Deep within the heart of Pangaea Castle, beyond the grasp of kings and admirals, and in a place where neither the Five Elders nor the God's Knights dared set foot, there bloomed a hidden sanctuary—a garden of legends.
Enclosed beneath a grand dome of stained glass, tinted in ancient hues and inscribed with symbols lost to time, lay a massive, ethereal flower garden. It was no mere ornament to the throne—it was personal. A living monument of power, obsession, and eerie serenity. Only a handful across the centuries had even known of its existence. Fewer still had stepped foot within.
This was Imu-sama's garden.
Born from centuries of cultivation, this was their retreat, their private empire within an empire. Where they ruled over the world with an iron will, here they tended petals and roots with divine patience. The original garden—nurtured over hundreds of years—had been obliterated during the last Reverie, in a moment of rebellion. Doflamingo's futile defiance. But like everything else, it had been reduced to nothing more than a footnote in Imu's endless reign.
The current garden was younger, fresher, but already full of floral miracles thought extinct. Trees with silver bark, vines that hummed softly in the light, lilies that shimmered like pearls. And in the very heart of it, they knelt before a crystal rose bush—a species believed to have vanished during the Void Century. Each petal gleamed like it was carved from solid gemstone, and yet, each one pulsed faintly with life.
Imu's slender fingers—pale, veined with stardust—held a pair of gold-forged clippers, their edges blessed with forgotten alchemy. They moved with the grace of eternity, trimming the bush with obsessive precision. Every leaf adjusted. Every thorn pruned. Every bloom preserved. This was their ritual, their meditation, their act of creation in a world ruled by their destruction.
Then, just as the clippers slid toward the largest and most perfect rose, a sudden tremor—a whisper in the stone—shivered through the garden.
Snip.
The blade slipped. The stem was cut. The crystal rose fell in silence. Imu's hands remained suspended mid-air, frozen in the act, eyes locked on the fallen flower as it landed softly against the obsidian-tiled floor. They hadn't intended to cut it. That in itself was an anomaly. No—a mistake.
And Imu never made mistakes.
Their breath caught, if only for a fraction of a second. That imperfection… that loss of control… it hadn't happened in centuries. Not since the fall of the First Era. Not since that day. Their fingers clenched ever so slightly, the clippers trembling.
Outside the garden, shadows stirred.
The presence of the God's Knights—all of them—could be felt beyond the glass doors. One of them, likely the commander, approached cautiously. But none dared enter. Even among gods, there were places forbidden. They would wait until Imu-sama chose to acknowledge them. If they waited an hour, or a week—it didn't matter.
But Imu felt none of them.
Because something far greater stirred beneath the world. A second tremor struck—not a whisper, but a roar. A deep, groaning upheaval that shook all of Mary Geoise, a quake so profound it rattled the celestial bones of the Red Line itself.
The stained glass dome above shattered into a thousand screaming fragments. And yet, not a single shard fell. Time, for a moment, simply… stopped.
Imu floated unnaturally in the air, defying gravity without movement, their robes suspended as if underwater, surrounded by shards of glass held motionless in a perfect sphere of stillness.
Their eyes narrowed—not with anger, but with something far more rare.
Uncertainty.
This wasn't just an earthquake. It wasn't tectonic. It was will—a clash of fate and force on such a scale that even the throne felt it. The last time they had felt a tremor in their very soul had been nearly eight centuries ago—when the original enemies of the World Government last screamed against the heavens before vanishing into myth.
And now, that same pressure returned. But heavier. Sharper. Hungrier.
Imu's gaze slowly drifted beyond the shattered dome, as if looking through the world itself. Something was clawing at the Red Line… something capable of wounding it. The unthinkable had happened—the line had been scarred. And not just once.
Their divine garden—their sanctuary—had been defiled by the echoes of that blow.
"Impossible…" they whispered, the word tasting foreign on their tongue.
Then, a presence stirred within them—faint, ancient, familiar. A deep chord resonated through the fabric of their being. A blade's call. A mirror of fate.
For a fleeting moment, Imu's ancient instincts screamed—urging them to descend, to lay their divine eyes upon the anomaly tearing through the world. But they quelled the sensation with a long, deliberate breath.
To react so rashly… how unbecoming of a god.
Their feet touched the obsidian floor with an otherworldly grace, and the echo of their heartbeat—once erratic—returned to a perfect, silent rhythm. Composure restored, they meditated on what they had felt. That will… it wasn't Joyboy's. It was not the defiance of the Sun God or the reckless ambition of the pirate era. No—this was older, heavier, and deeper. Something buried beneath time itself. From a world before the world.
Something that shouldn't exist… yet did.
Imu turned toward the exit of the glass garden, their gaze calm but cold, their aura now condensed into a crushing silence. As they stepped forward, the thousands of shattered glass shards suspended mid-air crumbled into fine dust, disintegrating from their presence alone, and drifted away like ash, leaving the serenity of the garden untouched—a divine rebuke to the chaos erupting outside.
Outside Pangaea Castle… Mary Geoise had descended into chaos. The second tremor had not just shaken stone—it had shattered complacency. All across the sacred city of the Celestial Dragons, the false gods who once floated above the world now scrambled in terror like ants facing the sun.
****
Within a golden palace tucked in the estate of House Shepard, Saint Shepherd Delmar—obese, bald, and draped in nothing but sweat and silk—lay snoring atop a mountain of naked, brutalized concubines, slaves too drugged or broken to move.
The tremor hit like a divine slap.
The walls groaned. Chandeliers crashed down. A marble pillar cracked from ceiling to floor. The room shook like judgment itself had arrived.
Delmar's eyes flew open. "NO! NOT AGAIN!!" he screamed, already drenched in panic sweat. In an instant, he flung himself from the bed, his rolls jiggling grotesquely as he tripped over limp bodies and priceless rugs, completely naked, his breath wheezing with every step.
"I DON'T WANT TO DIE LIKE THE OTHERS! I'M A GOD—I'M A GOD!!"
He didn't even grab clothes. He burst out of the trembling estate, past confused slaves and guards, screaming like a pig, sprinting toward the central plaza where he believed the Divine Refuge would be activated. In his mind, the Holy Land would be destroyed, and only the plaza could protect him. His desperate cries echoed through the misty, golden streets, his naked form soon swallowed by fleeing crowds.
****
Atop her crystalline tower, Saintess Figarland Rosaria, draped in silk and jewelry, sipped from a goblet of ancient wine. Around her, a dozen slaves dressed as children danced for her amusement, as guards watched silently.
When the glass walls of her observatory began to shatter inward, she didn't scream.
She froze. The tremor cracked the support columns. Mirrors exploded around her in a cascade of sparkling death. Her goblet fell from her hand and shattered on the floor. She blinked, and for the first time in her life… she realized she was mortal.
"No… no, it's not happening again. Are those bastards attacking the Holy Land again…?" she whispered, voice trembling. "I was promised safety..."
Her voice cracked into a shriek as she fled, pushing aside her slaves and grabbing her terrified guards. "CARRY ME!! GET ME OUT!! I'LL DOUBLE YOUR FAMILY'S RATIONS!!"
Four armored men scooped her up like a screaming child and ran as the tower began to tremble, her kingdom of mirrors and pride falling like a shattered dream.
****
Saint Donquixote Galius, one of the few Tenryūbito who styled himself a "warrior," had just donned his ceremonial armor when the quake struck. He had demanded drills, walls, weapons, all to prove his divine lineage was ready for war.
But now, as his training arena fractured and shook, and his war-bred slaves panicked, he stood trembling. He watched the sacred sword once presented to him by his family when he was a child—hanging for decades—fall from its perch and snap in two on the marble floor.
His mouth hung open.
"No… it's not possible… it's not possible…" he muttered, his false bravado crumbling. "The Holy Land… cannot… fall."
But as his personal guards shouted for him to evacuate, Galius did the unthinkable. He dropped his armor, stumbled back, and yelled, "TO THE INNER CHAMBERS! ESCORT ME TO THE BUNKER!!"
He fled through his mansion's secret passages—not to protect the Holy Land, but to hide himself inside a vault that had been designed to secure his safety in the event the Holy Land was under siege. After all, the actions of Doflamingo in the past had left too deep a scar on every tenryubito's heart. Behind him, the statues of his ancestors fell, their stone faces shattering like the pride of their lineage.
****
Within the marble veins of Pangaea Castle, ancient stone trembled not from any lingering aftershock, but from the weight of an unseen wrath.
As Imu-sama walked with measured, deliberate grace through the gilded corridor connecting their sacred garden to the inner sanctum, their presence bent the very atmosphere around them. The tremor had ceased... yet the panic outside had not. And Imu's senses, vast and absolute, encompassed every inch of the Holy Land—nothing escaped their divine scrutiny.
What they saw—no, what they witnessed—kindled a silent fury within them.
The corridors of Mary Geoise echoed with screams, chaos, and disgrace. So-called "gods" stumbling like insects, stripped of all dignity. Generations of divine bloodlines squealing like cattle before a butcher. Imu's eyes remained half-lidded, emotionless, but their aura radiated like the slow, suffocating pressure before a volcanic eruption.
They stepped into the vast chamber. The air itself recoiled.
The Five Elders—cloaked in solemn garb, symbols of their eternal servitude—were already kneeling. The commander of the God's Knights, adorned in radiant armor that shimmered like a false sun, had also prostrated himself. None dared lift their heads. Not even to glance. To meet Imu-sama's gaze was to be unmade.
But even with their faces to the ground, they felt it. That simmering, divine rage. A pressure so thick, it felt like the atmosphere itself had begun to congeal.
Then came the voice—not raised, not thunderous. And yet it carried more weight than any army of conquerors.
"Is this the kind of offspring you passed on the privilege to…?"
Imu's words pierced the silence like a needle to the heart. Each syllable enunciated with chilling calm. Their footsteps echoed, and every echo was a judgment.
"The ones who represent the future of the Shepherd line… of the privileged bloodlines…? Have you all forgotten why your ancestors were chosen to stand above the world?"
Their gaze settled on Elder Shepherd, whose body stiffened under the weight of divine scrutiny. Even with his face pressed to the floor, he could feel Imu's sight bearing down on him like a celestial guillotine.
In their omniscience, Imu had seen it all: a young scion of the Shepherd line, streaking naked through the central plaza, screaming of his divinity, his flabby form flailing as he shrieked like a fool for salvation. It was no longer just a disgrace—it was a blasphemy.
Elder Shepherd clenched his jaw, humiliated beyond reason. He, too, had witnessed the debauchery. His shame burned deeper than any sword could cut. If Imu-sama were not present, he might have executed the imbecile himself.
But Imu was not finished. They turned slightly, casting their gaze over the bowed forms of the others. Their silence was deafening. The throne room felt smaller, crushed under the gravitational pull of their divine anger.
The Five Elders, ancient and supposedly wise, had no words. They had faced empires, commanded armies, rewritten history—but they had no answer to this disgrace. Then, breaking the silence like a sword drawn from its sheath, Saint Figarland spoke.
"Imu-sama… I take full responsibility on behalf of the Figarland family. I shall see to it personally that every Figarland who has stained our name… is executed. Publicly, if need be. They have forgotten what it means to be a tenryubito…!"
His clenched fists trembled not from fear, but from wrath and humiliation. The images of his own kin screaming and hiding beneath tables during the tremor—the once-proud House of Figarland reduced to quivering parasites—boiled his blood. The bloodline of gods, reduced to theater clowns by a mere quake.
And yet… only Imu-sama had perceived the truth. This was no tectonic accident. No freakish anomaly of the earth's crust. No… this was a will. A force older than the world itself, stirring in defiance.
And though the Five Elders and the Commander believed the threat was beneath them and natural, Imu knew otherwise.
The silence in the throne room was suffocating. Figarland's declaration had shattered the stillness like a blade through porcelain. His willingness to condemn his own bloodline—cold, absolute, and without hesitation—was both a pledge and a challenge.
None of the others could afford to remain silent now.
Elder Saturn stirred next. His head remained bowed, but his eyes lifted just enough to glimpse Imu-sama's feet, an act considered nearly sacrilegious for one in the presence of divinity.
"I will ensure that the names of the Jaygarcia family members… those who shamed our name today… are added to the list of those who will be publicly executed."
His voice was calm, practiced—but beneath that calm was sheer survival instinct. This was no gesture of loyalty. It was damage control. A desperate gambit. Because Elder Saturn knew the stakes intimately—if he did not offer blood, Imu-sama would demand extinction. Not just a purge… but the erasure of his entire bloodline from history, as if they never existed.
The others followed like falling dominoes, each Elder pledging to sacrifice their own. The shadow of Imu's silence loomed too heavily. There would be no mercy.
Elder Marcus Mars.
Elder Ethanbaron V. Nusjuro.
Elder Topman Warcury.
One by one, they vowed executions, masking abject terror beneath stoic tones. They were not protecting the world—they were buying time, offering flesh to a god who had ruled for eight centuries without equal. And all the while, Imu-sama said nothing.
Yet that silence sealed the fate of over two dozen Celestial Dragons. The decision had already been made. The noble families would be bled before the day's end.
Then Imu-sama moved again, their gaze flickering like moonlight across still water, settling once more on Saint Figarland. Their tone, quiet and even, struck like divine decree.
"Dispatch two of the best… no. Go yourself. Personally investigate the source of this anomaly."
They turned without further word, walking back toward the corridor leading to the inner sanctum and their private garden. No dramatic flourish, no final command—just the soft echo of their footsteps trailing into sacred silence.
Until Imu-sama's silhouette vanished across the threshold, no one dared to rise.
When they were finally gone, Saint Figarland rose first. The stillness he had held like a mask crumbled, giving way to something far more dangerous—wrath.
Cracks formed in the air around him as waves of Conqueror's Haki pulsed from his form in rhythmic bursts, like a heartbeat of war. The towering stained-glass windows groaned in protest. The Gods Knights standing in the corners lowered their heads instinctively, as if struck by an unseen pressure.
Two of them—shadow-swift, wordless specters—stepped beside him, falling into formation with unspoken obedience. Figarland's eyes narrowed. The storm behind them had only begun to churn.
"Compile a list of everyone that has tarnished our name. I do not want to see any names omitted, my family's or any others. Begin the purge before sundown. Make sure the message is heard loud and clear by every other member who carries the privilege of tenryubito…" he said coldly.
"Leave no room for mercy."
What followed wasn't an order—it was a death sentence. And like a wave of divine retribution, the execution list was whispered across the Holy Land, carried by the blades of the Gods Knights.
By sundown, the streets of Mary Geoise would run red, and the wailing of Celestial Dragons—the self-proclaimed gods of this world—would echo through halls once too sacred to be stained. For the first time in centuries, the so-called gods would remember what it really meant when they carried the name Tenryubito.
****
The barn was quiet, save for the soft rustling of hay and the distant bleating of goats. A pale moon filtered through the slats in the wood, casting thin silver rays over the small bundle wrapped tightly in a tattered shawl. The baby stirred, letting out a soft whimper—too weak even to cry.
"You need to let him go..." the man whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears, the words clawing their way out of his throat like shards of glass. He swallowed hard, his jaw trembling.
"We... we can't afford to raise another child."
His eyes flicked to the corner of the barn where three children huddled together, their limbs as thin as sticks, eyes hollow, cheeks sunken. They clung to one another for warmth, too tired to even stand. Their lips were cracked and dry, their skin ashen with hunger. And yet, they were alive. Barely.
It was cruel—unforgivable—to abandon a child, especially one so young, barely a year old. But in a world that had long forgotten mercy, the cruelest act was sometimes the kindest. Out here, the boy—Coby—might have a sliver of a chance.
Inside this barn, with this kind-hearted family who had given them bread and shelter for the night, he might be saved. The woman of the house had even spared a precious cup of goat's milk for the baby. A kindness so rare it felt like a miracle.
The man—Callen—had weighed every option, every sin, every sliver of hope. The smuggler's ship he'd bribed passage onto didn't allow infants. No babies, no dead weight, the smuggler had said. He hadn't the heart to argue. Callen had already sold everything short of his soul to secure a place for the rest of them.
"Tessa," he said softly, placing a trembling hand on his wife's shoulder, "we have to go now. These people are good. They'll see him. They'll help him. He'll have a better chance than we ever could give him. You know that."
His wife didn't respond. She simply stared at the sleeping infant on the straw bed, her body frozen, her mind fractured.
She was a ghost of the woman she once was. Malnourished and gaunt, her collarbones jutted out like blades beneath her thin dress. Her sunken eyes were rimmed in purple shadows, lashes crusted with dried tears. And yet, despite the ruin of her form, one thing remained untouched by time or suffering—her hair. Once vibrant, now dulled by dust and grief, it still shimmered faintly in the moonlight with the pale pink hue of pearls. It spilled down her back like faded silk, the last trace of a life long lost.
She reached out, brushing a finger against Coby's cheek. His tiny mouth twitched. He was warm. Breathing. Alive.
"I hate this," she said at last, her voice hoarse, barely audible. "I hate that the only love I can give him... is leaving him behind."
Callen knelt beside her, his voice breaking. "Tess... if we take him, we kill him. Slowly. We'd have to silence him when he cries, starve him with the rest of us. You know what hunger does... what we've already done just to survive."
A sob escaped her lips. She pressed a hand over her mouth, as if she could keep it in, but the pain poured out of her in trembling gasps. Her knees buckled, and Callen caught her, holding her tightly as her body shuddered in his arms.
She clung to him like a drowning woman, then pulled back with sudden resolve. She placed one last kiss on Coby's forehead, her lips lingering as though to carve the moment into eternity.
"I'm sorry, my baby," she whispered. "I hope you grow strong. I hope you smile. I hope you never remember me."
Callen stood, lifting two of the older children—one over each shoulder. His tears fell silently, dripping into the hay below. He couldn't allow himself to break now. Later, perhaps. When the ship was far across the sea. When the guilt sank deep enough to drown him. But not now.
"We need to go," he said again, his voice firm though his heart shattered with every syllable.
"Maybe… maybe fate will be kind. Maybe someday we'll come back for him."
Tessa gave one last glance at the infant, her soul screaming as she turned away and picked up the last child while her husband carried the other two. They slipped out of the barn in silence, the door creaking behind them.
Inside, Coby stirred. The goat outside bleated again. And the moonlight stayed—soft and still—watching over the child whose future had just been surrendered to the mercy of strangers... and fate.