-Real World-
Most people would live their entire lives without witnessing a Marine Admiral in combat. The power gap between ordinary humans and those who'd achieved the pinnacle of military strength was so vast that even seeing such battles from a distance was rare privilege—or terrible misfortune, depending on circumstances.
Yet SpongeBob, Patrick, and Squidward had demonstrated Admiral-class abilities with casual efficiency. The Pika Pika no Mi's (Glint-Glint Fruit) light-speed massacre. The Magu Magu no Mi's (Magma-Magma Fruit) volcanic destruction. The Hie Hie no Mi's (Ice-Ice Fruit) absolute zero freezing. All three signature powers of the Marines' strongest officers, perfectly replicated in sea creatures that shouldn't possess such capabilities.
Caesar Clown's value as a scientist skyrocketed in strategic assessments worldwide. The ability to create pseudo-Admirals through bloodline factor manipulation represented a paradigm shift in military power. If one mad scientist could produce three Admiral-level combatants, what could a well-funded research program accomplish?
But Smoker's reputation climbed even higher. He'd captured all three of these monsters with apparent ease, according to the Sky Screen's timeline. That single feat demonstrated combat ability far beyond what his current rank suggested. The "White Horse" Admiral wasn't just competent—he was genuinely formidable.
"Admiral positions aren't given for nothing," observers muttered, revising their assessments. "There's no water in those ranks. Every person who reaches that level has earned it through strength."
The Marines celebrated quietly but thoroughly. Caesar Clown was currently in their custody—captured by Kizaru. The scientist who could create pseudo-Admirals was now a Marine prisoner, his knowledge and capabilities secured. Meanwhile, Smoker himself remained at Marine Headquarters, training and preparing for his future elevation to Admiral rank.
No matter how anyone calculated it, the Marines had won this exchange decisively.
Pirates, by contrast, found little comfort in the Sky Screen's revelations. Nearly every broadcast showed them losing—territories destroyed, leaders defeated, grand plans crumbling. The Straw Hat Pirates remained the sole exception, continuously defying expectations and achieving impossible victories. Even Doflamingo—former Celestial Dragon, Shichibukai, underground broker extraordinaire—was ultimately just yesterday's news. The Sky Screen had already shown his defeat.
The balance of power was shifting, and not in the pirates' favor.
-Real World: Marine Headquarters, Fleet Admiral's Office-
Fleet Admiral Sengoku sat at his desk, reviewing the Fishman Island footage for the fifth time. His analytical mind refused to accept the obvious implication without thorough examination.
"Why would the future acting Fleet Admiral allow Colossal Titans to reach the Red Line?" he muttered, more to himself than to the empty office. "It's impossible for all twelve Admirals to be deployed simultaneously. Standard doctrine requires maintaining reserve forces at headquarters. Someone with Artoria's tactical acumen wouldn't leave Marijoa completely undefended."
He paused the footage, zooming in on the titans' approach to the Red Line's base. "Unless... unless she's deliberately allowing the attack. But why? What purpose does it serve?"
The implications were troubling. If the New Marines—the reformed organization shown in the Sky Screen's future timeline—wanted to turn against the Celestial Dragons, five years wasn't nearly enough preparation time. Attempting to subvert eight centuries of established world order would trigger counterattacks from every invested power structure. The World Government wouldn't collapse quietly. The Celestial Dragons wouldn't surrender their privilege without warfare that would make Marineford look like a skirmish.
Artoria is intelligent, Sengoku thought, drumming his fingers on the desk. Strategic, politically savvy, militarily brilliant. She wouldn't make such a catastrophic error in judgment. So either the Sky Screen is misleading us about her intentions, or there's a deeper plan I'm not seeing yet.
He made a note to increase surveillance on the knights stationed at Marijoa. Knowledge was the Marines' most valuable weapon, and Sengoku intended to gather as much as possible before the future timeline caught up with reality.
-Real World: Marine Headquarters, Cafeteria-
Artoria Pendragon sat at a corner table, methodically working through her lunch while half-watching the Sky Screen broadcast on the cafeteria's display. Around her, other Marines whispered speculation about her future actions, her supposed betrayal, her potential conspiracy against the World Government.
She ignored all of it with practiced ease.
The script his summoner created becomes more outrageous with each broadcast, she thought, spearing a piece of meat with her fork. Kaito has a remarkably dark sense of humor. They're turning the world into his personal theater.
A mastermind with bad taste, Artoria concluded, taking a sip of water. But undeniably effective. The world is becoming more uncertain, more chaotic, more... interesting.
She'd spent her previous life in a world of rigid destiny and predetermined tragedy. This world, by contrast, seemed malleable. Responsive to intervention. Capable of being shaped by those with sufficient will and power.
-Real World: Marine Headquarters, Intelligence Analysis Department-
The Intelligence staff had been working around the clock since the Fishman Island broadcast, their office now resembling a hurricane-struck library. Manuscripts covered every surface—ancient texts pulled from archives, folklore collections borrowed from civilian libraries, religious documents acquired through questionable means.
"The Flying Dutchman," one analyst muttered, cross-referencing three separate sources simultaneously. "Death God of the sea. Collector of souls. The legends date back centuries, but we always dismissed them as superstition."
"Everything's superstition until it's proven real," his colleague replied wearily, her eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. "We thought Skypiea was a myth. We thought the Void Century was propaganda. We keep learning that 'myths' are just history we forgot."
A third analyst approached, carrying a stack of new documents. "I've started collecting cult intelligence. If Arlong can actually summon a tentacled god to destroy Fishman Island, we need to treat every cultist organization as a potential existential threat."
"Agreed," the first analyst said. "Compile everything we have on known cults—membership, rituals, sacred sites, leadership structures. If any of them start gathering in unusual numbers or acquiring resources inconsistent with their size, I want immediate reports."
They were fighting an information war against enemies they didn't understand, using weapons—knowledge, analysis, pattern recognition—that felt increasingly inadequate. But it was all they had, so they kept working.
If cultists can summon gods, they thought collectively, what stops them from performing a ritual at Marine Headquarters itself? How many people would die from our negligence if we ignore this threat?
The answer was unacceptable. So they kept reading, kept analyzing, kept searching for patterns in the chaos.
As for "Bikini Bottom" and the "Sea Eye"—those mysteries would have to wait. Insufficient data existed for meaningful analysis. Better to focus on The Flying Dutchman Captain, whose name appeared in bounty records dating back three hundred years. Perhaps he'd been a pirate once, before becoming whatever he was now.
One crisis at a time, the analysts told themselves. We'll solve everything eventually. We just need more coffee and less sleep.
-Real World: Holy Land Marijoa-
The Five Elders watched the Sky Screen with expressions ranging from concern to fury. For eight hundred years, Marijoa had stood inviolate—the sacred heart of the World Government, protected by geography, military might, and the accumulated authority of history itself.
Only once had that sanctity been violated: when the fishman Fisher Tiger had scaled the Red Line, set fires throughout the Holy Land, and freed slaves before the Marines could respond. That humiliation had resulted in Tiger's eventual death—betrayed by humans he'd tried to help, bleeding out on a beach because he'd refused blood transfusions from the species he'd come to hate.
But the Sky Screen now showed a new threat: thousands of Colossal Titans, each one a walking natural disaster, approaching the Red Line with clear intent to ascend and destroy Marijoa itself.
"The New Marines," one Elder said coldly, his ancient voice carrying venom. "Will they stand by and watch us be destroyed? Is this independence they've achieved really just preparation for our extermination?"
"We gave them power," another Elder replied. "Authority. Resources. And this is how they repay our generosity? By allowing apocalypse to reach our doorstep?"
The third Elder's expression remained calculating. "We don't know yet whether they'll intervene. Let's not assume betrayal before seeing the full timeline. The Sky Screen may simply be showing us the approach before revealing the Marines' response."
"They'd better respond," the fourth Elder growled. "If the New Marines truly intend to abandon us, then the organization must be disbanded immediately. Better no Marines at all than Marines who've turned against their creators."
The fifth Elder said nothing, merely watching the titans climb with ancient eyes that had witnessed centuries of change. Something fundamental is shifting, he thought. The order we built is crumbling. The question is whether we can adapt quickly enough to survive what comes next.
-Broadcast-
The Sky Screen provided a brief supplementary segment, showing the titans' approach to the Red Line in greater detail.
The Red Line rose from the ocean like a knife blade—nearly ten thousand meters of sheer vertical cliff face that divided the planet's oceans into four distinct seas. The slope approached ninety degrees in places, creating a natural barrier that had protected Marijoa for centuries. The fact that Fisher Tiger had climbed this impossible surface with nothing but determination and fishman strength remained one of history's most impressive feats.
Yet the Colossal Titans approached without hesitation.
The first wave reached the cliff's base and stopped, their blank faces tilting upward to assess the obstacle. Then, with mechanical coordination suggesting either shared intelligence or preprogrammed behavior, they began stacking themselves.
The first titan braced itself against the rock face. A second titan climbed onto its shoulders. A third climbed atop the second. They formed a living ladder, each one sacrificing mobility to create a bridge for those who followed.
Cooperation, observers realized with dawning horror. They're working together. These aren't mindless monsters—they have purpose. Strategy. They're problem-solving in real-time.
More titans arrived, creating multiple stacking formations along the cliff face. The structure grew taller—ten titans high, then twenty, then fifty. Those at the base began hardening their bodies with Armament Haki, reinforcing the living tower to support the weight of hundreds piling on top.
Within an hour, the first titan crested the top of the Red Line.
A male Celestial Dragon stood near the cliff's edge, having wandered over to watch the spectacle with idle curiosity. Dozens of slaves surrounded him—bodyguards, attendants, entertainers—all dressed in the collars and chains that marked their status. They'd come to see what the commotion was about, expecting perhaps an unusual weather phenomenon or interesting sea creature.
What they witnessed instead was apocalypse given form.
The Colossal Titan pulled itself over the cliff's edge with inexorable strength, its massive hands finding purchase on the rocky ground. Steam vented from its body, creating a cloud that obscured details while radiating lethal heat. Then it stood—sixty meters of nightmare towering against the sky, blank eyes sweeping across the landscape without comprehension or malice.
Just mechanical purpose.
The Celestial Dragon froze, his privileged mind unable to process the reality of danger. He'd lived his entire life as an untouchable deity. Violence happened to other people—slaves, pirates, commoners. Never to World Nobles. The very concept was inconceivable.
Until the titan's foot descended.
CRUNCH.
The Celestial Dragon and three nearby slaves were pulverized instantly—divine blood mixing with slave blood in a way that would have been philosophically significant if anyone had survived to contemplate it. The titan didn't even notice, simply continued walking forward as more of its kind crested the cliff and began the march toward Marijoa.
Even gods are made of flesh, observers thought with mix of horror and vindication. Regardless of titles or bloodlines, everyone is equal beneath those feet.
More titans arrived. The successful ascent created a highway for those behind—they no longer needed to stack, just climb the living ladder that stretched from ocean to plateau. Within hours, thousands had reached the Red Line's surface and begun marching toward the cluster of buildings visible in the distance.
Marijoa. The Holy Land. The seat of World Government power. The home of the Celestial Dragons.
The titans' target was obvious. They wouldn't stop to flatten empty countryside or destroy uninhabited wilderness. They existed to eliminate Marijoa, and through it, open passage through the Red Line that would allow them to spread across all four seas without obstacle.
No one can stop Terra, the realization spread among viewers. Once the titans cross the Red Line, they'll have access to every ocean. Every island. Every kingdom. Nowhere will be safe.
Admiral Sakazuki floated in midair several hundred meters above the titan formation, maintaining altitude through repeated Geppo kicks. His arms were crossed, his expression set in its characteristic scowl, his body language suggesting casual observation rather than urgent intervention.
Below him, Colossal Titans marched toward Marijoa in neat formations. Above him, the sky remained clear and blue, indifferent to terrestrial catastrophe. He stood at the intersection, perfectly positioned to engage—and apparently choosing not to.
"Quite the mess," Sakazuki muttered, watching another group of titans crest the cliff. "Gin's going to have his hands full dealing with this disaster. Though I suppose that's what happens when you let Doflamingo play with toys he doesn't understand."
The "joke" he'd mentioned to his colleagues wasn't the titans themselves—it was the Celestial Dragons' predicament. The World Nobles who'd spent eight centuries acting invincible, suddenly confronted with a threat that didn't care about their divine status. The cosmic irony appealed to Sakazuki's sense of absolute justice.
Let them experience fear, he thought with dark satisfaction. Let them understand what ordinary people feel when pirates attack their villages. Let them know what it's like to be powerless before overwhelming force.
His orders from acting Fleet Admiral Artoria had been explicit: proceed to Marijoa, reinforce the Holy Land's defenses, repel the invading titans. Standard emergency response protocol for protecting the World Government's seat of power.
But Sakazuki had always believed in the principle that "generals in the field are not bound by orders from the capital." Once deployed, an Admiral possessed discretionary authority to assess situations and act according to their judgment rather than distant commanders who couldn't see the battlefield's reality.
Right now, his judgment said: Watch. Wait. Let the Celestial Dragons prove what they're actually capable of without Marine protection.
His personal Den Den Mushi rang with the distinctive urgency of an emergency call. Sakazuki ignored it for three rings before finally answering with exaggerated casualness.
"Admiral Sakazuki speaking."
"SAKAZUKI, YOU BASTARD!" Artoria's voice erupted from the snail with enough volume to cause physical pain. "What the hell are you doing?! You're AT Marijoa! The titans are literally climbing the Red Line beneath you! START FIGHTING!"
"I'm assessing the situation," Sakazuki replied calmly, his tone suggesting he was discussing weather rather than apocalypse. "Gathering intelligence on enemy capabilities. Strategic reconnaissance is vital for—"
"STRATEGIC RECONNAISSANCE MY ASS!" Artoria's vocabulary had apparently deteriorated under stress. "The Five Elders are blowing up my Den Den Mushi every thirty seconds! They're screaming about betrayal! About disbanding the Marines! STOP TRYING TO BE KIZARU AND DO YOUR DAMN JOB!"
"Yes ma'am. Understood ma'am. I'll engage immediately ma'am." Sakazuki's agreement came with absolutely zero change to his body language or position. He continued floating exactly where he'd been, arms still crossed, expression still calculating.
A long silence emanated from the Den Den Mushi as Artoria processed his blatant insubordination.
"You're not moving, are you?" she said eventually, her voice dropping from fury to exhausted resignation.
"The situation is quite complex," Sakazuki replied. "Rushing in without proper analysis could—"
"FINE!" Artoria cut him off. "I'm sending Kuzan to replace you! When he arrives, you report back to headquarters IMMEDIATELY for disciplinary review! And if you think I won't find a punishment that actually affects you, you're sadly mistaken!"
The Den Den Mushi clicked off with finality that suggested she'd literally thrown it across her office.
Sakazuki allowed himself a small smile, still watching the titans march with scholarly interest. Kuzan's too soft-hearted to just observe. He'll engage the moment he sees Celestial Dragons in danger. Which is fine—I've seen what I needed to see.
The Holy Land's defenses were inadequate. The Celestial Dragons possessed no genuine combat capability beyond their hired guards. The World Government's authority rested entirely on Marine enforcement rather than any inherent strength.
They're parasites, Sakazuki concluded. Beautiful parasites in a collapsing host. And when this host finally dies, the New Marines will be there to build something better from the corpse.
He remained in position, continuing his "strategic reconnaissance," secure in the knowledge that acting Fleet Admiral Artoria would eventually forgive his insubordination.
After all, she probably agreed with his assessment.
She was just politically savvy enough not to say so out loud.