling. Unadulterated hate.
"KAIDOOOOOOOO!!"
Moria's voice cracked the sky like thunder, his roar carried by the cursed winds over the endless sea. It echoed through Thriller Bark like the call of an ancient god.
Below, the shadows responded.
Thousands—no, hundreds of thousands—of undead stirred. Beneath the decks, within the crevices, hiding behind shattered gravestones and within blackened crypts—shadows awakened, answering the fury of their master.
Ever since his escape from Wano, Moria had vanished from the world's gaze—but he had not been idle. He had retreated into the deepest, most forsaken corners of the New World, eventually venturing far north, where ancient things still slept beneath the ice and sea. It was there, in a world of silence and desolation, that he had discovered the colossal corpse of Oars—preserved and cursed by time.
But Oars was only the beginning.
The seas were a graveyard. Millennia of shipwrecks, doomed voyages, and unmarked battles. There were thousands of islands that had been erased from the maps, places where men were stranded and perished—forgotten by the world, but not by Gecko Moria.
And where others saw tragedy, Moria saw opportunity.
At first, he had reanimated those near the shores—corpses washed up, bloated by seawater. It was difficult. The salt corrupted the shadows, weakened his grip. But over time, as his mastery over the awakened Shadow-Shadow Fruit grew, so too did his influence.
He learned. He adapted. He evolved. Eventually, it was no longer enough to scavenge.
He began to erase entire islands—remote, ungoverned, unseen. He and Oars, now acting like a continent-devouring leviathan, would descend upon remote isles, wiping them from existence. Not a single heartbeat was left behind. Entire populations—consumed.
Now, beneath Thriller Bark, there was an army over a million strong. And every one of them moved in perfect, soulless unison to their master's command.
As Oars slammed the stolen island into position, the entire behemoth of Thriller Bark shuddered—like some ancient creature grafting new limbs onto itself. Gigantic skeletal cranes groaned and clicked, binding the jagged edges of the torn landmass with living iron. Undead legions poured forth, stitching the earth together with monstrous precision, anchoring it to the greater body of Thriller Bark.
They did not tire. They did not sleep. They did not falter. His will was their eternal will.
And Gecko Moria, once a broken warlord mocked for his past, now stood upon the spine of a dark empire reborn. The world believed him defeated—just another relic of the past—but in truth, he had transcended. He had grown more than any of them could imagine. He had found power not in life—but in death.
And all of it… All of it was for Kaido.
"This time, you won't take anything from me, Kaido…" Moria whispered, eyes glowing with fury.
"This time, I will take everything from you."
Moria's crimson gaze swept across the sea of death below—a sprawling undead army unlike anything the world had ever seen. From his perch atop Thriller Bark's skeletal citadel, he could see his creation transforming. The once-gargantuan ship was now becoming something else entirely—a drifting necropolis, stitched together with torn islands, corpses, and broken kingdoms.
And his army—his legion of shadows—was evolving alongside it.
There were zombie soldiers of every imaginable form, reanimated from across centuries of forgotten wars and sunken voyages. Human corpses, ranging from hulking warriors to frail sailors, marched side by side. Some bore rusted armor and archaic weapons—remnants of empires long buried—while others were clad in pirate garb, once infamous across the seas and now just ghosts wielding blades and flintlocks.
Then there were the lost legends—men and women of renown whose names had once echoed across the Grand Line, only to vanish into obscurity. Their bodies had been claimed by time and tide, but their power had been restored under Moria's shadowcraft.
And towering amidst the ranks were the monsters—creatures not meant to be brought back.
The bloated corpses of Sea Kings, their carcasses dragged from the ocean depths by Oars himself, now stitched with iron plating and glowing eyes, ready to serve as both war beasts and siege weapons.
Three ancient giants, long lost to Elbaf's history, now thralls to Moria's will. One bore the marks of a former royal guard, another the largest of the three, a weapon from a time long lost, which Moria suspected was pre-Void Century.
Fishmen warriors, pulled from the wreckage of an underwater graveyard near the Calm Belt.
Minks, skeletons furred in patches, snarling with undead electricity flickering in their eyes. Even a dwarf platoon, barely the size of barrels, marched with the precision of assassins, wielding poisoned blades crafted from human needles and bone.
The scope of the horde was staggering. A million strong, if not more. A force born from every race, era, and corner of the world—united not by loyalty or ideology, but by Moria's insatiable lust for vengeance.
And yet…
"It may not be enough…" Moria muttered, his voice low and grave.
He reached into the inner folds of his jacket and produced a transponder snail unlike any other—jet black, with a ciphered dial and red blinking eye. A gift from the shadows of the World Government.
His fingers hesitated. His expression twisted into a scowl.
"I don't have the luxury of time…"
Originally, he had planned to remain hidden—vanishing into myth, building his army, and emerging when the world least expected it. But Cipher Pol had found him; they had managed to do so a month ago. How, he still wasn't sure. Perhaps it was Oars' size. Perhaps some old traitor among the pirates had whispered. Or perhaps, Moria thought bitterly, he had simply grown too loud.
He had considered killing the Cipher Pol agents when they arrived… sinking their ship into the abyss and burying every trace.
But then…They hadn't removed his Warlord title. And that meant leverage. He played along. Let them live. Let them think he was still loyal, still one of the Seven. It was a façade. A lie he wore like a mask.
Because what he truly wanted—what he had burned for, day and night—was Kaido.
Recently, the World Government had reached out again—seeking the aid of the Shichibukai to destabilize Whitebeard's territory. The world government sought to regain some semblance of control back in the New World, especially now that the former territories of Bigmon were now firmly under the rule of Scarlett, the newly risen Emperor who had claimed the ruins of Totto Land. According to the established plan, the Marines would keep Scarlett in check… and Kaido would focus on the last Emperor of the seas, Donquixote Doflamingo.
The Government gave him two options: Aid the other Warlords… or support Kaido's campaign. Moria had agreed—eagerly—to support Kaido.
"Let the fools think I'm still in their pocket…"
Because in exchange for that promise, the World Government gave him something far more valuable than coin or status: Kaido's projected course.
The Beast Pirates were on the move, heading toward Dressrosa, seeking to challenge and dethrone Doflamingo and take over his mantle.
A perfect opportunity. A narrow window, where Kaido would be isolated—no Oniwabanshu, no full Beast Legion, just his core raiding force.
And Moria would be waiting. He would strike from the fog, with an army large enough to devour empires. He would not fight Kaido with honor or pride—those luxuries died with his first crew. This time, there would be no mercy. No duel. No fair fight.
Only vengeance. As the undead worked tirelessly below, sewing the stolen island into Thriller Bark's growing frame, Moria activated the snail. A distorted voice crackled through the line.
"Have you arrived in the vicinity of Donquixote territory waters yet, Warlord Gecko Moria?" A voice of the Cipher Pol agent echoed from the other end. Moria grinned, eyes gleaming with malice as thunder split the skies.
"Tell the elders I'm en route," he said, his voice laced with mock reverence.
"But Kaido moves faster than expected. I'll need more intel… especially his exact trajectory."
"Yes, understood. And your forces?" The question was more of a formality, but Moria simply smirked as he looked down at the living graveyard below him.
"They're ready. All I need now..." He said, his voice cold, venomous, and final, "…is Kaido."
And with that, he disconnected the call—waiting for them to return with the exact coordinates—severing the link, and with it, the last remnants of his mask. From here on, the next message would be delivered in blood.
****
Dressrosa, New World
The streets of Dressrosa were alive with color, music, and the scent of roasted meats and fresh wines. Even as whispers of a looming clash between the Beast Pirates and the Donquixote Family spread like wildfire across the New World, the island itself remained wrapped in an air of celebration.
Lanterns floated in the night sky, laughter echoed through marble-paved streets, and the fountains of the Flower Field Plaza glittered like stardust under moonlight. To the people, the return of Doflamingo's crew from the front lines would only mean more prosperity. War was a distant tale—their king was invincible.
Tucked deep within one of the older towns near the coast, nestled between wine shops and spice vendors, stood a tavern that had seen better days. Its crooked sign swung in the salty wind, the paint on its exterior chipped and faded. But within, it pulsed with life—boisterous laughter, clinking mugs, and drunken sea shanties filled the smoky air. Merchants and mercenaries, pirates and nobles, all mingled here. There was no fear, only wine.
Yet beneath the tavern, hidden behind a false wall in the wine cellar, another world simmered in silence. A solitary oil lamp cast flickering shadows across the stone walls. Crates of vintage wine stood stacked neatly, but the center of the room was stained—stained with blood and something colder: betrayal.
A lone figure crouched by a crate, speaking into a transponder snail. His expression was blank, eyes muddied with a glassy fog, and a thin string—barely visible—burrowed deep into the base of his skull.
The snail's voice crackled in the tense silence.
"Yes, Sir! It's confirmed. All the top cadres of the Donquixote Family, including Doflamingo, have sailed out to intercept Kaido. Most of our agents managed to infiltrate during the commotion, but… only seven are confirmed to have made contact. The others... have not reported in. For now, the remaining agents have blended into the civilian population. Dressrosa will be monitored covertly going forward."
There was a pause, then a voice from the other side—refined, clipped, cold.
"Tch. Seven out of three dozen? Have we fallen so far, Cipher Pol? Perhaps our recruitment standards have rotted. Still… seven is better than none. Continue monitoring the status of the missing agents discreetly. Any change in condition—dead or compromised—report immediately."
The agent's voice was monotone, lifeless. "Understood."
"What is your current status, and have you acquired an identity?" the voice demanded.
"Embedment complete. I have assumed the identity of the tavern's former bartender. The DonQuixote intelligence network is unaware."
"Good. Lay low for now. No sudden moves. Dressrosa has proven a fortress of smoke and mirrors for all these years… Infiltration was difficult enough. But one more thing…"
There was a cold hush.
"What of the children under the Don Quixote family's protection? Have they been located?"
"Negative. They should still be within Dressrosa. They did not make their presence known in the recent days; what we can confirm is that they were not a part of the main fleet."
"Hmmmm… In that case, if an opportunity arises to capture them—cleanly—take it. Otherwise, continue your embedment. The Beast Pirates may be strong, but we cannot place faith in either side. Donquixote Doflamingo is not to be underestimated."
And with that, the transponder snail let out a final click and fell silent. But then…
The agent didn't move. His lips were still, and yet the words had flowed. In the eerie stillness, a new voice broke the silence.
"No wonder those senile old coots have been outplayed at every turn…"
Agana, cloaked in the shadows, stepped forward. Her eyes flickered with a mix of awe and disgust as they took in the full scene. Around the chamber, sprawled like discarded puppets, were over thirty Cipher Pol corpses—agents once sent to infiltrate Dressrosa.
Their blood had soaked into the stone floor, drained to the last drop. Only six remained, still 'alive'—if one could call it that. They sat slumped, eyes empty, thin strings sewn into the base of their skulls, twitching ever so slightly with the pulse of their unseen master's will.
Senor Pink emerged from the gloom, adjusting his blood-speckled gloves before tossing them aside. He calmly pulled a silk handkerchief from his coat and wiped his hands clean, not a wrinkle of emotion on his face.
"You're going to have them believe their infiltration was a success… feed them fabricated intel, mislead them with lies wrapped in enough truth to make it believable," she mused.
Agana's lip curled. "You know they'll figure it out eventually—when your lies no longer add up."
Senor smirked, folding the handkerchief neatly. "Ah, but Lady Agana… the beauty of a lie lies not in how long it lives, but in how much truth it carries with it. We aren't selling fiction—we're selling confidence."
He gestured toward the six puppeted agents.
"They'll live, walk, speak, report—all under my hand. And the World Government will hang onto every word, thinking they finally got under our skin."
Agana crossed her arms. "Only you monsters could come up with something so despicable."
"And yet," Senor said, bowing slightly, "you're here among us now, aren't you?"
Agana turned away, scowling—but she said nothing. Deep down, she knew the truth. It wasn't just the strength of the Donquixote family or their powers that made them feared—it was their sheer brilliance, the depth of their schemes, and their uncanny ability to always be ten steps ahead. Even the revered elders, with all their resources and dominion, had never truly tamed Doflamingo.
And now she stood among them. Finally, as a true part of this twisted family.