"Master Doffy… it's time." Senor's voice was low, steady—but it carried across the ruined silence of the island like a tolling bell. The first ray of sunlight tore through the horizon. And with it, the night of slaughter would finally come to an end.
Donquixote Doflamingo slowly lifted his head. For a long moment, he had stood unmoving, lost in thought amidst the aftermath of carnage. The blood that had once drenched him fresh and warm had now dried into a dark, cracked crimson across his skin and clothes. His feathered coat—once pristine and flamboyant—hung heavy, stained and stiff, reeking of iron and smoke.
The island itself…was unrecognizable. What had once been a hub of trade and authority now lay in ruins. Buildings reduced to skeletal husks. Walls charred black. Streets painted red. The air was thick—choking—with the stench of blood, ash, and burnt flesh. Smoke still curled lazily from smoldering debris, rising into the pale morning sky like the final breaths of the dead.
Not a single scream remained. Not a single plea. Only silence. Absolute. Total. Death. Doflamingo exhaled slowly. Then he moved. With a casual step forward, he descended from the shattered remains of the structure he had been standing atop, his boots crunching softly against broken stone and charred bone fragments. Each step carried him toward the heart of the island. Toward the stage.
At the very center—a wide clearing had been carved out. Deliberately. Everything in its vicinity had been flattened, swept aside, or burned down to make space. The ground itself had been cleared and reinforced, forming a crude but imposing arena amidst the devastation.
And at its center, a raised platform stood. Constructed hastily, yet with unsettling precision. Wooden beams reinforced with iron brackets. Elevated just enough to dominate the surrounding area. Its surface had been scrubbed clean—an eerie contrast to the carnage surrounding it. This was no battlefield. This was a stage.
Arrayed around the platform were more than a dozen specialized recording Den Den Mushi. Each one positioned meticulously. Different angles. Different heights. Some perched atop metal stands. Others embedded into the ground.
All of them—awake. Watching. Their eyes wide, their lenses focused, their transponder systems already linked and waiting. This wasn't just documentation. This was a broadcast. A spectacle. For the entire world.
And at the center of the platform were the "gods." The Tenryuubito. Four of them. Bound. Broken. Reduced. They had been stripped of everything that once defined their so-called divinity. Their ornate robes—symbols of their untouchable status—were gone, replaced by tattered remnants barely clinging to their trembling bodies.
Heavy iron restraints bound their limbs, chains wrapped tightly around their wrists, ankles, and torsos, anchoring them to thick wooden posts driven deep into the platform. Their once-proud postures had collapsed.
Now they knelt. Or slumped. Or struggled weakly against their bindings. Their faces—once hidden behind glass helmets and arrogance—were fully exposed. And what remained there… was not divinity. Not authority. Not superiority.
Only fear. Raw. Ugly. Unfiltered. One of them sobbed openly, tears streaking down a dirt-stained face. Another muttered incoherently, lips trembling, eyes darting wildly as if searching for salvation that would never come. A third glared with desperate fury, trying to cling to the illusion of power even as his entire body shook uncontrollably.
The fourth…said nothing. But his silence was worse. Because his wide, hollow eyes had already understood. There would be no rescue. No Admiral descending from the heavens. No fleet breaking through the horizon. No divine intervention. They had been abandoned.
Doflamingo stepped onto the platform. The wooden boards creaked softly beneath his weight. Every Den Den Mushi turned. Every lens focused. Every eye… locked onto him. He didn't look at the cameras. He didn't look at the sky. His gaze rested solely on the four figures before him. And slowly—a smile spread across his face. Not the playful, mocking grin the world knew. No—this was something else. Something colder. Something darker. Something… broken.
"You bastard…! Let us go! Do you even know who we are?!" The voice cracked—not with weakness, but with fury born from a lifetime of unquestioned authority. Even bound. Even stripped.
Even broken, the Celestial Dragon clung to the only thing he had left. Pride. It burned in his eyes, defiant and desperate all at once. For generations, men like him had stood above the world itself—untouchable, unquestioned, absolute. Kings bowed. Admirals answered. Entire nations trembled at a word. That belief did not die easily. Even here. Even now.
Doflamingo did not respond. Not a glance. Not a word. As if the man didn't exist at all. That silence…was far more terrifying than any answer. Instead, Doflamingo turned away. Casually. Almost bored. He walked toward the edge of the platform where a long, polished table had been arranged with unsettling care—an almost ceremonial display amidst the surrounding ruin.
Laid across it…were tools. Not scattered. Not thrown together. But placed with precision. Purpose. Intent. Blades of varying lengths rested side by side—some thin and curved for delicate incisions, others broader and heavier, designed for deeper cuts. Their edges gleamed under the rising sunlight, freshly honed to a razor's edge.
There were hooks—steel, cold, and unforgiving. Clamps. Lengths of chain. Implements designed not for battle but for control. For restraint. For methodical, deliberate suffering. Each piece was clean. Prepared. Waiting. The air around the table felt colder. Heavier. As though even the wind refused to pass over it.
Behind him, the bound Celestial Dragons had fallen into uneasy silence. Because now—they understood. This wasn't a simple execution. Not a quick death. Not mercy. This was something else entirely. Something drawn out. Something meant to be seen.
"Start the transmission." Doflamingo's voice cut through the stillness. Calm. Absolute. Final. A short distance away, one of his men—stationed beside a cluster of specialized den den mushi—nodded immediately. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, flipping switches, adjusting dials, and linking signals that had been prepared long in advance.
Connections formed. Signals surged. Across oceans—across continents—across every sea where those silent white screens stood waiting—the feed ignited. One by one, they came to life.
In marketplaces. In royal plazas. In ports and cities and forgotten towns—the blank screens flickered. Crackled.
And then—displayed. The ruined island. The raised platform. The four bound figures. And at the center—the Heavenly Yaksha himself. Gasps rippled across the world as the screens flickered to life. Confusion turned to shock. Shock to disbelief and then to sheer terror. Because what they were seeing should not have been possible.
Back on the platform, Doflamingo reached out, picking up a slender blade—a boning knife, its edge so fine it seemed to vanish when turned at the right angle. He held it up briefly, inspecting it against the light. The metal caught the morning sun. Flashed. Perfect. He tested its balance with a subtle movement of his wrist, then returned it to the tray with quiet satisfaction.
Then—he turned. Slowly. Deliberately. Facing forward. Toward the Den Den Mushi at the center.
Toward the countless eyes now watching from every corner of the world. For a brief moment, he said nothing. He simply stood there. Blood-stained. Unbowed. A figure carved from violence and will. And then—a smile spread across his face. Wide. Cold. Unhinged.
"Fufufufu…" The laugh echoed softly, yet it carried through the transponder systems, spilling into every screen, every square, every gathering crowd across the seas. A sound that made spines stiffen. He tilted his head slightly. Eyes gleaming beneath the rising sun.
"Can you all see it…?" His voice was smooth. Mocking. Almost playful. "The truth of this world."
Doflamingo turned slowly, deliberately, his blood-crusted boots grinding against the splintered wood of the platform as he faced the four bound Tenryūbito. The rising sun crept over the horizon behind him, its golden light clashing grotesquely with the carnage that blanketed the island—turning drying blood into a dark, rusted sheen.
For a moment, he said nothing. The wind howled faintly across the ruined coast, carrying with it the stench of ash, salt, and death. Then he spoke. "You know… for the past week…" His voice was calm—too calm. "I've been thinking… how exactly I should repay the World Government… for taking something from me."
His head tilted slightly, a shadow falling over his eyes as his lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. "Someone… precious." A ripple of unease passed through the bound Celestial Dragons. Even now, even broken and battered, their pride refused to die.
"You madman—!" one of them spat, his voice trembling despite himself. "Do you even understand what you are doing?! You are condemning yourself—!" Doflamingo raised a single finger. The man's voice died instantly—as if the air itself had been cut.
"Don't interrupt me," Doflamingo murmured, almost gently. He began to pace. Each step was slow. Measured. Controlled. "I made a promise… years ago. No matter how powerful my enemies became… no matter how cruel this world turned…" His grin widened, but there was no joy in it—only something broken. "I would never lose another member of my family."
His footsteps stopped. Silence. Then— "But you…" His voice dropped, turning cold—razor-sharp. "You gods… sitting atop your holy perch… you dared to take her from me." A flicker of something dangerous ignited in his eyes. "At first… I thought I'd just kill you. Slowly. Painfully. Tear you apart piece by piece until my anger was satisfied…"
He chuckled softly. "But then…" He looked up—straight into the transponder snail, into the eyes of the entire world. "A question came to me." Across oceans and continents, countless people watched.
On crowded streets. In royal courts. In hidden dens and pirate strongholds. In Marine bases where silence had fallen like a funeral shroud. Faces turned pale. Some trembled. Some couldn't look away.
"Why?" Doflamingo asked quietly. "Why would the World Government… dare to strike at my family… knowing exactly who I am?" His smile vanished. And in its place—something far worse.
"Then I realized." His voice became a whisper. "Fear." A beat. "You don't fear me." The words echoed—not just across the island but through every Den Den Mushi, into every ear across the world.
"You don't fear the Donquixote name the way the rest of the seas do. You don't feel that instinct… that primal urge to run… when you hear it." He spread his arms slightly, as if embracing the world itself. "And that… is my failure."
In a distant kingdom, a noble dropped his goblet, wine spilling across marble floors. On another island, a Marine clenched his fists, cold sweat dripping down his temple. In the slums, pirates stared wide-eyed—some grinning, others shaken. And in the Holy Land far above…silence. Heavy. Oppressive. Doflamingo stepped forward, stopping just before the kneeling figures. His shadow swallowed them whole.
"So today…" he said softly, picking up one of the gleaming tools from the tray, the metal catching the morning light, "I correct that mistake." The Celestial Dragon closest to him began to shake.
"N-No… wait—!"
"For too long," Doflamingo continued, ignoring him completely, "you've paraded yourselves as untouchable. As divine. As beings above consequence." He leaned down slightly, his grin returning—wide, unhinged, monstrous. "But today…" His voice dropped to a whisper.
"The world learns the truth." He straightened. Raised his hand. And the blade gleamed. "You bleed just like the rest..."
Across the world—gasps. Screams. Disbelief.
"They're… Celestial Dragons…!" someone whispered in horror. "No… no, this can't be real…"
"This is madness…!" In a palace, fists slammed into tables.
In distant seas, pirates erupted into manic laughter. In kingdoms bound to the World Government, fear spread like wildfire. Doflamingo's voice rang out one final time—loud, clear, absolute: "And from this day forward… when you hear the name Donquixote…" He tilted his head, eyes burning with something feral. "You will remember this moment." The blade lowered. "And you will fear it."
The world held its breath. No one spoke. No one moved. Across seas and continents, under blazing suns and dim torchlight alike, millions stood frozen before the glowing screens—eyes wide, hearts pounding, minds struggling to accept what they were witnessing. On the platform, Doflamingo stood like a harbinger of ruin.
The wind picked up, tugging at his bloodstained feathered coat, making it ripple like the wings of some monstrous bird poised to descend upon its prey. The bound Celestial Dragon writhed. For the first time in his life—true fear. Not arrogance. Not outrage. Fear.
"W-wait…!" his voice cracked, the authority he had wielded all his life shattering like glass. "You don't understand—! You can't do this! We are—!"
"Gods?" Doflamingo interrupted softly. A pause. Then—a laugh. Low. Broken. Unhinged. "Fufufufu… Gods don't beg."
The man's breath hitched. His body trembled violently against the restraints. Doflamingo stepped closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Every step echoing across the platform… and through the silence of the entire world.
Behind him, the other three Celestial Dragons had gone deathly pale. One had collapsed entirely, muttering incoherently. Another stared in frozen disbelief, his lips moving soundlessly as if trying to deny reality itself.
This wasn't supposed to happen. This couldn't happen. They were untouchable. They were absolute.
They were—"Nothing," the word fell like a guillotine. Doflamingo crouched slightly, bringing himself level with the kneeling man. "You know…" he said, almost conversationally, "I used to be like you." That made the man look up. Confusion flickered through his terror.
"Yes… I wore the same arrogance. The same blindness." Doflamingo's smile widened, but his eyes were empty. "And then the world reminded me… what we really are without power." His hand rose. Not rushed. Not frantic. Controlled. The first movement drew a sharp, broken scream from the Celestial Dragon—not yet from pain, but from the anticipation of it.
Across the world, people flinched. Some turned away. Some couldn't. A woman in a distant town covered her child's eyes. A group of pirates leaned forward, grinning with morbid fascination. In a royal court, a king staggered back, horror written across his face.
"This… this is madness…" he whispered. "No…" his advisor replied quietly, unable to look away. "This is a message."
Back on the platform, the scream came. Raw. Primal. It tore through the air, through the transponder snails, through every screen across the world. It wasn't just pain. It was the sound of something sacred being shattered. Doflamingo didn't rush. He didn't rage. That was what made it worse. Every motion was precise. Measured. Deliberate.
As if he were crafting something. Not killing. Creating. A spectacle. A declaration. The Celestial Dragon's voice broke into hoarse sobs, his body shaking uncontrollably.
"P-please…! I'll give you anything! Wealth—power—slaves—anything—!"
Doflamingo tilted his head. "Anything?" Hope flickered. Desperate. Pathetic.
"Yes—! Yes! Anything—!"
Doflamingo smiled. "Give her back…Give Dora back." Silence. The man's face went blank. His lips parted. But no words came. The hope died instantly. And with it—so did any mercy that might have existed.
Doflamingo rose to his full height. The morning sun now fully bathed the platform in light. And what it revealed… made the world recoil. Gasps echoed across islands. Some fell to their knees. Others vomited. Even hardened pirates felt a chill crawl down their spines. This wasn't just brutality. This was something else. Something deeper. Something colder. Doflamingo stepped back, admiring his work—not with joy, but with a grim, hollow satisfaction.
"Look closely," he said, turning once more to the transponder snail. His voice carried. Clear. Unshaken. "Look at your gods."
The remaining three Celestial Dragons screamed. One tried to crawl away despite his bindings. Another sobbed openly. The last simply stared, his mind already broken. Across the world people trembled. Because for the first time in centuries… they were seeing it. The truth. Not divinity. Not untouchable rulers. Just flesh. Just fear. Just mortality.
"They bleed…" someone whispered. "They… they can die…"
Doflamingo's smile returned—wider now, almost manic. "Yes." He spread his arms as if embracing the chaos erupting across the world. "Yes, they can."
His voice rose. Not shouting. But carrying a weight that crushed everything beneath it. "And if they can bleed…" A pause. "If they can scream…" His eyes gleamed with something monstrous. "Then they can be hunted."
That single word—sent a ripple through the world. Kings went pale. Pirates grinned like wolves.
Revolutionaries clenched their fists. And in the Holy Land… Something shifted. Something ancient. Something watching. Back on the platform, Doflamingo turned away from the broken figure at his feet.
"Prepare the next one," he said casually, as if discussing nothing more than routine business.
The remaining Celestial Dragons shrieked in terror. "NO—! PLEASE—!"
But their voices meant nothing. They had never listened to the pleas of others. Now, no one listened to theirs. The camera Den Den Mushi zoomed out slowly. Capturing it all. The ruined island. The blood-soaked platform. The fallen "gods." And the man standing above them.
Not as an emperor of the seas. Not as a pirate. But as something far more terrifying—a man who had just declared war… On the very concept of authority itself. And the world had just witnessed the first stroke.
****
Baltigo, Grand Line
The wind over Baltigo howled like a warning. Dust and sand swept across the white shores, spiraling into the air as if the island itself sensed the shift in the world's balance. The great sails of anchored ships snapped violently, their ropes creaking under the strain, while the sea below churned with an unnatural restlessness.
At the highest cliff overlooking it all stood Monkey D. Dragon. Unmoving. Unblinking. Before him, the massive screen flickered—its image now steady, its message already delivered. Silence hung heavy. Around him, the core members of the Revolutionary Army stood frozen.
Emporio Ivankov's usual flamboyance had vanished, their wide eyes locked onto the screen. Livia stood rigid, fingers tightening ever so slightly. Even the hardened veterans scattered across the plateau looked… shaken. Because what they had just witnessed…was not merely an execution. It was a statement.
A declaration that had shattered something fundamental in the world. For a long moment, no one spoke.
"…He's lost it." Ivankov's voice came out quieter than anyone had ever heard it. "Completely… and utterly lost it."
Dragon didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the fading image of Doflamingo standing amidst ruin. Blood. Fire. Screams. Even now, the echoes seemed to linger.
Zephyr stood a few paces behind, arms crossed, his mechanical limb humming faintly. His expression was grim—far more severe than it had been when the newspaper first revealed the secrets of the world.
"This isn't just revenge," Zephyr muttered. "This is escalation." A dangerous word. A final word.
Dragon's eyes narrowed slightly. "Yes." One word. Low. Measured. But it carried weight.
"He didn't just kill them," Dragon continued, his voice calm but heavy. "He chose how to kill them… and more importantly—where and when." His gaze shifted, finally turning away from the screen and toward the horizon—as if he could already see the consequences rippling across the seas.
"He made the world watch." A gust of wind tore across the cliff. No one argued. Because that was the truth. Doflamingo hadn't simply acted. He had orchestrated. Ivankov swallowed, their usual grin nowhere to be found.
"Dragon… this is bad. REALLY bad." They gestured wildly toward the now-dark screen. "The Tenryūbito… humiliated like that? Slaughtered like animals? The World Government is going to lose its mind!"
A faint pause. "…Or worse." Dragon's expression hardened. "They already have." Silence. Heavy. Oppressive. Zephyr exhaled slowly, his sharp eyes scanning Dragon's face.
"Do you still want me to go to Dressrosa in the current situation…You saw it too, didn't you?"
Dragon didn't deny it. "The reaction won't be measured," he said. "It won't be strategic." Another pause. "It will be absolute."
That word sent a chill through those gathered. Because everyone there understood what it meant. Not retaliation. Not justice. Erasure. Entire islands wiped out. Nations made examples of. Blood used to drown truth. Ivankov clenched their fists.
"Those idiots… they'll burn the world just to cover this up…!"
"They have no choice," Dragon replied. His voice remained calm—but there was something beneath it now. Something darker. "Fear cuts both ways."
Zephyr's eyes sharpened. "…Explain."
Dragon turned slightly, his cloak billowing behind him. "For centuries, the Celestial Dragons ruled because they were untouchable," he said. "Not just by power—but by perception." His gaze flickered briefly back to the screen. "But today… that illusion was destroyed."
A beat. "They were seen bleeding." Another. "They were heard screaming." The wind howled louder. "And now…" His voice dropped. "…the world will soon rally using this one incident as an example."
No one spoke. Because that realization… Was more dangerous than any weapon. Zephyr's jaw tightened. "…You think this will spark an all-out war…?"
Dragon shook his head slowly. "No." That answer caught them off guard. But then—"It will spark something worse." Far worse. Ivankov's eyes widened.
Dragon nodded faintly. "Kings. Pirates. Even those within the World Government itself." His gaze darkened. "Anyone who ever feared the gods… will now begin to challenge them."
Zephyr let out a low breath. "And challenge leads to…Ultimatum." The word fell like a verdict. For a moment, the only sound was the raging wind. Then Zephyr spoke again, quieter this time. "…And Doflamingo?"
Dragon's eyes narrowed. For the first time, there was something almost unreadable in his expression. "He didn't just provoke the World Government," Dragon said slowly. "He simply shattered the world's order."
A dangerous game. One without rules. One without limits.Ivankov shuddered slightly. "That man… he's inviting chaos on a scale we've never seen…"
Dragon didn't disagree. Because that was exactly what this was. Not a war. Not yet. But something far worse—the beginning of one. A war where no one knew the sides. Where alliances would shift. Where greed, fear, and ambition would tear the world apart from within.
The dragon's gaze lifted toward the sky. For a fleeting moment, the storm above Baltigo parted—just enough for a sliver of light to break through. But it didn't feel hopeful. It felt like the calm before something catastrophic.
"…We're out of time," Dragon said quietly.
Zephyr looked at him. "For what?"
Dragon's eyes sharpened. "For patience." A pause. Then—"Prepare the army." Those three words changed everything. Ivankov stiffened. Zephyr's gaze hardened. Because Dragon rarely gave such orders lightly. But now—there was no hesitation.
"No more waiting," Dragon continued. "No more watching from the shadows; the revolutionaries need to take the center stage in this upcoming conflict." His voice rose—not loud, but resolute. "The world is about to descend into chaos… and if we don't move now…" His eyes burned with quiet intensity. "…we'll be swallowed by it."