-Real World-
The news spread through Fishman Island like blood in water—Queen Otohime lived again, resurrected through miraculous means. But that joy lasted only moments before the second revelation crushed it: their entire kingdom faced extinction at the hands of a god.
From heaven to hell in a single breath. The whiplash was devastating.
Madam Shyarly's reputation as a fortune-teller was unparalleled across Fishman Island. Her Mermaid Café attracted customers from all social strata, though few returned for second readings. The problem wasn't her accuracy—quite the opposite. Shyarly's predictions came true with one hundred percent consistency, and most futures she glimpsed carried misfortune. People learned quickly that ignorance was preferable to certainty when certainty promised suffering.
Yet everyone believed her prophecies without question. Even King Neptune—known for his passive, avoidant leadership style—accepted her words as absolute truth. In fact, he'd already internalized the Sky Screen's revelations about the Straw Hat Pirates and was privately eager for their arrival. They would open the Sea God's Treasury, retrieve the legendary blade Tenseiga, and resurrect his beloved Otohime properly.
The royal family's dynamics had shifted dramatically since the queen's assassination years ago. Her death had left a void that Neptune never filled—neither remarrying nor delegating her political responsibilities effectively. He'd simply... shut down. Retreated into comfortable mediocrity while Boss Jinbe, former member of the Sun Pirates, handled the actual governance.
It was Jinbe who negotiated protection deals with pirate crews. Jinbe who maintained diplomatic relationships with surface world contacts. Jinbe who ensured Fishman Island's safety through careful networking and strategic alliances.
Neptune just signed whatever was placed in front of him and took credit when Big Mom's flag was planted in the kingdom's territory, claiming half the achievement for himself.
The Sky Screen's broadcasts had given the royal family something they desperately needed: hope with a deadline.
-Broadcast-
"Gods," Queen Otohime whispered, the word tasting strange on her tongue. "Do they truly exist? I thought those were just ancient myths—stories told to frighten children or explain natural phenomena before we understood science."
She sat in the private consultation chamber adjacent to the main throne room, still processing Shyarly's prophecy while trying to maintain her composure. Blood from the crystal ball's explosion had been cleaned from her face, but the psychological wounds remained fresh and bleeding.
The concept of divinity felt foreign to someone who'd witnessed the so-called "gods" up close. The Celestial Dragons called themselves descendants of creators, yet Otohime had met them—had negotiated with Saint Donquixote Mjosgard after his transformation. She knew they were just humans with overwhelming institutional power rather than any genuine divine authority.
Every few years, some arrogant fool with a powerful Devil Fruit declares himself a god, Otohime thought, her mind cataloging examples. They rule isolated islands through fear and ignorance until someone stronger comes along and shatters the illusion. Paper statues that tear at the slightest touch.
The Celestial Dragons were worse, in some ways. At least the false gods in remote villages had personal power backing their claims. The World Nobles relied entirely on inherited privilege—eight centuries of accumulated wealth and authority passed down from ancestors who'd actually accomplished something. Their descendants were parasites feeding on a system maintained by Marine strength and Heavenly Tribute extracted from member nations.
They don't even understand proper governance, Otohime thought with contempt unusual for her gentle nature. They're not diverting conflicts or addressing root causes. They're just pressing down harder on a powder keg that grows more explosive every year. The Revolutionary Army keeps lighting matches, and eventually something will ignite that can't be extinguished.
But those were concerns for another time. Right now, a more immediate divine threat demanded attention.
Shyarly sat across from her, gradually regaining composure after her violent vision. Her hands had stopped shaking, though her eyes remained distant as she sifted through prophetic fragments like an archaeologist examining pottery shards.
"There's something specific I need to mention," Shyarly said slowly, each word carefully selected. "Among all the twisted, screaming faces in the vision—all those fishfolk driven mad with whatever possessed them—I saw one figure who stood out. Someone familiar."
"Who?" Otohime leaned forward, maternal instinct flaring. If she could identify the threat's origin, perhaps she could prevent the catastrophe rather than merely accepting its inevitability.
"My brother." Shyarly's voice carried complicated emotions—love and loathing mixed in equal measure. "Arlong. I saw him clearly in that future, and he was... different from the others. Not quite as consumed by the madness. Almost like he was directing it rather than drowning in it."
The name landed like a stone between them. Arlong—former Sun Pirates officer, notorious anti-human extremist, currently imprisoned in Impel Down after his defeat at Luffy's hands years ago.
"Arlong has motive," Otohime said carefully, her political mind assembling connections. "Fishman Island betrayed the Sun Pirates. We condemned them publicly to appease the World Government, turned our backs on Fisher Tiger's legacy, and refused sanctuary when they needed us most. If Arlong wanted revenge against our kingdom..." She trailed off, the implication clear.
"It's not just that he was there," Shyarly continued, her eyes refocusing as memories sharpened. "It's how he appeared. He was wearing black robes—ceremonial ones, like religious garb. And he was holding a statue... something with an octopus head. His face..." She shuddered. "I've seen my brother angry, violent, even cruel. But I've never seen him look so ecstatic. So worshipful. Like he'd finally found something worth living for."
Understanding struck Otohime like a physical blow. "He's a cultist."
"That's my theory," Shyarly confirmed. "He summoned something. That tentacled god I saw descending upon Fishman Island—Arlong called it here deliberately. Maybe as revenge. Maybe he genuinely believes it's salvation. But the result is the same: our people go mad, turn on each other, and exterminate themselves in a religious frenzy."
Otohime's mind raced through historical precedents. Cults weren't uncommon in the world—isolated communities regularly fell under the influence of charismatic leaders claiming divine revelation or demonic power. Usually, they were harmless eccentrics. Occasionally, they became dangerous enough to require military intervention.
"The problem is precedent," Otohime said aloud, organizing her thoughts. "Historically, cultists have been more nuisance than threat. Their imaginary gods never actually manifest. Their dark rituals accomplish nothing beyond theatrics and psychological manipulation. Local authorities can handle them without Marine assistance because there's no real supernatural danger."
"But Arlong succeeded where others failed," Shyarly finished grimly. "He actually summoned something. Something powerful enough to destroy an entire kingdom."
The two women sat in heavy silence, contemplating implications that extended far beyond Fishman Island. If one cultist could successfully summon a divine entity, what did that mean for other cults scattered across the world? Were there other Arlongs out there, attempting to call down gods and demons from whatever realm housed such beings?
We've been treating cultists as jokes, Otohime realized with dawning horror. Dismissing them as delusional fools playing with symbols they don't understand. But what if we've been wrong? What if the old myths and legends weren't primitive superstitions just history we'd forgotten?
-Real World: Ryugu Palace, Main Throne Room-
While Otohime and Shyarly discussed cosmic threats in private, the royal family gathered in the main throne room to watch the Sky Screen's ongoing broadcast.
Prince Fukaboshi stood nearest the screen, his massive frame tense with emotion as he watched his mother interact with people who shouldn't exist for five more years. "She hasn't aged a day," he murmured, more to himself than his brothers. "The Tenseiga's resurrection seems to have no negative side effects. She's exactly as I remember before the assassination."
"Where exactly is the Sea God's Treasury?" Prince Ryuboshi asked, frustration evident in his voice. "And why do we have to wait for some pirate crew to access it? That's our kingdom's legacy, our inheritance. It shouldn't require outside intervention."
King Neptune sat on his ornate throne—too large for his frame despite his own impressive size—watching the Sky Screen with uncharacteristic intensity. Seeing Otohime alive again, even in a future timeline, stirred emotions he'd spent years suppressing. The throne beside him had remained empty since her death, no replacement wife ever considered.
I'm not a good king, Neptune admitted privately. But I was a good husband. That has to count for something.
His greatest concern wasn't the kingdom's administration—Jinbe handled that competently enough. No, Neptune worried about his daughter.
Princess Shirahoshi remained confined to the Hard Shell Tower, a luxury prison that had protected her from Vander Decken IX's obsessive harassment for years. The perverted fishman's Mark-Mark Fruit had allowed him to target her with thrown objects that never missed, transforming any projectile into a heat-seeking weapon. Escape was impossible. Going outside meant death.
According to the Sky Screen, the Straw Hat Pirates would eventually solve that problem by cutting Decken to pieces and scattering his remains across the ocean floor. Neptune eagerly anticipated that future.
Inside the Hard Shell Tower, Princess Shirahoshi hugged her pet shark Megalo tightly, tears streaming down her enormous face as she watched her mother's Sky Screen appearance. At over ten meters tall, Shirahoshi dwarfed normal merfolk, but her personality remained childlike and gentle.
"Mama," she sobbed quietly, her voice carrying the characteristic tremor of someone who'd spent years crying. "I miss you so much. When can you come back? I want to see the outside world so badly..."
She'd been six years old when Queen Otohime died—assassinated by a supremacist who'd opposed her message of peaceful coexistence. In her grief and fear, young Shirahoshi had unknowingly activated her latent power as the Ancient Weapon Poseidon, summoning massive Sea Kings that terrorized Fishman Island for days before the creatures dispersed.
That incident had drawn Vander Decken's attention. He'd witnessed her power, became obsessed, and marked her as his "bride" through his Devil Fruit ability. From that moment, Shirahoshi's life transformed from royal privilege to solitary confinement.
All of Mama's work died with her, Shirahoshi thought bitterly, wiping tears that immediately replenished themselves. Nobody continued her dream of peace between humans and fishfolk. Nobody followed her example. And Papa just... gave up. Retreated into his throne room and let others handle everything.
She didn't blame him—couldn't bring herself to resent the father who clearly loved her despite his paralytic grief. But she wished he'd been stronger. Wished he'd fought to continue Otohime's legacy instead of letting it crumble into forgotten history.
At least Boss Jinbe tried, she thought, gratitude mixing with her sadness. He negotiated protection from Big Mom, maintained relationships with surface allies, kept our kingdom functioning when Papa couldn't. We'd have fallen apart completely without him.
The Sky Screen continued playing, showing futures both terrifying and hopeful. Shirahoshi watched with desperate attention, memorizing every detail, clinging to the promise that someday—five years from now—the Straw Hat Pirates would come. Would free her from this tower. Would let her finally see the sun.
She just had to survive until then.
And pray that Madam Shyarly's new prophecy didn't render all of it meaningless.
-Real World: Mermaid Café-
News of Shyarly's prophecy spread despite attempts at discretion. By evening, half of Fishman Island knew that their fortune-teller had seen apocalypse. By morning, the other half had heard exaggerated versions claiming the world itself would end.
At the Mermaid Café, Shyarly dealt with the aftermath by closing early and refusing all divination requests. She sat alone in her private quarters, smoking and staring at nothing while her mind worked through the prophetic fragments.
Arlong, what have you done? she wondered, the question equal parts accusation and genuine curiosity. What could possibly drive you to summon that thing? Revenge? Religious fervor? Simple madness?
She'd loved her brother once, before his hatred consumed him. Before he transformed from angry youth into genocidal extremist. The Sun Pirates' dissolution had accelerated his descent, but the seeds had always been there—planted by a lifetime of discrimination and watered by Fisher Tiger's death.
Maybe he thinks he's saving fishkind, Shyarly thought darkly. Purging the weak, welcoming divine judgment, ushering in some twisted paradise built on corpses. Cultists always justify their madness with grand philosophy.
But the details didn't matter. Motivation was irrelevant. Arlong's actions—whatever they would be, five or ten or twenty years from now—would doom Fishman Island to extinction.
And Shyarly's prophecies never failed.
She stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another, the familiar ritual providing hollow comfort against existential dread.
Maybe I should destroy my gift, she thought, not for the first time. Blind myself to prophecy. Live in ignorance like everyone else. At least then I wouldn't have to watch our doom approach with absolute certainty.
But she knew she wouldn't. Couldn't. Because even if the future was immutable, someone needed to witness it. Someone needed to warn the others, give them time to prepare, allow them to face death with open eyes rather than blind surprise.
That burden fell to her.
And Shyarly would carry it until the tentacled god descended and her prophecy achieved its inevitable completion.