-Real World-
Caesar Clown stared at the Sky Screen, watching his future self stand triumphantly atop a Giant God Soldier's massive skull. Purple energy crackled around the creature's mouth as it prepared to unleash devastation. And there, silhouetted against the apocalyptic light, Caesar's arms spread wide in megalomaniacal triumph.
To claim he felt nothing would be a lie.
His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from something far more intoxicating. Pride. Vindication. Destiny.
That man on the screen, that future version of himself, had done it. He'd abandoned the compromises and restrictions that had shackled his genius for years. He'd pursued his dream with single-minded devotion and emerged victorious in the second half of his life. The perfect weapon of mass destruction—the Giant God Soldier—stood as living proof that Caesar Clown's vision had been correct all along.
This was the ultimate underdog story. The disgraced scientist, kicked out of the Marine, imprisoned and humiliated, rising from the ashes to create something that would reshape warfare itself. A comeback for the ages.
Shurororo... who's laughing now, Vegapunk? Who's the failure now?
The specifics of who ultimately controlled the weapons barely registered in Caesar's euphoric haze. Yes, he'd taken Doflamingo's startup capital and later been forced to defect to the Marine when the Heavenly Demon's empire collapsed. But that was just pragmatic adaptation. Survival of the fittest. The acting Fleet Admiral—that blonde woman, Artoria Pendragon—had clearly recognized his genius and agreed to continue funding the Giant God Soldier Project. That's all that mattered.
The Sky Screen's earlier segments had shown Doflamingo's defeat at Dressrosa with no Giant God Soldiers defending him. Divine providence, perhaps. The Heavenly Demon had been destined to fall regardless. His investment had simply... changed hands. Transferred to worthier stewards.
Sorry, Joker, Caesar thought with zero actual remorse. But science transcends loyalty. My genius belongs to whoever appreciates it most.
The reality of his situation crystallized in his mind: Admiral Kizaru would personally escort him to an undisclosed island in the Calm Belt. The location would be kept absolutely secret—no maps, no coordinates shared, complete informational blackout. Only select Marine personnel would even know of its existence.
A small fleet of ships was already being prepared. Supply vessels, construction materials, specialized equipment—all arranged by Umit, the Shipping King. That underground broker had connections throughout both legitimate and criminal worlds, perfect for handling sensitive cargo without asking inconvenient questions.
But more importantly, Caesar would have company. A full scientific corps would accompany him—not Vegapunk's people, but hardcore researchers who shared Admiral Akainu's radical philosophy. These weren't soft-hearted idealists concerned with ethics or morality. They were weapons developers who cared only about results, efficiency, and advancing the Marine's absolute dominance.
Caesar recognized kindred spirits when he saw them. These people would give him free rein to pursue any avenue of research, no matter how extreme.
The island itself was supposedly lifeless—no human inhabitants, just primitive animals and untamed wilderness. No civilian oversight. No moral watchdogs. No bureaucratic restrictions on his methodology. He could conduct any experiment he deemed necessary, including the "controversial" human trials that had gotten him expelled from the Marine originally.
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
Oh, the Marine still maintained certain ethical boundaries. They wouldn't deliver innocent citizens to his laboratory. That would be unconscionable, after all. Bad for public relations.
But pirates? Captured criminals already sentenced to imprisonment or execution?
Those were fair game.
The seas churned with endless pirate crews. The Marine captured thousands every year—far more than Impel Down could realistically house. And what better way to dispose of dangerous criminals than contributing to scientific advancement? Their deaths would actually serve a purpose instead of wasting resources in overcrowded prisons.
The radicals in the scientific corps would actively encourage such experimentation. Many of them had lost friends and family to pirate attacks. Using those same pirates as test subjects for bioweapons research? They'd consider it poetic justice. The more Caesar dissected, the louder they'd applaud.
The pirates knew the risks when they hoisted their flags, Caesar rationalized easily. They chose a life of violence. I'm simply... repurposing their inevitable ends for the greater good.
"Mr. Caesar Clown?" A voice interrupted his thoughts.
He turned to find a young woman from the scientific corps standing nearby. Pretty, in that severe intellectual way—her hair pulled back ruthlessly, her lab coat pristine white, her eyes sharp behind protective goggles. She held a tablet displaying construction schematics for the new facility.
Caesar remembered her earlier attitude when they'd first made contact. She'd called him simply "Caesar Clown" then, her tone dripping with barely concealed disdain. Just another criminal scientist, her expression had said. Nothing special.
But after the Sky Screen showed the Giant God Soldiers in action? After the world witnessed his future achievements?
Now it was "Mr. Caesar Clown" with genuine respect coloring every syllable. The transformation was almost comical—from sneering superiority to obsequious deference in the span of hours.
Typical, Caesar thought with dark amusement. Everyone worships success. Nobody respects the journey, only the destination.
"We've finalized preliminary construction plans for your laboratory," the woman continued, her enthusiasm palpable. "The Shipping King will handle all logistics throughout the development process. Building materials, biological specimens, specialized equipment—whatever you require will be delivered discretely and efficiently."
She swiped through images on the tablet—architectural mockups of a sprawling research complex, containment facilities, power generation systems, everything a mad scientist could desire.
"What are your thoughts on the proposed design?"
Caesar waved dismissively, barely glancing at the schematics. "Fine, fine, whatever. The infrastructure doesn't matter much at this stage."
He fixed her with a pointed stare that made her confident expression falter.
"I know you Marine types are anxious for results," Caesar said, his tone hardening. "But I advise you—strongly advise you—not to be impatient. We're facing significant obstacles that enthusiasm alone won't overcome."
He began ticking off problems on his fingers.
"First: the ancient creature Godzilla. We have no samples. The Sky Screen showed I had it, but where is it now? across a thousand miles of open water? We don't know. Until we locate viable genetic material from that creature, the entire Giant God Soldier Project is theoretical."
His second finger rose.
"Second: those special fishmen from Bikini Bottom. You saw them on the Sky Screen too—three specimens with abilities rivaling your Admirals. But again, where are they? How do we acquire them? The broadcast provided no geographical information, no timeline, nothing actionable."
Caesar spread his hands in exasperation.
"Right now, we have nothing. No samples, no experimental data, no baseline measurements. Just the final results hanging in the Sky Screen like a carrot we can't reach. We know what we're supposed to achieve, but not the path to get there."
The woman's excitement dimmed as reality sank in. Her tablet suddenly felt heavier in her hands.
"But... the Sky Screen showed you succeeding. That means it's possible, right? We just need to—"
"To what?" Caesar interrupted sharply. "Reverse-engineer success from footage alone? Do you have any idea how research works? Every breakthrough requires thousands of failed experiments, years of iteration, mountains of data. The Sky Screen skipped all that, jumped straight to the triumphant finale. We're expected to recreate that journey blind."
Despite his reputation for dishonesty, Caesar was being brutally honest now about the predicament. The Giant God Soldiers that could annihilate islands with single attacks, the three seafood admirals who matched the Marine's strongest fighters—these achievements seemed more impossible the more he examined them.
Future Caesar had created miracles. Present Caesar had no fucking clue where to start.
The Marine had already elevated him to a pedestal based purely on potential. They'd granted him equal status with Vegapunk—a privilege he'd coveted for decades. Any reasonable request would be approved. Any resource he needed would be provided. They'd lifted him so high, so fast, that the fall would be catastrophic if he failed.
The burden of unearned success, Caesar realized with growing unease. They expect genius because the Sky Screen promised it. But I'm still just... me.
"We'll figure it out," he declared with manufactured confidence, as much to convince himself as the others. "Reverse engineering might be our only option. If biological weapons can be created in my future, then I can create them in my present. Same person, same brain, same potential. The timeline doesn't change fundamentals."
It was circular logic at best. Wishful thinking at worst. But Caesar chose to believe in his own hype rather than confront the possibility that the Sky Screen might be wrong—or worse, that he might be incapable of fulfilling his apparent destiny.
Self-delusion, after all, was a scientist's most valuable tool when the data looked grim.
The revelation of the Giant God Soldiers sent shockwaves through the world that went far beyond scientific interest. Caesar Clown's name, which had been synonymous with "disgraced criminal scientist" mere days ago, suddenly became a global phenomenon.
Newspapers flew off the shelves. Den Den Mushi networks buzzed with speculation. Public opinion underwent rapid transformation as people processed what the future held.
Weapons of mass destruction that could be mass-produced changed everything. A single Giant God Soldier represented apocalyptic destructive capability—atomic breath that could erase islands, scales that shrugged off conventional weapons, nearly unlimited stamina. And the Sky Screen had shown dozens of them operating in coordinated formations.
The psychological impact was staggering. Previously, ultimate power resided in individuals—Admirals, Yonko, legendary pirates. But these were biological weapons. Reproducible. Deployable. Controllable.
Whoever possessed them would reshape the world's balance of power fundamentally.
Caesar's reputation skyrocketed accordingly. The masses—ignorant of scientific nuance, impressed by spectacle—began comparing him favorably to Vegapunk. The visual impact of a fifty-meter titan breathing atomic fire simply exceeded the aesthetic appeal of Pacifistas or other Marine innovations.
The new eclipses the old, went the popular narrative. Caesar Clown has surpassed the world's greatest scientist.
Morgans, the News Coo president and king of sensationalism, recognized a goldmine when he saw one. His printing presses worked overtime producing comparison articles, speculative pieces, and dramatic headlines. "The Scientist of Destruction vs. The Genius of Innovation!" "Giant God Soldiers: The End of the Pirate Age?" "Caesar Clown: From Criminal to Savior?"
Traffic numbers exploded. Revenue flooded in. Morgans practically danced with glee as he counted the Berry.
The truth—that Caesar currently had no idea how to actually create Giant God Soldiers—was conveniently omitted from public discourse. The future's promise was enough. Perception became reality.
But not everyone celebrated the revelation.
In elegant palaces across the Grand Line and the Four Blues, kings and queens read the newspapers with mounting dread. The World Government's member states—those privileged kingdoms that paid Heavenly Gold in exchange for protection and political influence—suddenly found themselves confronting an uncomfortable truth.
The Giant God Soldiers made them obsolete.
"Your Majesty, have you seen this?" A nervous advisor laid the newspaper before a corpulent king lounging on his throne. The headline screamed in bold letters: "MARINE'S SECRET WEAPON: BIOLOGICAL GIANT POWERFUL ENOUGH TO DESTROY NATIONS!"
The king's face paled as he absorbed the article. His jeweled fingers trembled slightly, rings clinking together. Around the throne room, other nobles whispered anxiously among themselves.
One of the advantages these kingdoms had always possessed was geographical security. The World Government needed them—needed their Heavenly Gold, needed the illusion of international legitimacy, needed the buffer they provided between the Celestial Dragons and the chaotic world. That mutual dependence had protected them for centuries.
But Giant God Soldiers changed the equation completely.
Why negotiate with kingdoms when you could simply crush them? Why accept the humiliation of kings demanding concessions when biological weapons could reduce their palaces to rubble in minutes? The deterrent effect alone would be overwhelming. No nation would dare withhold tribute when a titan could appear on their shores at any moment.
The rentier class—those privileged elites who lived off inheritance and political connections rather than actual productivity—felt their comfortable world crumbling. They'd grown fat on the status quo, extracting wealth from commoners while contributing little beyond maintaining order. The existing power structure had served them perfectly.
Now that structure faced potential demolition.
Emergency councils convened in capital cities across the world. Desperate letters were drafted to Mary Geoise, addressed to the Five Elders themselves. The tone varied from polite concern to barely-veiled threats.
The development of Giant God Soldiers must be halted immediately, the petitions demanded. Such weapons threaten the delicate balance of global peace. They represent an unconscionable concentration of power. For the sake of all member nations, we request—no, we insist—that this program be terminated.
Some kingdoms went further, invoking the ultimate threat: withholding Heavenly Gold.
If the World Government cannot guarantee our security and sovereignty, perhaps our tribute should be reconsidered. After all, what are we paying for if not protection and respect?
It was a desperate gambit born from terror. The logic was sound in their panicked minds—the Celestial Dragons needed that gold. Without constant tribute flowing from member nations, Mary Geoise's extravagant lifestyle couldn't be sustained. Surely that economic leverage would force the Five Elders to listen.
They were fools.
The kings and nobles refused to acknowledge the obvious truth: once Giant God Soldiers existed, their leverage evaporated entirely. The World Government wouldn't negotiate. Why bother? Simply deploy a titan to the coast of any rebellious kingdom. Watch their defiance crumble as atomic fire demonstrated the futility of resistance.
Under that level of deterrence, Heavenly Gold would be paid in full. On time. Without complaint. Every single year.
The member nations' rulers would be reduced to livestock—kept alive only as long as they remained useful, eliminated the moment they caused problems. And they'd have no recourse, no escape, no hope of challenging the system.
Being treated as cattle in a pen would be the optimistic outcome. At least livestock were valuable. But if the World Government decided these kingdoms were more trouble than they were worth? If the Marine deployed Giant God Soldiers in punitive strikes?
Then the rulers wouldn't even qualify as prisoners. They'd be ash.
The weak always ended up on the chopping block, their fate determined by those wielding the knife.
-Real World - Mary Geoise, Room of Authority-
The Five Elders gathered in their private chamber, the circular room that had witnessed centuries of world-shaping decisions. Ancient tapestries hung on stone walls. The air carried the weight of absolute authority.
They'd watched the Sky Screen's broadcast like everyone else. And unlike the ignorant masses celebrating scientific achievement, the Five Elders immediately recognized the strategic implications.
"The Giant God Soldier poses a significant problem," stated Saint Mars, his voice measured and grave. "Not for the world—for us."
"Agreed," replied Saint Saturn. He stroked his chin thoughtfully, eyes distant. "If the Marine achieves mass production of such bioweapons without World Government oversight, we'll have created our own executioner."
The third Elder, who carried a traditional sword, nodded slowly. "They'd no longer need us. The Celestial Dragons would transition from masters to... liabilities."
An uncomfortable silence followed that pronouncement. They all understood the unspoken reality.
The Marine served the World Government out of institutional momentum and carefully maintained dependency. The relationship had endured for centuries precisely because the Marine needed the Celestial Dragons' political authority and resources. That mutual reliance kept the system stable.
But overwhelming military superiority changed everything.
With Giant God Soldiers at their command, the Marine could operate independently. They could enforce their vision of "justice" without compromise, answering to no one. And the Celestial Dragons, those parasitic nobles living in obscene luxury while the world burned, would become the most obvious targets for elimination.
The Five Elders knew their "dogs" intimately after centuries of careful management. They'd watched radical ideologies spreading within Marine ranks despite Fleet Admiral Sengoku's constant efforts at moderation. Absolute Justice was becoming mainstream doctrine, and that philosophy had zero tolerance for corruption or unearned privilege.
Where did that leave the Celestial Dragons—the embodiment of unearned privilege?
"Sengoku keeps the radicals contained for now," observed Saint Peter, his arms crossed. "But after his retirement? When command passes to the next generation?"
"Acting Fleet Admiral Artoria Pendragon," Saint Nusjuro supplied, his tone neutral. "The Sky Screen showed her commanding Giant God Soldier operations. A young, idealistic leader with apocalyptic weapons at her disposal. What happens when she decides the Celestial Dragons are the 'ultimate evil' that must be purged?"
The question hung in the air like an executioner's blade.
They'd raised the Marine for eight centuries, carefully shaping it into the perfect instrument of global control. They'd funded it, directed it, unleashed it against threats to the established order. The dog had been loyal, efficient, and ruthlessly effective.
But what happened when the dog grew larger than its master? When it realized the chain around its neck was just an illusion? When it decided the real threat wasn't pirates or revolutionaries, but the Celestial Dragons themselves?
"We cannot allow the Marine to possess Giant God Soldiers without equivalent World Government control," Saint Mars declared with finality. "If such weapons are to exist, we must control the production, deployment, and potentially the destruction of every specimen."
"Agreed. We'll need to establish oversight mechanisms immediately," Saint Saturn added. "Scientists loyal to us, not the Marine. Facilities under direct World Government supervision. Kill switches built into every creature."
"And if the Marine resists?" Saint Nusjuro's hand rested on his sword's hilt meaningfully.
Another weighted silence.
They all knew the answer. If the Marine truly committed to the Giant God Soldier Project without World Government approval, direct confrontation might become necessary. A civilwarfare scenario that would tear the world's power structure apart from within.
But the alternative—allowing the Marine to possess weapons that could destroy nations while the World Government remained vulnerable—was unacceptable.
The Five Elders had maintained global control for centuries through careful manipulation, overwhelming force when needed, and ensuring no single faction ever accumulated enough power to challenge them.
The Giant God Soldiers threatened that entire paradigm.
"We'll table this discussion until more information emerges," Saint Warcury finally said. "The Sky Screen has shown us the future, but not the timeline. We have some breathing room to plan our response."
"But we must act decisively once the opportunity presents itself," Saint Mars emphasized. "The moment Caesar Clown produces viable research, we seize it. The moment prototypes are developed, we control them. The Marine serves us—not the other way around."
The others nodded in agreement.
The meeting adjourned, but the threat lingered. Somewhere in that future shown by the Sky Screen, the power balance had shifted fundamentally. The Marine commanded bioweapons capable of destroying civilizations. The Celestial Dragons' grip on global authority had grown tenuous.
And the Five Elders, for perhaps the first time in centuries, felt something they'd thought long extinct in their ancient hearts:
Fear.
Not for the world. Not for the common people or member nations or pirates.
Fear for themselves. Fear that the system they'd built might devour them. Fear that eight centuries of control might end with their own dogs turning on them.
The Giant God Soldiers weren't just weapons.
They were a countdown to revolution.