Sea Calendar Year 1509
"Captain… when are we venturing into the New World…?" The question came from a boy barely old enough to grow a proper beard, his eyes blazing with reckless excitement as he clutched the salt-worn railing. The wind snapped through the sails above him, and beneath his boots, the pirate galleon surged forward like a living beast, cutting clean through the unnaturally calm waters of the Grand Line.
The sea was wrong. Too still. Too quiet. The ship's hull groaned as it parted the glassy surface, sending ripples across an ocean that should have been roaring. Massive masts creaked under the strain of wind that seemed to blow from nowhere and everywhere at once. The black flag above—tattered and defiant—whipped violently despite the eerie calm below. Even the sky felt heavy, its clouds stretched thin like a veil hiding something vast and watching.
Six months. In just six months, the world had twisted into something unrecognizable. Trade routes had collapsed overnight. Entire fleets vanished without a trace. Islands that once bustled with life had gone silent, as if erased from existence. Rumors spread like wildfire—of monsters in human skin, of seas that swallowed entire armadas, of power so overwhelming that even the boldest pirates began to whisper instead of boast.
And at the center of it all… One name. The Donquixote Family.
"You are so eager to die, are you…?" The vice-captain's voice crashed down like thunder. A burly man with scars that told stories no one dared ask about, he brought his heavy hand down on the boy's head with a sharp thwack. The young pirate yelped, clutching his skull as the crew nearby snickered nervously.
But the laughter didn't last. Because everyone on that deck knew the truth behind those words. The vice-captain exhaled slowly, his gaze drifting forward—toward the unseen horizon where the New World lay waiting. Or hunting.
He understood why the captain hadn't answered. Because the captain was afraid. Just like the rest of them. But fear was a luxury a captain could never afford to show. The New World was no longer a proving ground for dreamers. It had become a true graveyard.
Those so-called "rookies" who once boasted bounties exceeding 100 million—men who roared their ambitions to conquer the seas—had been crushed like insects. Their names, once spoken with awe, were now nothing more than warnings whispered in taverns. Ships burned. Crews annihilated. Flags torn down before they ever had a chance to rise.
All of it… sparked by a single force that had reshaped the balance of power. The Donquixote Family. They didn't just rule territory. They erased any opposition that might challenge their power in the New World.
Even the World Government—an entity that had stood unchallenged for centuries—now found itself grasping at shadows. In a desperate bid to reclaim control, it had restructured its military might, forging a new force from the combined armies of its affiliated nations. Kings and queens, once content to rule from gilded thrones, had been compelled to offer up their finest soldiers, their strongest warriors, their most loyal sons and daughters. It was meant to be a symbol of unity.
Instead, it became a symbol of desperation. Because even that… was not enough. The wrath of the Donquixote Family in the New World was something no doctrine, no strategy, no army could contain.
Marine bases—fortresses carved into the very bones of the sea—had fallen one after another. These were not mere outposts, but bastions built through years of bloodshed and sacrifice. Established during Operation Tidefall, they had once marked the World Government's iron grip over the most dangerous waters in existence. Countless marines had given their lives to raise those walls, to plant those flags, to ensure that order—however fragile—would prevail.
Now, they were gone. Erased. Not conquered. Not occupied. Wiped from existence as though they had never stood at all. Even the ancient strongholds of the World Government—structures that had endured for centuries, untouched out of fear and respect—had been reduced to ruins. Places that once symbolized absolute authority now lay silent beneath smoke and ash, their fall sending shockwaves across every corner of the world.
All of it… In just six months. Six months since the emergency Reverie had been convened—a gathering unlike any before it. The summons had not been a request but a command. Every monarch, every ruler under the World Government's banner, had been forced to attend. Behind closed doors, decisions were made that would reshape the course of history.
And yet, whatever resolutions had been forged in that sacred assembly…they had failed. Completely. The so-called "balance of the world"—that delicate equilibrium between pirates, marines, and the shadow powers that governed them—had not merely shifted.
It had shattered. And in the chaos that followed, one truth became impossible to ignore: the World Government, for all its power, for all its history…had no answer.
"So… are we just going to waste away our time in the first half of the Grand Line, Captain? I thought our ambition was to find the One Piece… and rule the seas!"
The young pirate's voice rang with defiance, though it trembled ever so slightly beneath the weight of the silence that followed. He still clung to that naïve fire—the kind that had not yet been tempered by loss, nor drowned in the cold depths of reality.
Even after the scolding, he didn't understand. He couldn't. Because truth be told… he had been protected. For six months, fate had been unusually merciful to their crew. While chaos consumed the seas, they had slipped through the cracks—never crossing paths with a Marine fleet, never drawing the gaze of the World Government's hunting dogs. It was luck. Nothing more.
Luck… and the quiet efforts of those who knew better. Because the first half of the Grand Line was no longer the "paradise" it once was. It had become a pressure valve.
After their catastrophic failures in the New World, the World Government had turned its fury elsewhere. They descended upon this side of the Red Line with overwhelming force—fleets doubling, patrols tightening, entire islands placed under surveillance. Their anger, their frustration, their humiliation… all of it was unleashed here.
And it showed. The fragile cohesion between the World Government and Marine Headquarters had begun to fracture. Whispers spread among sailors and spies alike—of veteran Marines resigning, of decorated officers walking away in disgust. The reason?
Repeated suicide missions. Orders to push deeper into the New World… knowing full well those sent would never return. The captain had heard those whispers. He had seen the aftermath. He wanted to scoff at the boy—to crush that naïve ambition with a single harsh truth. The kid didn't understand the seas they sailed in now. He didn't understand how close they had come to death, time and time again, without ever realizing it.
But the captain said nothing at first. His gaze remained fixed on the horizon. Because anger wasn't what the boy needed. Understanding was.
"No…" The single word cut through the air, calm yet heavy. "As we are now, going into the New World would be nothing short of suicide." A murmur passed through the crew. Even the vice-captain shifted slightly, listening.
"But…" the captain continued, his voice lowering, "that doesn't mean we don't have a path forward." Now, every ear was turned toward him. "There's been chatter… quiet, but persistent. A coalition of pirate crews forming in the shadows. Their goal?"
He paused. "To take down one of the Emperors of the New World." The words landed like a cannon blast. Even the wind seemed to falter.
"I recently came across information about one of their meeting points," the captain went on. "We're heading there. I want to see for myself whether this 'alliance' is real… and whether it's something we can use." His eyes hardened. "Because with their strength… our chances of crossing into the New World won't just improve—"
"They might actually exist." Silence. Heavy. Thoughtful. Dangerous. Because everyone aboard that ship understood what that meant. Trusting other pirates was no small gamble. But neither was staying weak. Ever since the destruction of Fish-Man Island, the journey into the New World had become a nightmare in itself.
Once, it had been a crucial gateway—a place to rest, to repair, to prepare. Ships would be recoated there, their hulls reinforced to withstand the crushing depths as they passed beneath the Red Line.
Now? That lifeline was gone. The undersea route had turned into a death trap. The Marines had fortified the surrounding sea corridors, turning them into an almost impenetrable net of surveillance and firepower. Warships patrolled relentlessly, their presence suffocating. And without Fish-Man Island as a haven, there was nowhere to safely maintain a ship's coating.
One mistake. One fracture. And the ocean itself would claim you. Crossing over now required more than skill. More than luck. It demanded experience… precision… and overwhelming strength. The captain's coat fluttered behind him as he stepped forward, his presence anchoring the restless energy of the crew.
It wasn't as if the path to the New World had been completely sealed. There were… other ways. But every alternative came with a price so steep that most crews never even considered it. The Calm Belt.
Once, it had been a calculated risk—a silent, windless expanse where the sea lay flat as glass and monstrous Sea Kings lurked beneath the surface. But with the right preparation, and the protection of Kairoseki-lined hulls, even Marine warships had crossed it with relative safety.
Now? It had become something else entirely. Something worse. For reasons no one could fully explain, the Calm Belt itself had changed. The creatures that dwelled within it had grown more aggressive… more erratic… almost frenzied. Massive shadows moved beneath the still waters, far larger than anything recorded before.
Entire Marine vessels—ships that once crossed those waters with confidence—were now rumored to have been dragged into the depths, torn apart by beasts that behaved less like animals… and more like something driven mad. The entire belt had become a graveyard in waiting.
Even the World Government, in all its authority, had begun restricting its use. With the New World slipping further from their grasp by the day, they could no longer afford to lose ships—and men—trying to force passage through a sea that no longer obeyed reason. Every route forward…led to death.
"Captain… forgive me, but I have to ask…" The vice-captain's voice broke through the heavy silence. For once, the burly man hesitated, his usual confidence faltering. He swallowed, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly.
"Which of the Four Emperors… is the coalition targeting?" The question hung in the air like a drawn blade. Because this wasn't curiosity. This was fear. The captain noticed it immediately—the tension in his first mate's shoulders, the subtle unease in his stance. And he understood.
There was one name… one crew… that no sane pirate wished to provoke.
Even he, had the answer been different, would have turned this ship around without a second thought. Because the Donquixote Pirates were no longer just another Emperor's crew. They had become something else. Something beyond the balance of power.
In a matter of months, they had risen to the very peak of the seas—not by claiming territory, not by forming alliances, but through something far more terrifying. They hunted. And their prey… were the Tenryūbito. The Celestial Dragons. The so-called "gods" of the world.
No one knew how it began. No one knew who struck first, whether it was the World Government or the Donquixote pirates themselves. But the moment the first Tenryūbito fell at the hands of Dolamingo more than six months ago as witnessed by everyone, the world itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then it happened again. And again. Until it was no longer an incident… but a pattern. A declaration of war. The Donquixote Pirates had done the unthinkable—not once, but repeatedly. They had slaughtered those who stood at the very pinnacle of the World Government's authority… and lived to continue doing so. That single act reshaped everything.
Fear turned into legend. Legend turned into law. An unspoken rule began to spread through the pirate world like wildfire: If you wished to stand among the Emperors of the New World… you had to prove it in blood. Tenryūbito blood. It was madness. It was heresy. It was… the new standard.
And at the center of it all stood the Donquixote Pirates—untouchable, unstoppable, and utterly merciless. The cunning, calculated force they once were had been replaced by something far darker. Strategy still existed, yes… but it was now drenched in brutality.
They didn't just defeat their enemies. They erased them. Pirates. Marines. World government agents. It didn't matter. There were no survivors. Only silence.
"Worry not…" The captain's voice finally cut through the tension, steady and grounded. "The coalition isn't targeting them." For a moment, no one breathed.
Then— "They're going after the Blood Steel Pirates." The shift was immediate. A wave of relief, subtle but undeniable, passed across the deck. Shoulders eased. Hands unclenched. Even the vice-captain exhaled quietly, the tension leaving his body in a slow release. Because in this new era of chaos… There was a vast difference between facing an emperor and facing them.
The name "Donquixote" was no longer just feared. It was avoided. Spoken in hushed tones, if at all. Because to cross them… was to vanish.
****
Marineford, Grandline
"Knock… knock…" The soft sound barely stirred the heavy air within the office of the Fleet Admiral.
"Come in…" Sengoku's voice came from behind the closed door—calm, measured… but weighed down by something far deeper. The door creaked open. Kuzan stepped inside. And what greeted him… made him pause.
The man seated behind the desk was no longer the unshakable pillar of the Marines. Sengoku looked… worn. His once meticulously kept hair was disheveled, strands falling loosely across his forehead. His spectacles lay discarded to the side, as if even the simple act of wearing them had become too much. His eyes—sharp as ever—were now bloodshot, lined with exhaustion that no amount of rest could cure.
And the desk… It was drowning. Stacks upon stacks of reports towered over it—documents detailing losses, casualties, failed operations. Some had spilled onto the floor, forming chaotic piles around his chair, as though even the room itself could no longer contain the weight of the past six months.
Six months of hell. For Sengoku, it had been nothing short of a waking nightmare. A man who had spent his life on the battlefield… now reduced to drowning in ink and paper. And yet, he would have chosen the battlefield. Without hesitation.
To fight. To bleed. Even to die in the line of duty—that was a fate he understood. But this? Reading report after report of Marine lives being snuffed out in the New World like stalks of wheat before a scythe… unable to stop it… That was a torment far worse than death.
"Sengoku-san…!" Kuzan's voice carried a rare note of concern. Even he—known for his laid-back demeanor—could not ignore the state of the man before him. The past months had tested Sengoku in ways no war ever had. And at the heart of it all… were the orders from above.
Reckless. Unyielding. Sending Marines into the New World again and again… only for them to be slaughtered. And Kuzan… had just returned from yet another failed attempt to change that.
"Ah… Kuzan. It's you…" Sengoku set his pen aside, closing the folder in front of him with a quiet thud. He lifted a hand, massaging his forehead as though trying to push back the weight pressing against his mind.
"From the look on your face… he refused again, didn't he?" There was no accusation in his tone. Only certainty. Kuzan didn't need to answer. Sengoku already knew. "Why doesn't that stubborn bastard understand the situation we're in…?" Sengoku muttered, his voice tightening ever so slightly.
"Tell me, Kuzan… what excuse did Monkey D. Garp give you this time?" His gaze sharpened. "Did you explain it clearly? The state of the New World? The losses we're taking?"
He gestured toward the chair across from him, signaling Kuzan to sit, before slowly rising from his own. There was a stiffness to his movement—a subtle reminder that even legends were not immune to fatigue. Sengoku walked toward a side shelf, opening it with familiarity. Inside were carefully stocked provisions—tea leaves, cups, small containers of snacks.
A habit. One he had maintained for years. For Garp. Because no matter how dire things became, no matter how many times Sengoku had shouted at him, Garp would always barge in, rummage through his stash, and treat the office like it was his own.
And strangely… Sengoku never truly minded. In this cursed world of duty and bloodshed, Garp was the only one who spoke to him not as Fleet Admiral—but as a man. As a friend. Sengoku exhaled quietly as he prepared the tea, the simple act grounding him, if only for a moment.
He had known this would happen. There had never been a real chance of convincing Garp. Not after that promise he had made Garp before he left for Water 7. Still… he had hoped. That Kuzan might succeed where he could not.
But Garp had chosen to remain behind… in Water 7, helping rebuild what little remained of a world slowly falling apart. The soft clink of porcelain echoed as Sengoku poured the tea, steam rising gently between them. He carried the cups back, placing one in front of Kuzan before taking his own seat.
For a brief moment… Silence. Not uncomfortable. But heavy. Then Sengoku leaned back slightly, lifting the cup to his lips, his tired eyes meeting Kuzan's once more.
"Tell me everything."
"It's just as you feared, Sengoku-san…" Kuzan's voice was quieter now, stripped of its usual laziness. There was weight behind every word. "The World Government is hiding the truth—deliberately. Whatever sparked the Donquixote Pirates' descent into this warpath… they're keeping it buried. Even from us."
The room seemed to grow heavier. Sengoku didn't interrupt. Didn't move. But his eyes sharpened. Kuzan continued, his tone steady but grim. "Just like you speculated… something happened on Elbaf. Something between the World Government and the Donquixote Pirates." He paused briefly. "And whatever it was… it lit the fuse."
A silence followed—tense, suffocating. Because if that was true, then this wasn't random chaos.
This was retaliation. Calculated. Relentless.
"And there's more…" Kuzan added, his gaze lowering slightly. "I have reason to believe that Donquixote Rosinante paid a personal visit to Water 7…" He looked back up. "To meet Garp-sensei."
For the first time since Kuzan had entered the room—Sengoku reacted. His brows rose sharply, exhaustion momentarily giving way to genuine surprise.
"Rosinante… met Garp?" he repeated, leaning forward slightly. "Are you certain, Kuzan?" Kuzan nodded. Garp hadn't admitted it outright. He never would. But Kuzan knew his teacher better than most. He had seen the subtle shifts—the things Garp didn't say, the way he avoided certain questions, the rare… uncharacteristic restraint in his words.
And more than that—Garp knew too much. Far more than Marine Headquarters did. Details about the internal shifts within the Donquixote Family… insights no outsider should possess. There was only one explanation.
"They met," Kuzan said firmly. "And Garp-sensei… chose to keep it from us." The implication lingered in the air. Even Sengoku didn't speak for a moment. Because if Rosinante—of all people—had reached out to Garp… then this conflict wasn't just political. It was personal.
"Garp-sensei asked me to pass along a message," Kuzan continued, though now there was a hesitation in his voice—a rare thing. Sengoku noticed. And that alone told him this wouldn't be easy to hear.
"…He told me to warn you." Kuzan's eyes met Sengoku's directly. "To stop throwing innocent Marine lives away in the New World." The words landed harder than any accusation. Because they weren't entirely wrong. Kuzan hesitated again… just for a fraction of a second. Then he finished it.
"He said… even if he stepped onto the frontlines himself… the Donquixote Family wouldn't give him any face." A chill ran through the room. Sengoku's fingers tightened slightly around his teacup. Garp. The Hero of the Marines. A man whose very name once commanded respect—even among pirates and someone whom the Donquixote pirates held in high regard due to his connection with Rosinante.
And yet— "…they wouldn't give him any face?" Sengoku repeated quietly. Kuzan nodded. "According to him… the root cause of this conflict is far worse than anything we've theorized."
Worse. Than this? Than entire bases being erased… than Tenryūbito being hunted… than the balance of the world collapsing? For the first time in a long while— Sengoku felt something cold settle deep within him.
Not fear. But the realization that they were standing on the edge of something far larger than a war. Something that, once fully revealed… Might shake the very foundation of the world itself. The steam from the tea between them had long since faded. But neither man noticed. Because now, the question was no longer how to fight the Donquixote Pirates.
It was—what had the World Government done… to create them?