"World in Shock. The Duel for the Title of Strongest Ends.""When Eras Collide.""Teleportation vs Tremor. Which is the mightiest Paramecia?""You can see it coming. The era ahead is named Black Emperor."
As the news gulls fanned out over every sea, the world caught fire. Even though the articles insisted the fight had ended in a draw and the uninhabited island had been reduced to a ragged chain of reefs, the front page told a different story. One enormous photograph showed a man standing untouched in the ruin, handsome, imperious, eyes like a blade, while on the opposite side Whitebeard stood drenched in blood with half his signature mustache missing.
The message did not need words. Black Emperor stood on top.
In the Dressrosa palace, a man in a pink feathered coat lounged with one leg thrown over the other, a glass of red wine in one hand and the paper in the other, reading every line as if savoring a rare vintage. Donquixote Doflamingo, king by usurpation and by the grace of timing, let a crooked smile spread across his face.
"Fufufu. As expected of Lord Ozz. To wreck that sea emperor like this."
His laughter rolled through the vaulted hall. The sound was as sharp as broken glass and as giddy as a child's shout.
He could admit it now. When he had first bowed to Dotor Ozz, the natural-born rebel king had told himself it was temporary. One climbs a taller giant only to leap from its shoulder. That had been the plan. The problem was that each time Ozz moved, the difference grew ridiculous. And Ozz did not rule only with fear. He bound his people to him with reward and recognition and a terrifying kind of patience.
Now Doflamingo had no stray thoughts left. He would shine, work, kill, build, and wait until Ozz looked his way and reached into the Holy Land to pluck out the only title Doflamingo coveted. Celestial Dragon.
"Beh-heh-heh. Doffy," Trebol crooned, practically vibrating with delight. "With Lord Ozz's name behind us, no one is going to come at us anymore."
Diamante and Pica added their own odd laughs, more squeaks and rumbles than words. Even baby 5, small and perpetual with want, wore a genuine smile in the warm wash of triumph.
Only one person in the room did not share it. In the corner, a blond man in a black coat sat with his head bowed, silent and still. Doflamingo glanced his way and did not find it strange. His little brother had been shaken by something lately. He could not speak, and his spirit drifted on a tide no one else could see.
Doflamingo walked over and clapped a hand on that shoulder. "Corazon. Little brother."
"You believe me. When my value is high enough for Lord Ozz to notice, I will take back that status. And you will come home with me."
He was honestly happy. For Ozz, yes, but also for himself. He had his blood back.
Wine slid down his throat like silk, and for a while everything tasted like victory.
He did not notice that Rosinante's eyes did not brighten at all. The man sat like a closed shell, hands folded, head lowered. Memory pulled at the corner of his mouth. Duty twisted behind his ribs.
Fleet Admiral Sengoku had given him the order. Infiltrate the family. Not to move against Ozz, not yet, but because the Navy had begun to worry at how fast Doflamingo's power was spreading under the banner of the Black Emperor. Sengoku had sworn to keep the Navy's influence from being smothered entirely. The world government had kept quiet only because Ozz's name demanded courtesy. Their displeasure with Doflamingo's coup and his bottomless ways had not faded.
So even if matters exploded later, Marine Headquarters and the World Government would have reasons they could defend. Rosinante would be the blade in the folds of a brother's coat.
Doflamingo, doting in his broken way, suspected nothing. He turned back to business.
"Tell our people in the North Blue to move. The New World is home now."
Diamante nodded and handed over a list. "Recruitment from the North Blue. Children with promise to train into officers. Do you want to review or should we move them all."
Doflamingo scanned it. Some names he knew. One in particular made him smile. Trafalgar Law. A hard-headed, world-sick little wolf who had once snagged his attention. "Bring them. We need hands."
Far away on the Grand Line, a golden colossus cut the waves. The Gran Tesoro.
Its heat was constant now. Money, games, shows, vice shaped into art. It was the ocean's grandest sink for coin and caution. By rights it should have been a feast that drew sharks from every sea. Yet it moved as it pleased and docked where it wanted. No warlord's brand bought that freedom. No treaty. Only the flag at the top.
The Black Moon.
Dotor Ozz's banner made predators think twice, then think again. And after a duel the world had watched, even those who favored Whitebeard swallowed their plans. If the Black Emperor could meet that man on equal footing or better, what chance did anyone else have.
Snaps rolled across a packed amphitheater. Thousands clapped in rhythm as a tall figure in a tailored tuxedo climbed the central stage. He wore a gold visor and heavier gold earrings. A ring like a sun crowned his finger.
Gild Tesoro smiled. He reached the summit of the stairs and took the hand of the golden-haired woman beside him, spinning her into the opening steps of the dance. Gold flowed. Lights glittered. Pleasure bloomed like a night flower.
"This evening," he purred into the crystal microphone, "let us praise the name of Lord Ozz."
On this ship, money opened every door. The Black Emperor's face and myth were everywhere, the hottest star on the sea. Fans screamed. Gamblers threw chips in the air. Girls in sequins hurled armfuls of confetti that looked suspiciously real.
They were celebrating something larger than a draw. They were celebrating a transfer no one would write down but everyone could feel.
The strongest name in the world had shifted.
In backrooms and throne rooms the conversations were more careful. Brokers noted the price of slaves would plunge on the Sabaody route. If Fish-Man Island sat under someone's aegis, profits would shift. Some captains asked if it was time to court Ozz openly. Others burned the thought out of themselves like poison and swore harder to their own flags.
On the Oro Jackson, a woman looked out over the sea with the calm of a bookkeeper and the heart of a believer. Sammi stacked numbers and schedules in her head and still made room for a single private, quiet joy. The man she served had stepped onto the highest stage and had not been found wanting.
In a certain office in the Holy Land, masked agents drew their own lines. CP0 would not move. Not today. The Five Elders filed the broadcast with other memories that stung. The Navy did not toast. They did not mourn either. Sengoku turned a page, inked a note, and rang for tea.
On the Moby Dick, sons gathered around their father. Marco bound wounds with phoenix fire and a set face. Jozu held boulders of ice against the worst cuts. Vista kept the younger ones busy and smiling so they would not stare at the scar on Whitebeard's back that split the skull on his tattoo neatly in half. The old man slept a little and woke. He laughed when they fussed. He shook his head when anyone said the word lose.
"It is not over," he told them. "Not for me. Not for him either. The sea keeps moving."
On a different deck, a hawk-eyed swordsman sheathed his blade and stared at his own hand as if it belonged to someone else. The distance to the summit had never been clearer. It had also never looked so climbable.
Everywhere, the speeches were the same. Raise a glass. Splurge a purse. Play it again. In the echo of those cheers, in the roar of those headlines, the truth settled like silt.
If the title Strongest in the World had not changed hands completely, it had tilted hard. Enough for the crowd to choose a favorite. Enough for the cautious to mark a name at the top of a list and circle it twice.
Cheer for him, some said.
Cheer and cheer again.
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The tides are shifting, and secrets linger in the dark... Step into the shadows early on P@treon, where the next chapter awaits before the world sees it.
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