For the old woman's vicious curses, Ignyr remained completely indifferent. He neither reacted nor acknowledged her rage—his face devoid of even a ripple of emotion.
Like a divine force gazing down upon the complexity of human nature, he merely watched. When his internal compass landed on resentment, it marked the moment for judgment.
When her fury had burned out and her energy was spent, the elderly woman suddenly lunged—biting down on Ignyr's ankle with wild desperation, trying to tear through flesh.
In response, he drove a swift kick into her jaw, sending her reeling. Blood and drool poured from her broken mouth. Her upper face twisted as if trying to speak, but no words came—only choking sounds and agony.
"This will reunite you."
Having tired of the act of vengeance that had lost all taste, Ignyr pressed his foot against the old woman's contorted face and slowly forced her down to the floor.
She struggled desperately, scraping at the ground, her saliva and blood smearing the surface. Her fingers clawed at the air, trying to grasp anything, but caught nothing.
"Well then," Ignyr muttered coldly, "go ahead and join your daughter. Your despicable husband will be along shortly."
With no hesitation, he curled his toes, then stomped down with crushing force. Her skull caved inward beneath his heel.
The collarbone shattered from the impact, shards of bone driven into her chest cavity along with what remained of her crushed head. Blood and tissue burst outward, spilling over her shoulders.
He continued applying pressure until her body was reduced to a flattened, pulpy mass. Her upper half compressed into a mangled mixture of bones and flesh—mother and daughter now inseparably fused.
One of their internal organs—he no longer cared whose—was hurled to the side by the force, and the daughter's severed head rolled away.
His shoes and socks, now soaked in blood and viscera, were discarded in disgust. Barefoot, Ignyr moved silently into the next room.
Meanwhile, the three other vengeance squads spread across the various manors were fully immersed in the ecstasy of their bloody purge. The paradise of slaughter had begun.
In addition to using martial skill to torment the World Nobles, Ace's flames proved devastatingly effective. His fire wasn't just for destruction—it was a tool of calculated agony.
He could modulate the intensity at will, searing nobles who tried to escape, and reducing luxurious estates to piles of blackened ruin.
"Fire Fist" Ace felt more alive than ever. His Devil Fruit powers, once used in skirmishes or defense, were now unshackled for righteous annihilation. Fire had never tasted this sweet.
Nearby, Shiryu of the Rain—renowned for his swordsmanship—rejoiced in feeding his bloodthirsty blade. His cursed sword drank deeply from noble veins.
Without hesitation, Shiryu let the unarmed Celestial Dragons see the horror of his crimson blade before it returned to its sheath—always hungry.
He took grim pleasure in slicing apart countless nobles, cleaving skulls of every shape and piercing hearts that pumped blue blood.
The "Crescent Moon Hunter," Devon, brought a different kind of artistry to the massacre.
Unlike the savage spectacle of the others, she delivered death with a delicate grace. Her kills were works of beauty—macabre poetry in motion.
Even in tragedy, she arranged the scene with care. The corpses lay in poses of eerie dignity, their final expressions forever frozen in a mixture of pain and elegance.
The creators of Mary Geoise—the descendants of the Twenty Kings—were wiped out in less than thirty minutes.
Their proud ancestors could never have imagined that the bloodline of the Celestial Dragons, which had ruled unchallenged for 800 years, would be erased in a single night.
Nor could they have foreseen that the ones responsible would be their own descendants, born of the same blood they claimed divine.
Nor could they have known that this descendant, Ignyr, cursed that blood every waking moment and now spread that curse across the world.
Ignyr moved methodically, clearing each estate one by one, scrubbing away the lives tainted by the Draco name.
Even as he stalked the halls of death, his attention remained sharp—aware of another strange inconsistency affecting the rhythm of the slaughter.
"Why hasn't the Navy responded yet?"
It had been an hour since Ace's flames lit the Holy Land ablaze.
At Garp's suggestion, the Navy had supposedly mobilized. Mary Geoise, a sacred stronghold, should have had no fewer than 10,000 troops.
When Ignyr broke into the forest, he saw the Pacifista units patrolling and the towering walls lined with Sea Prism Stone. It was a fortress.
With such security, it was highly likely that a Marine Admiral—one of their highest-ranking officers—was overseeing the defense.
Yet in all this time, there had been no response.
Civilians a kilometer away from the Draco Manor could hear the explosions and screams. But no Marines had arrived.
Not a single soldier. Not a single Pacifista. Not even a Vice Admiral.
From what Ignyr could deduce, either Admiral Aokiji or Kizaru—both known for their ambiguous interpretations of justice—was delaying the response.
Whoever it was, someone inside the Navy was silently granting them time. Time to finish the purge.
While considering this, Ignyr stumbled upon something unexpected.
On the first floor of a manor, crouched by the stairs, was a young boy. Ragged, small, and alone. His head buried in the crook of his arm.
The sight caught Ignyr's eye.
"Hey there, little one…"
His tone softened, warmth entering his voice. He approached slowly, crouching a short distance away to avoid scaring the child.
The boy looked up, hesitant and frightened, eyeing the blood-stained man with caution. But he didn't run.
"I saw the guards were gone… so I ran."
The words were quiet, shaky—yet Ignyr understood at once.
The Draco riot had pulled soldiers away from their usual posts, leaving the slave quarters unguarded. In the confusion, the boy had slipped away.
Thin, no older than ten, his body looked fragile. But his eyes—his eyes held the spark of life.
Unyielding. Hopeful.
He reminded Ignyr of himself at that age. Beaten, caged, but still dreaming of freedom.
With a gentle hand, he ruffled the boy's hair. "Can you show me where you lived?"
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