Doflamingo's grin didn't falter, but his jaw ached from the pressure of holding it in place. Every glance, every stare across the table felt like a blade being pressed against his neck.
It wasn't just suspicion. No—he knew this look. It was the same one he had seen when he was a child, when peasants with pitchforks and torches had hounded him and his so-called family through the mud, screaming for his blood simply because of the air he'd been born into.
That cursed Celestial Dragon bloodline.
The Warlords weren't glaring at him as a rival. They weren't judging him as a pirate.
They were looking at him as if he were prey.
And that was something Donquixote Doflamingo had sworn never to be again.
He leaned back, feathers rustling as he forced the grin wider, hiding the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Inside, he was itching—burning—to make an example out of someone. To paint the walls of Marineford with blood and threads and laughter.
But this wasn't the place. Not yet.
He exhaled through his teeth, then finally spoke.
"Fuffuffuffuffu… I see how things are." His voice dripped like oil, strained but still mocking. "This isn't a meeting. It's a show. A little humiliation game to put me in my place, huh?"
His shades flashed as he tilted his head toward Sengoku.
"Fine." He spread his hands like a man throwing away his cards. "Give Diamante back, and I'll take him. We'll leave. Never step foot outside the New World again."
The silence after was thick—like the entire table had just been slapped with a wet rag.
Crocodile barked out a short, dry laugh, smoke puffing from his cigar. "That's it? Joker wants to fold? Pathetic."
Moria wheezed through a mouthful of meat, nearly choking. "Kehehehehe! Don't tell me you're scared now!"
Hanckock, on the other hand, frowned.
Gale stood there with his arms folded behind Sengoku, posture neat enough to pass inspection but with a grin tugging at his mouth like he was watching the best stage play of his life.
'This is rich,' he thought, resisting the urge to laugh. 'The big bad Joker, acting like he's ready to "bury the hatchet," when really he's just begging for recess to keep what's left of his pride.'
He gave his head the slightest shake, like a teacher watching a kid try to eat crayons. Too bad. Sengoku had no intention of letting Donquixote Doflamingo walk away with even a shred of dignity intact.
The truth? Gale wasn't here because he wanted to. He hadn't wanted to be the Marine mascot at this circus.
He didn't like exposing himself to the attention of these monsters—warlords or not, they were sharks, and standing here was basically jumping into their tank with a neon sign that said Bait.
But this wasn't about him. It was Sengoku's play.
The Fleet Admiral didn't just want to cage Doflamingo. He wanted to break him down, grind that smug, untouchable grin into dust, and make an example out of him in front of the rest.
And what better way than to have some loud-mouthed rookie—that's me, hello—stand here insulting Joker while hiding behind two Marine legends?
It was humiliating. It was deliberate. And every Warlord at the table knew it.
Well—almost every Warlord.
Moria was still cackling through his fangs, slamming his greasy hands against the table like this was the funniest kabuki performance he'd ever seen. "Keheheheheheh! Look at you! Cryin' like a baby in feathers!"
'Bless him,' Gale thought. 'Too stupid to realize the trap, but smart enough to enjoy the show anyway.'
Crocodile, on the other hand, definitely wasn't that blind. His golden hook gleamed as he leaned back in his chair, exhaling cigar smoke with that same smug grin plastered across his face.
He knew this show was as much for him as it was for the Joker. But he was arrogant enough not to care.
No, Crocodile wasn't worried about being in Doflamingo's position one day. He was too busy enjoying the free theater and convincing himself he'd never be the one on stage.
Mihawk was… well, Mihawk. Hard to tell if he was simply uninterested or quietly storing every detail like a hawk circling overhead, waiting for the right time to swoop. His face was unreadable, but Gale had the sneaking suspicion the world's greatest swordsman never wasted attention for no reason.
Boa Hancock? At first she'd been openly disdainful of Doflamingo, chin tilted so high she might've seen the ceiling beams. That was her natural state, of course.
But the moment she realized what Sengoku was doing, she went tacit, her silence cold and deliberate. For her, humiliation was beneath royalty, but watching him suffer it? That was acceptable entertainment.
And then there was Jinbe.
The fish-man sat with his arms crossed, his presence steady as an anchor at the bottom of the sea.
Gale's gut told him Jinbe had known what this was from the very beginning.
The way he sat in silence, eyes closing like a monk in meditation, said it all. He was watching not just Doflamingo, but Sengoku, the Warlords, and even Gale himself. A man who understood the weight of politics as much as he did the strength of a punch.
In the end, he and Hanckock were the ones most affected by this farce. They weren't loners, after all, and their warlord status was a shield they used to protect their people.
Finally, Sengoku's voice cut through the tension, deep and resolute, like the sound of iron doors slamming shut.
"That's not going to happen. Diamante is already in Impel Down." His gaze sharpened as he leaned forward, each word carrying the weight of finality. "And he will stay there—for the rest of his miserable life."
Doflamingo's grin twitched, lips curling but not quite covering the sudden tic in his cheek. His shades caught the light, hiding the flicker of rage.
"Fuffuffuffuffu… Are you sure you want to do this, Sengoku-san?" His voice dripped with that mocking drawl, but the steel underneath was unmistakable.
Sengoku's face hardened, all pretense of patience gone. "Very sure." His tone was colder than the sea depths. "And even if I wasn't… the World Nobles are out for blood. Incarceration is the best he can hope for."
The chamber grew heavier with silence.
Doflamingo's fingers twitched against the table, then tightened into claws. His grin stretched wider, but it was sharp, teeth bared like a wolf on the edge of breaking.
"You're really overestimating my patience, Sengoku-san…" His voice darkened, all mocking tones stripped away. "I've already agreed to your ridiculous punishment for a crime I didn't even commit…"
His Conqueror's Haki surged like a sudden storm, invisible lightning cracking through the room. Plates rattled, chandeliers quivered. The atmosphere itself screamed.
"…But there's a limit to what I can take, you know?" His shades glinted, and for a moment the grin dropped into a snarl. "I just might decide mutual destruction is worth it. And knowing what I know…"
The temperature spiked—literally. Golden light radiated off Sengoku's body as if the sun itself was about to rise in the middle of the conference hall. His massive frame pulsed with raw energy, skin glowing, the first tremors of his Buddha form rippling through the air.
The message was clear: if Doflamingo wanted to press this, Sengoku would not hesitate to erase him, Warlord or not.
Gale, standing behind him, instantly broke into a cold sweat. His smirk faltered into a grimace, his throat dry as stone.
'Doflamingo's haki was bad enough—felt like being locked in a sauna with no oxygen. But this? Sengoku going golden mode?' Gale's eyes flicked nervously to the glowing admiral in front of him. 'If this turns into a laser show, I'm gonna get flash-fried like a side of fish sticks.'
The Warlords were shaken too. Even the stoic Mihawk finally lowered his boots off the table, eyes sharpening. Hancock's frown deepened, though her pride masked the worry. Jinbe's jaw clenched tight.
Crocodile narrowed his eyes, cigar clenched between his teeth.
But the worst off was Moria. The big zombie pirate had been in the middle of cramming a drumstick into his mouth, and now he was choking violently, grease spraying as he slapped at his throat.
"KEHEHEHEH—HKKKKKKK!" His laughter and choking collided in a grotesque mix.
The room was seconds from all-out war when a drawling voice finally cut through, smooth and lazy as ever.
"Oooh… now, now…" Kizaru drawled, finally taking his hands out of his pockets. His tone was casual, but the way his half-lidded eyes glinted made it clear he wasn't joking. "How about we all calm down a little… and remember where we are…"
He tilted his head toward Doflamingo, lips quirking into a faintly amused smirk.
"Your man... hmmm already got off easy with a life sentence, y'know. That's a gift, considering.... the hmmm alternative." He scratched his cheek lazily, like he was talking about the weather.
Then, as if it were an afterthought, he added with that slow, mocking drawl:
"Oooh… and besides, even if we did let him go…" His golden gaze flashed sharp as a blade. "…he wouldn't be of much use to you. I kind of… did a number on him."
The words hung in the air like a knife.
Doflamingo's grin didn't move, but the tightening of his jaw said everything. His fingers drummed once, sharp and deliberate, against the armrest.
Meanwhile, Gale nearly snorted despite the suffocating atmosphere.
'Classic Kizaru. Drops a nuke of a statement in the most bored tone possible. "Did a number on him," huh? Yeah, I'm sure Diamante's still picking out the light particles from his ribcage.'
Gale glanced toward Doflamingo, grin creeping back. 'And judging from that twitch, I think our feathered friend's realizing he's not walking away from this meeting with his pride intact.'
...
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