Amazon Lily, Calm Belt
A massive fleet flying the vibrant skull and wing Jolly Roger of the Donquixote Pirates glided across the calm belt in an immaculate formation, sails tied up because of the lack of wind that refused to disturb the eerie stillness of the sea.
The ships shimmered in the sunlight, steel-forged hulls painted in regal crimsons and golds, while long black banners fluttered from their masts—symbols of the empire that now ruled the New World from the shadows.
Aroung the fleet swam massive Sea Kings, the titanic serpentine beasts that once devoured anything in sight. Now, tamed and obedient, they moved like guardians—silent and reverent—escorting the convoy with the grace of seasoned sentinels.
Their control lay in the hands of the Kuja, the legendary warrior women of Amazon Lily. It was a sight few ever lived to see: ancient monsters and pirate warships working in perfect harmony, all heading toward a single destination.
This was no ordinary voyage—it was the quarterly supply shipment dispatched from Dressrosa, bearing supplies, armaments, and exotic luxuries destined for Amazon Lily, now an official ally of the Donquixote Family.
On the bow of the lead galleon, a tall, graceful figure stood poised like a phantom of the past. Shakuyaku, once known as the Flower-Blade Empress of Amazon Lily, let the wind tease through her purple-streaked hair as she lit a cigarette, the cherry glowing like a lone ember in the fading twilight.
She took a long, deep drag.
"…I can't help but feel nostalgic every time I return home," she murmured to no one in particular.
The smoke helped ease the old ache—not pain, but guilt. Though she had been pardoned, welcomed even, by the current empress, Tritoma, and though she had returned to the island many times over the years, there remained whispers—resentment. Faces she once knew turned away. Warriors who had grown under her rule remembered the day she left, abandoning her crown and kin to chase freedom and love.
She had chosen the unknown seas over the sacred throne. She had escaped what so many Kuja empresses could not: the silent killer that stalked every empress before their time—the Sickness of Love.
That cruel, absurd affliction—borne not of wounds or poison, but of repressed longing. An ailment passed down through centuries of isolation. Kuja empresses fell in love, but forbidden from acting on it, they wasted away, their bodies consumed by heartbreak. Shakuyaku, following in the footsteps of her predecessor Gloriossa, had survived by breaking the cycle.
She had embraced her feelings. She had left. And in doing so, she had conquered what no medicine could cure. From beside her, a voice broke the silence.
"It's still a wonder to me," said Agana, the former Celestial Dragon turned Donquixote family's core member, her crimson eyes fixed on the emerald silhouette of the distant island. "That such a women-only society exists at all... In a world where pirates run rampant, where cruelty is currency and mercy is rare… Amazon Lily stands untouched."
Shakuyaku exhaled a plume of smoke and chuckled softly.
"Well… it's not untouched," she corrected, tapping ash over the waves. "We've bled for that peace over the span of centuries, sacrificing countless lives. The geography plays its part—we're hidden deep within the Calm Belt, surrounded by nests of ancient Sea Kings. The waters themselves are a death trap to any outsider. Only those born of the Kuja know the safe routes. That's what kept Amazon Lily safe for centuries."
Agana nodded, but her brow furrowed.
"Even so… I can't wrap my head around it," she admitted. "Why would Doflamingo agree to such a one-sided alliance? No offense, but what strategic value does Amazon Lily offer? The Donquixote Empire sends shipments, escorts convoys, offers protection… but receives nothing tangible in return. This isn't how politics works. This isn't how pirates work."
Her voice carried the weight of someone raised in the cold stone halls of Mary Geoise, the daughter of the Figarland bloodline, trained to see everything in terms of power and profit. To Agana, alliances without gain were foolish. Dangerous.
Shakuyaku smiled at her, but there was something ancient in her gaze—an ageless calm, like a woman who had once seen the world burn and learned to sip tea while the flames danced.
"That's because you don't understand them yet," Shakky said softly. "That's how the brothers are. If they call you family… if they trust you… they'll move the world for you. No contracts. No debts. No expectations."
She flicked the cigarette overboard, watching it vanish into the waves. Amazon Lily loomed closer now—towering jungle peaks, curved jade gates, and the shimmering statues of serpents that guarded the harbor.
Agana turned toward her. "And you're saying the only reason this support exists is… because of you?" There was no arrogance in Shakuyaku's voice, only a quiet pride.
"Yes," she said. "That's exactly why."
She stood tall, the wind catching her coat like a banner, the sigil of the Donquixote Family printed over her heart.
"There was a time when I rejected their offer. And a time when I tried to use their name to shield my people without truly standing among them. But now… I've embraced it. I am one of them. Not just an ally. Not just a friend. I am family."
A horn sounded in the distance. The Kuja port defenses had recognized the incoming fleet. Massive stone gates, carved with images of ancient serpents and great warrior queens, began to part with thunderous groans. Amazon Lily was opening its arms.
Shakky's gaze softened as she saw warriors lining the cliffs, garbed in their traditional attire and scaled armor, bows drawn—not in hostility, but in solemn welcome.
"Even now," she whispered, "even after all these years… a part of me still calls this place home."
And as the fleet crossed the threshold, with the Sea Kings circling silently in the depths below, the sky itself seemed to shift—the clouds parting as if to allow the fallen queen to return.
The massive fleet docked with a coordinated grace, the sea trembling under the weight of so many ships drawing into the quiet harbor of Amazon Lily. Towering masts creaked, sails folded in like the wings of roosting birds, and the sound of boots thudding against decks was soon replaced by the rhythmic chants of Kuja warriors, who moved in tight units, unloading crates with speed and precision.
These were the quarterly supplies—weapons, medicine, rare foods, fabrics, and other luxury goods provided by the Donquixote Family to sustain the Kuja pirates and their island in return for nothing but mutual respect. Years ago, such foreign ships would never have been allowed within sight of Amazon Lily. Now, they were received not only with tolerance—but with a guarded form of trust.
Still, boundaries were sacred.
Only women among the Donquixote crew were permitted to set foot on Kuja territory. The escort ships—crewed mostly by men—waited patiently just outside the island's protective ring of serpent-shaped cliffs, anchored in a silent perimeter. This concession, enforced without fail by the Donquixote Family, had earned the Kuja's cautious esteem. Trust, like stone, was carved slowly—but with time, it had taken shape.
Now, even if some brash Donquixote crewman washed ashore in the future—driven by curiosity or foolish bravado to catch a glimpse of the fabled Island of Women—he might not be killed on sight.
Maybe.
From the lead galleon, Shakuyaku descended the plank with practiced ease, her presence drawing the eyes of every Kuja warrior within view. The former empress was a legend—one who had abdicated the throne, defied tradition, and returned not as royalty, but as a daughter of the island.
Agana followed her, stepping carefully onto the sun-warmed stone pier, her keen eyes flicking across the palm-lined coast and elegant serpent statues carved from ancient coral. The breeze carried the scent of orchids and seawater—a wild, untamed fragrance. Waiting on the dock was a figure cloaked in time and memory.
"Hmph… So you finally remembered your way back home, you ungrateful serpent," Gloriosa snapped, arms folded, voice cutting like steel wrapped in silk.
The years had deepened her wrinkles but not her resolve. Her back, once straight with imperial posture, now carried the curve of age, yet her presence remained formidable. Long silver hair was tied back tightly, and her eyes—still fierce beneath her brow—watched Shakuyaku like a hawk measuring its old rival.
Beside her stood a slender young woman, regal and radiant.
Her shoulder-length black hair curled gently at the ends, framing a delicate face adorned with red lipstick and sharp eyes that hid deep wisdom. She wore a revealing crimson blouse that plunged into a V, the boldness of the cut offset by the graceful confidence with which she carried it. A green sarong, slitted high at the side, bore the serpent crest of the Kuja, and golden snake-shaped hoop earrings glimmered in her ears.
She was Tritoma, the reigning Empress of Amazon Lily. And she had come to greet her guests in person. Shakuyaku scoffed playfully and strode forward.
"It's good to see you still alive and kicking, you crazy old hag," she said with a crooked grin, reaching forward and embracing Gloriosa without hesitation.
To onlookers, it was shocking—two former empresses, touching openly, embracing like sisters reunited. Once, such gestures would've been unheard of in the stoic, war-bound traditions of the Kuja. But Shakky and Gloriosa were cut from the same cloth—two women who had dared to live, even if it meant abandoning their thrones to escape a fate sealed by generations.
They had both suffered from the love-sickness that plagued their kind. Both had refused to let it kill them. And both had returned, not as rulers, but as survivors.
Gloriosa scoffed but didn't pull away. "Still as disrespectful as ever. No wonder the curse couldn't kill you—you were too stubborn for even death to deal with."
They shared a dry laugh that only women who had lived long enough to bury their regrets could understand. Shakuyaku's gaze turned, warm now, to the young woman who watched them with a serene, poised calm.
"Tritoma," Shakky said, her tone softening.
The empress smiled, stepped forward, and gave a tight embrace. "Shakky-nee… I was planning to send someone after you. If you hadn't shown up this time, I would've dragged you back myself."
Shakuyaku chuckled, almost sheepishly. "I'd like to see you try."
"It's been years, you know," Tritoma continued, her voice firm but not harsh. "You can only rely on memories for so long. At some point, you have to make new ones."
There was no malice in her tone—only genuine affection, and perhaps a touch of longing. Though barely a teenager when she had inherited the throne, Tritoma had grown into her crown through fire. Her youth had been forged in sleepless nights, foreign threats, internal dissent, and the towering shadow of the women who came before her.
Yet she had emerged not only unbroken—but luminous. Then, her gaze shifted to Agana, and the warmth faded—not into hostility, but into the poised neutrality of a true sovereign.
"Welcome to Amazon Lily," Tritoma said formally, her voice rich with authority. "We are honored to host a member of the Donquixote family."
Agana nodded sharply in return, her posture upright, though her gaze still wandered with cautious awe over the exotic splendor of the island. "The honor is mine, Empress."
Behind them, crates continued to be unloaded as Kuja warriors greeted their sisters among the Donquixote convoy. Women from vastly different worlds found kinship in shared strength.
"Come," Tritoma said, gesturing toward the path that led into the lush jungles beyond the port.
"We've prepared lodgings and a feast to mark your arrival. And there are matters we must discuss."
With that, she turned, flanked by her honor guard—warriors in serpent-scale armor and ceremonial war paint. Shakuyaku lingered a moment with Gloriosa as the two watched Tritoma walk ahead.
"She's grown into a hell of a woman," Shakky said quietly.
Gloriosa allowed herself a fleeting smirk, but it vanished quickly, giving way to a shadow of sorrow. "Of course she did," she said softly, her voice laced with a deep weariness. "But she refuses to follow in our footsteps. I fear… she may not have long."
Shakky halted mid-step, the weight of Gloriosa's words sinking in with quiet finality. The implication was unmistakable—and chilling. The curse had struck again, this time claiming one who bore the truest blood of their royal lineage. Her gaze drifted forward, landing on the regal silhouette of Tritoma. From her proud posture and steady gait, one would never guess she bore the mark of death.
Yet Tritoma had heard them. Her Observation Haki was far too sharp to miss Gloriosa's whisper, no matter how hushed. She made no indication, no twitch, no glance—just a silent acknowledgment. She knew Gloriosa's concern, felt the weight of it, but continued on, answering Agana's flurry of questions with the poise and warmth befitting the Empress of Amazon Lily.
"I will try to convince her to make the journey…" Shakky said, her voice low, her mood souring like fruit left too long under the sun. "But let's speak of this further once we're in private."
"I hope you do," Gloriosa replied with a tired sigh. "That's one of the main reasons I called you here so urgently. The girl is... more stubborn than most, clinging to tradition as if it were her sword and shield."
The two women continued behind the group, the lush jungle path ahead flanked by thick canopies of emerald green. Occasionally, little eyes peered from behind the foliage—tiny girls, no older than ten, watching with awe and excitement.
Some carried small bows, others clutched short spears, all of them buzzing with silent wonder at the sight of their Empress—the strongest, most beautiful woman on the island. To the Kuja, after all, beauty and strength were one and the same.
Agana, still wide-eyed and curious, spoke again. "I've always wondered... If Amazon Lily is a women-only kingdom, and men are absolutely forbidden, then how are children born here? I mean—" she hesitated, glancing again at the young girls hiding among the trees, "—I've heard legends. Wild rumors about how the Kuja reproduce. Are any of them true?"
Tritoma chuckled, not offended but amused by the tales spun beyond their shores. "Ah yes, the legends," she said with a grin. "Some say we abduct men from passing ships, perform ancient rituals under the moonlight, and mate with them before sacrificing them to the Snake Goddess.
That we feast upon their flesh to strengthen our bloodline, and that the Goddess blesses us with only female children. Others claim that if a male child is ever born, he is immediately killed, his ashes offered to the sea—as if birthing a boy is a sin that taints our sacred land."
She paused, letting the words hang, the absurdity of them almost laughable. "And there's the ever-popular one," she added dryly, "that Kuja women mate with snakes."
Agana blinked, not sure whether to laugh or be horrified.
"But," Tritoma continued, her voice softening as she looked over her shoulder, "most of those stories are exaggerations. Myths told by sailors too enchanted—or too terrified—by what they don't understand."
"So... what is the truth?" Agana asked.
"The truth," Tritoma said, slowing her pace so Agana could walk beside her, "is much simpler. We Kuja women are born human, and we conceive as any human woman does. Our laws forbid men from stepping foot on Amazon Lily, yes—but that doesn't mean our people live in total isolation. Some of us leave the island for trade, for exploration, for piracy… and yes, for companionship. If a woman chooses to be with a man, she may do so—beyond our borders. When she conceives, she returns."
Agana furrowed her brow. "But… isn't there a chance the child could be a boy?"
Tritoma's expression shifted, not with discomfort but with solemnity. "That may be the one legend with a grain of truth. For reasons we don't fully understand, Kuja women are incapable of bearing male offspring. Not once, in centuries of recorded history, has a male child been born to a Kuja. Some say it's a genetic trait. Others whisper of a divine blessing—or a curse. But it remains a fact: all our children are girls."
Agana nodded slowly, trying to piece it together. "Still… even if every child is a girl, wouldn't your population eventually dwindle? You live by the sword, and warriors rarely die old."
"A fair observation," Tritoma admitted. "And you're right—our numbers cannot be sustained by our bloodline alone. That's why we regularly rescue orphans, and women cast aside by fate. Those we bring to our home—broken, forgotten, discarded—they find refuge here. And more astonishing still... once they become part of the Kuja tribe, they too only bear daughters. Even if they once bore sons before... something changes."
Agana's eyes widened. "That… doesn't make sense."
"No," Tritoma said, her voice a whisper now, almost reverent. "It doesn't. Not by the world's logic. But that is the nature of Amazon Lily. It is a land of mystery—of beauty, of strength, and of secrets the world has no right to understand."
The wind rustled through the canopy above, sending beams of golden sunlight cascading over the path like blessings from an unseen goddess. In the distance, the great towers of Amazon Lily shimmered in the noon light, nestled among towering cliffs and surrounded by serpents large enough to crush warships.
And in the heart of it all walked Tritoma—warrior, Empress, bearer of secrets and curses alike—smiling softly, even as fate slowly crept behind her, silent and unseen.
****
Far in the sacred heart of Amazon Lily, nestled beside the towering white-and-gold spires of the Kuja Empress's palace, lay a vast training ground carved from stone and sacred soil. Lush jungle framed its perimeter like a living wall, and the air was thick with humidity, the scent of wild orchids and sweat mingling with the sounds of combat.
This was no ordinary field—it was hallowed ground, where future warriors of the Kuja tribe were forged in battle, and where legends often took their first breath.
On this day, the training ground pulsed with tension.
At its center stood four teenage girls, three of them forming a loose triangle around a fourth — smaller, younger, and yet impossibly poised. She moved like coiled lightning, muscles honed from years of rigorous training despite her tender age.
Barely fourteen, Boa Hancock stood with her raven-black hair tied in a high, battle-ready braid, her violet eyes sharp as obsidian blades. Her flawless features were calm — too calm — as if the danger surrounding her barely registered as a threat.
Her opponents were not novices. The three teenagers circling her were each seventeen, already among the most promising heirs to the Kuja throne — chosen for their strength, speed, and skill in Haki. And yet every instructor present, every young warrior lining the edge of the training ground, had their eyes locked solely on Hancock.
Among the observers stood six elite Kuja warriors—veterans who had carved their names into the annals of Amazon Lily's history. Hardened and scarred, they served now not only as the empress's strongest sword and shield but also as instructors for the next generation of Kuja empress.
One of them, an older woman with a jagged scar across her jaw and the presence of a thunderstorm, watched Hancock with narrowed, gleaming eyes.
"That girl…" she muttered, arms folded. "She doesn't move like the others. She dances through combat."
A sudden shout rang out. One of the older girls lunged forward with a sweeping kick aimed at Hancock's legs. Another moved in from behind, fists coated in Haki, aiming to strike at her temple. The third arched in from the side, a spear spinning in her hands, tip glowing with a faint violet hue.
Hancock exploded into motion.
With a blur of movement, she dropped low, sweeping her leg outward. The first attacker's kick sailed over her head harmlessly, and Hancock countered — a bone-jarring uppercut straight into her ribs, coated with precise Armament Haki. The older girl's body lifted off the ground, sent tumbling backward like a ragdoll.
Before the second girl's fists could connect, Hancock twisted mid-air, her body flipping over the strike in a fluid arc. She landed behind her opponent and drove her elbow into the girl's spine with perfect timing. A sharp crack echoed across the grounds as the second attacker hit the ground hard, wind knocked from her lungs.
But Hancock was already moving again. The third girl came in with a wild cry, thrusting her spear forward in a flash of steel. Hancock caught the weapon's shaft with one hand, stopping it cold. Her eyes met her opponent's — calm, unblinking, almost pitying. With a surge of strength, she twisted the spear out of the girl's hands and shattered it with her knee.
In one graceful spin, Hancock swept the broken shaft across the girl's jaw, sending her spinning into the dust. A hushed awe fell over the field. The air was thick with tension, with disbelief.
But it wasn't over.
From the edge of the training ground, another girl — one of the strongest contenders for the throne, known for her unmatched marksmanship — leapt into action. She hadn't been part of the initial clash, choosing instead to observe. Now, with her bow drawn and a Haki-infused arrow nocked, she took aim at Hancock's exposed back, but none of the instructors intervened, wanting to see how the little girl would react.
"Woosh!" The arrow tore through the air like a lightning bolt, its tip glowing with blackened will.
Without even turning her head, Hancock reacted.
Her hand snapped backward, palm glowing with shimmering Armament Haki. With inhuman precision, she slapped the arrow aside, the impact echoing like a thunderclap. The arrow splintered against her hand — not a scratch upon her.
Eyes wide, the archer nocked another arrow, but it was too late.
Hancock pivoted on her heel, darting forward. She closed the distance in a blink, her body a streak of speed and fury. The archer loosed the second shot, but Hancock tilted her body, the arrow grazing harmlessly past her cheek.
Then she was inside the girl's guard. A devastating roundhouse kick, wreathed in blazing Haki, crashed into the archer's side. She flew backward, bow slipping from her fingers, crashing into the ground and skidding to a halt near the edge of the arena.
And just like that — silence.
"That's enough for now…!" came the commanding voice of the lead instructor.
The call echoed through the training grounds like a bell signaling the end of war. The tension hanging in the humid jungle air dissipated, replaced by murmurs and labored breaths from the defeated girls who still lay sprawled across the stone floor.
In the very center of the arena stood Boa Hancock—unmoving, unblemished, and unbothered. Her chest rose and fell with slow, measured control. Not a single scratch marred her flawless skin.
Her expression remained impassive, almost indifferent, her violet eyes half-lidded as if she had already grown bored of the challenge. The sheer ease with which she had dismantled her older opponents left an uncomfortable silence hanging in the air—one filled not with shame, but awe.
"She's not a warrior," the scarred instructor muttered, her voice low and reverent. A faint smile tugged at her lips. "She's a goddess in training."
As the echoes of combat faded into the sultry Amazonian air, two small figures who had been watching from the sidelines suddenly burst into motion, their restraint finally breaking with the end of the match.
"Hancock! Onee-san!" came the bright, enthusiastic cries of Marigold and Sandersonia, her younger sisters.
The stoic façade Hancock wore cracked ever so slightly. She turned at the sound of their voices, and just as her sisters reached her, panting and beaming with joy, Marigold shouted the words that truly transformed her.
"The supply fleet from the Donquixote Family is here!"
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then, like sunlight piercing through storm clouds, a delicate blush bloomed across Hancock's cheeks. Her cold, battle-hardened face softened. The sharpness in her eyes dimmed into something warmer—shy, almost embarrassed. Her lips twitched, then lifted into a soft, radiant smile. The kind of smile that seemed foreign on a face so often carved from stone and pride.
Gasps fluttered through the sidelines.
Even the instructors blinked in surprise. To see Boa Hancock—the most promising prodigy of their generation, the untouchable warrior girl whose mere presence exuded dominance—smile like that, and blush no less, was like watching a statue of a war goddess suddenly come alive with childlike wonder.
"Donquixote..." one of the older girls whispered, exchanging looks with another.
The name hung heavy in the air, though none dared comment on it openly. There were rumors, of course. Whispers of the young Hancock's peculiar interest in the famed emperor's family from the world beyond their shores.
The lead instructor raised a brow at Hancock's uncharacteristic reaction but said nothing. She looked at the other girls now standing and dusting themselves off, still sore and humbled but no longer bitter.
"With guests arriving, there will be a banquet tonight," the instructor finally announced, her voice cutting through the murmurs. "You're all dismissed—for now. Enjoy the evening. But remember…" her eyes flicked to Hancock, who had already begun walking off with her sisters in tow, "...the path to the throne allows no room for complacency."
The girls nodded, some more reluctantly than others. But the promise of food, music, and a rare night free of bruises and fatigue was enough to lift their spirits. The scent of exotic spices already wafted on the breeze from the palace kitchens, and the sound of distant drums hinted that the festivities were already beginning.