"Is there no way to put a stop to this farce…?" Saint Mars's voice was low—but it trembled with barely contained fury. His teeth were clenched so tightly it seemed as though they might shatter, the veins along his temple standing out as he struggled to restrain the storm raging within him.
The chamber of the Five Elders—usually a place of absolute control and cold authority—felt different now. Heavier. Tighter. As if the very air had thickened with rage. Before them, the projection Den Den Mushi relayed the scene in perfect clarity.
The island. The platform. And at its center—Donquixote Doflamingo. Unhurried. Unchallenged. Untouchable. The screams that echoed from the transmission seemed to claw at the walls themselves, reverberating through the chamber in a way that no one present could ignore.
For perhaps the first time in centuries—the "gods" were being made to suffer. And the world was watching.
"It's pointless." The voice that answered was calm—but edged with something dark. Figarland Garling stood slightly apart, his imposing frame rigid, his gaze locked onto the projection without a single flicker of distraction. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes—sharp, predatory—missed nothing.
"Even if we dispatch an Admiral… or the God Knights from the Holy Land," he continued, his tone measured, "it would take over a week to reach that island." A pause. "By then… Doflamingo and his entire force will have vanished."
Another scream tore through the room. Figarland didn't flinch. Didn't blink. He simply watched. Studied. As if committing every detail to memory. Elder Mars slammed his palm against the table, snapping it clean.
"Then we do nothing?!" he snapped, his voice rising despite himself. "We sit here and watch as this… this animal desecrates—"
"Control yourself, Mars." Saint Saturn's voice cut through the room like a blade. Not loud. Not forceful. But absolute. Mars fell silent. Not out of agreement—but because he had to.
Figarland's gaze shifted slightly, though it never fully left the projection. "There may be one option," he said. A brief pause. "Vice Admiral Borsalino." At the mention of the Admiral candidate, a flicker of consideration passed through the room.
"He is stationed within the New World," Figarland continued. "With his ability, he could potentially reach the island faster than any conventional force that we can deploy."
A dangerous possibility. A desperate one. But a possibility nonetheless. For a moment, the idea lingered. Hovered. Tempted. Then Saturn shook his head. Slowly. Firmly.
"And then what?" Silence followed. Heavy. Oppressive. "Do we send a future Admiral into a trap we do not understand?" Saturn continued, his voice calm but laced with quiet menace. "Do we risk losing another pillar of our military strength… on a gamble?"
His eyes shifted toward the projection. Toward Doflamingo. Toward the calculated precision of everything unfolding. "You think this was impulsive?" Saturn asked.
"No…! This was planned." Every word landed with weight. "Every movement. Every placement. Every broadcast point across the world." His gaze darkened. "This… is a stage he built long before today, the loss of his so called family member is simply an excuse."
Another scream echoed. Sharper. More broken. Mars's grip tightened around his armrest.
"And we still do not know where Rosinante is," Saturn added, his tone lowering further. "Until we confirm his position… we cannot act restlessly. He is the true threat that we need to be wary of; maybe this is all a deliberate trap set to lure us in."
That name hung in the air like a ghost. Because it wasn't Doflamingo that currently posed the greatest threat to the Gorosei. It never was.
"Was the death of Knight Harald not enough of a lesson for you all? Or do you seriously believe that other than Imu-sama themselves, anyone here can pose a threat to Rosinante…?" Saturn said finally, his eyes flicking toward Figarland for the briefest moment.
A dangerous question. A pointed one. Because everyone in that room knew what it implied. Doflamingo was not a man to be cornered lightly, especially not with a monster like Rosinante as the vanguard. The Donquixote brothers were not to be underestimated. Not anymore.
Silence swallowed the chamber once more. Only the projection remained. Only the sound of the world's illusion collapsing. For centuries, they had ruled from the shadows. Untouched. Unchallenged. Unquestioned. It had always been them making others suffer while watching their victims scream.
But now—that image was cracking. And worse—it was cracking publicly. Elder Mars turned back toward the screen, his expression twisting with a mixture of fury and something far less familiar.
Something closer to unease.
"This cannot be allowed to stand; the longer this is aired, the worse our situation becomes," he muttered. But for once, no one had an immediate answer. Figarland's eyes narrowed slightly.
"…He's not just attacking us," he said quietly. Saturn didn't respond. Because he already knew.
"He's rewriting perceptions about the Tenryubito to the world," Figarland continued. A slow breath left him. "After today… fear of us will no longer be absolute."
That was the true danger. Not the deaths; the Donquixote brothers have killed celestial dragons before, on more than one occasion. But not once was it made a spectacle, as the world government had always managed to bury the matter. But this time it was different; there was no more burying this while the whole world witnessed it live.
"We have no way to contain this anymore…" The words fell heavy in the chamber, like a verdict already passed. Saint Saturn exhaled slowly, the weight of centuries pressing behind that single breath. For the first time since the broadcast had begun, he looked… resolved.
"We need to deal with the aftermath," he continued, his voice calm but ironclad, "and we need to do it now… before this spirals beyond even our reach."
Around him, the others remained silent—but not still. The tension in the room had shifted. What had begun as outrage was now something far more dangerous: Calculation.
Garling Figarland turned his head slightly, his sharp gaze settling on Saturn. "What do you have in mind…?"
Saturn didn't answer immediately. Instead, he reached forward and, with a deliberate motion, turned off the projection Den Den Mushi. The screams. The blood. The spectacle—vanished. But the silence that replaced it was worse.
"I have seen enough," Saturn said quietly. "Watching further will not change the outcome." He leaned back, straightening in his seat, his presence once again radiating the cold authority that had defined the World Government for generations.
"We will leave the matter of Rosinante to Imu-sama," he said. "That decision… is not ours to make." A subtle shift passed through the room at the mention of that name.
Even here—even among the highest authorities—there were lines that were not crossed. "But as for this…" Saturn's gaze hardened, "…this mess is ours to clean."
"We no longer have the luxury of passivity," he continued. "The absolute power we have maintained for centuries… is cracking." Not broken. Not yet. But cracking.
"And once the masses begin to question…" his voice dipped slightly, "…control becomes exponentially harder to maintain." Garling said nothing—but his silence was agreement enough.
"We must reaffirm our authority," Saturn went on. "Immediately." His fingers tapped once against the armrest. "Every kingdom. Every nation affiliated with us. They must be reminded—clearly and unmistakably—where power truly lies." A pause. "To buy time," he added. "Time to stabilize what is about to unfold."
"And how exactly do you propose we do that?" The voice came from Saint Warcury, who had remained silent until now. His deep tone carried a weight of skepticism, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"I trust you understand the situation we are in," he continued. "After today… there will be those who begin to move in the shadows." A faint scoff escaped him. "Rats. Opportunists. Dreamers of rebellion." His gaze darkened. "Especially now… that certain truths have begun to surface."
The implication was clear. Secrets long buried were no longer entirely hidden. "We cannot trust them," Warcury said bluntly. "Not a single one. They are all waiting… for the right moment to strike."
Saturn nodded once. "I am aware." And yet—his expression didn't change. "That is why we will call for a Reverie." That caught everyone off guard. Even Garling's eyes narrowed slightly.
"It hasn't even been a year since the last one," Saint Nusjuro spoke, his brows lifting in rare surprise. "And now you intend to convene another?" There was more beneath the question.
The Reverie was never just a meeting. It was a performance. A display. A reminder. But it was also controlled. Limited. Fifty nations. Once every four years. A system designed to manage the world—not mobilize it.
"Yes," Saturn said simply. "But this time… it will be different." He leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. "This time, attendance will not be a privilege." A pause. "It will be mandatory." The words hung in the air like a blade. "Every ruling monarch of every affiliated nation," Saturn continued, "will be summoned."
"No exceptions." The implications hit immediately. This was no longer diplomacy. This was consolidation of power. "We will bring them all to the Holy Land under the guise of a Reverie," Saturn said. "Under our watch. Under our control."
Garling's expression hardened. "…You intend to gather them all in one place."
"Yes." Saturn replied, it was a dangerous move. A bold one. But undeniably effective. Because for now, what they urgently needed was time to stabilize their positions. "And that is only the beginning," Saturn added.
Now—the true weight of his plan began to unfold. "We will begin immediate stockpiling of war resources." No one interrupted. Because now—they understood.
"The Heavenly Tribute will change increased manifold," Saturn declared. "No longer gold." A beat. "From this point forward… it will be war resources." Weapons. Ships. Supplies. Workforce. Everything needed to sustain prolonged conflict.
"And in addition…" Saturn's gaze swept across the room. "Each nation will be required to surrender one-fourth of its total standing army in service to the Holy Land."
"Heh…" A low, humorless breath escaped Warcury. "…You're stripping them bare."
"Not entirely," Saturn replied calmly. "Just enough." A pause. "They will serve in eternal service to the Holy Land."
"And their upkeep…" he added, almost as an afterthought, "…will be borne by the nations themselves." Even for men like them—the scale of it was staggering. Because if each nation truly ended up contributing the required part of their forces, the world government would immediately gain a well-trained force of tens of millions of soldiers under their command without spending a single belly.
Garling finally spoke again, his tone more cautious now. "This will surely provoke resistance from the majority of them; are you sure you want to do something so sensitive at a time like this, Elder Saturn...?" Not speculation. Certainty.
"You are not just demanding increased resources," he continued. "You are tearing away military strength they have spent decades building." His eyes narrowed. "In a time like this… that could plant dangerous ideas." Rebellion. Defiance. Independence. "All of which are risks we cannot ignore."
Saturn met his gaze without hesitation. "It doesn't matter." The bluntness of the response cut through the room. "Desperate times call for desperate measures." There was no room for debate in his tone. "No half-measures will help us tide over the current situation," he continued. "Not now, especially not against the kind of enemy we are facing."
His voice lowered, turning colder with each word. "And leaving military power in the hands of these monarchs…" he said, "…is a greater threat than taking it." A pause. "They are already uncertain…already shaken."
"And after today…" his gaze flickered briefly toward the now-dark projection Den Den Mushi, "…they will begin to question."
"And what do people do," Saturn asked quietly, "when they begin to question authority?" No one answered. They didn't need to. "They test it." A long silence followed.
"So we remove that option," Saturn concluded. "Any nation that refuses…" His voice didn't rise. Didn't need to. "…will be deemed to harbor rebellious intent."
The meaning was clear. No negotiation. No compromise. Only one outcome. "They will be dealt with accordingly."
Garling exhaled slowly. "…You're preparing for war on a global scale." Saturn's expression didn't change. "We are already in one." A beat. "The world just hasn't realized it yet."
His gaze lifted slightly—as if looking beyond the chamber itself. Beyond the Holy Land. Beyond the Red Line. "To hesitate now…" he said softly, "…is to lose everything."
A brief silence followed Saturn's declaration—heavy, suffocating, as if the room itself was still adjusting to the sheer scale of what had just been set into motion. War. Not declared. But inevitable. It was then that Saint Nusjuro finally spoke, his voice cutting through the lingering tension like the whisper of a drawn blade.
"So… what do you want me to do about Douglas Bullet?" The question hung in the air, sharp and deliberate. For a moment, no one responded. Because he was right. Before the chaos of the broadcast—before Doflamingo had torn open the very fabric of the world's order—this had been the matter that demanded their attention.
A monster. A relic of a bygone era. A man who had once sailed under the Pirate King himself. And now—a man who claimed he could lead them to the Final Island. All eyes shifted back to Saturn. The old elder remained still, his fingers lightly tapping against the armrest of his chair in a slow, rhythmic pattern—as though weighing not the risk…but the utility.
Finally, he spoke. "Let him loose." The words were simple. Casual. But they carried consequences that rippled far beyond that chamber.
Garling's eyes narrowed slightly. "…You're certain?"
Saturn didn't hesitate. "Grant him his request." A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "The title of Shichibukai… the freedom… the illusion of autonomy he so desperately desires."
He leaned back slightly, his gaze distant—as though already watching the chaos unfold in his mind. "The more destruction he spreads across the seas…" Saturn continued, his voice low and measured, "…the better." A pause. "Men like Douglas Bullet are not complicated."
There was no disdain in his tone. Only cold understanding. "They believe themselves to be forces of nature. Unstoppable. Unchained." His eyes darkened. "But in truth… they are predictable."
Garling folded his arms, listening intently. "All it takes," Saturn went on, "is the right push." Another pause. "A word. A title. A stage." His lips curled faintly. "Stir his ego… and he will burn the world for us—without ever realizing whose hand lit the match."
Nusjuro's gaze sharpened slightly. "…And when he inevitably turns that blade toward us?" Saturn's fingers stopped tapping. For the briefest moment, something colder settled in his expression. "Then his use to us will have run its course, and it's not like we are going to keep the Shichibukai around for much longer; sooner or later they will need to vanish."
The answer was immediate. Absolute. "To us… they are nothing more than a tool." A beat.
"A particularly volatile one."
Warcury let out a low breath. "You're gambling again," he muttered. "No," Saturn corrected calmly. "I am investing in a future that will be solely under our control."
The room fell quiet again. Because there was logic in it. Twisted. Dangerous. But undeniable. The seas were already beginning to fracture; the so-called balance of the seas was already a joke. Fear was spreading. Ambition was awakening. And into that chaos—they would release yet another monster.
"But if…" Nusjuro spoke again, slower this time, more deliberate, "…his claim holds any truth…" His hand rested lightly against the hilt of his blade. "If he truly can lead us to Raftel…" Even saying the name carried weight. Centuries of pursuit. Of failure. Of dead ends and lost expeditions. "…then this changes everything."
Saturn didn't respond immediately. His gaze drifted slightly—past the others, past the chamber itself—as though looking toward something far beyond even them.
"…Yes," he said at last. Quiet. Measured. "If he can deliver that…" He let the sentence trail off.
Because the implication didn't need to be spoken. The Final Island. The truth of the world. The one thing even they—had never fully claimed.
But then Saturn's expression shifted. Just slightly. Enough to reveal the truth beneath the strategy. "But do not mistake this for faith or obedience," he added. His voice turned colder. "I do not believe for a second that Douglas Bullet intends to honor any agreement."
A faint scoff followed. "Men like him do not deal in loyalty. Only in opportunity." Garling nodded faintly."…Then why trust him at all?" Saturn's eyes snapped back, sharp as ever.
"I don't." A beat. "I don't need to." Silence. "The moment he chose to bargain with us," Saturn continued, his voice carrying a quiet finality, "was the moment he proved something far more important than whatever information he claims to possess." His gaze hardened. "He is not above the world government."
Not like Roger. Not like those who had truly defied fate itself. "…He is beneath it." Another pause.
"And that makes him predictable."
****
Dressrosa, New World
Far from the chaos that rippled across the seas… far from the screams of gods being dragged down from their thrones… there existed a silence. A heavy, suffocating silence. While the world watched Donquixote Doflamingo's vengeance unfold upon towering screens, the people of Dressrosa did not gather before them. They did not cheer. They did not tremble in fear. They mourned.
A strange silence had settled over Dressrosa. Not the peaceful quiet of dusk. Not the gentle lull between festivities. But a hollow, aching stillness—as if the island itself had lost something it could never reclaim. The streets, once bursting with color and laughter, now stood subdued. The ever-present music that defined Dressrosa had ceased entirely. No instruments played, no dancers moved, and no voices rose in cheer.
Even the wind felt… hesitant. Because Dora was gone. And there was no body to mourn. No final farewell to offer. Only absence. And that absence weighed heavier than any coffin ever could.
Across the kingdom, black ribbons had been tied to doorways, balconies, and lampposts. Shops remained closed, their shutters drawn in quiet respect. Fishermen who once shouted across the docks now worked in silence, their movements slow, deliberate.
Children—those who had once run freely through the streets, laughing as Dora playfully chased them with exaggerated stomps—now sat quietly, clutching toys she had once clumsily tried to fix with her oversized hands. Because despite her towering size—despite her strength—Dora had never truly felt like a giant. She had been… simple.
Bright. Childlike. Her laughter had been loud, unrestrained, echoing across the island like a festival all its own. She marveled at the smallest things—a colorful bird, a sweet treat, the way people danced in the streets.
To her, Dressrosa had been a playground and her home. And its people—her family. Now that laughter was gone.
In Green Bit, where ancient trees rose like silent guardians and the air carried the scent of earth and old life, a clearing had been carved out—not by force, but by reverence. At this new resting place stood two graves. Massive. Solemn. Sacred. The first bore a name etched deep into polished stone: DORA.
The letters were carved with such force that the grooves themselves seemed to bleed grief. The gravestone towered far above any human monument, befitting the one it honored—a giantess who, despite her size, had been the gentlest soul among them. Before it lay a weapon.
A colossal warhammer—Stormbreaker. Now silent. Once, it had roared with Dora's laughter, each swing as clumsy as it was powerful, each strike filled not with malice but with childlike enthusiasm. Now it rested partially buried before her grave, its handle wrapped in fresh leather, its axehead sharpened and polished without a single blemish or scar from countless battles fought not out of hatred but out of loyalty.
Fresh flowers, absurdly tiny in comparison, had been placed at its base. Not just by humans. By the Tontatta Tribe. Beside Dora's grave stood another. Smaller… but no less heavy with sorrow. IDA
Unlike Dora's towering monument, Ida's grave was more refined, carved with quiet dignity. The stone was smoother, the edges sharper—as if those who built it had taken extra care to preserve her memory with precision rather than scale. Where Dora had been loud, Ida had been calm and steady. Where Dora had laughed, Ida had endured. And now… both were gone.
The Tontatta gathered in silence around the graves, their tiny figures forming a sea of bowed heads and trembling shoulders. Normally vibrant, normally loud with chatter and laughter, they now stood still—grief weighing down even their boundless spirits.
Some clutched tools they had forgotten to set aside. Others held flowers too large for their arms. A few simply sat… staring. Waiting. As if expecting Dora to burst through the trees at any moment, laughing, apologizing for being late. But she never came.
The wind shifted. Carrying with it the distant echo of waves… and something heavier. Loss. From the edges of the clearing, members of the Donquixote family stood in quiet vigil. No grand speeches. No declarations. Even the most unhinged among them were silent.
Because seated next to the foot of the monument was none other than Donquixote Rosinante, the young Master of the Donquixote family. And he was saying a final farewell to the only memory he could bring back of Dora, her weapon.
Beside the towering grave, where even the wind seemed to tread lightly, another presence lingered—silent, coiled, and grieving in its own way. A massive serpent lay curled upon itself. Its scales, once gleaming like burnished gold under the sun of the sky islands, now appeared dull… as though even its luster had dimmed in mourning. Its enormous body circled protectively near Dora's grave, careful—almost reverent—not to disturb the freshly turned earth.
This was no ordinary beast. This was the Lord of the Sky. A creature once worshipped, once feared… now reduced to a silent sentinel. It had followed her. From the endless white seas of Skypiea… Through storms, through war, through lands it did not belong to. It had followed her. Not out of instinct. Not out of command. But out of something far rarer. Bond.
Its massive head rested low against the ground, just inches from where Stormbreaker lay buried. The serpent's golden eyes—ancient, knowing—remained fixed upon the grave as if waiting for it to stir… as if expecting the familiar, booming laughter to echo once more. But there was only silence.
High above, the towering trees creaked softly, their leaves whispering like ghosts of memories long past. And for a fleeting moment—it almost felt as though the forest itself mourned alongside them.
Stormbreaker remained unmoving before Dora's grave. A weapon without its wielder. A voice without its laughter. A promise… left unfulfilled.