Pangea Castle, Red Line
"Do we have any updates on why Rosinante met with Whitebeard…?"
Elder Saturn's voice echoed like a death knell through the Hall of Authority, its cold timbre resonating against polished marble walls. His question hung heavy, carrying the weight of both suspicion and consequence. Around the obsidian table, the other Elders shifted faintly, their ancient eyes betraying little yet their silence speaking volumes.
At last, it was Elder Nusjuro who broke the quiet. His weathered fingers drummed lightly against the lacquered sheath of his blade, each tap echoing like a distant countdown.
"All we've confirmed is that Rosinante's ship was sighted on a course for Elbaph. By now… he has surely made landfall."
Saturn's gaze hardened, and the room dimmed as though the thought itself cast a shadow. Elbaph—the land of the Giants. If Rosinante truly sought what was rumored to be hidden there, the balance of the seas could shatter.
Elder Mars slammed the edge of the World Times against the table, frustration writ upon his pale features.
"Then tell me—does Rosinante know of the Giants' treasure fruit?!" His voice cracked like thunder, dripping with paranoia. "If the Donquixote brothers seize such a power, the foundations we've built for centuries will crumble to dust!"
The others did not answer immediately, for the thought alone sent ripples through the still air. That devil fruit—the ancient secret locked within Elbaph's borders—was not merely treasure. It was a weapon. A calamity.
Saturn steepled his hands before him, voice low and calculating.
"Garp. Hasn't he arrived on the frontlines yet? Last Sengoku assured us he had left East Blue."
Elder Ju Peter leaned forward, his bulk casting a wide shadow across the table. His gruff tone carried both irritation and faint amusement.
"He was en route… until he heard the news."
The room stilled. Ju Peter's lips curled. "The death of Arabasta's empress. Nefertari Titi."
The silence that followed was heavier than iron. The name alone invoked centuries of veiled histories. The Nefertari line—the desert monarchs who had turned away from Mary Geoise eight hundred years ago. One of the only families who had refused to sit among the "gods." Their bloodline was an inconvenient truth the Elders preferred buried, yet Imu-sama had always shown a peculiar softness toward them… especially toward their female descendants.
Saturn's brows arched. "Nefertari Titi… dead?" He exhaled slowly, voice thoughtful, dangerous. "Imu-sama will want to hear of this. Sooner rather than later."
Mars clicked his tongue, muttering into his sleeve. "An inconvenience removed by another's hand…"
"Was it childbirth?" Saturn inquired, his tone clinical, as though speaking of livestock rather than a sovereign. "She had only recently borne a daughter."
Ju Peter's eyes narrowed, recalling his reports. "No evidence of foul play has been confirmed. But my instincts whisper of Crocodile. That vulture has always circled Arabasta. Do you want Aegis to probe deeper?" His tone carried no compassion for the queen, only calculation. To him—as to them all—her value was as a pawn, not a person.
Saturn waved a hand, dismissive yet deliberate. "Send them. But discreetly. If they find evidence, let them archive it. Do not act. Whether her death was natural or manufactured, it spares us the nuisance of her presence. The queen was… far too sharp for her age. Sharp edges unsettle the balance of the board."
A cruel glimmer danced in his eyes as he leaned back into the shadows of his chair.
"Better still—someone else removed her. And without our fingerprints. Good riddance. Such anomalies are always dangerous pieces… better swept from the board before they cut the hand that moves them."
The Elders fell silent once more, the weight of their verdict settling over the chamber like a shroud. Outside, the banners of the World Government fluttered under the eternal sun of Mary Geoise, blind to the quiet graves their rulers dug with words sharper than blades.
"Send word to Sengoku," Elder Saturn intoned, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "Remind him of the purpose behind the Shichibukai system. Those pirates were granted immunity for a reason. We cannot have Garp—reckless as he is—deciding to crush one of them in his righteous frenzy. Crocodile still has his role to play."
The words carried no sympathy, no allegiance—merely cold arithmetic. In their eyes, even Warlords of the Sea were pawns to be preserved only until their usefulness expired.
The chamber grew quieter still until Elder Warcury, who had been silent as stone, finally stirred. His gravelly tone was deliberate, each word ground down to weight.
"Then what of Rosinante?" His eyes glinted beneath his heavy brow. "Do you not find it… convenient? He appears at Elbaph precisely when centuries of our work are about to crystallize. Coincidence? No. He threatens the order we have built. He threatens to unravel the very threads we've woven into King Harald's mind."
The other Elders listened, their ancient expressions grave. Warcury leaned forward, his massive frame creaking against the chair as though the world itself strained to bear his weight.
"We have spent lifetimes cultivating this moment. Centuries. Do you comprehend what Elbaph means?" His voice rose—not in passion, but in force, like a mountain shifting.
"The Giants are not merely warriors—they are the war machine of the world. To bend them is to end the chaos of the New World. To command them is to break the age of pirates. Elbaph is the keystone. Once Harald bends his knee to the Throne, the New World will no longer be a sea of fractured chaos. It will kneel. It will burn. And we will shape it anew."
Elder Mars hissed under his breath, but it was not dissent—it was hunger. "With the Giants, no Whitebeard, no Kaido, not even that pink-feathered brat will dare contest us. An army of mountains… wielded in the name of order."
Nusjuro's hand paused upon his blade. His gaze sharpened, but his words came like steel.
"And Rosinante would see it undone. He will whisper ideals of freedom into Harald's ear, poison the bonds we've so carefully nurtured. He has inherited the same cunningness as his brother—a dangerous trait that might unravel all our hard work. And under no circumstance can he be allowed to disrupt centuries of patience."
Elder Saturn closed his eyes for a moment, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Then it is settled. Elbaph must not slip through our fingers. Not now. Not when we stand on the cusp of binding the last true power left untamed in this world."
The room darkened, the towering figures cast in stark silhouettes against the flickering lamps. To mortals, their ambition would have seemed divine. To the Elders, it was inevitability. For in their minds, the world had already been conquered. The rest was simply… alignment.
"Well…" Elder Saturn's voice slithered across the chamber, low and deliberate, each syllable carrying the weight of centuries. His gnarled fingers tightened around the staff, the polished wood creaking under the pressure. The firelight danced across his half-burned face, warping into something monstrous, a sneer twisting the scarred flesh into an expression both cold and dangerous.
"I suppose it is time we extend King Harald yet another… opportunity to prove Elbaph's loyalty to the World Government."
The silence that followed was broken by the dry scrape of Elder Nusjuro's sheath tapping the marble floor. His tone was flat, but his words carried an edge honed sharp with memory.
"Are we certain Harald will bite? Recall the last time we made such an offer… when we set him against Rocks. And we all remember how that ended. His hesitation cost us dearly."
The chamber grew heavier with that name—Rocks—a phantom still looming in their history. More than two decades had not dimmed the weight of that failure.
Nusjuro's eyes narrowed. "Back then, Harald faltered. Friendship restrained his blade. But what if this is no different? What if he balks again?"
Saturn did not flinch. His burned features twisted further, the shadow of a smile etching deeper into his face. "This time… Harald will have no such excuse. No bonds of camaraderie to hold him back. His target is not Rocks… but merely an infamous pirate who has trespassed upon his shores."
Mars leaned forward, restless, suspicion flickering in his eyes. "And if Rosinante proves too much? If Harald falters again?"
Saturn's sneer widened into something wolfish. "He will not be asked to kill him. Only to capture. Imu-sama has made it very clear—the Donquixote brothers must remain alive. We will simply place the leash in Harald's hand and let him believe he is the one tightening it."
Warcury's deep rumble followed, slow and deliberate, as if the earth itself shifted when he spoke.
"And the bait?"
Saturn's staff cracked down against the marble, the sound ringing like a judgment.
"A permanent seat. The first of the Giants in history to sit among the nations of the World Government. We will dangle before Harald the promise of eternity—a legacy carved into the bones of the world. And in exchange, he will deliver Rosinante bound at our feet."
The room darkened with the weight of the scheme. It was a trap with centuries of patience behind it, cloaked in diplomacy but sharpened with deceit. Nusjuro's lips curved into a razor's edge of a smile.
"Clever. He will believe he is earning glory for his people, while in truth, he is tightening the chains around their necks."
Saturn's gaze swept the room, his scarred face illuminated in the flickering firelight, eyes gleaming with cruel satisfaction.
"Rosinante walks blindly into the snare. Harald, desperate for Elbaph's place in the sun, will spring it himself. And once the trap is closed, neither the Donquixote nor the Giants will ever escape our grasp."
****
Alubarna, the desert jewel of Arabasta, had always stood as a monument to endurance. For over four millennia, its sandstone walls and towering pillars had braved sandstorms, droughts, and wars, gleaming proudly in the heart of the desert as a beacon of civilization.
The palace itself was a marvel of history—a fortress carved by time, crowned with sapphire domes that shimmered like mirages under the merciless sun, and gates adorned with hieroglyphs that told the saga of kings and queens long turned to dust. From the gleaming marble courtyards to the gardens fed by the life-giving river that split the desert, Alubarna had always radiated majesty.
But today, that majesty was shrouded in shadow. The palace that had withstood four thousand years of storms now bore the silence of a tomb. Draped in black and white banners, its domes seemed muted, its proud walls trembling under the weight of sorrow. For the first time in living memory, Arabasta was not bathed in the golden glow of resilience—it was cloaked in grief.
The bell of Alubarna tolled, its deep notes echoing across the desert, carrying with it a message that no one wanted to hear but all already knew: Queen Nefertari Titi, the Jewel of the Sands, the Mother of the Desert, the Lioness of Courage—was gone.
Just months ago, the kingdom had erupted in endless celebration. Fireworks had painted the night skies over Nanohana, and laughter had spilled like rivers through the streets of Rainbase and Yuba when news of the princess's birth had spread.
From the largest merchant in Katorea to the smallest shepherd wandering the dunes, every soul of Arabasta rejoiced, for Queen Titi was not only a monarch—she was a mother to them all. Her smile had brought comfort, her words had stitched hope into the driest of days, and her courage had stood as tall as Alubarna's spires.
Now, that same kingdom wept. In Nanohana's bustling port, where merchants usually haggled over spices and silks, shopkeepers shuttered their doors, their heads bowed as incense burned in makeshift shrines. Sailors from foreign seas, who had once toasted the queen's benevolence, stood silently with Arabastan citizens, sharing their grief as though mourning a loved one.
In the desert wastes, among the wandering Bedouin tribes, the cries of camels mingled with the wails of grieving children. Old men who had seen countless rulers pass through Alubarna wept openly, clutching worn talismans of the royal crest, whispering prayers into the sand for the queen who had never forgotten them, even in the harshest droughts.
In Rainbase, gamblers and rogues, men of sin and shadow, placed their winnings on altars, offering coins as if tribute might guide her spirit safely to the afterlife. Even the great crocodiles of the Rain Dinners casino were said to have gone unfed, as if the beasts themselves knew the land had lost its heart.
And in Alubarna, at the palace gates, the grief was most unbearable. Thousands gathered in silence, men, women, and children clutching flowers wilted by the desert heat. Many had walked days across endless sands just to kneel before the gates, their knees pressed into burning stone as tears fell like rain upon the cracked earth.
Mothers clutched their infants to their chests, whispering the queen's name as though it were a prayer of protection. Old women, bent and weary, raised their hands skyward, cursing the heavens for stealing the one who had watched over them like a daughter of the gods.
The palace guards—stalwart warriors who had never faltered in their duty—stood trembling in their armor. Some sobbed openly, their spears clattering to the ground as they joined the people in their mourning. For they, too, had been touched by Titi's kindness; she had known each of their names, spoken to their families, and treated the lowest soldier with the dignity of a king.
Inside the palace, the royal court was no different. Ministers who had once stood tall in heated debate now sat broken, their ledgers forgotten, their words lost in grief. Servants wept in corners, recalling the queen's laughter as she walked the halls, her hands always carrying food or gifts for those beneath her. Even the courtyards where birds once sang seemed to echo hollow, as though the land itself mourned.
An entire kingdom—sprawling, ancient, proud—now bowed as one in mourning. From the golden gates of Alubarna to the smallest caravan trudging across the dunes, Arabasta grieved not for a ruler, but for a mother. And in that grief, the nation became a single family, united by the loss of the woman who had loved them all.
The Jewel of the Sands was gone. And in her absence, even the desert seemed to have lost its light.
The throne room of Alubarna—normally the very heart of Arabasta's majesty—had been transformed into a sanctum of grief. At its center lay a coffin unlike any ever seen in the desert kingdom, a shrine worthy of a goddess.
Forged of gold and lapis, its sides were etched with hieroglyphs and sacred carvings, each telling the story of Queen Nefertari Titi: the Jewel of the Sands, the Mother of the Desert, the Lioness of Courage.
Her body, already prepared according to the ancient customs of the kingdom, had been anointed with rare oils and wrapped in ceremonial linens, so that her beauty, grace, and dignity would endure as long as the desert endured. Above the coffin's lid, her likeness had been sculpted with serene eyes closed, her crown of twin cobras gleaming in the torchlight. She seemed less a corpse than an eternal guardian, a queen who would watch over her people even in death.
In a breaking of protocol unseen in four thousand years of Arabastan monarchy, the gates of the throne room had been opened to all citizens—nobles, soldiers, merchants, peasants, even wandering tribes from the wastes. Status, wealth, bloodline—all had been stripped away by grief.
Each man, woman, and child was permitted to enter the hallowed chamber to gaze one last time upon the queen's shrine before she would be entombed with her ancestors in the sacred catacombs. The air was thick with incense, heavy with salt from endless tears, and trembling with whispers of mourning prayers.
And yet, amidst all this reverence, the throne itself stood empty. On the steps below it sat King Nefertari Cobra, his form hunched, his crown discarded at his side. His once-proud frame seemed hollow, as though the very soul had been drained from his body. His eyes—bloodshot, unfocused—remained fixed on the coffin that held his wife.
He had not moved since her passing, not eaten, not spoken except to mutter broken phrases under his breath, as though he were caught between denial and delusion. He did not even turn when the shrill cry of his infant daughter pierced the throne room—a wail that might have shaken any father to action. But Cobra remained still, his spirit as lifeless as the body that lay in gold.
It fell, instead, to Igaram.
Clad not in his resplendent garb but in mourning black, the captain of the royal guard stood at the edge of despair yet refused to yield to it. In one arm, he cradled the swaddled Princess Vivi, rocking her gently as her cries echoed against the stone pillars. In the other, he gestured and directed servants, priests, and guards, ensuring every last detail of the queen's departure was performed with precision and reverence.
His face bore lines of grief, and more than once his lips trembled as though he might break down. Queen Titi had been more than a sovereign to him—she had been family. Despite the gulf of status, she had called him her brother, trusted him, leaned on him. And now she was gone. But Igaram knew that if he faltered, if he gave in to grief, then the kingdom itself might collapse with him. He had no luxury for tears. His queen deserved better. His king needed him. The infant princess had no one else.
And so he bore the weight of all three.
At the edge of the chamber, where shadows met torchlight, stood another figure—one who had no obligation to be there, and yet remained like an immovable pillar: Vice Admiral Monkey D. Garp, the Hero of the Marines. He stood with arms crossed before the queen's coffin, his usual grin gone, his jaw set in grim silence. Around him, disciplined lines of Marine soldiers kept order, ensuring that the endless tide of mourners flowed smoothly through the chamber.
There was no chaos, no shoving, no despair spilling into violence—because Garp was there. His very presence, his aura of unshakable will, brought steadiness where there might have been ruin.
The citizens wept freely as they shuffled past the coffin, some kneeling to touch the stone, others pressing their foreheads to the floor, whispering Titi's name as though in prayer. They came with flowers, with desert herbs, with precious trinkets to leave behind—offerings of love from a people mourning not a distant monarch, but a mother who had touched each of their lives.
In the center of it all, Igaram moved like a man divided in three—father, brother, and steward. He rocked the infant princess as she wailed for the mother she would never know, directed priests to keep the incense burning, instructed guards to maintain solemn order, and all the while kept one eye on his king, who seemed to have forgotten he still lived.
If not for Garp's silent vigil, the palace might have collapsed under the sheer weight of grief. But the Hero of the Marines stood there, steady as stone, watching over the coffin of a queen who had been beloved even by those beyond her kingdom. Though he owed Arabasta nothing, he gave them this gift: his strength, his presence, his honor.
Thus, in the throne room of Alubarna, where kings had ruled for four thousand years, the past and future of Arabasta stood in fragile balance—a grieving king lost in despair, a loyal knight holding together what little remained, an infant crying for a mother she would never remember, and a Marine hero keeping vigil over a queen who had become eternal.