"Supreme Commander… thank you for granting me this favor." The God's Knight at Garling's side finally broke the silence as they moved through the silent, moonlit corridors of the Ryugu Palace, slipping away as unnoticed as they had come. His voice carried both respect and barely concealed frustration.
"But… wouldn't it be simpler if I personally took action? To destroy those two vermin with my own hands—their very existence tarnishes the Donquixote name."
There was venom in the Knight's tone, born of generations of pride and grievance. But Garling stopped walking.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned his head, the pale glow of the chandeliers catching the sharp angle of his jaw beneath the hood. His gaze fell on the knight, and in that single look the air grew heavier.
"Do you so easily forget the risk I am taking for your petty vendetta?" Garling's voice was low, calm, but it struck like thunder rolling over still waters. "Or have you already forgotten whose will truly governs this world? Imu-sama themselves have decreed that the two Donquixote whelps are to remain alive. Even the Gorosei do not dare move against them without cause. And yet you—" his eyes narrowed, cutting like blades—"you would risk spitting on the will of a god for something as small as your family's pride?"
The God's Knight stiffened, his bravado evaporating. He dropped his head at once. "Forgive me, Supreme Commander. I was hasty. Reckless. I… forgot myself."
Garling turned away, resuming his stride, cloak trailing behind him like the mantle of a sovereign. "Hasty," he echoed with faint mockery. "If you had acted on that haste, Imu-sama's wrath would have erased you utterly, body and soul. Do not think your lineage—or even your position among the God's Knights—would shield you. The sun itself would burn out before their will faltered."
The Knight said nothing further, the weight of Garling's words silencing him. And yet, inwardly, Garling smiled.
He had no intention of letting his subordinate's thirst for vengeance dictate anything. This entire "proposal" to Neptune and Otohime had not been a favor to the God's Knight, nor some gesture of loyalty to the Donquixote line. No—this was Garling's own game.
The bait dangled before the Ryugu Kingdom—the promise of sanctuary, of equality, of salvation—was nothing more than a lure, a thread in a web only he could see. He knew full well that the fishmen were too fractured, too fearful, too naive to ever deliver on such an impossible demand. But that was the beauty of it. Whether they failed or tried and bled, either outcome served him.
Because in the end, it was not the Donquixote brothers he sought to erase. They were pawns, useful and dangerous in equal measure. What Garling desired… what he hungered for… was to test the limits of Imu's decree. To see how far he could bend the will of a god before it snapped.
The Gorosei bowed and cowered like dogs before Imu's every whim. Garling, however, had grown weary of servitude. He was Supreme Commander of the God's Knights, a weapon honed sharper than any of the Elders. And in the quiet chambers of his mind, ambition bloomed like poison.
Why kneel forever in the shadow of gods, when one might seize the throne of heaven itself?
He walked on, cloak whispering like a funeral shroud, and the God's Knight trailing behind him could not see the faint curl of a smile on Garling's lips. Plans within plans. Bait upon bait. And one day, even the will of Imu would be tested against the steel of Figarland Garling's ambition.
"Just make sure," Figarland Garling's voice cut through the silence like a blade dipped in venom, "that under no circumstance does word of this… offer… reach the ears of the Gorosei. Should it leak, the Donquixote family will bear the full weight of consequence. Do not delude yourself into thinking I will shield you from Imu-sama's wrath. I only entertained this affair because you approached me personally. Make no mistake—if this spirals out of control, you will be the sacrifice. Is that understood?"
His golden eyes glinted beneath the shadow of his hood, burning with quiet authority.
The God's Knight bowed his head deeply, his voice taut with obedience. "Understood, Supreme Commander…! I only hope these filthy fish are capable of fulfilling their task."
Even as he spoke, the Knight's mind was racing. He understood well the magnitude of the risk Garling was taking—for his sake no less—and he would not be shameless enough to drag the Commander into ruin. If worst came to worst, if matters truly unraveled, then scapegoats from his own family would be offered up to wash their hands clean.
A few pawns discarded so the Donquixote name could endure. And as for the Ryugu monarchy exposing them? He almost laughed at the thought. Who would believe the words of trembling fishmen over the authority of gods?
Especially when Garling had ensured that no trace was left behind—they had not used the abyssal Circle of Descent to infiltrate Fishman Island, but instead entered by the most conventional, unremarkable means. No evidence, no witnesses. Even if the truth were spoken, it would sound like nothing more than a desperate, absurd fable.
But what the God's Knight did not and could not know… was that Figarland Garling's mind moved on an entirely different battlefield.
To the Knight, this was vengeance, a cleansing of the Donquixote name. To Garling, the Donquixote family itself was nothing more than a chess piece, another pawn on his ever-expanding board. He did not care for their pride or their grudges. What he wanted was not simply the death of two troublesome brothers.
No. He wanted pressure. He wanted chaos.
What he truly sought was for the Ryugu Kingdom—desperate, cornered, and foolish—to confide this matter to those very Donquixote brothers. And when they retaliated, when they inevitably struck back against the World Government with the fury of betrayal burning in their hearts, the Elders would feel the backlash. The equilibrium they guarded so jealously would falter once again. Their control, their authority, their absolute hold over the seas would crack.
And in that chaos, while their attention was torn, while the seas burned with rebellion, Garling would move unseen.
His grand design was not yet ready to be revealed, but he could see the path clearer with every passing step. The pot needed stirring. The world needed fire. Only in storm and upheaval could he carve out a place where even Imu's shadow would not reach.
The Knight thought himself clever, calculating. But he was only a piece.
Garling's lips curved into the faintest smile, hidden in the shadow of his hood. His footsteps echoed softly through the cavernous halls of the sea palace as he whispered inwardly to himself:
Chaos is the ladder. And I alone will ascend it.
****
Inside the Ryugu Palace, the air hung heavy with silence. Neptune had already summoned the guards, instructing them in a stern, uncharacteristic tone to escort the young princes back to their chambers. He had warned his sons not to breathe a word of what had transpired, not to their tutors, not to their attendants—not to anyone.
The palace continued as though nothing had happened; courtiers, soldiers, and attendants went about their routines, utterly oblivious to the fact that two shadows had come and gone through the heart of their kingdom without leaving so much as a ripple.
Now, within the grand study, only King Neptune and Queen Otohime remained. The towering monarch's massive hands trembled faintly, not from weakness but from the gnawing realization of how close his family had just come to annihilation. Figarland had spoken of an "opportunity," but Neptune was not so easily deceived.
The so-called offer was a noose, and either way, if they delivered or if they failed to deliver, the next intrusion would not end with words. For beings who could enter and exit the very heart of the Ryugu Palace unseen, unchallenged… there would be no second chances.
They didn't propose a choice, Neptune thought grimly, they imposed a death sentence and dressed it in silk.
He exhaled through clenched teeth, forcing his nerves to steady. "No… this cannot remain between us. The Donquixote family must know. They are the only ones who can counter this trap, the only ones with the power and cunning to guide us through this storm."
He turned sharply, scanning the study table, his eyes darting across scrolls and ledgers until landing on the empty space where the communication transponder snail was always kept. His brows furrowed. "Where is it…?"
Then he saw it. On the far side of the chamber, Queen Otohime stood with the small, blinking Den Den Mushi cupped delicately in her slender hands. The snail blinked up at her, its eyelids half-closed as if sensing the tension of its mistress's indecision.
"Ah, you found it—" Relief broke across Neptune's face, and he strode forward with urgency. "Quickly, hand it over! I must reach Doflamingo at once. He alone can help pull us from this abyss!"
But then Neptune stopped mid-stride. His towering frame stiffened as he noticed her hands—white-knuckled, clenched tightly around the snail. She did not move. She did not speak.
"Otohime…?" His voice wavered between confusion and dawning dread.
For the briefest moment, her gaze flickered—not toward Neptune, but inward, replaying Figarland Garling's chilling words and the golden promise he had dangled before them. Equality. A sanctuary. A future for her people above the sea. The dream she had fought for, begged for, bled for—offered in a single whisper.
Neptune's eyes widened, disbelief flashing across them as the realization struck. She's considering it.
The great king's chest tightened with cold fury. His queen—his beloved, gentle Otohime—was hesitating. Even after the violation of their home, even after witnessing how these tyrants sneered down at their race like insects, she still lingered on their promise.
Confusion gave way to pain, and pain to anger. His voice was low, trembling with the weight of a husband's betrayal and a king's desperation. "Have you not learned, Otohime? Can you not see? This is no pact—it is a chain. They do not seek peace for our people. They seek to use us as pawns in their war. And you… you would still hesitate?"
The Den Den Mushi blinked between them, its tiny face reflecting the chasm now opening in the chamber—the gulf between Neptune's cold pragmatism and Otohime's fragile, flickering hope.
"Neptune-sama... I... I think we should consider this matter further," Otohime's voice trembled, the den-den mushi clutched tightly to her chest as though it were a lifeline. "Before we reach out to the Donquixote family, at least let us hear the counsel of the Left and Right Ministers. This is... not a decision we should make in haste."
The words spilled out quickly, but her eyes betrayed the weight of what she was truly proposing.
Neptune froze. Then, slowly, his massive frame quivered as his face twisted into a mask of rage he rarely ever showed his wife. If not for her swollen belly—if not for the fragile life stirring within her—he might have shouted until the walls of the study shook.
"How naïve can you be, Otohime…?" His voice rumbled like the deep currents of the ocean, low and furious. "How can you even consider such a proposal? To betray our friends—friends who, despite our shortcomings, have defended us at every turn? The Donquixote family has stood by us when no one else would. They have built, worked, bled to prove themselves. You yourself have walked their streets, spoken with their people—have you not seen their sincerity with your own eyes?"
He took a step closer, eyes blazing. "There is a limit to one's naivety, Otohime. But what you are suggesting now—it is not innocence. It is betrayal. Pure, shameful betrayal!"
For the first time in years of marriage, Otohime's composure cracked—not out of fear of her husband, but from the desperation that had taken root in her heart. Her knuckles turned white around the snail as she spoke again, her voice trembling but relentless.
"And have you considered, Neptune-sama, even if our generation survives? Even if we cling to the Donquixote banner… or Whitebeard's flag… how long will that protection last? Three decades? Five at most? And when those great names are gone—what then? What becomes of us when no pirate's shadow is left to shield us?"
Her eyes, usually soft pools of compassion, now gleamed with a feverish light. "Do you truly believe that island above the sea will remain a paradise forever without the World Government's recognition? No, Neptune-sama… it will become a hunting ground. A slaughterhouse for our people. And when that day comes, not even the deep sea will protect us any longer. They will drag us out—harvest us like game."
She stepped forward, her voice breaking between plea and obsession. "Can you not see? This might be our only chance… our only chance to secure a legitimate place in the sun for our children—for their children! Even if the price is unbearable… is it not worth considering?"
Neptune stared at her, and in that moment the trident at his side felt heavier than ever. For years he had admired her purity, her innocence, her boundless idealism. But now… for the first time, he saw that very light twisting into something dangerous. A desperation so blinding it would lead her to grasp even the hand of a devil, if it promised salvation. And that terrified him far more than Saint Figarland ever could.
****
Unnamed island, New World
"Bara Bara Punch…!"
The shrill little voice rang across the sunny beach, full of childlike determination. Uta—dressed in a comical parody of Buggy's gaudy attire, oversized polka-dotted scarf trailing behind her and a red-painted nose she'd insisted on adding—charged forward with all the fury of a child trying to topple a mountain. She threw her tiny fist at Shanks' chin, who dramatically widened his eyes and staggered back, pretending as though the blow had nearly ended his pirate career.
But just as he swayed to "collapse," a second fist—this one disembodied and floating—whizzed in from behind Uta.
"Bara Bara Blaster…!" Buggy's voice exploded from behind a nearby palm tree. His detached fist smacked into Shanks' face at the exact same moment as Uta's. The Red-Haired captain tumbled backward, sprawling helplessly in the hot sand with exaggerated cries of defeat.
Uta clapped her hands in delight, jumping in circles, while Buggy pranced toward her with both arms raised in victory. They grabbed each other's hands and spun around like champions, chanting "We won! We won!" while sticking their tongues out in Shanks' direction.
"Oye, Buggyyy…!" Shanks roared as he scrambled back onto his feet, brushing sand from his hair. "How dare you sucker punch me? Come here and let me pinch that big red nose of yours until it squeaks!"
Buggy's veins popped as he bared his teeth. "What… You bastard, did you just call me red-nosed? You think I won't smash that mop of hair off your stupid head today, Shanks…?! Watch as I give you a broken nose!" He rolled up his sleeves with all the theatrics of a brawler about to enter the ring.
The next instant devolved into absolute chaos.
The two men launched at each other, not like dignified pirates of the sea, but like toddlers on a playground. Shanks tugged Buggy's nose and laughed, while Buggy bit Shanks' arm with all the fury of a rabid dog. They pinched, shoved, rolled in the sand, cursed like drunk fishermen, and shouted names that would've embarrassed any real duelists.
Buggy's detached hand grabbed a slipper Uta happily provided and smacked Shanks square across the head. When that didn't suffice, he borrowed an empty bucket she passed over, his floating arm slamming it down on Shanks' crimson hair with a hollow clang. Shanks retaliated by spitting sand into Buggy's face.
It was no longer a fight. It was two grown men behaving like children, with no grace, no strategy—only absurdity. And the entire Red-Haired crew was loving every second.
"Two-to-one odds on vice captain Buggy's nose surviving the match!" someone yelled.
"My money's on the Captain, he's got longer arms!" another roared back.
Soon the beach became a carnival of laughter and shouting as coins changed hands. The crew clapped, stomped, and jeered at every ridiculous exchange, as if this clownish scuffle were the greatest entertainment the New World had to offer.
Farther away, removed from the madness, Benn Beckman sat cross-legged in the shade. He let out a sigh heavy enough to stir the smoke from the cigar between his fingers. Beside him, Yasopp calmly polished the barrel of his rifle, while Lucky Roux tended to a massive boar strung up for roasting, its sizzling fat already hissing in the fire.
"How the hell did I end up here…?" Beckman muttered, staring at the spectacle of his captain rolling in the sand with his so-called vice-captain. "If I'd known piracy meant babysitting two idiots playing slap-fight on the beach, maybe I'd have reconsidered Shanks' offer back then." His words carried the dry wit of a man resigned to his fate. "To think—that's our captain and vice-captain. I'm ashamed."
Roux chuckled around a bone he was chewing. "Ashamed maybe, but tell me you'd rather be anywhere else."
From behind them, Limejuice strolled over with his usual swagger, cigar box in hand. He tossed one to Beckman, who accepted it gratefully. "Maybe those two are just punishment for our sins," Lime Juice joked, watching Shanks yelp as Buggy's floating foot stomped him in the face. "This is hell, and we deserve it."
Beckman smirked, lighting his cigar. But before he could reply, Yasopp spoke up, his voice unusually soft. He was watching Uta, who clapped her hands and cheered as she passed Shanks a slipper, switching sides every other minute to make sure the fight lasted forever.
"She's growing fast, isn't she?" Yasopp said, though his eyes carried the weight of another thought. He wasn't just talking about Uta. He was thinking of Syrup Village, of the child he'd left behind in East Blue, the boy he had never gone back to see. Shanks had offered detours, chances, excuses to visit—but Yasopp had always refused. Yet no matter how he hid it, the thought gnawed at the back of his heart.
Beckman took a slow puff and let the smoke curl into the breeze. "Too fast," he murmured. "Far too fast." His eyes narrowed at the sight of Uta's radiant smile, her laughter echoing across the shore. "A pirate ship is no place for a girl that innocent to grow up."
His words hung heavy, sinking like stones into the air. Many in the crew would never admit it—Uta was their beacon, their shared light in a life of blood and salt—but Beckman's voice carried the sting of truth. Even as they laughed at the childish brawl in the sand, no one could fully deny the unease his words stirred within them.
And so the Red-Haired Pirates laughed, bet, and cheered at the antics of their leaders, while beneath the laughter a shadow of inevitability lingered.
The laughter of the crew died in an instant. One moment, Shanks and Buggy were rolling in the sand, biting and pinching like fools; the next, both froze mid-scrap, their instincts pulling them taut as steel. Hands slid to hilts without hesitation. The sudden shift in atmosphere was so sharp the entire crew stiffened, confused by the abrupt silence.
Then Yasopp's sharp eyes narrowed. In one smooth motion, he lifted his rifle, barrel trained toward the glimmering horizon. His Observation Haki burned like a beacon, and what he felt was enough to send a chill through every pirate present.
Dozens—no, scores—of high-speed cannonballs were screaming through the sky, arcing toward the beach with murderous precision. Shanks' muscles coiled, ready to leap forward and intercept. But he wasn't the first to move.
Buggy was already gone. The man who just seconds ago had been squealing about his "red nose" was now standing atop the Red Force's main mast, coat whipping in the salt wind. The grin was gone, the buffoonery erased. His eyes—cold, sharp, unblinking—cut across the sea like drawn steel. This wasn't the clown that entertained the crew with antics. This was Buggy the Vice-Captain, the man who had once sailed under the Pirate King, and now bore his own path toward greatness.
The crew below felt their hearts clench. The overwhelming haki rolling off him was suffocating. His hand rested on the hilt of his named meito. And then—
Shing.
The sound of steel leaving its sheath tore across the air like thunder.
"One Sword Style: Crescent Moon…!"
Buggy's voice roared across the shore as his blade swept in a wide, merciless arc. The world seemed to hold its breath. In the next instant, the entire beach ignited crimson. A titanic slash, shaped like a perfect crescent of blood-red moonlight, ripped forward with impossible speed and fury. It howled across the sky, carving through the storm of incoming cannonfire as though the iron shells were made of paper.
Each cannonball split cleanly in two, fragments annihilated before they even had the chance to fall. Shards dissolved into dust under the sheer force of Buggy's strike. Not a single ember, not a single splinter reached the beach.
The sand trembled from the pressure. The sea itself parted, waves splitting in the wake of his attack. The aftershock alone sent smaller ships on the horizon tilting dangerously in the water.
The Red Hair crew gaped in stunned silence. The buffoon who bickered with their captain was gone. Before them stood a man who could split the sea, a swordsman whose power rivaled monsters of the New World.
Perched high on the mast, Buggy lowered his blade with calm precision, the faint gleam of steel catching the last rays of sunlight. His crimson crescent still shimmered in the distance, a fading scar in the sky.
And for the first time, the crew didn't laugh. They stared. This was no clown. This was Buggy the Vice-Captain—Shanks' right hand, and a rising powerhouse whose blade could carve the path to an era of blood and glory.